#altprompt survivor's guilt

[sukoshininja]

Outta Time

"We're not gonna make it."

Lance gritted his teeth as he held his breath as he lined up the sights and delivered a clean headshot. He did not come this far to have it end here. He would see this through.  "We're gonna make it. We have to."

"Lance."

It was just his name. But something about the way it was said. Just one word, but the sadness, acceptance, and firm finality of it. It was the truth, and it hit him hard enough that he lowered his rifle a hair. 

No. He shook his head and repositioned the barrel along his cheekbone. No, they could fight this, they could still make it out. "We just gotta--"

"Lance."

Now inflected with brokenness, a pathetic urgency. Suddenly he had to remember how to breathe. He missed his next two shots.  

"They won't, not while we're still inside."

But the funny thing was, somewhere in his mind he knew that wasn't true. They had waited so long for a chance like this, a chance that they were never going to get again. His comrades, they'd have no choice. He knew it but chose to believe they would wait anyway. Because if he didn't--

"Lance." 

Oh. He knew a spirit shattering when he heard it. His lungs were convulsing. Was he breathing?  His hands were trembling so hard he could barely hold his gun. 

A hand reached out and guided the gun down. "It's over."

Lance wrenched his attention away from the advancing enemy to see the most devastating thing he had ever laid eyes on.

Keith looked at him so tenderly, tears running streaks down his face that was mussed with grime and blood. So this is what giving up looked like. 

"Breathe, Lance."

Casualties were a part of this great game known as war. They all knew it could come at any moment. But for some reason Lance didn't think the day would come when his card would be up.

Why was Keith holding him so tight? What were those sounds? Like a dying sheep. Wait. That was him. Oh he was sobbing. Screaming. 

Keith cradled his head against his chest.

"It mattered. Everything mattered," he whispered, soft and soothing despite coming from his cracked lips. "If nothing else, you matter to me."

There was a weight on Lance's chest, making it so that he had to gasp for breath. His heart to beat so fast he was sure it would burst. The corners of his vision started to fade to black as all the sounds closed in around him. 

Only Keith's rough voice, quiet and calming made a lifeline that Lance desperately grasped for, keeping himself afloat. 

"Holy shit. We're gonna die, and you'll never know because I never told you."

Lance's tongue felt too big for his mouth, dead weight and useless. Somehow, he managed to ask "Told me what."

"That your smile lights up the universe more than a thousand suns. That everything sucks to the point that somedays I don't want to get out of bed in the morning, but I do, because I get to see you, and when I'm with you everything is a little less awful. That I break every time you look at her."

Lance was able to focus his eyes. Too bright lights. It took all he was to look into those impossibly beautiful, red-rimmed watery eyes. 

"Lance I lo--"

*   *   *

They won.

Ten thousand years of oppression had come to an end with that blast.

Allura and Coran clung to each other as they watched the waves of radiation wipe out the end of the empire.

Hunk stood as still as a statue. Tears streaking down his cheeks. 

"They were still down there," Pidge whispered as they collapsed to their knees on the cold floor. 

It took everything in Shiro to keep his intestines from emptying out his mouth. The bile was there, bitter and biting.

It was necessary. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. That's what they would say. He would be applauded. A hero. But only the people in this room would see it as it really was:  a choice.

A choice that was easier than it should have been. Cruelly quick and almost as thoughtless. He had the rest of his life to mourn. He hoped it wasn't long.

my whumptober masterlist

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No.18 & No. 20

Prompt 18: Survivor’s guilt (Alt)

Prompt 20: “It’s not your fault.”

Warnings: Mentions of canonical character death

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

There was no answer when you knocked, the silence as thick as the tension, making the door heavier and harder to open. The single candle had burned down to an oddly shaped sculpture, its curves and dips dimming the flame’s reach. The dinner tray you had brought earlier remained untouched, the soup cold and sandwich soggy.

Your heart ached just as much as it burned, scorched with rage that simmered just below your ribs. Daryl was on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly at the floor. It was as if he’d turned to stone, frozen within a nightmare. And you feared he had forever become trapped in a place you couldn’t reach.

“Daryl.” You tried, keeping your distance. He was a wounded animal, fearful and dangerous at the same time. He remained as he was. He had clung to you so tightly when he had clambered off the back of the bike, his legs giving and his tears flowing. It had been the only reaction you had seen from him in his day and a half back at Hilltop. “Daryl.”

