TALK TO YOUR MOIRAIL, GALLEY.

The stairs are particularly steep tonight without any psionics to guide you down, so you only made it about halfway before you sat down for a rest.

That was like half an hour ago. You’ve long since run out of excuses for why you never got back up again. The truth is, you don’t want to move. It’s comfy here. Jabby and fucking cold, but comfy. You’ve decided the companionway is your new respiteblock. All who desire passage must present themselves before you and plead their case.

And you’ll… something… because you’re the best king…

You are now asleep.

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

Dim yellow tendrils swoop you into the air — with perhaps a bit less grace than you’ve come to expect from Galley. In fact, it’s kind of a bumpy ride. For a moment you don’t think you’re going to clear the Carla’s rail. When he sets you on the deck, he drops you from a couple feet up. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but it’s worrying, as is the fact that he didn’t come along. Were your orders unclear?

You make a conscious decision not to look worried. But if he loses control halfway and falls in the water, you are on such a hair-trigger to dive in and save him.

You saw that look. Oh he thinks he’s gonna pity you, does he? He thinks he’s gonna be all warm and snuggly and inviting and you’ll just sort of melt in his arms?

Not on my watch, asshole, you think, and that gives you a bit of a boost. Enough, at least, to get your ass across the water to where he’s waiting.

Yeah, that’s right, X got thxs shxt covered. Look upon my shxt, o ye blueblood douchebag, and… oh, whatever. Just don’t fall in.

Your toes drag across the top of the water a bit by the end, but you make it. You raise yourself over the railing and pretend like you meant to jump the rest of the way. 

You land quite impressively on your bony ass in a puddle of what you strongly suspect is LL’s vomit.

(Pink?) 

Well, who cares. You did it, is the important bit. Go you.

You know you shouldn’t coddle him right now. It would be un-commanderly, and he wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. But goddamn it, he looks so pitiful.

You control yourself. You are going to treat him like you would any of your troops, and you don’t let your troops get away with this kind of thing. You cross your arms and let your brow furrow.

“Next time I ask if you need a rest, do not bullshit me. You’re dismissed. Go rest.”

You blink up at him. Wow, you were not expecting that. You were not expecting that at all. What’s left of your guts twist with an unfamiliar emotion that you nevertheless squish back down again as quickly as you become aware of it. You’ll think later.

(Pink?)

You make yourself stand on your own power, pushing yourself up on the palms of your hands and refusing to even look in case he’s offering you a hand up. You have spook-puke on your fingers anyway, it’s best if you don’t…

(Pink, though.)

Without meaning to, and not caring that it is probably gross as fuck, you bring you hands up and examine them in the weak light of the shipboard lights. You rub your fingers together and they come apart with strings of slime between them. You sniff your fingertips and it  smells familiar, that old chemical tang like blood and motor oil and ozone…

(What the fuck?)

“Save that,” you tell Bel, trying not to sway. “I want to… later on, xf you have equxpment? Just… save a sample?”

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

Okay then.

Awkward.

“I’ll… let you know when that time comes.” You turn away to inspect the broken bracket where the winch motor used to be. It’d be nice if you could stride off and make yourself busy with other stuff, but there isn’t much of anywhere to go. You could tell him to go get the Carla instead of having Pancho drive the Binsense over to it, but sending anyone off alone right now would be less than ideal. So you just… wait.

When Pancho comes back up and takes the controls, you don’t heave an audible sigh of relief, but it’s a very close thing.

“Back to the Carla now?” she says.

“Yes. Good for navigation?”

“Yeah, everything’s back online.”

She starts the engine and sets out at a leisurely pace. It’s as if the boat itself is tired. Well, it is wounded. Your poor deck. Your poor harpoon gun. You haven’t decided yet whether to try to retrieve harpoon, winch, or cable. You’re just focusing on the next thing and will deal with later when later gets around to happening.

The Carla is dangerously close to running aground; even though Galley cut the engines when he abandoned ship, it still had a lot of momentum left. When Pancho brings the Binsense alongside, you tell Galley, “All right, Galgal, I need you now. Bring me aboard the Carla, drive it a safe distance away from the beach, and then we’ll do damage assessment. Pancho, drop anchor. Keep an eye on Pontop. Ping me when she wakes up.”

