A Bird With Broken Wings

by ThisCouldBeWorse

Summary:

"What is it?" you asked, moving to his side by the console.

The radar display showed a single, insistent red blip against the sweeping green arc.

"It's a goddamn ghost story," Gunther muttered around his cigar.

Or:
A crossover between In Space With Markiplier’s warp-core chaos and Mouthwashing’s horrors. The Invincible II finds a long-lost ship adrift—but some missing things should stay forgotten.

Notes:

• Inspired by We're Invincible (Under New Management) by Coffee_Birb, ThisCouldBeWorse

Yo. So, these two could totally go together, right? :)
It's an AU of my other AU! :D

Chapter 1: Reluctance

Your ship was drifting aimless and warp-core-less. You'd managed to disentangle Invincible II from that blasted wormhole in the end, but your engines were damaged beyond repair, and the engineering team was struggling without proper replacement parts. To conserve resources, you'd made the difficult decision to put more of the crew back into cryostasis. These days, the Invincible II felt cavernous and lonely with its skeleton crew.

 

Mark had reassured you there was no need for complete power-down mode. According to him, the reactor he'd built could sustain them indefinitely - at least without the mangled, broken components straining the system. But the engineers were stuck in a frustrating limbo, unable to make proper repairs without salvageable materials.

 

You stared out at the endless expanse of space, deliberately keeping your distance from the observation windows. Ever since that loop - the one where you'd watched helplessly as the glass shattered and sucked Mark into the void - you'd developed an instinctive wariness of standing too close to the panels. The memory still made your hands tremble slightly around your cup of watered-down coffee. If only Rosanna's coffee cultivation project could have been implemented on board...

"Captain!" Mark's urgent voice shattered your reverie, dragging you back to all those horrible wormhole memories in an instant. You turned to meet his wide, frantic eyes.

 

"You should come see this."

 

Dread exploded in your chest. You were already moving, matching his hurried pace toward the bridge. "What happened? Is it the reactor?" Your mind raced through the catalog of disasters from your time in the wormhole. Had the aliens found you again?

 

Mark seemed to sense the direction of your thoughts. He caught your wrist, slowing your panicked stride. "No, no. The ship's fine. We just found... Well, it's better if you see for yourself."

 

You drew a steadying breath. Of everyone aboard, Mark alone remembered the full nightmare of the wormhole loops. If he said this wasn't an immediate danger, you trusted that assessment.

 

Your pace became more measured as you entered the bridge. Gunther stood at the main console, his expression uncharacteristically grim.

 

"What is it?" you asked, moving to his side by the console.

 

The radar display showed a single, insistent red blip against the sweeping green arc.

 

"It's a goddamn ghost story," Gunther muttered around his cigar. The oxygen recyclers were holding for now but- the man looked more stressed than you'd ever seen him. You let the smoking violation slide for now as you followed his gaze toward the observation window

.

You hated windows. You kept an ear out for any cracking sounds as you tracked where Gunther pointed - at a massive, derelict spacecraft shaped like a crushed beer can, against the starfield.

 

Your pulse quickened. “Humans? This far out?” The possibilities left you torn between excitement and dread.

 

"Could be aliens," Mark suggested. "If they use English."

 

You squinted until the faded lettering became clear: "Tulpar" The designation looked like it had been hastily painted in English across the ship's flank. Next to a faded logo of red and yellow, “Pony Express”.

 

"Looks like a freighter," you mused aloud. "But what would one be doing all the way out here?" Despite your calm tone, nervous energy prickled across your skin.

 

"I recognize it." Gunther's unexpected declaration made you turn. He took a long drag from his cigar, arms crossed tightly over his chest, every muscle taut with tension. There was clearly more to this.

 

"Wanna elaborate?" you said. To outsiders, it might have sounded curt, but after countless night cycles sharing drinks side by side, Gunther recognized the question for what it was.

 

He exhaled a cloud of smoke that curled against the window, obscuring the dilapidated ship momentarily. "Not a big deal. My aunt was the ship's nurse before it vanished... twenty years back." His jaw worked for a moment. "I was just a kid. Search teams found nothing. The company - Pony Express - accused the captain of hijacking it, while the families sued for negligence of safety protocols."

 

From Gunther's dark expression, you didn't need to ask how well that went on.

 

"In the end, the company folded - Pony Express went under - and everyone forgot about the missing crew." His voice dropped. "My mom never did.”

 

You rested a hand on his shoulder. Empty platitudes weren't your style, and you knew they weren't Gunther's either. 

 

Mark remained at the window, studying the darkened hulk - the rift on its front was devastating. Most likely, they were hit by something nose-first. It showed no signs of power or propulsion, much like your own crippled vessel. After a long moment, he cleared his throat.

