how deserted lies the city,
once so full of people!
how like a widow is she,
who once was great among the nations!
she who was a queen among the provinces
has now become a slave. 
- ʟᴀᴍᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ 1:1

The hiss of a slashed pipe filled the metallic walls, ringing off aluminium and steel. Gas poured from the walls, filling the room with a smokey haze, obscuring beeping lights and muffling the incessant sounds of the Blue Alert. Under the flickering emergency lights, everything looked flat and dull.

"天真無邪 難道一眼到老." So naive and innocent, but will you grow dull as I stare?

Delicate footsteps pattered down the main hallway. A girl, dressed in layers of harsh white, scrambled down towards the atrium, breath coming in short pants as she sang. Sweat soaked her hair, dampening the collar of her dress. Something under her feet was slippery.

"撤回祈禱 心願請勿預告" Take back your dreams, don't pierce my soft heart there.

She could barely get enough air to power the song, but they could layer over it with the recording audio. The girl picked her way blindly through the fog, stirring the air around her as she pushed forward, lights blurring around her. A woman half-possessed, her eyes remained blank, even as her body went through motions of panic and song.

"黑屏來電 轉身不敢逃跑..."

She burst into the atrium, the hallways opening to wide open glass, expanding into space. Stars glittered outside, winking in the darkness, points on a plane of eternal void. Space didn't scare her, she was unsettled by very little. She wasn't sure why, but she was used to floating in isolation.

The power goes out, our film shuts down, a void I cannot bare...

But the massacre before her caused her steps to falter, her practiced posture chipping slowly. The hallways had been coated in streaks of blood, smears of guts and gore, as was custom for music video sets. But the cartoonish way that bodies lay atop each other, hands reaching for hands, felt so much more real this time.

Her lips moved soundlessly, finishing the last line. 無數虛實場景

...and a movie of endless frames passes by, both real and not there.

She shut her eyes against the wideness, for a brief moment, swallowing. She gave herself two seconds to panic.

And action!—

She made to run, or move, or something that her body told her to do, but her foot caught on something small, soft, and slowly atrophying. She crashed to the ground, landing on bodies, ignoring the hot wet soaking up her legs as she slid against the metal floor. Her arm pushed against something soft and fleshy, her head landed on something hairy and blonde.

Her eyes flew open. She was face to face with a child, blond hair matted with red to his scalp, brown eyes wide open and glassy. A cut split his skull from forehead to neck, and pink ropes of brains slithered out. She inhaled shallowly, ignoring the tang of copper in her nostrils, trying to push herself up. Her hand kept slipping in the wet of the blood around them, and she fell, crashing back into the little boy's dead body. This was just a set. It was just a set. It was just a—

A hand stabbed out from the piles of dead, punching through the tapestry of greying limbs. Sumin finally found purchase, pushing herself up from the bodies.

"Help," the hand trembled, reaching. The voice was frail, rusted, and barely a whisper. "Someone please—"

This is part of the video, Sumin reassured herself as she stumbled over what were surely actors playing dead. She was careful not to tread on their fingers. It was probably Nini or Eunju under there, whom Sumin would pull free from the pile of props, and they would join Imim at overhead bridge and burn the place down. Was this for "Distort"? Or "Roulette"? She couldn't remember.

Sumin's fingertips brushed the other girl's hand, fingernails crusted with brown blood, hands stained deep in the crevices. They clasped fingers, the weight of the girl's hand familiarly tight, and Sumin pulled.

God, it shouldn't have been this hard. Maybe she should talk with the producer, ask for help or something. Sumin's arms buckled, straining, as she pulled, her tendons stretching painfully. As she stepped back, her foot rolled over a finger, and she slipped with a shout.

Her momentum yanked the girl out, though, sliding free in a swath of black hair and white dress. The girl cried out, tumbling to the ground, rolling to a stop next to Sumin. It was Nini, had to be, the same plump body and soft arms. Though Nini had never gripped her hand so tight.

Sumin turned to her, sitting up, tugging on her slightly. "Nini, С тобой все в порядке, сестренка?"

The girl lifted her head, confused, revealing— not Nini. Korean, most likely, not the dramatic Russian features of her girl group mate.