Pancho pulls the anchor release as she acknowleges the order. You look up to the larger ship with an anticipatory grimace. God, you hope you’re not going to have to spend another week doing repairs in this lagoon.

Okay. Okay. You can do this. You can totally do this.

Your extravagances in power usage always rise up to haunt you in moments like this. Why, oh why did you throw all that extra sass into the light show earlier? Why weren’t you thinking about how much energy you’d need for later, and conserving like a motherfucker? Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are the worst showoff. You are the worst showoff in the universe.

But you can do this. A troll hardly weighs anything. Sending him over to the Carla will be a piece of spongiform dessert and you will be the topping.

Haaaa. Hahahahaha. (Because porn.)

You control your breathing and clutch the railing. Focus. That’s all you need. Bit of focus.

You are so not dropping the dude you want for your matesprit in the ocean tonight.

Dim yellow tendrils swoop you into the air — with perhaps a bit less grace than you’ve come to expect from Galley. In fact, it’s kind of a bumpy ride. For a moment you don’t think you’re going to clear the Carla’s rail. When he sets you on the deck, he drops you from a couple feet up. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but it’s worrying, as is the fact that he didn’t come along. Were your orders unclear?

You make a conscious decision not to look worried. But if he loses control halfway and falls in the water, you are on such a hair-trigger to dive in and save him.

You saw that look. Oh he thinks he’s gonna pity you, does he? He thinks he’s gonna be all warm and snuggly and inviting and you’ll just sort of melt in his arms?

Not on my watch, asshole, you think, and that gives you a bit of a boost. Enough, at least, to get your ass across the water to where he’s waiting.

Yeah, that’s right, X got thxs shxt covered. Look upon my shxt, o ye blueblood douchebag, and… oh, whatever. Just don’t fall in.

Your toes drag across the top of the water a bit by the end, but you make it. You raise yourself over the railing and pretend like you meant to jump the rest of the way. 

You land quite impressively on your bony ass in a puddle of what you strongly suspect is LL’s vomit.

(Pink?) 

Well, who cares. You did it, is the important bit. Go you.

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

You want to reassure him that while you might not have known precisely what he was capable of, you never doubted he could kick ass. You want to sulk because he’s not celebrating with you. You want to point at the mess on the reef and yell LOOK WHAT WE DID HOLY MOTHER OF SERIOUSLY WHAT THE HELL! You want that victory snog.

Instead, you concentrate on preparing to hand personnel and materiel back to Actual Officer Elusca Pontop in good condition.

“When we get back to the Carla, I expect there’ll be cleanup, if you’re up for it. You’ve got some —” You tap your own ear to mirror where his is bleeding a little. “Do you need medical attention, or a rest?”

Sometimes being in command really sucks.

“X don’t need a rest, sxr,” you grumble, and free a hand from the railing long enough to wipe at your ear. There. Good as new! Except you really don’t think you’re going to be able to leave this spot until he’s somewhere else.

You look around the deck for want of anything constructive to add. Fuck, there is slime just everywhere. It’s not as disgusting now that it’s not haunted goop and the splattery spirals have begun to dissolve into regular old dead goo puddles, but it’s still pretty gross.

You sneak another glance at Bel. Still standing there.

“X wxll waxt here untxl X’m needed agaxn,” you say, lamely. And wait.

Okay then.

Awkward.

“I’ll… let you know when that time comes.” You turn away to inspect the broken bracket where the winch motor used to be. It’d be nice if you could stride off and make yourself busy with other stuff, but there isn’t much of anywhere to go. You could tell him to go get the Carla instead of having Pancho drive the Binsense over to it, but sending anyone off alone right now would be less than ideal. So you just… wait.

When Pancho comes back up and takes the controls, you don’t heave an audible sigh of relief, but it’s a very close thing.

“Back to the Carla now?” she says.

“Yes. Good for navigation?”

“Yeah, everything’s back online.”

She starts the engine and sets out at a leisurely pace. It’s as if the boat itself is tired. Well, it is wounded. Your poor deck. Your poor harpoon gun. You haven’t decided yet whether to try to retrieve harpoon, winch, or cable. You’re just focusing on the next thing and will deal with later when later gets around to happening.