"It's an ancient outdated model, but some components might be salvageable for our repairs."

 

Gunther turned to him sharply. "You want to scrap a twenty-year-old ghost ship, for parts?" he snapped.

 

Mark bristled. "Why not? The engines look intact from here. Or have you forgotten we're missing the entire aft section of the Invincible?” He gestured wildly to the direction the warp core used to be.

 

Gunther jabbed a finger against Mark's chest. "And whose fault is that? Remind me why we're missing half our damn ship?"

 

You caught Gunther's bicep, applying firm pressure before the confrontation escalated. This was clearly personal for him. To your relief, he deflated slightly under your grip.

 

"Sorry," he muttered.

 

You kept your hand in place as you addressed Mark. "Any attempt to hail them?"

 

Mark's fists trembled slightly - the incident remained a sore subject. He could spiral into self-blame for days if you weren’t careful about it.

 

"Yes, Captain. Either their comms are down, or..." He glanced at Gunther before finishing, "...or there's no one left to answer."

 

You nodded. "Gather all remaining department heads on the bridge for an emergency meeting."

 

You guided Gunther away from the window as the others gathered. "Breathe," you reminded him, deliberately slowing your own breathing as an example.

 

When the seven remaining department heads had trickled in, you began the meeting and briefing. Keeping it short and to the point. They could all see the other spacecraft hovering outside the window, no point to stall.

 

After your briefing, Mack from Engines was the first to speak. "It's promising," he admitted, “But we don't know anything till further inspections. We can’t just threw around speculations all willy-nilly.” He glared the last part at your Head Engineer.

 

The tension between him and Mark was palpable - he still blamed your engineer for the loss of their engines along his entire department.

 

"You think your team could adapt those systems into ours?" you asked Mark, the recipient of Mack’s glares.

 

Mark nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. I’ve done more with less before."

 

"Like blowing up half our ship?" Mack shot back.

 

You raised a hand before Mark could retort. "Enough." Your sharp glance silenced both men. "The question is what we do about this."

You exhaled, massaging the bridge of your nose against the building headache.

 

You faced the small gathered crew with resolve, "I agree the freighter is an opportunity. It’s a cargo ship, there could be resources we could use." You met Gunther's eyes deliberately. "But we can't ignore the risks either. Twenty years being missing means structural decay and damages at minimum, not to mention whatever caused it to go off course in the first place could still be a danger."

 

You crossed your arms. "I propose sending a recon team first. In our current state, risking our entire crew - especially our engineers - would be irresponsible. A small group and I will take the shuttle to assess the situation before we commit to anything."

 

"Absolutely not!" Celci surprised you by objecting feelingly, hitting main console's edge in protest. "What if something happens to you, Captain?" 

 

The unexpected concern warmed you, though you kept your expression neutral. "Standard S.A.S protocol designates Head Engineer as the second in command and the successor in case of my death or incapacitation." You gestured to Mark, whose eyes widened comically.

 

"What?!" Mack exploded. "You can't be serious!"

 

Your glare silenced him. To Celci's shocked silence you said, "Please revive shuttle pilot, Holt Boggs, from stasis."

 

Your gaze found Gunther's, one eyebrow lifting in silent question. You wouldn't ask outright - plausible deniability and all - but his answering nod eased something in your chest.

 

"I'm comin’ with," he declared. "You'll need a gunslinger."

 

You allowed a small smile to turn up your lips. "Think you’re a better shot than me, Gunnerson?"

His answering grin was all teeth. "You're on, Cap’n."

 

You huffed softly, shaking your head.

 

"I'd like to volunteer as well, Captain."

You turned to your head of navigation, Brian. He was a man of few words, but his sharp gaze spoke volumes. You nodded without requiring explanation. The shuttle had four seats - might as well use them all.

 

"Very well. Tyler, prepare Protocol Evac as the ship's contingency. I want you to use all remaining explosives for an emergency propulsion out of here." You nodded seriously to the first mate. It was by all means a last-ditch hail Mary plan. But they could hopefully generate enough force to get them out of here in case your explanation endangered the Invincible II.

 

As the others dispersed, Gunther slung an arm around Brian's shoulders, his eyes dancing between you and Mark. "I'll get the guns. Any preferences Brian?" he asked, already leading the navigator away.

 

"You can't go!"