You still didn’t approach, but finally he blinked, his bruised and bloodshot eyes sliding over to finally acknowledge you. The attention didn’t last. He was back to staring at the floor within seconds.

You risked two deliberate steps toward him before crouching, making yourself smaller in hope that it would not arouse the terror held at bay within him.

“You need to eat, sleep.”

Nothing.

Sighing, you slowly stood and stepped back before turning away, bending over the candle in preparation to blow it out, a new one beside it so as to keep the darkness away from your partner. The least you could do was stay, give him a measure of comfort that he wasn’t alone.

“Should’a been me.”

His voice was raspy, tired, and so unexpected that you gasped. When you spun to regard him, he hadn’t moved. “What?”

Daryl cleared his throat after an agonizing period of silence. “Was ready. Deserved it. Should’a been me.”

A flash of red, Glenn’s final words. Your lip quivered and your eyes closed as you gathered your bearings. “No.” You whispered, reassuming the earlier position a few feet from him. “Daryl, it’s not your fault.”

“Was. Is.” He muttered, a tear breaking free to cascade down his cheek. You wanted so badly to wipe it away and hold him.

“Negan was going to do what he was going to do. You had no influence over him.” You attempted, dropping to your knees and shuffling forward a few inches at a slow pace.

“F’I hadn’t—” The words dried up on the tip of his tongue, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Oh, Daryl.” You knew he would carry this forever, a guilt on his shoulders that he’d never shed. He still carried Beth after all this time. The weight had lessened, finally splintering off to allow you to carry a portion for him, a burden you were more than willing to bear for him. “You couldn’t stop him.”

His eyes slowly peeled open, wet and shining, and you could no longer stay away.

“Please.” You began. “Let me help you.” When his head turned, even with the heavy pain his expression bore, you had never been more relieved. No, that wasn’t true. The relief came when he nodded, a simple dip of his head that had you carefully climbing to your feet and approaching.

When your hand touched his shoulder, the dam broke. His hands found your waist and pulled you toward him, his face finding shelter against your stomach as his shoulders shook in silent sobs. Gentle fingers carded through his hair, hushed syllables making an effort to soak up even a portion of his suffering.

Each tear, each jerk of his body was gasoline on the inferno raging within you.

And Negan would burn.

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 14 - Survivors Guilt (Alt.)

Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: After a harsh battle in Bree, Aragorn blames himself for the lost lives.

Warnings/Notes: Lil alcohol abuse and sad Aragorn

Word Count: 1201

  “How many of those drinks do you plan on downing?” You watched in amazement as Aragorn finished his sixth flagon.

  The man beside you, your ranger partner since the two of you both first started out, was not a heavy drinker. At best he had a few ciders and even then he felt it terribly in the morning. Now here he is finishing these drinks off like it was a job and he was being timed.

  Aragorn wiped his mouth with a grimace. Alcohol’s effects on him were slow but once the hill steeped downward there was hardly a second in between his sober and utterly inebriated states. It hadn’t kicked in yet but you had a feeling that time was coming.

  “As many as I can.” He muttered gruffly before waving to the bartender for another. His fingers eagerly reached for the new glass, about to lift it to his lips when your hand grabbed his arm.

  “Take it easy…” You murmured. You expected him to comply, not to suddenly drink as much of the ale as he could. When he finished the whole thing in a few gulps you slapped him on the arm. “What is wrong with you?!”

  You were quite right. The alcohol's effects were beginning to seep in.

  Aragorn stared at you through bleary eyes for a moment, twitching a little. Then he turned away. “I need to forget.” He mumbled. “Just for a while…”

  You tugged his arm again but he refused to look at you. Even your gentle slap to his arm didn’t draw him out of the strange trance he had fallen into, eyes boring a hole into the wooden counter of the bar. Finally you shoved him with your shoulder, snapping him out of it a little.

  “Forget what? What’s going on with you?” You frowned, moving your hand to rest on his back. 

  Earlier today the rangers had taken down a large army of orcs in Bree. You all had arrived halfway through the battle and saved the remaining citizens of the small town. It was Aragorn’s idea to go to the Prancing Pony Tavern afterwards and celebrate victory, but now it was as if he wasn’t even there beside you, more of a shell than a man.

  “We should have gotten here earlier.” Aragorn finally whispered. You could hardly hear him over the loud banter of the bar, but his words clicked in your ears after a few seconds.

  Your thumb rubbed in soft circles against his cloak. “There was nothing we could have done, Aragorn.”