Sumin snatched the girl's wrist, bone pinching under skin, dragging her into a sitting position. The girl cried out, eyes wide and panicked. Sumin shook her roughly. What was this brat doing on set? "이봐! 내 니니는 도대체 어디 있지? 넌 누구야, 이 새끼야?" she yelled, rattling the girl.

"Stop! She doesn't speak Korean," a man cried out in English, running at them. He appeared from the south side corridor, staggering a little at the sight of the bodies, but pushed toward them regardless.

What kind of fucking music video was this? Sumin whirled on him, a man with light brown skin, dark circles under his eyes, and an overwhelmingly average appearance in general. Sumin narrowed her eyes.

"How would you know?" she snapped in stubborn Korean.

He gently extracted the girl from Sumin's grip, pulling her toward him. They all ignored the smear of blood her dress made on the already-streaked metal. Sumin let him, but glared ferociously all the same.

"Spellmeyer—" Nixie gasped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. She hugged the man around the middle, bloodstained hands wrapping around his splattered coat. Sumin looked at her, disgusted.

Spellmeyer awkwardly put his arms around her, too, with the clumsiness of someone not used to hugging. Sumin held back a scowl. What a weird, idiotic pair. The Korean girl couldn't even speak Korean, and this man had never hugged a girl clearly important to him.

She pushed herself up, standing, her glittery white dress —though it was mostly brown and black now— drooping around her legs. "Who are you, and why the fuck are you on my set?"

Spellmeyer returned in choppy, awkward Korean, searching her face as he spoke. "미안해요, 아가씨, 하지만 이건 아니에요..." he faltered, at loss for words. Then he finished in English. "Not a... movie set."

Sumin stared at him, then laughed. She gestured around her, switching to English too. "So what the fuck do you think this is?"

They glanced at the piles and piles of dead bodies. Some spread out, like a carpet. Others stacked atop each other, organically falling into one another. Flies would have buzzed around them, but the insects were contained in the Fauna bay. Instead their bodies rotted, unnatural.

Spellmeyer shut his eyes, trying to bite down the gag rising in his throat. "It's not a set," he repeated.

Sumin felt herself freeze. In training, they always taught the girls not to stumble. Do anything else, pause, gag, pinch yourself, take a razor to your wrist, but never stumble. A stumble for an idol is much like a stumble for a deer. One thin, delicate leg missteps, and you're devoured by a tiger.

Sumin never stumbled. But she felt her body seize, her heart both slowing and speeding up, her skin erupting in goosebumps.

This was not a set.

She swallowed. Took a breath. Recited more lyrics in her head. Visualised the motions to "Distort". Her heart beat settled, her palms dried.

Her eyes flew open.

"Fine. It's not a set. What was your name again?" she asked, her English floating smoothly, lightly. Her tonal accent made her words sound chipper, sweet.

Spellmeyer cleared his throat. "Spellmeyer."

"And her?" Sumin gestured to the girl, who was crying weakly, her shoulders shaking.

"Nixie," he said warily.

Sumin nodded. "I'm Sumin."

Spellmeyer gave her a strangled smile.

They glanced around in the silence, taking in the rotting meat around them.

"There are others," Spellmeyer said suddenly. Sumin startled again, freezing instead of stumbling. "In the Fauna bay."

Sumin made a quick calculation in her head. Three of them, an unnamed number of others. Most were probably injured, though. Speaking of, it was a miracle that these two weren't. Sumin had woken curled up underneath the shelf of a library, tucked out of sight. Her head had been hit, probably, and she had barely enough consciousness to crawl someplace safe before the slaughter broke out.

Slaughter. That is what it was. These people were not mauled by animals— not all of them. Most of them had knife wounds, clean cuts, and human fingerprints around their flesh in blood.

"I came from the north side," Sumin said. "There were bodies, lots of them, but not as bad as this."

"The south side is worse, then," Spellmeyer conceded, squeezing Nixie tighter. "This is the most of it, but it was hard to navigate the halls. It's full of bod— blockage."

They both took a moment to let that sink in.

"How many people are left?" she asked, adjusting her hair.

"Two, that I know of," he rasped.

Fuck. Only two.

The Fauna bay had the largest water source on the ship. It was a huge oasis, and animals were taken out in turns to drink from it, to stretch their legs and bathe.

