—Still Wakes The Deep, Second Chance AU—
—The shenanigans Aboard/The Aftermath & The epilogue—
(Firstly, I’m so sorry that this is the first update in such a long time, health took a turn for the worst for a while but I’m starting to find the strength to come back to doing what I love, writing and interacting with everyone)
The mess hall smelled of stale coffee, overcooked cabbage, a recurring theme every-time Roy MacNair tried to teach George Gregor how to cook and the faint but ever-present tang of brine. The Beria D’s second diver passed in the doorway, spear-squid gills pulsing, protesting the lack of moisture as he scanned the room. Thankfully, he found what he was looking for around a bolted-down steel table near the galley’s hatch, the improbable heart of the Beria D’s survivors. David Rennick, the leader, leaned back in his chair, cane hooked onto the back, his stormy grey eyes seemed less clouded than usual and for a heartbeat he looked almost relaxed beneath his glasses. Besides him, Malcolm Addair occupied two chairs to accommodate his mutated bulk, the grotesque fusion of armored plates and slick, blistered covered flesh overtaking the entire corner he’d sat down in, the extra head embedded in his side twitched occasionally, vacant eyes seemingly staring at nothing. The engineering deckhand’s burnt side tilted towards Eileen Finlay, the ex-wrestler turned lead welder, who was laughing so hard that her chair shook while the ex-boxer turned fugitive turned lead electrician, Cameron ‘Caz’ McLeary, grinned and leaned across the table to the Beria D’s first diver. Albert Brodie, deep-sea diver turned into the double mutated thing he’d become, nodded along, his diving suit, modified by the union representative to fit the changes to his original body before he’d been spilt, copied and pasted like the installation manger as his whiskered cheeks crinkled into a smile. Iain ‘Trots’ Campbell, the aforementioned union representative slithered onto one of the empty chairs by the installation manger, extra arms folded neatly around his waist, tail coiled beneath the table while his tentacles draped like ropes over the back of the seat. He adjusted his wig, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as the deep-sea diver’s own laughter joined the lead welder’s as Scooby, the youngest maintenance-man aboard the Beria D perched precariously on the representative’s lower mass, waved enthusiastically at the second diver, the manager’s spare jacket swallowing his frame, Cadal logo stark against the bright orange fabric.
Raffs felt the request lodge in his throat like a fishbone, the scene before him was warm, fragile and the skittish drill operator, John Roper, had only been hiding in Marine Control for a couple of days but the absence of his sharp wit, the quiet where his tentacles usually tapped was palpable to the diver. He missed the drill operator’s muttered curses and the way the assistant operator, Kenneth Patterson, the unfortunate consciousness sharing the operator’s mutated body, sometimes hissed unexpected trivia to start a conversation. He knew that the young maintenance-man missed the shared jokes over breakfasts, knew others missed his solid, dependable presence guarding their flank during patrols and knew that the only ones who could force the operator out was sitting at that table. He glanced away, toward the anonymous knots of other rig workers scattered at tables, faces blurred by exhaustion and the rig’s gloom, he didn’t want to be the one to shatter the pocket of near-normality, didn’t want to disturb the fragile echo of what the rig was like before the siege. Something slick tapped at his ribs when he’d stalled, staring at the blurred faces for a breath to long, he flinched at first, mutated mass puffed out until the tap returned harder, demanding his attention. His father in all but name, the Mosasaur-Frilled Shark-Saddleback Seal hybrid, he hadn't moved from his seat beside the lead electrician but one of his thicker tentacles, a duplicate of the tether connecting this half-finished mutated mess of a body to the siren beneath had snaked across the floor. The deep-sea diver’s head tilted, oil-slicked eyes meeting oil-slicked eyes. A subtle jerk of his chin gestured toward David’s table, ‘C’mon’, the silent encouragement held the diver’s calm assurance and Raffs, still puffed out, swallowed that fishbone feeling, squared his shoulders, lifted his tail for balance and moved.
The laughter died slowly as the younger man approached the table, Malcolm Addair’s unburnt side swiveled toward him, the embedded head on his side following, empty sockets staring blindly. Iain ‘Trots’ Campbell’s clouded eyes blinked behind his glasses, one tentacle tightening around the maintenance-man perched on his lower mass as he shifted, making space for the younger man to drag a chair over. David Rennick lowered his mug of tea, steam curling around his weathered face. "Raffs?", his voice was rough but quiet, measured like he’d always kept it. "Somethin' brewin' lad?". He shifted his weight, tail scraping softly against the floor. "Yeah, actually”, Raffs cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. "You know how we’d bet five bucks that Roper would do it again?—"
“You’re fuckin’ kidding”, Eileen Finlay groaned, her face a perfect mix between exasperation and acceptance while the installation manager sighed, a raspy and somewhat weary sound cutting through the mess hall’s chatter. “Aye. The man's got a hide thicker than a hull’s platin’”, he pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, a huff of laughter escaping his lips. Around the table, exasperated laughter bubbled up afterwards, a chain reaction from the shared fondness and absolute ‘are we really doing this again?’ exasperation. Eileen Finlay’s chuckle shook the table when she facepalmed, Caz snorted into his coffee, Addair’s dual mouths twisted in upwards grim amusement and Brodie let out a low, seal-like chuff. "Five bucks says he’s jammed himself behind the bloody sonar array again”, Scooby muttered, shaking his head. "Like last Tuesday and the Thursday before that."
