The silent standoff between Winterwing and his double was interrupted an alarmed cry from their small audience. He thought for a moment their lizard friend had returned and brought reinforcements. His copy whirled around, temporarily forgetting him, weapon at the ready. Instead, they were presented with two ducks backing away from the drake who had spent their short time in the cell block together being entirely unpleasant. He had taken on a posture very similar to Winterwing’s own; hunched over and leaning against a wall in visible distress, muttering.

Winterwing could not quite hear what was being said, but was fairly certain it was whispered words, from the recognizable patterns of consonants and inflection. He strained to listen, still unable to properly stand himself. He could only make out the phrase “The walls are too close.”

The corridors were somewhat tight, maybe large enough for two people to walk abreast while safely avoiding the decorative razor edges. He would not have described them as particularly snug.

His copy spoke, deliberate and deadly calm, trying to catch the attention of the two frightened ducks, “Is that what it looks like?” They looked at the copy dully. It gave a slight incline of the head. “You said it was the sickest you’d ever been.”

It was then that Winterwing understood. The mumbling drake had dark clothes, but he could see spots of a sticky, dark wetness that could have been blood or perhaps a black bile, or some combination of both. There were streaks of it on the floor around where the drake stood. He spread it as he swayed and cursed in place. There seemed to be dark lines of infection and necrotic feathers tracing along his limbs, covering his hands, and reaching up his neck.

“It’s small, it’s all small, small small small,” the drake wrapped his arms around around his abdomen, as if holding himself together.

The one with blue hair tried to approach “What are you-”

“Don’t pretend you can’t hear it!” he shouted at her, with such ferocity that it stopped her immediately in her tracks. Winterwing was becoming more and more concerned that the noise was going to draw unwanted attention. The drake was doubled over now, crumbling towards the floor, and it seemed that the words were changing, cut and clipped between sounds that could not be anything other than pain.

The rest of them could think of nothing to do but stand there and watch, baffled.

Winterwing thought he could see the blooming echoes of blood in the ragged clothes that had not been visible before. A groan began and escalated into a prolonged wail, and a cracking noise that he had heard once already that day.

The drake’s torso simply ripped apart.

Black branches burst out in every direction, as if a tree had spontaneously taken root within him. The violence of its growth sheered limbs off, and sprayed blood and viscera outward. The remains that were still upright collapsed to the floor, the branches of black snapping under their own weight, and suddenly everything was very silent, as they all stood there, dumbstruck.

The younger of the two ducks dropped immediately to the floor. She did not faint, merely lost the ability to stand, and stared at the ruined body not ten steps from her. The one with blue hair began to swipe away the debris that covered her, and then hesitated,unsure if they were safe to touch.

His copy cleared its throat, mouth a thin, flat line, before saying, “What the hell is that?”

The two survivors had no answer for him. The one on the floor didn’t seem to have heard him at all, instead curling into a ball and covering her face, as if not seeing the body would erase it form existence.

The copy added, grimly, “We’ve been exposed to it.”

Winterwing only closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The creeping black sludge did bear resemblance to what had splattered across his face earlier that day. That was probably not ideal.

Blue-hairlooked at her own hands and said “Do you... think that’s what’s going to happen to all of us?”

No one responded, which was all the response required.

Winterwing pushed away from the wall, and moved slowly to the threshold. He tried to recall which hallway the first wisps of smoke had come from, when their fight had been interrupted.

He heard the protest and footsteps of his copy this time, “Now wait a minute-”

“Emily,” he responded without turning. He had to make his way carefully along the wall to stay upright, wondering if he was imagining that the metal was warm to the touch.

The copy caught up to him, but was kind enough to keep the barrel of the blaster pointed at the floor, rather than at him. It interrogated him as he walked, instead. “Where are you even going?”

He grabbed for the next angle of the wall.

“I told you. They took her,” Winterwing, entirely covered in bruises and missing patches of feathers, gave the copy the best withering glare he could manage. He reached out for the next angle along the wall to use and a hand-hold, and stumbled when it wasn’t there. A doorway.

Winterwing thought he recognized the room, though he was not entirely sure, given his state of mind when he last saw it. It was no larger than his own living room, though it was nearly entirely empty. There was a strange pattern, a bright red trace-work of vines along the walls that he didn’t remember being there before. He could not recall seeing a single other thing in the labyrinth of halls that even resembled organic growth, or light strong enough for a plant to survive. As his eyes focused on them, he could have sworn they moved—no, throbbed. He snatched his hands away from the wall.

Emily’s body was splayed out, her arms perpendicular to her sides, stripped entirely of clothing. She was placed within a circle on the floor crafted in a messy, red ink that was thankfully too bright to be blood. There was scrawled writing, or maybe runes, none of which he could read. The hand that made them was imprecise, and the red splattered about her on the floor.

Her eyes were wide and dull, staring at the ceiling and nothing else, her entire face an unmoving grimace. He flinched and looked away.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. The three gawkers each avoided eye contact with him when he glanced behind.