  “There was… If we had run faster.. Traveled lighter… didn’t stop for that stupid, stupid rainstorm, we could have saved so many more lives, y/n…” He rasped, voice starting to become a little incoherent as both the grief and alcohol numbed his mouth, filling it with ash and fluff. “Everyone that died… those poor citizens. They were unprepared and… and we were supposed to save them.” Aragorn was struggling to catch his breath now, fingers digging into your arm as his eyes stung with tears. “We were supposed to save them but we didn’t.”

  You thought back to the attack.

  The orcs were vicious and merciless, killing any citizen they could get their hands on, from the town guards to the young volunteers who had seen far too few winters and could hardly wield a sword. Out on the field you had to make the choice between saving a boy, hardly an adult, or Aragorn. Regardless to say, as much as it hurt, you did in fact choose the latter. You knew Aragorn would be horrified with your choice and angry with you but you couldn’t bear the thought of losing your best friend. 

  He never confronted you on the incident but it was clear now that it was weighing him down heavily. He was bordering on the edge of some sort of panic attack or melt down, air going everywhere but his lungs as his head spun. The alcohol in his system was not helping, making him too unsteady to stand and leave himself.

  So you did the next best thing.

  You dragged him to his feet and–half carrying him–brought him outside.

  The second the cold air hit your skin he broke into sobs in your arms. The weight of the pain and tears made him surprisingly heavy, even for you. So you dragged him once more until the two of you were tucked behind some barrels, just letting him cry into your arms.

  “It should have been me.” Aragorn wept into your chest, fingers clutching your clothing so tightly he was almost ripping it with ragged nails, torn from aiding in burying the dead. His sobs grew more animalistic and raw. Aragorn had an awful habit of punching walls or such when he was distraught like this and his fists were shaking from the force of restraint, trying desperately not to punch you on accident.

  You eventually nudged him in a way that set his energy free and he pounded into the ground a few times before his fists met your torso. It didn’t really hurt. You held him through the whole thing, accepting whatever misplaced throws and globs of tears that fell from his face. What else could you do?

  When the alcohol fully kicked in and all Aragorn could get out was soft whimpers and whines, now sort of rocking back and forth in your arms, you held him tighter. You gently tucked his face into the crook of your neck, raking your fingers through his hair in soothing motions, fingers grazing his scalp. The motion soothed Aragon slightly but it was your words that did the true deed.

  “It is not your fault Aragorn.” You murmured softly to him, feeling him gasp for breath against your skin. “I would always save you… no matter what. You do not need to wish to have given your life for these strangers… what’s done is done. Love what you still have, not mourn what you could’ve.”

  Aragorn whimpered. “But…”

  “But nothing. We saved Bree. Yes, lives were lost, but lives always are.” You whispered. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner… and I’m sorry so many died, but beating yourself up over it will not bring them back.”

  Shakily, Aragorn rubbed his red face. Your words, though blunt, were true, he couldn’t deny that. 

  He slowly pulled his face and looked up at you through tear cladden eyes. “Sorry…” He whispered, sounding more like a lost puppy than a ranger.”

  You chuckled a little and shook your head, planting a gentle kiss to the top of his. “Don’t be. Just… let’s just sit here for a while, alright?”

  “...alright.” Aragorn whispered.

  If there was one thing you were not looking forward to, it was dragging a very drunk Aragorn back into the tavern and putting him to bed… as well as what would follow in the morning. For now, you were content with sitting here, curled up behind some barrels with him in your arms. And he seemed to feel the same as the last of his pain faded with a heavy sigh, his head laying back down on your shoulder.

[amethystfairy1]

"I don't think I need that...but thanks..?" - Ren, probably.

Todays whumptober prompt is up, cutting it close but I got it in! I hope you enjoy it!

[dangraccoon]

Let's Live

Day 31 ~ survivor's guilt ~ (alt. prompt)

Crosshair

Word Count: 1008 Content: references to The Outpost and Plan 99, self-sacrifice, guilt, survivor's guilt

He wasn’t sure if it was the violent shivers that rolled endlessly through his body or the sharp cry of the ice vultures but Crosshair found himself awake and sitting upright in the early morning hours. 

A soft, warm breeze fluttered the curtains of his open window. He could hear the sound of the tide coming in, splashing against the rocks near their cozy home. The sun was far enough from rising that the moonyos weren’t even starting to chitter yet.

Crosshair groaned, using his remaining hand to pull the blanket up over him as he flopped back down onto the too-comfortable mattress. 