Eileen Finlay snorted, welding mask hanging loose around her neck like a wrestler’s discarded championship belt. "Kid, Roper’s got more hideout spots than I’ve got welding scars. Remember when he wedged himself inside the spare drill-bit crate? Took us three hours!", she slammed a fist on the table, rattling mugs for the emphasis. "You ever wonder how he’s able to do this disappearing act so goddamn good? Are we sure that he’s not—…I dunno, part octopus?" Caz McLeary leaned back, scarred knuckles tapping the steel tabletop. The lead electrician’s grin was sharp, almost predatory like he’d been waiting for this to happen. "Nah, Fins. You’ve just gotta like a cornered rat or—“, he nodded towards the engineering deckhand’s bulk occupying two chairs, "—somethin’ that’s learned to burrow."
Malcolm Addair scowled, burnt face tilted towards the electrician, the exposed jawbone clicked in a silent warning. The extra head embedded in his side twitched, its vacant eyes rolling towards Caz. His voice was a low rumble, distorted by the dunkleosteus teeth. "Marine Control’s got tight corridors, Sonar array’s shielded, Good acoustics." One of his victim’s arms unwrapped from the base of a fin, fingerless and fused, pointing vaguely towards the ceiling. "He hears footsteps, vibrations. He’ll hear us before we see him”, he continued, the arm rewrapping itself as he finished. "Acoustics? Malc, Roper ain’t hidin’ ‘cause he’s suddenly scared of the lot of us. He’s hidin’ ‘cause Kenneth’s got the jitters again and that lizardfish tail of his? It’ll whip your ankles clean off if you startle him, that’s why he’s hidin’ there. Gives him time to plan, welcome to the worst game of Where’s Waldo, only Waldo’s gonna bite or hit you”, Eileen Finlay paused, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Five bucks says he’s tucked behind the emergency flare locker this time. Place smells like wet dog and desperation, closer to the floor too."
Scooby snorted, muffled against the representative’s fleshy flank. Not exactly a laugh but not exactly a sharp, involuntary puff of breath, the sound spilt between being part-disbelief and part-acceptance. He fiddled with the oversized cuff of the manager’s spare coat. "He always picks Marine Control Like—…like Kenneth wants the noise? Last time Raffs found him, Kenneth hissed somethin’ about the pressure gradients bein’ soothing? Sounded like marbles in a blender to me”, he glanced nervously towards the representative, staring at the clouded eyes behind the smudged lenses, seeking confirmation. Trots merely adjusted his wig again, a tentacle twitching near Scooby’s hip to hold him steady as his tail shifted. "S’pose—”, Trots rasped, his distorted jawbone shifted making the diphactinus teeth click faintly, “—Kenneth likes the hum. The sonar. Sounds like deep water, might be soothin’ to the two of them while we hear noise." The leader welder slammed her mug down, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Deep water my ass! That grumpy bastard’s hidin’ ‘cause he’s lonely!”, Her wrestler’s voice boomed, jabbing one of her fingers towards the ceiling, towards Marine Control. "You saw the two of them before it happened, Roper and Kenneth? They’d been thicker than thieves! Shared jokes, shared rations, shared shifts… hell, shared breath! Once, I’d caught Kenneth tappin’ out morse-code insults on Roper’s shoulder durin’ safety briefings!", she leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Now? Kenneth’s stuck whisperin’ through Roper’s neck-teeth, and Roper—…Roper misses holdin’ him, misses the dumb jokes shared between the two of them, misses his *better half*. There ain’t no sonar hum that’s gonna fix that hole.” She paused, gaze sweeping across the table, David Rennick’s silent understanding, Malcolm Addair’s burnt face tilted in thought, Cameron McLeary’s sharp grin dulled to a thin line of thought, Albert Brodie’s oil-slicked stillness, Iain ‘Trots’ Campbell’s somewhat disturbing posture of normality. Her voice dropped, rough but sincere. "So let’s go drag both of them outta their echo chamber, aye? Can’t let the two hide and rot”