Mark blurted the moment you were alone. "You can't expect me to be captain! I'm - I'm an idiot who makes terrible decisions, you know that better than anyone! And - and I'm hideous! I could never pull off that uniform and stupid hat!" He raked both hands through his hair, on the verge of hyperventilating. "I'll fuck it up... You saw what happened... I can't- I can't do this again-"

 

You studied your head engineer more carefully. His self-esteem had clearly deteriorated further than you'd realized. You made a mental note to thaw the psychologist soon - the entire crew needed evaluation after everything, yourself included. The wormhole ordeal, the lost engines - it had taken its toll on everyone, but Mark bore particularly bigger scars. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his cheeks hollowed from stress. The haunted look in his eyes made you regret not noticing sooner.

 

"Mark." You stepped closer, spreading your arms, waiting for his small nod before pulling him into a firm embrace. His hair had grown long enough to tickle your nose.

 

"For the record," you said dryly into his shoulder, "I fully intend to return alive." His choked laugh sounded suspiciously wet. You patted his back. "But if I don't - and that's a big ‘if’ - I know you'll make a fine captain."

 

He started to protest, but you tightened your hold. "You're one of the most brilliant people I know. You built a warp core that manipulated time and alternate dimensions from scratch, for stars' sake." You kept your tone matter-of-fact, though the achievement still awed you. "When it matters, you have the best intentions for this crew. Always. That's what matters."

 

A hiccup shook his frame as he fisted his hands in your lapel. You didn't comment on the dampness seeping through your shoulder pads.

 

"Besides," you added, lighter now, "I think you'd look damn good in the uniform. Especially the hat."

 

Your chuckle turned into genuine relief when he echoed it. Before parting, he squeezed you with surprising strength.

 

"Come back," he whispered.

How could you refuse such a heartfelt plea?

 

Chapter 2: Echoes

Notes:

Hey, TW for descriptions of the corpses.

"Ready, gentlemen?" you asked as you fastened your seatbelt. The answer came in a chorus of "Yes, Captain!" And off you were.

 

You activated the communicator, watching the distant ship grow larger through the viewport. "This is the captain of Invincible II, identification serial C-1031. Tulpar, do you copy?" Your voice remained steady despite the growing tension. "Tulpar, we are requesting docking. Do you copy?" you repeated when no response came.

 

"They're not picking up the phone," Gunther grunted, his fingers tapping nervously against his thigh.

 

You hummed in agreement, switching the channel back to Invincible's comms. "Invincible II, Mission Control, this is your captain. Do you copy?"

 

"Loud and clear, Captain," Dan's cheerful voice answered. "We're all on the bridge on standby in case anything happens."

 

"Good. Keep the line open. We'll keep you updated," you replied, forcing your focus back to the approaching derelict.

 

"Brace yourselves!" your shuttle pilot warned as he engaged the blast shields. "This ain't gonna be pretty."

 

And it wasn't. The impact rattled your bones, leaving your ears ringing as you struggled with the seatbelt release. You stood on shaky legs, the artificial gravity doing little to steady your disorientation.

 

"Damn it, Boggs! Landing and crashing are two different things!" Gunther snapped at the pilot while Brian retched in the corner.

 

You winced, willing your spinning head to clear. Maybe bringing the navigator hadn't been the best idea after all. "Brian, you alright?" you asked, simultaneously assessing the shuttle for damage.

 

He gave a weak thumbs-up. The shuttle appeared intact—at least superficially.

 

Boggs pouted as he argued with Gunther until you cut in. "Enough. Boggs, stay here and assess damage. You two—suit up with me."

 

You helped Brian to his feet and guided him toward the space suit rack containing four suits. "Why do I always stay behind?" Boggs whined. Gunther flashed the pilot an awfully smug smirk as he put on his suit.

 

You fixed the pilot with a stern glare, arms crossed. "This is our only way back to Invincible, Boggs. Fix it before we return."

 

"Yes, Captain," he grumbled, turning to the console.

 

After suiting up, you established a radio link between Gunther, Brian, and Invincible. "Mission Control, Dan, do you copy?"

 

"Loud and clear, Captain," came the immediate response.

 

"We're suited up and boarding the Tulpar," you reported, nodding to your crewmates as you cycled through the airlock. "Opening airlock now."

 

 

You turned the valve. the door hissed and swung inward. Boggs had apparently crashed—sorry, landed—in Tulpar's loading bay. It could have been worse.

 

The bay lay in complete darkness, its emergency lights long dead. Yet the artificial gravity remained functional after twenty years, suggesting either minimal power or...

Or current inhabitants maintaining systems.

 

You activated your suit's flashlight and took point. "Gunther, the guns?" Your eyes swept across the abandoned bay, experience had taught you appearances meant nothing. You’ve been through too much chaos to believe in safety. 

 

"Here, Cap'n," he said, handing you a laser rifle.

 

The spacesuit gloves were clumsy and thick, but this wasn’t your first time fighting in one.  "Watch my six. Brian, stay between us."