He knew about phantom limbs, of course–Echo had grumbled about it enough to pique his curiosity–but it didn’t stop the frustration that rose in his chest as his body insisted that his right hand was shaking again. He shoved the end of his arm under his pillow, praying for the “out of sight, out of mind” mindset Wrecker had long used as an excuse for his forgetfulness.

It never came. Groaning once more–as though acting like a petulant child might make him feel better–he shoved the blanket away, swinging his legs over the side of his bed.

Their house was an older one on the island; one of the elder residents had expressed that they wanted the batch to have it as she moved in with her daughter and son-in-law. “It was good enough to raise five kids in, so I’m sure Miss Omega can handle you lot in it.”

He walked through the house, idly thinking he should visit Mrs. Neawick soon–she was one of the only residents that could match his snark and she made sour hard candies that she pretended not to realize Crosshair loved–while stepping around the occasional creaking boards. He knew Hunter could hear him, but the least he could do was not make the disturbance worse.

He made it to the kitchen, noticing the caf maker’s timer starting the machine up. He scowled at the flimsi tooka calendar attached to the fridge. Omega had insisted on picking out different colored markers for each of them to write their various activities. “This way we can plan things together, too!”

He followed the sloppy orange scrawl that indicated Wrecker’s schedule and it made sense. Although Wrecker hated caf with a fiery passion, he’d come to rely upon it–mixed with an ungodly amount of cream, sugar, and whatever syrupy flavoring Omega had picked out, of course–for his early morning fishing trips with a fisherman he’d befriended.

Crosshair felt a little guilty that he couldn’t recall the man’s name, especially when he found their symbiotic relationship so amusing; the short and skinny fisherman had someone who could pull the lines up easily and carry their haul, and Wrecker had someone that never tired of his boisterous retellings of their missions and misadventures.

While he waited for the pot to finish brewing, he moved to the window, looking out over one of the lower sections of the island. Dawn was still an hour or so out, but the sky was just beginning to glow with the idea of first light. The various light-sensitive lamps still lit lined the walkways and outsides. He had to admit the view was… nice.

“Cross?” Wrecker hummed. “You’re up early.”

Crosshair glanced over his shoulder at his brother, who was wiping the sleep from his eyes. He shrugged.

“You okay?” Wrecker asked, joining him next to the window.

“Fine,” he murmured, though he could barely even convince himself of it. Wrecker would see right through him.

“Thinking about Tantiss?”

Crosshair winced. “No.”

“If you don’t tell me, ’m gonna go wake up Omega,” Wrecker shrugged, nudging Crosshair’s shoulder. “She’ll make you talk.”

Crosshair eyed his brother, almost trying to call his bluff with a glare.

“Alright,” Wrecker said, his tone shifting from sleepy concern to somewhat irritable. “That’s fine, Cross. Don’t talk about it. You’ll feel great keepin’ it all to yourself.”

Wrecker went about preparing his caf, pointedly ignoring Crosshair as he wrestled his unruly pride.

“Fine,” he growled, stalking over to the kitchen counter next to his brother to lean against it. “I had another nightmare. That’s why I’m awake.”

Wrecker’s facade of indifference fell almost immediately. He nodded, prodding him to continue.

“Not about T-Tantiss this time,” he continued, face twisting into a scowl at the way he struggled to push the words out. “Barton IV and… Mayday.”

Wrecker’s eyes lifted to look at Crosshair. He didn’t let a single noise slip, terrified that if he did Crosshair would retreat. Where Wrecker had always been open, Crosshair was the opposite. He’d been skittish around emotions since they were barely out of the tube.

“Mayday was the commander at the Outpost,” he elaborated. He’d only mentioned Mayday to Omega before, and that was only because she asked. “There was only him and two others left from his squad. They’d been there over a year guarding… stormtrooper equipment. Getting picked off by raiders. The lieutenant I– I killed sent us off to track the raiders. After we found and… eliminated them, there was an avalanche. I would’ve been killed if he hadn’t pushed me out of the way.”

Wrecker couldn’t help but notice the way Crosshair shivered.

“I carried him back to the Outpost. He was hurt a-and by the time we got there, that lieutenant… h-he wouldn’t get a medic. Mayday…”

A shaking sob crawled up his body and he was quickly encircled by Wrecker’s arms. He was powerless to stop the tears rolling down his cheek.

“He should’ve lived– it-it should’ve been me th-that–”

Wrecked shushed him. “Don’t talk like that. He gave his life for you to live, Cross.”