"Are the animals still there?" she asked, suddenly struck. They would need food.

Spellmeyer shrugged. "Some of them. A few are dead already. I think some dogs got loose."

That explained the bodies with ragged puncture wounds. Sumin was beginning to wonder if one of the survivors had been a cannibal. But the teeth didn't match human sizes, and there were claw marks too. Dogs.

"We should go," Spellmeyer called her attention. "I don't want to leave the others alone for too long. It's eerie in this ship."

Sumin plastered on a smile. Eerie? A grown man, getting the creeps, while the nineteen year-old girl was asking all the necessary questions? 佢阿媽嘅見鬼了.

"Right. Let's go." Sumin forged ahead, then glanced back. "Do you need help with her?"

In all honesty, she had forgotten the crying girl was there. Spellmeyer struggled to his feet, lifting Nixie up, draping her arm around his waist. He tucked his arm around her shoulder. Nixie leaned against him heavily, drooping, but stood on her feet.

"We're okay," he said softly, more to the girl than to Sumin.

"가자," she chirped, and set off, back the way Spellmeyer had come. She marched over bodies with a long-legged grace, her idol training guiding her smooth steps.

Behind her, Spellmeyer struggled along, trying to comfort and cajole Nixie into moving faster. But every body they passed, she seemed to crumple more, her eyes turning foggier. For every greying face Sumin ignored, Nixie doubled in her pain.

They struggled down the hallway, and the scent of blood filled the air around them.

In the shadows of the atrium, crouched behind the heaps of bodies, something gnawed on bones. Crack. Crack. Crrrrrack.

✸

Spellmeyer glanced over at the five sleeping kids. Alex and Nixie had fallen asleep in a nest of books, Iphigenia's dark head was propped on her forearm, Sumin had tucked into an empty bookshelf, and Cullen was curled into himself, surrounded by history books. They were lit softly by the dim library lamps, yellow light suffusing them with a warmth that was comforting and lulling. 

He sighed, letting out an exhausted, weary sound. His body ached from dragging Nixie's weight up and down Elpis, going from south to the centre to the south to the north again. He was amazed she had any tears left to cry, but even as he looked over at her sleeping body, her cheeks glistened with wet.

Nixie had stored many tears over the years. Never once had he seen her cry, certainly not when he was scurrying around in the shadow of Harvey Jones.

Spellmeyer had volunteered for first shift. None of the kids seemed to trust each other, except for Alex, who had the kind of easy smile and commanding presence that demanded nobody betray him. The only thing that let them all sleep at night was the common knowledge that none of them knew what happened. Regardless, they all preferred to let Spellmeyer take the shift. He had been deemed the least threatening, he knew, but he was okay with that.

There was some sort of collective amnesia among them all, an empty gap between the final days at the Institution and their waking moments now. The others weren't sure about Nixie, who seemed incoherent until she had passed out, but he assumed it was the same. Nixie. God. She was the reason why he agreed to coming on the ship, he remembered. (Agreed being a strong word: he didn't really have a choice.) But something in his chest told him to follow her. He knew his rot against Harvey was corroding his judgement already, but he didn't trust the charismatic tyrant in a mostly lawless world of fresh starts. The one thing he did trust was that Harvey Jones would use any and all resources to get him to power, one of those being his own daughter.

He wondered if Nixie would be happy to know that her father was dead. Spellmeyer had found the body, strangled in the cryosleep lining. The pod had vacuumed him, sealing him up too tight, sucking his air. Harvey's face had been horrified, furious, but most chillingly: desperate. Spellmeyer had never seen Harvey Jones look desperate. It was thrilling, horribly so.

Now he was dead. Spellmeyer expected to feel some kind of freedom, a lifting of weight. But instead he felt sour. Something wasn't right about this. Nothing was right about this.

He couldn't even begin to wonder what had happened to their memories. As far as they knew, more could be missing. Entire chunks of their lives. The only reason they knew anything was amiss was because of the littered bodies around them.

The library had been the only place without the stink of death. Sumin had woken here, in the clean book smell and fresh carpeting. Then she had ventured outside and found slaughter. After returning to Cullen and Alex, they had sloughed through the sea of bodies at Sumin's direction, bedding down in the library. Iphigenia had wandered in not much later, relieved to find she wasn't alone.