 

"You got it, Captain," he replied dutifully, falling into formation.

 

You keyed your helmet comm. "We're inside. Seeing signs—we're heading to the cargo hold."

 

"Copy that," Dan acknowledged.

 

Your team advanced cautiously, walking in a line behind you. You'd promised Mark you'd return, but your crew’s lives would always matter more to you than your own. 

 

After forcing open the door, you were met with towering industrial crates crammed full of boxes up to the high ceiling. It was, frankly, intimidating in the dark. 

 

"Whoa, this is a motherlode," Gunther whistled. "What's in them?"

 

"Not showing on scanners," Brian reported, fiddling with his wrist monitor. "No heat signatures."

 

"Secure the ship first. Snoop later," you ordered, the hairs on your neck standing at attention. Something about this place put you on edge. 

 

You navigated endless aisles of pallet racking, the sheer volume of storage on this freighter was striking. A staircase caught your flashlight beam, leading to an open door above.

 

"There," you pointed, ascending carefully with your team.

 

The platform revealed scattered open boxes. Gunther picked up one of the bottles. "Dragon Breath... Mouthwash?"

 

"Freighter ships carry cargo in bulk." Brian stared at the towering shelves. "Is all of this just mouthwash?" he asked incredulously.

 

"It can't be, right?" Gunther looked to you for answers.

 

You felt equally baffled. "We've found the ship's cargo—it's mouthwash," you reported.

 

Dan's voice crackled through. "Sorry, Cap, I think I heard wrong. Did you say rough wash?"

 

"No, idiot. Mouth-wash. As in dental hygiene shit," Gunther clarified.

 

"The fuck?" That was Mark's voice in the background. You smiled faintly. He was watching the mission too. Such a worrier.

 

"Our reaction exactly, jackass! There’s an ocean of this stuff here," Gunther snapped. 

 

Brian was examining a bottle for himself. "It’s all expired. There’s nothing we can do with it." 

 

"Focus. We still don't know if there are inhabitants," you reminded them.

 

The mesh corridor stretched in both directions, walls marred with sealant foam. "Ugh, what's this?" Gunther toed the hardened white lumps.

 

"Emergency sealant foam. Older ships used it for breaches," Brian explained, scanning the hallway. "Completely fossilized now. Oxygen levels are too low for suit removal. Doubt any humans remain, Captain."

 

"Stay alert regardless," you ordered, following signs up to a staircase leading to the lounge—the most likely place to find signs of life... or death.

 

"Cap? This is blood," Gunther whispered, pointing at the dark flaking trail leading to the lounge door.

 

You activated your comm, voice low. "We've found blood trails. Something was dragged here. Appears old, but standby for Evac Protocol." With a gesture, you directed Gunther to cover the door with his gun as you forced it open.

 

The scene inside stopped you cold. It was a horror show. 

 

Gasps and retching sounds came from behind you, but you couldn't look away from the sight. Even after years of frontline service dealing with death every day, nothing could've prepared you for this.

 

"Captain? Captain! Please respond!"  Someone's frantic voice crackled in your ear. "What’s going on? Captain!" It was Mark’s. He sounded…panicked?

 

You raised a shaky hand to the button on your helmet to transmit. "We are… all right," you said, your voice doing a shit job of being comforting. 

 

"Thank fuck. What's going on?" His voice shook with barely contained anxiety. You didn’t like it on him.

 

"They're dead," you replied, eyes locked on the three corpses slumped in chairs around a dining table. "We found the crew."

 

The bodies were not quite skeletons, not quite whole. It was the aftermath of a grotesque limbo between decay and preservation. Three corpses, their skins leathery, shrunken, and darkened, clinging tightly to bones like parchment—mummified. 

 

They had party hats on. 

 

The room was decorated for a celebration, but you knew these people had been dead long before someone dragged and arranged their corpses. Old blood trails led to each cadaver.

 

Stepping closer, you saw the more gory details. There was a massive, dried pool of blood in the centre of the table, and decomposed flesh sat on each plate in front of them, steak maybe?, like some morbid last meal.

 

The cadavers' features were barely recognizable— they had brittle hair clinging to their scalps in patches, sunken black sockets where eyes had been. The fabric of their clothing was rotted unevenly; some threads still clung while others had disintegrated into dust. What remained looked stiff with dried blood, fused to the skin in places.

 

You raised a shaking glove to one with the longest remaining hair strands, strings of black hanging off its half-decomposed scalp. As you turned the corpse's shoulder, a loud retch sounded behind you. The body moved as one stiff unit, like dried wood.

 

"Aunt Anya—" Gunther's anguished whisper cut through the silence. This was her—Your gunslinger's aunt. Poor woman.

