Oneshots! (Mostly Hermitcraft)

Alone, alone, alone (time means nothing) [Impulse]

Febuwhump Day 2: Solitary Confinement ft. Crewmate!Impulse

Summary:
The company has lost too many miners to the depths of space on account of imposterhood. Solution? Small cells in the hull of the ship for the containment of suspected imposters until they can return to the base and be tested for the virus.

TWs: Self-harm, dissociation

Hours alone. He has no real way of knowing how long he's been here. His radio and communicator were confiscated when he was locked up, taken and stored away in one of the cabinets in Admin. At least they haven't thrown him out of the airlock. The company has lost too many astronauts to false accusations of imposterhood, so each ship is now supplied with a designated cell area for the accused.

It doesn't beat getting thrown out into space at all. In fact, Impulse would prefer it if he was thrown out. The cold of space could carry him to Death's waiting arms and kiss him goodbye without this needless suffering. He wouldn't have to deal with the draining loneliness that stemmed from solitary confinement. At the least, he's been here for eight, maybe twelve hours. It is degrading in one of the worst ways possible.

He shifts his position against the wall, crossing his legs in the opposite direction and stretching his hands above his head, testing the energy bonds keeping his wrists tightly together. They remain strong as he arches his back, listening to it pop from the hours of stillness. He rests his hands behind his head, twisting left and right and listening to his bones crack and pop satisfyingly.

In all fairness, he should have expected this. One doesn't board a ship destined for deep space without acknowledging the inherent risks. The company knows about the virus, but they still send ships out on mining expeditions. The resources gained are invaluable. Many ships came back with barely any of their crew remaining, often traumatised for life. Sometimes, the infected returned to the base, hoping to kill others. The company is able to detect them quickly enough, but those resources are woefully unavailable once in the depths of space.

The Boogeyman virus, as so many call it, has no clear source. Protocols are set in place to prevent infection but, as with any disease, they aren't guaranteed to work. Consistent wearing of space suits and intravenous feeding keeps cases low, yet the virus always finds a way. Most crews, especially small ones, get lucky, with only one 'imposter' to sus out. Larger crews, on the other hand, often have two or even three imposters. How they know who the other imposter is, is still a mystery. Regardless, fatalities increase daily.

The virus works and kills quietly, taking over the host and driving a dire need for blood into their system. A secret, hidden, and protected desire, a deadly one begging to be fed. It has no cure or solution outside of death. The company has tried. Nothing works. The virus itself is barely identifiable, so cleverly disguised that it penetrates and bypasses the body's immune system.

Impulse shifts in his seat again. The cell is cold and dark, claustrophobic walls closing in on all sides. Thin beams of light enter the room from a small barred window, falling across his unhelmeted face. It's a breach of protocol, but he can get away with it. It isn't like he can be contaminated here. If anything is known for sure, it's that a) the virus is from the mining planet, and b) it isn't transmissible by humans.

The first death occurred several Standard Days (24 hours) after they began the journey back home. Bdubs was found dead in weapons, slumped over in the chair with a jagged cut tearing across his neck. Strangely, no blood left the crime scene, as if the imposter had cleaned up their trail behind them.

"It's Impulse!" Grian had screamed immediately after the meeting began.

"What?!" he'd yelled back. "There's no way!"