There could be more survivors. The chances were low. Spellmeyer shuffled, holding his legs close to his chest. He felt small. In a spiralling sense, space was beginning to feel like a shadow that loomed over him, swallowing him whole.

Nixie cried out in her sleep. A name, he thought. Blaise? Bruce? Something similar.

He scooted over to her, putting a gentle hand on her arm. "Shh," he soothed. "It's going to be okay, Nixie."

He swallowed a lump growing in his throat as he watched Nixie thrash, her eyes flooding with tears, even as they were closed. "I promise," he pleaded. "I promise I'll make it okay."

Nixie startled awake, thrashing up with a scream. "Blaise—"

She blinked at Spellmeyer, who held her gently, keeping her limbs from flying. Snuffling, Nixie wiped her nose. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"I was on shift," he patted her arm, then drew away. "Are you all right?"

Nixie scrubbed at her swollen eyelids, red and shiny with tears. "This is so horrible, Spellmeyer," she whispered raggedly. "There are so many dead people." Tears slipped down her cheeks.

Spellmeyer dug in his pockets for a handkerchief, something. He found a crumpled napkin and passed it to her. "Here."

Nixie swiped at her nose, then eyes. The napkin dampened almost instantly, darkening to a wet grey. "Thank you."

"Yeah, of course," he stuffed his hands into his pockets. He had never known what to do with Nixie Jones. There was always a line, drawn by Harvey, which he couldn't cross. He was never allowed to smile at her, to be fond with her, even when she was little and would toddle into his lap. He had always felt an obligation to her, an endearment. But a fear, too. Innocent as she was, Nixie was career-shattering, just by nature of her father.

"Spellmeyer," Nixie said, watery. He straightened, locking eyes with her. "Spellmeyer, my father—"

"He's dead," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Nixie, he's dead."

She nodded shakily. "I thought so. I'd have heard him shouting by now if he were alive."

They laughed weakly.

"He was terrible," Nixie whispered, mostly to herself, Spellmeyer knew. She clutched the napkin to her chest, and he could see the flashes of her memory. A belt, a hand, a bottle. Bruises and cuts. "He was so terrible, but I don't want him to be dead."

Spellmeyer swallowed something bitter, flinching away from her. "Nixie..."

She looked up, eyes flooding. "Isn't that stupid? Tell me I'm stupid, Spellmeyer. I'm stupid for missing him."

"No, no you're not," he reassured her. "You're not stupid. He was your dad."

Nixie smeared her cheek with the hem of her jagged white dress. She sniffed. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

He was going to apologise, hug her, something to make her stop crying. Spellmeyer reached out, sadness rising like a wave inside of him.

And then the doorknob jiggled.

Spellmeyer and Nixie froze.

It jiggled again. Then a knock.

Nixie reached forward, Spellmeyer drew her back.

Another knock.

"Is it a survivor?" Nixie whispered, eyes wide.

Another knock.

Spellmeyer shook his head. "I don't know."

And then a voice. Deep, commanding, warm. A voice that made Spellmeyer's skin erupt into goosebumps.

"Nixie, darling? Spellmeyer? Are you in there?"

Nixie clapped a hand over her mouth. Spellmeyer felt the world go fuzzy at the edges. His pulse was rushing, panic clawing up his throat.

"Not possible," he could barely speak, his throat closing up. "I saw him dead."

"It's Harvey. It's Dad, Nixie. Let me in," Harvey Jones said on the other side of the door. His fist slammed into the wood of the door. "Please!"

Nixie and Spellmeyer remained silent, too terrified to speak. Sumin woke up, hair wild. Her rustling shook Iphigenia, who straightened instantly, hands flying up to fight. Sumin shook Alex's leg, who tapped Cullen. 

They stared at the door, which had fallen silent. 

"Who--" Alex began. 

"Shh," Nixie hissed, whipping around, eyes alight with vicious fire. Alex jerked back, startled. 

Silence. 

Silence. 

Silence. 

Spellmeyer made the mistake of letting his shoulder drop, relaxing into the quiet. 

Harvey's voice came again, pleading. Desperate.

"There are monsters out here."