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Keith walks next to Lance in the dimly lit corridor. Broken lights flicker against the cracked and rusted walls. Their footsteps echo in the silent and empty space, accompanied by the occasional sparking of electricity from broken wires. The shadows seem to shift with each step they take, dark and endless. It feels like there's someone or something watching them from the depths of the darkness, but when Keith turns around with his heart pounding in his chest and points his light in that direction, there's nothing there.
"Keith? What's wrong?"
Keith looks back at Lance. "Don't you feel like there's something watching us?"
"No?" Lance frowns at Keith. "There's only us here, I checked."
Lance starts walking away, and Keith wonders if he's going insane. Ever since they touched down on this old cruiser, he's felt eyes on the back of his head, waiting for him to make one wrong move. But Lance checked, and even if he’s wrong at times, Lance wouldn't lie to him. Why does it feel so wrong, then? What if Lance missed something?
Before he can catch up to Lance, something hits him in the back. It burns, coursing through his veins with the intensity of a wildfire. He falls to his knees, but he doesn't register anything. Not with the way his bones shift inside him, growing and pushing against his skin before his bubbling and bulging muscles cover them up. It's as if he's being crushed by an A-class battle cruiser: his limbs are heavy yet he feels like he's on fire. He screams out when his ears stretch upwards, followed by a sharp pain behind his eyelids. A pressure mounts in his gums before four sharp and long fangs pop out where his canines used to be, blood dripping on his hands that rake at the floor, marking it with a high pitched scratching sound. His nails sharpen and elongate, claws replacing them.
When the pain subsides, a fog descends over Keith. The only thing he knows is the sharp scent of blood and terror, rapid heartbeats and shallow breaths, and the urge to make it all stop. It's all too loud and bright and overwhelming, and he just wants it to stop.
The creature it all comes from steps closer, a foreign scent to him, but it tickles something in the back of his head that he should maybe recognize it.
"Keith?"
His head snaps up, and the creature is close, too close. Keith can see it's terrified, a prey in the clutches of a predator. The creature's heartbeat is too loud, and he just wants it to stop.
Keith pounces. It screeches when his claws dig into the soft flesh of its shoulders, breaking through the skin. He can feel the muscles and sinews shift under his fingers, the tips of his claws meeting bone. Even as the creature wails and thrashes around, he doesn't let go, but it doesn't matter. Keith is stronger.
He rakes his hands down its chest and rips his claws out, ribbons of skin tattered and bloody under his hands. The thick, red blood coats his fingers and trickles down his forearms. The metallic smell of it fills his nose, and it's too much too much too much. He wants it all to stop.
"Keith… Please…" The creature whimpers, pleading, like it wants Keith to recognize it. He doesn't. Why would he?
It's loud, its heartbeat even louder and quicker than before, and Keith can smell the nervous sweat on its skin. There's something addicting about it; the smell of fear and knowing that he's the one in charge here. That he can do whatever he wants. The sound of the creature's panting and pained whimpers are deafening, and Keith wants it to stop making so much noise.
It bares its throat when Keith pulls it up and slams it back into the floor with a thud and a crunch, and Keith dives in to bite its neck. His sharp teeth break through the skin easily; his mouth fills with blood, tangy and warm on his tongue. The muscles tear easily, and the creature's windpipe resists for a moment before giving way. Air whistles out of the poked hole, and the creature makes a gurgling, wet sound as it chokes. So, so loud. It has to stop.
As Keith pulls away, flesh rips away and the skin of the creature is completely torn — bloody strings of it hang at the edges, pink flesh and white cartilage poke out from underneath the pooling dark red liquid that seeps into the fabric of his pants. Even more blood oozes down Keith's chin, the flesh gummy in his mouth. Tears stream down the creature's face, salty and wet, and it whispers something. Keith doesn't understand. He just wants the noises to stop.
Keith plunges his hands into the chest of the creature, breaking its ribs with his bare hands. It screams loudly — loud, so fucking loud, make it stop make it stop — and blood bubbles up from its throat. The bones snap in his grip with ease, the jagged and sharp edges scratch at his wrist. Its heart flutters in his hand, warm and smooth to the touch and Keith swipes a thumb over it. Curious. How such a small and fragile thing makes so much noise.
It has to stop.
Keith digs his claws into the heart, feels it pop on the tips of his fingers. A spray of blood hits him in the face, but it doesn't matter — he's already covered in it. He rips his hand out with a squelch, veins stretching until they snap and fluids gush out, coating his whole arm. Keith raises it up to inspect it. It still twitches in his palm, but it's finally, finally quiet. The only sound is the metallic plip-plop of the blood dripping from his hand to the floor.
The metal walls reflect his face back at him. Half of his face is covered in blood, still liquid enough to trickle down his chin and his neck, his lips and teeth tinted red. There's a wild look in his eyes but he feels so powerful and satisfied that his lips involuntarily pull into a smirk with a maniacal tinge to it.
Now that he’s had a taste of blood, he craves it.
Keith shoots up with a gasp, panting. His heart hammers in his chest and blood roars in his ears. He looks down at his shaking hands — they're the hands he's been familiar with for over twenty-five years now, no claws in sight, no warm blood dripping down it. No heart in his hand.
He scrambles out of bed as images replay in his mind and rushes to the bathroom, bending over the toilet to retch. It's just dry heaving, but he feels like he's choking.
Somehow, he still feels blood coating his hands, warm and wet and red - so red - and Lance's, he feels it underneath his nails, pooling in the small space between his skin and his nail plate. It was only a nightmare so why can he feel it all so viscerally? His skin is clammy and he's cold, so cold.
He stumbles to the sink, and starts washing his hands, scrubbing furiously with soap – under his nails, in the crevices on his fingers. His skin becomes red and raw, and he tries to get the slimy feeling off but it's not helping; if anything, it's worse. It has to go away, this feeling of wrongness — he's uncomfortable in his own skin and wants nothing to do with it. He can still feel the way his bones shifted and how it felt when his claws came in. He wants to be rid of the memories of terror in Lance's eyes, the way his screams sounded — so real and horrified of Keith. The wet and bubbling way he breathed, until Keith ripped his heart out. Until his ribs broke in Keith's hands like plastic. The taste of his blood in his mouth.
His mouth. Keith runs his tongue over his teeth — his regular teeth, no sharp fangs. He looks in the mirror, pulling up his lips just to confirm. There's no blood coating them and there's no sinew and muscles between them.
Then he remembers the way the flesh felt in his mouth, the warm weight on his tongue, and he's retching into the toilet again. His heart keeps hammering in his chest — don't think about the dream, about the way Lance's heart fluttered in his hand — and his breaths come out shallow and rapid. His whole body shakes. His vision swims, blurs at the edges and the only thing he can hear is the blood in his ears.
While he still has half a mind, he sits up and pushes his head between his knees.
He doesn't hear when Lance comes in. Lance talks to him in a low voice — smooth, calm and none of that gurgling sound. Keith doesn't register anything, but his heart rate is coming down, and the nausea is receding.
"That's it, love, keep breathing deeply."
Lance moves closer, but doesn't reach out — he waits until Keith takes his hand. His grip on Lance must be ironclad, cutting off his circulation, but he only squeezes back.
"Nightmare?"
Keith nods, and Lance continues. "Wanna talk about it?"
Keith shakes his head, and only now notices that his hair sticks to his cheek from the tears.
"You'll be okay. We'll be okay. It's over."
Keith wants to believe him desperately.
He can't.
Is it really over?