His hand clung to Wrecker’s shirt helplessly. “I… I owe him everything.”

“I know, vod. But we can’t get stuck in all the shouldas,” Wrecker whispered. “We owe it to them to live our lives ‘nd be as happy as we can, right?”

Wrecker didn’t say who he was thinking of. He didn’t need to. Crosshair nodded.

“Then let’s live. For them.”

« Previous Day

Thanks for reading! - River

Whumptober 2024 Masterlist DangRaccoon Masterlist Taglist Form Read on AO3

Tags: @writing-positivelyexisting @nekotaetae @lokigirlszendaya @get-wr3ckered @jediknightjana @idoubleswearimawriter @lucyysthings @unstable-kiwi @6oceansofmoons @l3xi3luv @winter-phoenix1995 @serenityselene @nomercyforthewarrior @ravenclawbitch426 @luna-the-lone-red-wolf @padawancat97 @flowered-bicycles @error6gendernotfound @techs-goggles9902

[kyanako5972]

Whumptober Day 28

Survivor's guilt (alt)

Set a year before "Behind Closed Doors"

That makes Claire Inez ~29 years old

She lost someone very important. She blames herself.

[areyouokaypanda]

Whumptober Day 21: Survivor's Guilt (alt-prompt)

[twyrewolf]

Finished a 6000+ word, four years of work fic, and all I have to show for it is these two whumptober entries

[killjoyconstruct]

Whumptober Day 24: Survivor's Guilt

Do you remember this place?

[mrmustachious]

Shipwrecked

Gordon reacts to the hydrofoil crash.

Day 17: Shipwrecked & Alt. Survivor's Guilt

"I'm going to go down to get a coffee," his dad announced as he stood up from the chair and stretched. Gordon could practically hear his joints creak. "You want anything?"

"No, thank you," Gordon replied. Not like there was much he was allowed currently anyway, so he wasn't sure why his dad was even asking.

"You sure?" His dad pressed.

Gordon shook his head.

"I'll be back in a short while." His dad sent him a smile that Gordon barely had the energy to return. Then, he grabbed his wallet and headed out of the room.

Gordon slumped back against the pillows and let out a deep sigh. Finally, he was alone. He rarely had any moments to himself anymore, between his family and doctors and being poked and prodded. He hoped his dad took a while getting his coffee so he could finally have some time to breathe without anyone constantly asking him if he was alright.

Read on AO3

[willows-adventures-in-words]

So, I realized that this one could technically be connected to the Emotional Angst prompt I wrote. Since there was a line in that one about Geoff losing Kathy and, well...

Whumptober prompts Alt. no.11: Survivor's Guilt word count: 670

~-~-~

There were too many. They were swarmed. He'd been careful. But he'd lost track of her. She screamed. He shouted. “Kath,” Geoff gasped awake. His heart pounded. The sound of her screams echoed in his mind. If only he'd been closer to her. If they would have let him go to her. Though realistically he knew, now, that it would have already been too late. But that didn't stop the thoughts. The guilt. There was so much that he could have done differently.

Maybe he should just get up. Geoff knew he wouldn't be able to fall back to sleep. And if by chance he did he'd probably just dream about it happening all over again. Asleep or awake, it didn't matter. His mind will continue to ruminate over it. As it was doing now.

Slowly he sat up and looked around to see who was awake. He spotted Layne sleeping close by. His mind played out the memories again. Of his friend pulling him away as Geoff shouted at him to let him go. Of punching him in the face once they'd escaped the hoard of zombies and then breaking down shortly after. Geoff realized he was grateful it wasn't Layne that was up. He didn't have the energy or will to deal with him right now. Even though he'd already acknowledged with himself that he couldn't blame Layne for saving him. Since, in the end, that's what he did. But it was all still too recent.

As he turned away from his friend, Geoff spotted Eli sitting a short distance away. He picked up his duffel, which he'd used as an uncomfortable pillow, and got up. Careful not to wake up the others, he made his way over. Eli looked up, slightly startled, then his expression softened. Lifting his hand he brought a finger to his lips before motioning to Geoff to sit down next to him. After he did, Eli leaned over and whispered, “One by the road.”

Geoff stared through the trees towards the road. Then he saw it. A single zombie. Just lingering. Geoff watched, weary. Every so often it twitched. Then, suddenly, it just started its shambling walk farther down the road.