The Carla is dangerously close to running aground; even though Galley cut the engines when he abandoned ship, it still had a lot of momentum left. When Pancho brings the Binsense alongside, you tell Galley, “All right, Galgal, I need you now. Bring me aboard the Carla, drive it a safe distance away from the beach, and then we’ll do damage assessment. Pancho, drop anchor. Keep an eye on Pontop. Ping me when she wakes up.”

Pancho pulls the anchor release as she acknowleges the order. You look up to the larger ship with an anticipatory grimace. God, you hope you’re not going to have to spend another week doing repairs in this lagoon.

Okay. Okay. You can do this. You can totally do this.

Your extravagances in power usage always rise up to haunt you in moments like this. Why, oh why did you throw all that extra sass into the light show earlier? Why weren’t you thinking about how much energy you’d need for later, and conserving like a motherfucker? Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are the worst showoff. You are the worst showoff in the universe.

But you can do this. A troll hardly weighs anything. Sending him over to the Carla will be a piece of spongiform dessert and you will be the topping.

Haaaa. Hahahahaha. (Because porn.)

You control your breathing and clutch the railing. Focus. That’s all you need. Bit of focus.

You are so not dropping the dude you want for your matesprit in the ocean tonight.

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

You pick yourself shakily off the deck and clutch the rail, and for a long moment you stare at the world’s biggest sushi platter with your mouth hanging open. Then you pump your fist in the air and whoop.

“Ow,” Pancho laughs, reminding you that you just yelled into your headset. Which is now entirely free of static.

You pull yourself together — it’s not time to relax yet — but you’re still grinning. “How’s Pontop?”

“No symptoms. Vitals are good. I don’t know how long she’ll be out; she puked up most of what I gave her. Permission to take her below and make her comfortable?”

“Go ahead. Don’t take too long; we need to collect the Carla before it drifts onto the reef or something.”

“Got it.” Through the open back of the wheelhouse, you see her scoop up her matesprit, and then she descends out of sight into the miniscule cabin below.

You go over to Galley and offer him a hand up. You want so badly to haul him into a victory snog of epic proportions, but you’re still in charge, even if you’re letting Boss Mode slip somewhat. Instead, you tell him, “You were awesome. We would’ve been one hundred percent screwed without you.”

“Yes, X know,” you snap, leaning hard on the railing and sparing Bel only a quick glance before looking back out at the wreckage covering the reef. “X told you X could just about handle xt xn my sleep. Do you have any actual work for me to do, or…?”

You want to reassure him that while you might not have known precisely what he was capable of, you never doubted he could kick ass. You want to sulk because he’s not celebrating with you. You want to point at the mess on the reef and yell LOOK WHAT WE DID HOLY MOTHER OF SERIOUSLY WHAT THE HELL! You want that victory snog.

Instead, you concentrate on preparing to hand personnel and materiel back to Actual Officer Elusca Pontop in good condition.

“When we get back to the Carla, I expect there’ll be cleanup, if you’re up for it. You’ve got some —” You tap your own ear to mirror where his is bleeding a little. “Do you need medical attention, or a rest?”

Sometimes being in command really sucks.

“X don’t need a rest, sxr,” you grumble, and free a hand from the railing long enough to wipe at your ear. There. Good as new! Except you really don’t think you’re going to be able to leave this spot until he’s somewhere else.

You look around the deck for want of anything constructive to add. Fuck, there is slime just everywhere. It’s not as disgusting now that it’s not haunted goop and the splattery spirals have begun to dissolve into regular old dead goo puddles, but it’s still pretty gross.

You sneak another glance at Bel. Still standing there.

“X wxll waxt here untxl X’m needed agaxn,” you say, lamely. And wait.

askcrossfirehurricane:

sylvanlevity:

lackadaisicallimpet:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

Even in the midst of all this chaos and danger, this smoothness and speed, and the fact that the architect of this badassery is someone you’ve made out with — and will again if you survive, oh yes indeed — fills you with bubbling elation. You let Boss Mode slip enough to give a whoop and strain into the wind as your hair starts to whip your face.

“There it is,” Pancho says, high and nervous.

“There it is,” you repeat to Galley. It’s high tide, but — “Give us a little more clearance just to be sure.” Because if you even kiss the points of the reef, the Binsense could go tumbling end over end.

