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The Recrudescence had held G.U.N.’s prisoners well enough, but it was time to unload that burden. The replacement for Prison Island was a series of waterbound land dubbed the Slumbering Isles. The main island was nearly as large as the old location, and the surrounding islets spread around it in a semicircle. Once a piece of the Land of the Sky, the nearby reef contained parts of the Ancient Relics, though the Commander had ordered them to be left undisturbed.
PFC Harry Williamsen was not thinking about the Ancient Relics right now. He was thinking about Cell Block B-7.
It was essentially an intermodal container. One of the heavy duty ones that came with its own generators, which meant it was lined with panels flowing with Chaos Energy. And whoever or whatever was inside was one of the most dangerous individuals G.U.N. had the misfortune of trying to contain. It was up there with Project Shadow.
He was part of the team overseeing its transfer from inside the container to inside their fancy new facility. He’d overseen a dozen transfers so far, so his confidence was solid, but he could feel the general uneasiness.
It was an hour until the connection. An hour to find the captain and ask what she knew.
He found her up in one of the watchtowers. Her eyes were on the horizon, to the distant Recrudescence.
He saluted, but she didn’t respond. “Ma’am.” Still nothing. “Can I ask what it is?”
The breath she took was deep and shaking. “Metal Sonic.”
Doctor Ivo Robotnik’s golden child. The only thing that could scare Sonic the Hedgehog. In a shipping container.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“Mmh.” She turned to face him. “Stick to protocol. But if it breaches? Remember it can look like anyone.”
“Roger.”
Williamsen waited until he was on the outside stairs, staring at that dot on the horizon. The dot became two dots. The sun started to dip, and he continued down.
The entry point was surrounded by bright floodlights. He knew the cell they had prepped inside was smaller than the container, but the panels were thicker, more energized to compensate. As the sky turned purple, the Ospreys came into view. The downwash blew the trees around, pieces of moss and bark flying into the air and nicking his helmet.
The container was lowered onto the loading pad. The cables were detached and rolled up. The track was cleared of debris as the Ospreys flew back to the Recrudescence, the wind dissipating back to the normal tropical levels.
It was bigger in person. He stepped close, eyeing the side panelling. Bolts and welds lined its surface in that rigged pattern only precise mathematics could provide. It buzzed, not quite electric, but not really any sort of sound that felt normal. The Chaos Energy was rolling off of it in waves so intense that even he could feel it.
Soft murmurs went up. MacIver hauled himself up the ladder built into its side and positioned himself by the front door.
Together, Williamsen and Ricks attached it firmly to the track. Sixteen attachment points. It took forty-five minutes, with fumbling, sweating hands and sharp, muttered curses. The stars were starting to come out, until the floodlights turned on and the sky went black.
“Ready!” he called up to MacIver, slamming the side of his fist against the container.
“Ready!” Ricks called from the other side.
MacIver sounded off over the radio. “HQ, we are initializing the transfer process for prisoner B-7.”
“Reading you, transit team. You are cleared to begin the process.”
The track let out a hiss. The container jerked, halting for a heartstopping second, before sliding smoothly toward the gate. People were yelling about the pressure levels in the background, but Williamsen wasn’t thinking about that as he walked alongside the container. He was thinking about—
“Getting ready to disengage the forward Chaos Energy panel.”
The container kissed the wall of the cell block. MacIver swayed, and then Williamsen could see him access the control panel along the top. Williamsen stepped forward to engage the final locks, when the taste of Chaos Energy dropped, the pressure easing in the back of his head.
No, he thought. That’s too soon. He jumped forward to grab the lock. Pain lanced up his arm as the world exploded around him.
Black crept in along the edges of his vision. Pain bled away as the adrenaline coursed in his veins. As the world crystalized into focus, he stared into MacIver’s bloodshot eyes. He pushed up, eyes falling onto the torn end of MacIver’s waist, his spinal cord twisting back towards the busted front of the container. The sharp edges of the metal unfolded like petals up into the heavens.
Up above the entrance to the block, threads of mercury bled into the sky, curving and floating delicately. MacIver’s legs dangled from the silver vines, blood blurring into the metal lines.
The threads sank as the web moved out of the container. Fear gripped him as he pushed into the dirt, scrabbling backwards. He could hear gunfire, but the sound of screaming drowned it out.
It was him. He was screaming.
The dirt disappeared from underneath him. The world spun past in a blur of colour and sound. His shoulder and chest hurt, and he dug his fingers into the pressure points. It felt like hoses in an engine block, thick and hollow, piercing into his body.
Oh, God, he thought. Oh, God, I’m going to die.
Kicking and screaming, he reached for his radio, only to find it was gone. There was no time to process that. The air escaped his lungs as he hit the forest floor, hard. His right arm wasn’t responding. His breaths were shallow.
It was staring down at him. There was no way to know that. There were no eyes. With tendrils of silver hanging out of the tree above him like a mockery of ivy, he struggled to find a place to look. This was not how he imagined this scenario.
He struggled, pushing and yet going nowhere. He could see himself, blood soaking his uniform, pouches torn open, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
Why could he see that? He wasn’t seeing himself as a reflection. He was seeing himself there, as it was happening. A cry tore out of him as he watched silver plunge into his side.
“Please,” he begged. Sorrow crept into his heart. He had so much to do. He had his siblings, his dad, his fiancée—God, what about his dog? Tuber was hopeless without him.
He could see himself—his reflection—grow closer as it sank to his level. His chest felt tight. The silver flowed around him. He could see thorns growing out of his skin, a branching network sprawling under his flesh like new veins.
Somehow, his vision went dark even as he stared down at himself. His face went slack, his jaw tilting as it relaxed. He saw the light in his eyes creep deeper and deeper inside.
And then he stared down at himself, limp and bloodied and torn. And then that thing that wasn’t him was shredded, flesh and Kevlar ripping as he tore himself apart.
He touched down on the grass, hand clinging to his side. He looked around. That silver thing had disappeared.
I have to get out of here.
He limped through the forest. It was dark, impossibly dark, but he could glance into the sky and see the lights bleaching the night gray. His feet hit a gravel road, and he turned to the smell of the salty sea. He just needed to get off this island. He needed to get away. He needed to go home.
The chainlink fence around the docks came into view. He hit it with his fingers, crying out and shaking and rattling it as hard as he could. “Help!” His voice was coarse, rough. He barely recognized it as his own. “Help, God, please!”
There was the sound of a door being thrown open. He could see it at the base of the watchtower, and the form that came out made a cold pit grow in his stomach.
“Williamsen?” The captain peered at him. Her expression was guarded. “What happened?”
“The Chaos Energy field destabilized,” he gasped. “The whole thing blew up. You gotta get medics over there.”
The captain swore. “Tanaka will help you get that looked at.” She opened the gate, gesturing in, before moving past him. “I’ll go vector in the reinforcements.”
"Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you. God, I'm so tired."
He moved down to the docks. A small little dingy rocked against the sea wall. It wasn’t serviceable. The sloop further down was better. Something he could man himself.
He had the thought, as he unanchored it, that he didn’t know how to pilot a sloop. For some reason, that didn’t seem to matter. His boots hit the deck and he took up the controls. His side didn’t hurt so bad as he pushed on the throttle.
He glanced into the glass panels of the controls, and red irises surrounded by black sclera stared back at him. Horror crept in. As the sloop coasted into the sea, the last remnants of PFC Harry Williamsen began to fall away.
What have I done? Williamsen thought. And then he was gone.