They remained quiet for a moment longer. Then Geoff let out a breath. This was their life now, wasn't it? The hopelessness of it started to settle over him. Life is never going to go back to normal. And, if somehow it did, it wouldn't for him. It never would be for him again. “Geoff?” Geoff blinked a couple times, bringing his focus back to the present.

“I'm fine...”

He was far from fine. He was the furthest away possible from fine. Eli knew this. And he knew the others knew it too. But no one knew how to help. How can you comfort someone who, not only had their entire life flipped upside down, but lost their family in such a horrendous way? Though they tried. In small ways. “... Do you want to get some more rest?” But Geoff just shook his head.

There was silence between them. And they just sat together for a short while. But when Eli tried to hide a yawn, Geoff told him to go to sleep. “I'm awake anyway.”

Eli hesitated, but ended up thanking him and getting up. He stopped, however, when he turned to go. Resting a hand on Geoff's shoulder, he spoke. “Geoff. I... We need you to know that we're here for you. Okay? Please don't forget that.” When he didn't respond, Eli stepped away to find a spot to lay down to try to sleep.

The grip on his duffel tightened. He swallowed. Then let out a breath. His grip lightened and he moved the bag next to him. Pulling up his knees, and rested his arms over them, he laid his head down on his arms. There was nothing they could do for this unbearable pain and guilt that he felt.

[usaonetwothree]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: NCIS (TV 2003) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Jethro Gibbs, Anthony DiNozzo, Ducky Mallard (minor), Caitlin Todd (minor) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jethro Gibbs, Hurt Tony DiNozzo, Car Accidents, Tony DiNozzo & Jethro Gibbs Father/Son Relationship, set season one, Anthony DiNozzo Needs a Hug, Jethro Gibbs Needs a Hug, Anthony DiNozzo Gets a Hug, Jethro Gibbs Gets a Hug Series: Part 1 of Whumptober 2024 Summary:

Fill for Whumptober 2024, Alt Prompt: Survivor's Guilt

When Gibbs wakes up in the hospital, he doesn't remember how he got there. He learns he was run down while investigating a series of thefts. Also, he wasn't the only one who was injured.

[rewrittenwrongs]

Whumptober day 9: Alternate prompt prompt 11: Survivors Guilt

Read on Ao3 (registered users only) | Day 8 | Day 10 | Whumptober masterpost

CW: off-screen character death. And also some early game Subnautica spoilers

Technically posting this a day late, but there are no rules against posting on different days so I’m still happy with this. In typical me fashion I procrastinated writing this until like 9pm, then speedran it for a couple hours only to not be done when midnight ticked over, and decided actually I like sleep more than a posting schedule only to not fall asleep even once for MORE THAN FOUR HOURS. Is this karma for procrastinating? I’ve learnt my lesson.

Either way I’m really happy with this fic. I started playing Subnautica again recently and I’m kind of hyperfixating. Naturally, that meant I need to combine it with my other hyperfixation, Batfam. Strictly speaking Tim Drake is the POV character but you can easily read it as just being the player character.

Watching the radio light up as soon as Tim fixes it, indicating a received message, is both a proud moment and a stress inducing one. He just stands there and stares for a long moment. Dreading what news could be waiting for him. Then it sets in that it could be a distress signal from one of the other lifepods, from another survivor, and he slams his hand into the button before he loses his nerve.

It isn’t another survivor that speaks to him, it’s the Aurora’s AI. “This is Aurora. Distress signal received. Rescue operation will be dispatched to your location in 9…9…9…9…9… hours. Continue to monitor for emergency transmissions from other Lifepods.”

Tim exhales heavily, and resolves to do just that.

-

That night, as he’s struggling to catch more bladderfish and peepers, his PDA speaks up:

“Emergency: A quantum detonation has occurred in the Aurora’s drive core.”

Oh shit.

Tim watches in a daze, as if from outside his body, as he swims to the surface. Maybe twenty metres up. His gaze locks on the downed monolith of a ship immediately.

The AI keeps speaking. “The reactor will reach a super critical state in T-10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—“

The explosion is even bigger and louder and scarier than he expected. Tim feels it in his bones when the shockwave slams into him. It feels like the world is falling apart. Not just physically.

So much for that rescue operation.

“For your convenience the radiation suit has been added to your blueprint database.”

-

The next day, just as he feeds the fabricator the ingredients for a radiation suit, the radio lights up.

Tim stares at it, feeling that same sense of apprehension. As if the state he spends his next few weeks weighs entirely on one recorded message.

He presses the button.

