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[FICTION] Hearsay | Weir

     "Folban Station, MPV Roux, requesting permission to land" Harah droned once again to no reply. He had already tried the radio a number of times to no effect. He wasn't sure what would be worse-- continuing to get nothing back, or having to explain why he was coming back in their patrol craft. It is not like he had much choice; when the Roux "detained" him, they only had enough fuel for the return trip which had already been punched into the navigation. Where else could he have gone? He looked out the porthole in the cockpit, and saw that one of the docking stations, Port-3, was open.

    "It's not like anyone is telling me no" he justified to himself, and slowly brought in the Roux. Besides, he wanted to see what was going on-- stations don't typically go silent for no reason, and he was just unwise enough to be curious.

    As the Roux drifted in, he soon regretted his choice; the landing lights on the ship revealed a scene of massacre. He held his hand to his mouth, unprepared for the sight. The craft jostled as the clamps secured it, and Harah walked out onto the walkway. The smell hit him first. It was one he had not experienced since... he'd rather not recall. He cautiously tip-toed over to the remains of a dockworker. Burst blood vessels, excessive bleeding, sign of blunt force and falling of some height; this man died of vacuum and gravity failure. And not just him, but too many to count around him. He thought about causes, but quickly dismissed such ideas. He instead endeavored to leave as soon as able, and trigger the distress systems on the way out if he could. Not a lot of people deserved this kind of fate; not even fuel-thieves. 

    He moved quickly yet with care over to the fuel booms nearest to the Roux, keeping his eyes and ears open. He wasn't sure if there was anything else in there, but his hair still stood up. When he reached the equipment, he cursed upon finding that the system was unpowered. He'd need to connect it to the Roux in order to fuel the Roux. In his frustration, he quickly jogged back to the ship to retrieve power cabling. When Harah stepped aboard, he heard a quiet voice on the radio. "Fucking finally" he growled, and stormed to the controls and pressed the transmit, and was met by the screeching sound that plays when the frequency is in use. He swore some more. 

    The voice on the radio began again: "...recorded number of killed continue to climb as the units lost are accounted for. Our Minister of War releasing a statement that the dead of Asovel will be avenged no matter how far the traitorous murders run, no matter how long". Harah, eyes wide, stepped back from the radio in alarmed silence. "Why is that here? How is that here?" His mind raced. He would not spend a second here longer than he had to, he raced to grab the power cables for the fuel system. He recklessly ran the cables as he himself ran to the booms, throwing open the auxiliary power port and forcefully ramming the plug into it. He then powered on the boom, hoping that this would be the last task before departing. That he would soon be heading back out to the Vacillient, and be done with... whatever he walked into. Now powered, he looked at the user screen, and saw this;

MURDERER

    The lights in Port-3 activated, and the fuel began to spew wildly from the boom. Harah jumped away when it then began to swing with abandon, the hydraulics groaning. "No, no, no, no" he frantically cried, retreating. Interstellar fuel is the last thing he wanted to be covered in, or be in the same compartment with uncontained-- with good reason. It was then that he saw it; a single wire came loose, and produced but a single spark. White flames erupted, explosions thundering through the dock. Harah moved, faster than he thought was capable for a man his age, to the closest open corridor. With panic, he pulled the emergency handle to slam close the blast door-- common on stations for this very reason. 

    When the rancorous noise stopped a seemingly-interminable moment later, he slid open a viewing port; the entirety of Port-3 had been vented, as the containment failed. The bodies, Roux, and homicidal boom, now lost to the void. The lights of the corridor flickered, before once-again falling dark, giving way to the neon red emergency lighting. From the depths of the station, echoed the voice from the radio earlier "... no matter how long". 

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