 

"What happened to you?" you murmured to her mummified face that would surely haunt your nightmares for years to come.

 

Her jumpsuit collar was crusted with flaky blood, her face was sunken, her lips were in a stiffened grimace, teeth exposed in a silent snarl.

This was the face of someone who suffered unimaginable pain before death. It was cruel, so cruel that these people haven't found peace even in passing.

 

As someone sobbed behind you, you carefully removed the crude party hat from the woman’s head. Strands of black hair—no longer anchored by skin or the elastic band—fell freely to the floor.

 

Taking a shuddering breath, you gathered the rigid body, scooping her into your arms. It weighed shockingly little, emitting a dry rasp of skin against bone as you moved it. Gently, you laid her on her side on the floor, her lower body forever molded to the chair's shape.

 

You closed your eyes. The pressure in your chest threatened to crush you. What horrors happened here? 

 

The other two corpses seemed to be in worse shape. The thinner one had a deep skull fracture, a ravine in it's half decomposed nose hole stretching to it's cheek, the other bigger man sporting bullet holes in its forehead and right eye.

 

Someone had done this. Killed the crew, then arranged their bodies into a gruesome gathering—with party hats. 

 

Gunther had collapsed, hyperventilating. Brian had vomited again, the mess now coating his helmet's interior.

 

You knelt beside Gunther, rubbing his back through the suit. "Breathe. With me. In... out. You can do this." Over the comms, you heard Dan comforting Brian as you held your gunslinger until his shaking subsided.

You weren't sure how long the three of you sat there, just basking in the scene while Brain talked with Dan and you murmured meaningless comforts to Gunther's comms.

 

"Mission Control," you cut in.

 

"Yes, Captain?" Dan responded hesitantly.

 

"Prepare three body bags for now. Revive Dr. Ploeger for the morgue." As a colony ship, you could afford this dignity to this crew—at least a proper cremation.

 

As if reading your thoughts, Gunther whispered, "No cremation, please." The uncharacteristic vulnerability in his voice broke you. "I want to bury her..."

 

"Okay. I promise," you agreed. Damn the complications—Mark could build a fucking cryochamber, you would make a proper burial planetside.

 

You studied the bodies again. "This was intentional. Two show clear violent trauma," you reported to both your team and the ship. "Gunther, do you remember how many crew were on Tulpar?"

 

He refused to look at the table. "Five," he croaked. "Just five."

 

Brian frowned. "That's unusually small for a ship this size."

 

"Which means two are unaccounted for," you said, retrieving your abandoned rifle. Damn carelessness—you'd never drop your weapon in the field. You were getting rusty.

 

You couldn't afford rusty. If a murderer lurked aboard...

 

"You think they're still alive?" Brian asked skeptically, resuming his position between you and Gunther.

 

Fair question. It was nigh impossible for anyone to have survived 20 years here. The oxygen levels were all but gone. 

 

"I'm not taking chances," you growled. "Mission Control, two crew are still missing. Going to check medical next." 

 

The medical bay revealed more horror, chaos, and blood. Half the room was encased in foam, the rest smeared with blackened stains. The bed and floor told dreadful stories you didn't want to hear.

 

"Aunt Anya was the nurse," Gunther whispered.

 

Damn it all. The blood on the bed—could it be hers? You gripped Gunther's arm, guiding him out. He’d told you she was the nurse, he’d told you. And yet you'd brought him here? Fuck.

 

"Medical’s clear. Checking lower levels again," you reported grimly,  maintaining contact with Gunther, protocol be damned.

 

You led your little group to the utility room. 

 

"Shit," Brian cursed as the door slid open.

 

The fourth corpse lay on the floor with a gun in its skeletal hand. 

 

"We've found the fourth," you reported. Suicide? Seemed like you found your presumed crazed culprit. 

 

Tulpar's utility room showed less damage than elsewhere. Your eyes fell on the ancient cryopods. They seemed damaged.

 

"Captain..." Brian's voice shook. "This one's occupied."

 

You joined him, staring at the frozen abomination in the only online cryopod. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it. 

 

"The fuck is that?" Gunther breathed with horrified fascination.

 

You couldn't look away from the monstrous skinless creature in stasis—its single, open eye seeming to stare back.

 

"Mission Control, this is your captain. Revive Dr. Ploeger immediately and prep medical for emergency."

 

Your voice didn't waver as you delivered the final report:

 

"We've found the fifth crewmate."

Notes:

So whatcha think? :)
I did extensive research on what would happen if a body had a limited amount of oxygen to rot and using it all.