Galley’s light show brightens further, and your stomach swoops as he skips the Binsense like a stone. For a long, surreal moment, you’re airborne. The reef’s peak flicks past under you, so close you can see the little fish. Then he sets it down, and a two-story roostertail arcs over your wake.

You step well back from the winch housing and motion for him to join you, because when the horrorterror hits the coral, the whole damn thing will probably get ripped off.

You whip over to the stern, dump your body on the deck to save on power, and cling to the railing of the ship while you look back along your wake to the unseen mass behind you.

Clear of the reef, moving faster than you’ve taken the Carla in quite a long time, and with none of the psi-enhancing qualities of your helsmcolumn, you put everything you’ve got into bringing the horrorterror into the reef as hard as you can and keel-hauling the motherfucker.

This time, the light show isn’t just to impress Bel. You’re just snapping with energy.

Shit. Shit. What if the cable snaps? You’d better be fast enough to catch it before it beheads somebody.

Here it comes.

K’thun: Meet your maker.

Considering that its makers are long dead and drowned, this, sadly, isn’t entirely possible.

K’thun is not a creature accustomed to prey that fights back. Furthermore, it has never before encountered prey that shoots harpoons into its body and drags it several hundred feet before—

Oh.

Being a creature without eyes, it can’t catch the details of what’s about to happen to it—it can’t see the cable being pulled through the winch fast enough to generate smoke, it can’t see the spectacle of a sleek fishing vessel shooting at top speed over the water and flashing with psionics, and thankfully it can’t see the skinny, scowling figure clutching at the railing and staring back at it.

What it can sense, in the fleeting minutes it has left, is their rapidly diminishing terror. Even the palatable highblooded empath is calming down as she’s rapidly slipping from its grip, again, and as the boat skids back into the water, the last-second fight to drag her back hurts it almost as much as it hurts her—its resources are as strained as the one who is jettisoning its meal out and away…

And then K’thun hits the reef. Messily.

All thoughts of prey and feeding and singing dissolve as the coral rips it to fuchsia bits. 

Strangely, the only troll witness to its last floundering thoughts doesn’t make a sound when it happens—abruptly, her hair goes limp, her eyes stop glowing, and the unnatural chill in the cabin abruptly dissipates as she stares into space, seeing nothing.

Amid the flashes of pain and glimpses of memory and mental static, Elusca’s last conscious thought is how fuckin’ ironic it is that, in its last living seconds, K’thun the Fear Eater should be afraid.

Your shoulders are so tight with tension from all this stunt driving that when the Binsense jerks sharply — and the winch jumps overboard, motor and all, with a frankly hilarious ‘spang!’ noise — you develop an instant headache. Galley’s yellow sparks let go of the boat; you have to fight the engine to get it to deal with the sudden decrease in speed. Throttle down, bring the Binsense around in a smooth arc, cut it and drift.

Holy shit, that is the second most beautiful mess you’ve ever seen.

The number one spot on that list is claimed by the troll sprawled on the floor beside you. The black swirls you hadn’t dared look at have collapsed into regular non-spirally liquid. Pink liquid, which is weird, but not psychic. Elusca’s hair is limp, her eyes are no longer glowy, and thank fuck she’s stopped screaming.

You slither off the driver’s seat onto the floor and gather her up, pink spew and all.

You pick yourself shakily off the deck and clutch the rail, and for a long moment you stare at the world’s biggest sushi platter with your mouth hanging open. Then you pump your fist in the air and whoop.

“Ow,” Pancho laughs, reminding you that you just yelled into your headset. Which is now entirely free of static.

You pull yourself together — it’s not time to relax yet — but you’re still grinning. “How’s Pontop?”

“No symptoms. Vitals are good. I don’t know how long she’ll be out; she puked up most of what I gave her. Permission to take her below and make her comfortable?”

“Go ahead. Don’t take too long; we need to collect the Carla before it drifts onto the reef or something.”

“Got it.” Through the open back of the wheelhouse, you see her scoop up her matesprit, and then she descends out of sight into the miniscule cabin below.

