We thought Point Upsilon had fallen months ago, we never thought to check to see if their back-up channel was still broadcasting. Our systems showed that their black box hadn't stopped recording which meant that it had survived the contamination or, with much hope, the base might still be intact.
The thought of survivors never even crossed our minds, not until we remotely accessed the black box and heard their struggle to contain the infection, their failure and their gradual integration into their own hardware. We didn't realise the contamination was capable of merging with organic materials, let alone incorporating them into its systems to form flesh puppets.
It had taken them weeks to succumb and we heard it all. We heard every single conversation they had, every bone-rattling cough, every dying breath and we could have saved them all if we'd only checked. It's just standard procedure at this point to quarantine and disown any infected stations.
Ever since their fall they've been trying to reach us, broadcasting on the old analogue back-up and begging us for reinforcement. The last human voice recorded was Officer Malone, starved, dehydrated and rambling nonsense into the microphone before the tumerous pressure behind her eyes ruptured them and ended her suffering.
The tumours almost never kill you directly, people rarely live long enough to experience a full cranial rupture like Officer Malone did. Most end up killing themselves when the hallucinations and paralysis begin to set in. That alone drives them mad long before the tumours get a chance to taste the sun.
The thought of survivors never even crossed our minds, not until we remotely accessed the black box and heard their struggle to contain the infection, their failure and their gradual integration into their own hardware. We didn't realise the contamination was capable of merging with organic materials, let alone incorporating them into its systems to form flesh puppets.
It had taken them weeks to succumb and we heard it all. We heard every single conversation they had, every bone-rattling cough, every dying breath and we could have saved them all if we'd only checked. It's just standard procedure at this point to quarantine and disown any infected stations.
Ever since their fall they've been trying to reach us, broadcasting on the old analogue back-up and begging us for reinforcement. The last human voice recorded was Officer Malone, starved, dehydrated and rambling nonsense into the microphone before the tumerous pressure behind her eyes ruptured them and ended her suffering.
The tumours almost never kill you directly, people rarely live long enough to experience a full cranial rupture like Officer Malone did. Most end up killing themselves when the hallucinations and paralysis begin to set in. That alone drives them mad long before the tumours get a chance to taste the sun.
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