“Receiving pre-recorded distress signal. Playing back…” The next speaker is younger, female, accented: “This is Lifepod 3, uploading our coordinates. We’re plugging some holes in our emergency Seaglide, so if we’re late for the rendezvous, don’t panic. Also, don’t go home without us. Seriously. 3, out.”

She sounds strangely calm about the situation. Tim opens his tablet once he’s finished changing into his new suit, and opens the new coordinates. Also in the Shallows, 18 metres underwater. Tim wonders if their floatation systems never deployed or were damaged by something in the water. Maybe it was the shockwave.

Tim cooks some distressingly large eyeballs, drinks some not-vegan water, and heads out for Lifepod 3 within the hour. It takes him about 50 minutes to reach the Lifepod, and what he finds isn’t pretty.

It’s sunk to the bottom of a kept forest. It looks, perhaps at first glance, in decent condition. But circling it is enough to discover what went wrong. There’s a giant hole blown in the side of the pod. There are scorch marks on the walls inside and out, with sparking wires and dented electronics.

There is the ruined remains of a Seaglide barely two metres away. Scorched. Melted. Incomplete.

They tried to fix it and it cost them their Lifepod, and almost certainly their lives. Tim doesn’t try to keep his hold on the fragile faith in his chest. He scans the ruined device, collects a data box, and lets the dark, ugly, twisted thing in his chest grow a little bigger.

He sees no sign of any bodies.

Actually. The stalkers are acting docile. They’re not hungry.

He takes that as a sign to leave.

-

The next two signals are received minutes apart. He’s out exploring when they’re collected, and once he’s back in Lifepod 5 he hits play before turning to the fabricator.

“Playing pre-recorded distress call…”

“This is Ozzy from the cafeteria, what the hell guys?!”

Tim’s hands stutter and he nearly drops his copper.

“They didn’t warn us this might happen! Our pod was almost crushed by the Seamoth bay on the way down, now we’re hanging on the edge of a cave system and this grim-looking snake-thing’s trying to eat through the hull! Come get us already!”

Tim tries not to drown in the ugly-painful feeling of knowing that person, Ozzy, even if they only exchanged glances and the odd word or two. Ozzy was—is someone he knows. And by the sounds of it—

Maybe they’re fine. Ozzy and whoever else is in his pod are fine, and once Tim finds them they can all have a laugh before setting off the help the next survivor.

He wonders what the ‘grim-looking snake-thing’ is, if it’ll still be trying to eat the pod when Tim reaches it.

Tim plays the next recording while opening his tablet to find the Lifepod’s signal.

“This is Avery Quinn, of trading ship Sunbeam. Aurora, do you read? Over.”

A slight pause. Tim absently shoves a peeper at the fabricator.

“Nothing but vacuum. These damn Alterra ships. They run low on engine grease, they send an SOS; you offer help, they don’t pick up. Aurora, I’m out on the far side of the system, it’s going to take more than a week to reach your position, do you still need assistance? Over.”

Tim has no other word for the emotion he feels than indignant.

“I’ll try them again tomorrow. Damn charter’s going to have us blowing our credits running errands for Alterra. See what the long-range scans pick up in the meantime.”

Tim… decides, for now, that the best course of action is to shove his emotions in a box and focus on hope. Hope that the long-range scan is enough to rally their assistance, that Ozzy will still be alive when Tim reaches him.

The signal’s origin is more than 350 metres away. Depth of 100.

Tim studies the supplies he has on hand, debates how hungry and thirsty he is, and grabs the Grav Trap. Once he’s stocked with food and water he sets off with his new Seaglide.

He closes the distance in record time. It’s exhilarating, flying along past schools of fish and alien coral. If he didn’t feel the weight of peoples lives hanging on his shoulders he would waste his time swimming with the fishes and reefbacks. It’s… disarming, how pretty this alien world can be, knowing most of the creatures on it want to kill him.

It isn’t too difficult to find Lifepod 17. It’s lying on a sandbank next to a cave, one wall peeled back like the lid of a tuna can.

Tim spends a moment staring, then has to speed to the surface to take a breath. He stays there for a few minutes and tries not to cry. Then he glides back down.

The Lifepod hull is peeled back and torn open, visible teeth and scratch marks marring the metal. No blood, no signs of life. There’s the arm of a Seamoth lying nearby.

No alien sea snakes either. Tim wonders if that’s because it’s daytime. Either way, part of him is glad.

Tim downloads the data and heads back.