You go over to Galley and offer him a hand up. You want so badly to haul him into a victory snog of epic proportions, but you’re still in charge, even if you’re letting Boss Mode slip somewhat. Instead, you tell him, “You were awesome. We would’ve been one hundred percent screwed without you.”

“Yes, X know,” you snap, leaning hard on the railing and sparing Bel only a quick glance before looking back out at the wreckage covering the reef. “X told you X could just about handle xt xn my sleep. Do you have any actual work for me to do, or…?”

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

If it’s significantly wounded, it hasn’t noticed yet. But it’s hooked well and good; the cable winch is freewheeling fast enough that you don’t dare throw the brake and try to take up the slack.

So basically, what you’ve achieved is to tether the Binsense to the Ablution Smud Monster, which is massive enough to throw the Carla wildly off course even if it couldn’t stop it. This… could turn out to have been a Poor Leadership Decision.

Unless.

“Fine,” you mutter. Then, louder and with less uh-oh in it: “Fine. Pancho, head for the reef. Galgal, hop us over it. Let’s see how this thing likes being hauled over coral.”

“How fast you want to go? You stxll want us to be on the water?”

“I leave it to your discretion. I trust you not to break the keel or run us aground.” Or knock you off the deck, or snap the propeller shaft, or bounce Pancho off the wheelhouse ceiling so she cracks her horns off, or — no. No, he can handle it. You stand ready by the winch.

You’re tired as fuck from all the marysu balls, but this is simple enough. Secure all the items on board (items, people, whatever) and push. Once she’s moving, once you can feel the cable going taught, you push harder. Nothing too abrupt. Breaking strain is a bitch, and even synthetic whaling line can snap. Careful. Pushing into it. Pushing forward. Harder.

The moonlight on the water blurs. The cable thrums. You’re moving over the water, lifting the ship until it just skims the surface, close enough to stay wet. Faster.

You can’t check your charts because your commline is ovverun by babbly madness.

Goddamn you’re good.

Even in the midst of all this chaos and danger, this smoothness and speed, and the fact that the architect of this badassery is someone you’ve made out with — and will again if you survive, oh yes indeed — fills you with bubbling elation. You let Boss Mode slip enough to give a whoop and strain into the wind as your hair starts to whip your face.

“There it is,” Pancho says, high and nervous.

“There it is,” you repeat to Galley. It’s high tide, but — “Give us a little more clearance just to be sure.” Because if you even kiss the points of the reef, the Binsense could go tumbling end over end.

Galley’s light show brightens further, and your stomach swoops as he skips the Binsense like a stone. For a long, surreal moment, you’re airborne. The reef’s peak flicks past under you, so close you can see the little fish. Then he sets it down, and a two-story roostertail arcs over your wake.

You step well back from the winch housing and motion for him to join you, because when the horrorterror hits the coral, the whole damn thing will probably get ripped off.

You whip over to the stern, dump your body on the deck to save on power, and cling to the railing of the ship while you look back along your wake to the unseen mass behind you.

Clear of the reef, moving faster than you’ve taken the Carla in quite a long time, and with none of the psi-enhancing qualities of your helsmcolumn, you put everything you’ve got into bringing the horrorterror into the reef as hard as you can and keel-hauling the motherfucker.

This time, the light show isn’t just to impress Bel. You’re just snapping with energy.

Shit. Shit. What if the cable snaps? You’d better be fast enough to catch it before it beheads somebody.

Here it comes.

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

askcrossfirehurricane:

If it’s significantly wounded, it hasn’t noticed yet. But it’s hooked well and good; the cable winch is freewheeling fast enough that you don’t dare throw the brake and try to take up the slack.

So basically, what you’ve achieved is to tether the Binsense to the Ablution Smud Monster, which is massive enough to throw the Carla wildly off course even if it couldn’t stop it. This… could turn out to have been a Poor Leadership Decision.

Unless.

“Fine,” you mutter. Then, louder and with less uh-oh in it: “Fine. Pancho, head for the reef. Galgal, hop us over it. Let’s see how this thing likes being hauled over coral.”

“How fast you want to go? You stxll want us to be on the water?”

“I leave it to your discretion. I trust you not to break the keel or run us aground.” Or knock you off the deck, or snap the propeller shaft, or bounce Pancho off the wheelhouse ceiling so she cracks her horns off, or — no. No, he can handle it. You stand ready by the winch.