Gimme comments or I'll revive Jimmy. >:(

(Also, if you spot the many MANY easter eggs, I will reward it with doing a commission for you ;P )

Chapter 3: Safety

The cryopod door hissed open as Brian disabled the final safety protocols. Though the ship's oxygen levels remained dangerously low, you calculated the survivor would make it to your shuttle before hypoxia set in.

 

The bandaged horror inside remained motionless despite the thawing process completing. Then - a weak groan. The thing stirred to life.

 

What emerged was a mangled wreck of human flesh - a patchwork of burns and exposed muscle, essentially skinless, with one leg deliberately shortened by what appeared to be crude amputation. You focused past the surgical precision of that particular wound to gather him into your arms, carrying him like a child. Fresh blood seeped through your suit sleeves as frozen injuries reopened.

 

"Are you awake?" you asked, knowing he couldn't hear through your helmet.

 

His body began convulsing as you hurried past your disturbed crew, trying to shield them from the worst of the sight.

 

"It's over," you lied, voice hollow even to yourself.

 

Your audio processors picked up his labored, wheezing breaths - but they were breaths. That's what mattered. Though his head thrashed side to side like a dying animal, he lived. That was enough.

 

You sprinted through the endless mouthwash cargo rows, barely registering your two crewmen struggling to keep pace. The survivor's single remaining eye darted wildly as you boarded the shuttle, though you couldn't tell if it actually saw anything. Your pulse hammered against your ribs - safety was close.

 

"What in the hell is that?!" Boggs screamed upon seeing your burden.

 

You didn't blame his reaction. You were essentially cradling a bleeding, gasping torso that somehow still clung to life.

 

Ignoring Boggs' frantic questions, you assessed the man in your arms - most likely a man, considering the shoulder width - while debating where to deposit him so you could remove your suit. Briefly, you considered simply setting him on the floor before dismissing the idea - his open wounds couldn't withstand that. A glance confirmed none of your crew would volunteer to hold him either.

 

Gently, you propped him in your seat as he croaked in protest, then stripped off the bloodied suit. Gunther and Brian entered but remained suited up, keeping their distance.

 

"We have an emergency patient. Is the shuttle ready to take off ?" you asked Boggs.

 

You tilted your head at Gunther and Brian meaningfully—hurry up.

 

"Uh, yes, Captain. But if that’s sitting in a chair—we don’t have enough chairs for that thing to sit during take off. So, what about—" Boggs struggled. 

 

You answered his dilemma by grabbing the man under his armpits and raising him to your chest like a toddler. He wasn’t that much heavier than one either. 

 

You ignored the blood soaking through and dampening your uniform, your chest, as you resettled in your chair, resting his weight in your lap. 

 

 

He whined and made broken sobs, his skinless chin rubbing into your shoulder. 

 

"It’s over," you repeated—now that he could hear you properly. "You’re alive and that’s what matters." 

 

Unsure if he could even hear you, you glared at the unmoving shuttle pilot. 

 

"Boggs, Take us back home." 

 

You felt the shuttle take flight. 

 

This was the second corpse-ish person in your arms today, and you’d be damned if you couldn’t keep him alive. 

 

He cried into your shoulder pathetically, thrashing. 

 

"Shh. You're safe." You couldn’t help but repeat it again. What else was there to say?

 

It was certainly not okay. And you couldn’t promise him he’d ever be okay. 

 

His back seemed more intact than the rest of him, you placed your palm on it as a pseudo seatbelt, studying the man against your chest as your shuttle crash-landed again. 