-

“Aurora, this is Sunbeam again. We picked up a massive debris field at your location. I didn’t know how bad… how many of you… I didn’t know. We are now en route to your location. We’re going to bring you home. Sunbeam out.

“What else can I say? The only time I parked a rig this big on a rock that small was in VR, and I blew it. Oh, it’s a bad option alright, but so are all the others.”

-

Tim throws an armful of rocks at the fabricator to figure out then slams the button on the radio. He lowers himself onto the storage cabinet and retrieves bandages from the medkit fabricator, trying not to shake as he peels back his suit and cleans the wounds across his legs.

“Playing pre-recorded distress call…”

“This is Officer Keen in lifepod 19! The captain is gone. I have assumed command. The last thing the captain did was give me coordinates for dry land. We regroup one and a half kilometres south-west of the crashsight. Stay together, and good luck. This message will now repeat.”

His PDA spoke up: “Rendezvous coordinates corrupted. Transmission origin coordinates downloaded.”

Once Tim is done patching himself back together, he collects his freshly-crafted supplies and stashes most of them in the storage box. He opens his PDA to glance at the new coordinates, feeling confident he can find the rendezvous without coordinates, and giddy with the knowledge that there are others survivors out there, only to pause.

Officer Keen’s last broadcast location is 300 metres below the water’s surface.

-

Just hours later, the next time Tim goes out for a scavenge and returns thankfully in one piece, there is a message waiting for him.

“High priority automated message from Aurora Lifepod 13. Coordinates attached.”

“Lifepod is carrying high priority passenger Jochi Khasar. I said Khasar! Why do I have to record this anyway?”

“Send immediate burial detail.”

Tim pauses, and looks at the radio. Burial details?

-

12 days after the Aurora first crash landed on this ocean planet, Tim receives the call he’s been hoping for.

“Aurora, we’re approaching the planet now, and we have a landing site for you that’s… well, it’s better than the alternatives. We’ve sent you the coordinates.

“It’ll take us a couple of days to align our orbit, we should be able to establish direct contact with you during that time, then we’re coming to get you. Cross your fingers the weather holds, and don’t leave us waiting. Sunbeam out.”

The Sunbeam is on its way. They send him coordinates for the landing sight. It’s over a thousand metres away, but with his Seaglide Tim can get there in just an hour or two.

He spends the next day and a half more or less gathering materials, knowing he won’t need them soon, but wanting something to do with himself. He sleeps, as usual, on the floor of his Lifepod.

The next morning he fabricates some cured fish and clean water, makes a spare battery for his Seaglide, and swaps the battery in his flashlight. Then, just as sunrise begins painting the sky, he sets out for the landing sight.

His imagination runs rampant as he starts the journey. He wonders what the landing sight will look like. He wonders how many other survivors will be there. He wonders if Officer Keen has been able to swim to the surface. He wonders how much time he’ll have to spare—the Sunbeam won’t land for another 90 minutes at least, and he’s already nearly halfway there. He wonders if he’ll find new creatures around the island, new plants and environments. So far it’s mostly kelp forests—he’s getting sick of stalkers.

He busies himself with questions as the Seaglide carries him. He listens to the reefback leviathans, and wonders briefly what other types of leviathan there are, before deciding he doesn’t want to know. He wants to go home. And thankfully, he is. Pretty soon he’ll be safe and secure on the Sunbeam and saying goodbye to this hellhole of an ocean.

Tim finally steps foot on the island 80 minutes after he set off, hoping and praying that there will be other survivors to meet here, and that he’ll never have to see another stalker or drink another fish ever again.

He has no idea just how wrong he is on both accounts.

[darkkitty1208]

Entry for Day 9 of Whumptober 2023, alternative prompt: aftermath of failure & shaking, and @badthingshappenbingo​ card square: Survivor's Guilt.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Doctor Strange (Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Stephen Strange, Wong (Marvel), The Cloak of Levitation (Marvel) Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Heavy Angst, it does not get better lads, click back if you dont want emotional damage, unless youre a fucking masochist like me, Aftermath, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hurt Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, no he doesnt get one, Survivor Guilt, Canonical Character Death, Guilt, Nightmares, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Compliant, Crying, Mentioned Donna Strange Series: Part 7 of Whumptober 2023 Summary:

Blood tints his horrifying hands in red and it doesn't matter how many times he tries to wash it away–it's a permanent part of him now.

OR

Post-EG fic exploring Stephen's thoughts, ft. survivor's guilt.