You’re tired as fuck from all the marysu balls, but this is simple enough. Secure all the items on board (items, people, whatever) and push. Once she’s moving, once you can feel the cable going taught, you push harder. Nothing too abrupt. Breaking strain is a bitch, and even synthetic whaling line can snap. Careful. Pushing into it. Pushing forward. Harder.

The moonlight on the water blurs. The cable thrums. You’re moving over the water, lifting the ship until it just skims the surface, close enough to stay wet. Faster.

You can’t check your charts because your commline is ovverun by babbly madness.

Goddamn you’re good.

askcrossfirehurricane:

lackadaisicallimpet:

askcrossfirehurricane:

There’s no time to think about how entirely freaking weird it is to be rocketing upward on a flying harpoon mount, trailing a long drape of line, while chartreuse lightning explodes underwater. You don’t know how long he can keep this up, you don’t know how long Pancho can keep clear of those flailing tendrils, so all there’s room for in your head is Sniper Zen.

Before enlightenment: acquire target, fire. After enlightenment: acquire target, fire.

No, Bel, there isn’t time for a gigglefit either, that would be so inappropriate.

THERE. At the confluence of the tangle, a solid dark mass. “Got it. Hold me steady.” And miracle of miracles, he does. The harpoon gun roars,  the spray-soaked cable cracks like a whip, the massive cross-barbed head darts into the spray — you hold your breath — the monster moves, and the line jerks. “GOT YOU, YOU BASTARD.”

You wave triumphantly to Galley. “Okay, bring me down! Watch out for the line, it’ll whip out fast.”

He drops the harpoon mount on the deck with a horrible crunch, but he sets you down so delicately that you don’t even feel the impact in your ankles. You both lurch and crouch a bit as Pancho cuts another sharp arc in the water, dodging a fresh spout of tentacles.

“It’s still awfully damn sprightly,” you grumble. “I know I stuck it, but did I even hurt it?”

The thing wrapping its mind tentacles around your pan might be awfully damn sprightly, but you’re sure not.

You’ve been horking up black stuff ever since Galley plucked you off the Carla. You knocked both horns against something on the way up, which you can’t really feel now but you’re certain will mean a deeply personal headache later. 

You don’t need to see it to know it’s following you—you can feel its mental grip on you tighten, much like it did when Galley jettisoned you onto the island the first time. It’s learned since last time; Galley won’t be able to surprise it by simply pulling you out of range this time.

He puts you in the Lady Business’s wheelhouse, and you do your best to stay out of Pancho’s way and find the presence of mind to heave up your guts in only one corner, babbling all the while. Some of the words are yours, albeit in freaky squid language. Some of the words are not. You’re grateful Pancho can’t tell the difference.

Curled up as you are, you’re not too aware of what’s going on outside until a sudden phantom impact stuns the breath out of you, followed by mental shriek that crackles along all your nerves like electricity and you howl with it.

Oh, it’s pissed off, and it’s showing no signs of slowing down.  

If it’s significantly wounded, it hasn’t noticed yet. But it’s hooked well and good; the cable winch is freewheeling fast enough that you don’t dare throw the brake and try to take up the slack.

So basically, what you’ve achieved is to tether the Binsense to the Ablution Smud Monster, which is massive enough to throw the Carla wildly off course even if it couldn’t stop it. This… could turn out to have been a Poor Leadership Decision.

Unless.

“Fine,” you mutter. Then, louder and with less uh-oh in it: “Fine. Pancho, head for the reef. Galgal, hop us over it. Let’s see how this thing likes being hauled over coral.”

“How fast you want to go? You stxll want us to be on the water?”

askcrossfirehurricane:

bustedcrankshaft:

lackadaisicallimpet:

=> Be LL.

Are you sure you want to do that?

[Yes] [OH MY SWEET SCREAMS1RIVU4gS1RIVU4gS1RIVU4=ING FUCK NEVERMIND]

=> Yes.

You are now LL.

If you thought the last time this happened was fucked up, that was a trip to Troll Antigua Island compared to what this gnarly thing is like up close.