 

~~~~

 

To say no one expected the fifth crew member to survive would be an understatement. He - the biological sex seemed male - lay motionless despite his open eye's jittering pupil. 

 

You didn’t think he had any skin, eyelids, or even tear ducts. He could be blind for all you knew. 

 

"Are you awake?" you whispered to the med-bay cot's occupant. No response. He didn’t so much as twitch. 

"Doesn’t seem like it," you muttered, turning to the doctor. "Ploeger, how is it so far?" 

 

Dr. Danielle Evon Ploeger was a beautiful woman, but despite her usual amiable demeanor, she had steady hands and a scowl in her eyes that could rival a storm. She’d taken it far better than the rest of your crew when you stepped inside the ship with a breathing corpse in your arms. 

 

"Frankly, I’ve seen carcasses in better condition, Captain," she deadpanned as she concluded her inspection, arms crossed as she frowned at her patient. 

You sighed, your blood-crusted uniform clinging uncomfortably. "Your medical opinion?"

 

"Fourth and third-degree burns cover his torso. His limbs have been—well, you can see them. Amputated elaborately.  As for sensory functions, I did what I could for now. The fact he hasn’t caught sixty types of infection is a miracle in itself." She summarized as the survivor twitched beneath his IV and oxygen mask.

 

“But he'll live?" You indicated the skeletal face. The good doctor gingerly placed some kind of moist eyepatch over his disturbingly open eye, then looked to you. 

 

"Physically? Perhaps. But Captain..." She gave you a significant look. "Do we know who he is? At least a name?" She glanced between you and the patient. "Or what happened to him? The cut on his left leg is deliberate and jagged—done by a dull knife." 

She gave you a meaningful look. 

 

You sat, slumping on the nearest chair. "Still investigating." You sighed, feeling pins and needles in your shoulders. "B-Team’s over there right now, recovering data. I'll update you when we receive the other bodies."

 

Ploeger raised an eyebrow. "You’re still preserving Gunther’s relative?" 

 

You sighed tiredly. Gunther—to have his childhood hardships dug up like this. On top of the other rather new trauma. To see the aftermath of what had been done to your family… 

 

You exhaled heavily. The trauma of uncovering family horrors... You couldn't imagine Gunther's torment.

 

"Yes. In cryo. The others can be cremated."

 

Ploeger nodded toward the limbless man. "And him?"

 

Your eyes narrowed. "What about him?"

 

She gestured clinically. "This degree of damage... Even if his body recovers, the psychological trauma..." She pinched her nose. "I'm not advocating euthanasia, but sometimes the kindest option-"

 

"I know mercy kills," you interrupted sharply. Bloodied memories passed through your eyes, too fast and too many. "This man's survived twenty years in a dying pod. That deserves a chance."

You knew, of course, you knew it was never simple as that. You’d delivered merciful ends to your own comrades back in the war. Twenty years in a dead ship, enduring hell and surviving it—it had to be something.

 

You leaned forward, nodding to the sleeping patient. "Can we fabricate biomaterials? At least for vocal cords?"

This was crucial - not just for the survivor, but for Gunther's closure. Was this man perpetrator or victim? You needed answers.

"Doctor, this is priority. Any necessary surgeries, any resources - I want him communicative ASAP."

 

"It won't be easy, but sure." Ploeger nodded. "I'll get right on it, Captain."

 

"Thank you." You rubbed your temples, feeling grateful for her cooperation. "I know it's a tall order. I’m sorry for waking you like this—for this." You gestured to the patient and your uniform's bloodied front.

 

"Don't apologize." She offered a tired smile. "It's good to thaw my legs."

 

You chuckled wearily. "Keep me updated."

 

Exiting, you mentally catalogued the coming days' tasks. Too much to oversee, too little time.

 

~~~~

 

Gunther was quiet—scarily so. 

 

Mark was glad Tulpar was cleared safe enough to anchor it to Invincible II and work on disassembling its parts from inside and outside. Nothing like having a new project under his hands to occupy the mind.

 

Whatever horrors Gunther and their captain had witnessed in those early hours of discovery however, had clearly shattered the normally boisterous gunslinger. 

It was the man’s aunt, of course. His family had gone through hell and not survived it. 

 

The corpses were already bagged and set aside before Mark’s team arrived. Only Brian and Gunther had seen their condition, the two of them taking care of the arrangements away from prying eyes. The rumor mill was going crazy with speculations.

 

Invincible II hadn’t had so many active crew members milling around and gossiping in months. Mark couldn’t help but feel comforted in the renewed energy—even at the expense of the Tulpar crew.

 

He immediately chastised himself for the thought.

 

Gunther stood sentinel over the body bags, frozen in place, tears leaking behind his sunglasses as he stared at one in particular.

 

If the mangled man the captain carried to Invincible II was alive, Mark couldn’t—and didn’t want to—imagine what their dead looked like. He shuddered just thinking about the man in the captain’s arms. No doubt, Mark’s nightmares would have new material from now on. 

 

Mark shook the thoughts away, refocusing on disassembling the thrusters he was sitting on. Space's infinite beauty surrounded him. So vast and endless around him, breathtaking yet terrifying. One snap to his safety cord and he would be drifting away forever…

 

"Mark? Respond."

 

He startled, fumbling for his helmet comm. "Uh, yes? I'm here."

 

"Thank God. They said you're outside." The Captain's relieved crackle made Mark's stomach flip. "Status report."

 

"All good here Captain! Engineering Team's swapping with C-Team for oxygen refill soon. We'll transport the salvaged parts and... the remains." He hesitated on the last word.

Didn’t look forward to that part.

 

"Copy. Bring Gunther back this time." The Captain's unusual concern for the gunslinger unsettled Mark further. Since when does Captain worry about Gunther? "Any news on the recovery team?"

 

Mark had to take a break from torching the outer case of the Tulpar to focus. "Tyler found some IDs inside. Not all five - others might be buried in the foam." He said, thinking back to their cockpit, "Their systems are bricked, drives still foamed up. At this point, I'm tempted to just take a hacksaw and tear the whole cockpit apart."

 

Captain was silent as they received the news, Mark couldn’t help but stare at the stars around him, imagining what expression Captain was making to that information. Would it be a smile at his weak joke? A frustrated grimace for the lack of progress on the investigation front?

 

“Don’t damage the hard drives.” In the end, Mark couldn’t guess anything from their tone, " I’ll be waiting on the bridge for you. Bring the IDs." 

 

Mark blinked but ultimately managed a soft, "Yes, Captain."

 

~~~~

 

He arrived at the bridge, unsure what to expect. "Sorry I’m late," Mark started. 

 

Their esteemed captain’s back was turned to him, but Mark could see their grim scowl in the window’s reflection. 

 

"Cadavers processed?"

 

Cadaver? What a fancy word. 

Mark nodded. "Gunther insisted on staying for the process," Mark said, unable to look away from his captain. "I, uh, prepped the horizontal cryopod for... you know."

He trailed off, mesmerized by the Captain's silhouette. They seemed so larger than life sometimes—it made his breath catch. 

 

Their captain finally turned to face Mark. Paradoxically, they seemed painfully human when he got closer. Their shoulders slumped, uniform front still stiff with dried blood.

 

"After C-Team returns, everyone should call it a night," the captain said, their steel-gray eyes were shadowed. "You're still sure those engines are... viable?" 

 

"Absolutely!" Mark stepped closer, hands animated. "They can be routed to draw power from our main reactor."  Mark searched the Captain's face, desperate to convey his sincerity. " I’ve rechecked the our destination route with Brian, and it's close. This can take us the last leg of the way." He swallowed thickly, "I won’t let you down." 

 

The captain’s expression lost some of its tension. "I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it." A faint smile curved their lips, disheveled hair falling across their forehead as their head tilted. 

 

Ever since the purgatory of wormhole loops, the captain had treated Mark with more care.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t extremely pleased by it. 

 

"How are you holding up?" they asked softly, almost a whisper. 

 

Mark managed a shaky grin. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You carried a skinless man aboard."

 

The Captain huffed. "Don't remind me. I'll be sleepless for weeks."

"Yeah. Me too."

 

An awkward silence fell.

 

Finally, the Captain cleared their throat, "You said something about IDs?" the Captain prompted.

 

He nodded, feeling twitchy again. Mark produced a blood-stained baggie from his belt pouch, handing them to the captain as if it were the evidence in a cheesy cop movie. 

 

Well, they were evidence. Of a horrible, terrible crime. So maybe he's analogy wasn't that far off.

 

"Here. Dr. Ploeger recovered the last from the... body."

 

"Which one?" The Captain opened the vacuum-seal and emptied the bag onto a side table.

Mark pointed to the burly man's photo. “This one.”

 

The Captain hummed, sorting through the cards. "Anya's accounted for. That leaves the heavyset one-" The captain chose the card Mark pointed out, soaked in a sickening brown.  "Swansea, that's the engineer." Two cards set aside. "That's two bodies identified."

 

They examined the remaining two. "And a 'Jimmy'—the co-pilot.” They looked to Mark, “Where did you find this one?”

 

“Tyler found it in a locker." He pointed to the last one, "This one was foam-embedded in the cockpit." Mark indicated the badly burned final card - picture and name illegible.

 

The Captain laid it down. "So two John Does, and we can't confirm which is Jimmy." They closed their eyes in thought, "Any progress breaking the foam in the cockpit?" 

 

Mark shook his head, slightly ashamed. "That stuff’s practically fossilized, Captain. Even with the laser cutter, it’s gonna take a while to break apart—especially since I want their logs’ hard drives in one piece." 

 

Thankfully, the captain accepted the excuse, focusing back on the cards spread in front of them. "What about medical records?" The captain scratched their chin. "The foam in Medical was less dense, might be easier to break." 

 

Mark winced. "Yeah, could be promising. But um, they were mostly paper-based back then, and anything we tried to loosen just crumbled when handled.” Mark mumbled, apologetic. 

 

The Captain exhaled heavily. "So we have two male corpses and one survivor with only one confirmed name between them." They rubbed their temples. "Fantastic..."

 

Mark fiddled with his belt pouch. "I'll run more scans. Maybe we'll find the last ID."

 

"Thank you, Mark." The Captain's quiet gratitude warmed him.

 

Another heavy silence again. Mark burned with wanting to ask- but he couldn’t bear overstepping. 

 

The Captain smiled tiredly. "Bring your blanket and pillow," they murmured before stepping away. 

 

Mark hurried to gather his sleepover supplies to captain's quarters, his breathing finally eased.