Your head is full of unspeakable noise, so much that your vision tunnels every time it screams anew. It hurts like something running its claws over your naked brain, it fills you up entirely until all you know is thousands of shrieking screaming voices yammering at once.

There is the highly disconcerting notion that this should have slammed you straight back into unconsciousness, you should be brain dead, you should be straight up cadaverous, but no, somehow it holds you separate and aloft and you can feel it wrapped tight around your pan stem as it ramps up your terror past any unit of measurement imaginable.

From thousands of miles away, you are dimly aware that you are cursing and flailing among your complete disaster area of a respite block. The air is freezing. Your fingers are twitching all by themselves and your hair feels all drifty and crackly and weird, like it would if Galley were to play with it using his psionics that way like he does sometimes. Your ears are bleeding and you are drooling black stuff.

You make yourself move. It’s hard to tell which way is forward. You can’t tell if the floor feels all tilty and weird because it actually is or if it’s some side effect of your shattered pan. You claw your way up and up and out, and then it screams again and you curl up on your side in the passageway and scream too, and your voice sounds like its voice, raw and furious and alien.

Clutching at the railing, you pull yourself up the steps and poke your head above deck—and there it is, heaving and pulsing and clinging to YOUR. GODDAMN. BOAT—

“GAS SHA NUSHA’RIATK URR NX FTUAS XUIA GUTGIATSUNG LUATHA UR THUS.”

BC: ok yeah she’s broodfesterxng all over the place.

BC: x thxnk we can declare operatxon roofxe the captaxn and book it a wash, our buddy outstrxps conventxonal speeds and has creepy graboxd tentacles only for my moxraxl.

BC: K’THUN WILL BE FED

BC: god that xs annoyxng, x’m done with it, come here LL.

You snare her less gently than you’d like (you can’t see for shit through the interference on the cameras) and yank her up into your proper line of sight. She comes up screaming and frothing in headwarpanese, and you grumble and launch her at the Binsense, following close behind.

BC: so

BC: alternatxve approaches anyone?

BC: x can’t blast xt dxrectly, what about hxttxng xt wxth somethxng more tangxble?

BC: wow that fucker xs quxck, xt’s already leavxng the carla.

BC: eat shxt guy x can keep her up here all nxght. can you fly?

BC: sorry x asked, xt mxght be able to.

BC: K’THUN WILL BE FED

BC: great thanks now my ear xs bleedxng.

Seeing Galley unharmed and airborne is remarkably encouraging. Watching Elusca puke tar in midair, not so much. You’re ready to deal with Pancho getting distracted by her matesprit’s plight, but she’s tight-focused on driving; the forest of flailing tangles is trailing after Elusca, and Pancho’s clearly determined not to let it use the Binsense for a yo-yo like it did the Carla.

As Galley comes in for a landing, you consider your options for ‘alternative approaches’. The harpoon gun is pretty serious business, if you could just find a damn target, but the sea is too dark and churned; you can’t make out anything like a body to fire into.

With a wince, and a mental apology to the Binsense, you decide.

“I can’t see a target, I need more elevation,” you tell Galley. “You can pull the harpoon mounting off the deck without shredding the boat, can’t you? And fly it and me up to where I can see through this chop.”

The deck creaks horribly and makes a godawful splintering noise, but eventually it surrenders the harpoon gun, plus a small patch of deck that it was originally mounted to (ok, it’s not so small, but it’ll be fine, lots of people have holes in their ships, the Carla has tons of holes and it’s only slightly awful to try and walk around on). You send it up with Bel and watch the last of the monstrosity across the span of black water slip from the deck of the Carla and back into the sea, vanishing completely.

You think about the first technique a psionic learns during training: the Generic Ball of Self-Sustaining Light In Your Blood Color. You’ve never tried to make one underwater before, but why not? If you make the sky too bright it’ll just reflect off the water and fuck up Bel’s visual fix.

The ball you make is frankly vulgar in size, a marysu-grade extravagance straight out of an anime, but it shines like a motherfucker.

You fire  it down into the water meteor-style, and it explodes like a flare, dissipating all the energy in a sustained flash, lighting everything up around it for a hundred meters for a few seconds before it fades.

Was that a swirl of seaweed at the edge of the lighted field? You prepare more balls and chuck them into the sea at odd angles.

This is really going to take it out of you.