He watched the walls as he carefully came into the room, but the creeping red veins did not seem to care, or move. They traced down to the floor in some places, and he had to hesitantly step over, but the mass appeared content to just lie there and twitch.

Winterwing knelt down next to the body, and tried his best to avoid the markings on the floor as he did so. Her cheek was cold to the touch. She did not breathe, and did not blink. He could see no obvious injury that was fatal, and certainly not anything echoing the violence they had just witnessed in the corridor.

“I don’t understand,” was all he could think to say, “why go to all the trouble and then just-” but he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. His copy loomed nearby, and seemed that it was going to say something, but must have seen something in his face that stopped it. Instead it took interest in the only other thing in the room: a book stand with a large, open tome sitting upon it. It was old, he thought, or at least aged enough to have been made in the old way, with paper—or maybe parchment—pages, and a cover of thick leather, with a clasp to hold it shut and flat when not in use.

Winterwing had left a great deal of himself figuratively behind in university, but there was the physical, literal aspect of it as well. He had shed most of his muscle mass when he had put hockey aside, and let go of the constant maintenance that required. Whoever this asshole duplicate was, it had clearly not made the same choice. The groaning rib and deepening bruises began to make more sense.

Winterwing stripped off his jacket and draped it over the torso of the body.

The copy looked between the pages of the book, the walls, back to him and the body, then to the two ducks that refused to leave the threshold of the doorway, and back to the book.

Winterwing asked the obvious question: “Does it explain anything?”

“Not even a little,” the double responded.

Everyone hates the sound of their own voice, when played back for them. Something is always missing in its quality, and it would never match how it resonated in the owner’s mind. This was different. It was not a case of anything missing; it was simply not his voice, at all.

Until this point, the other two had remained quiet, but the rounded duck with blue hair decided she could not stand the silence anymore. “So, like, not trying to be rude here, but this all looks very intentional.”

“They’ve never done anything like this before,” the copy said, regarding the book again. “Though it looks as though someone else has.” It touched the page gingerly in the corner, and then carefully shut the tome with a finger. The leather creaked. The double turned to address him. “Get her out of that.”

Winterwing gaped. “Excuse me?”

“You want to stay here?” it gestured to encompass the ship falling apart around them.

Winterwing was silent. His face felt hot. He wanted badly to refuse help from this thing. But he couldn’t possibly continue on his own. He looked doubtfully at the body. It seemed unlikely any of them were going to be willing to help carry her, regardless of how much he complained about his sore side.

Synchronicity, he supposed. He’d carried her once before. On a sunny morning.

When he tried to lift her arm, it did not move. Nor did the rest of her. He could not pull her from the floor, as if someone had glued her in place.

Some of the strange red ink on the floor panels surrounding him had smeared. There, where he had scuffed it with a boot, and there, too, where he had set his hand in it without noticing. It had a sticky, slimy texture to it when he tested it with his fingers. He looked down at the floor, contemplating.

“Oh, gross, don’t touch it,” blue-hair protested.

Winterwing hesitated, tried to talk himself out of it, but could come up with no better idea. He used the back of his forearm to wipe away the shapes, the runes, and every line he could. It broke down easily, felt distressingly like preserves that had partially dried, and came away from the floor in chunks and ropes. It stuck to his feathers, and gave him the immediate urge to take a shower, to take several showers. It was not warm, at least, for which he was thankful.

He brushed her hand, and that wasn’t warm either, and that stopped him for a brief moment, as he reflexively recoiled. Clarity finally cut through confusion and he felt the slightest hint of the grief he was supposed to. It needled his breastbone, almost as keenly as the complaining rib.

Winterwing started working at the shapes again, and none of the others helped him. They watched with a quiet that wasn’t quite respectful. The lines broke as he scrubbed at them. Circles that enclosed the wrists and ankles. Triangles that held the runes. Concentric arcs that contained it all.

Finally he came to the shapes around her head. He had saved them for last, and still had to look away from the face, focusing on breaking the lines instead. If he looked at the face, he knew he was not going to be able to continue.

The final stroke broke, the smears remaining seemed to grow dull, and the body heaved, arched, and took in a massive gasp of air. The younger girl in the hallway screamed.

The body coughed, twisted, sucked air and coughed again, and sat upright. What was supposed to be a corpse started thrashing at him.

She hadn’t been breathing. She had gone cold. And yet, there she was, clawing at him. He caught her wrists and tried his best to hold her still, for the sake of his already bruised face. She tried to wrench free, still crying out. Her wrists were warm under his fingers.

She stopped at last, turned to look at him, her breathing fast and shallow. She stared with a blooming recognition.

The strange blue eyes.

“Winter?” she asked.

Oh, but why did that ache?

“You’re okay,” her shoulders relaxed.

“I’m…?” he blurted in disbelief. “I’m fine.” He concluded, trying his best at a sore, bruised smile. He rearranged the jacket around her and zipped it up. She watched his hands, fumbled a bit trying to help, and gave up, frustrated.

Then she went rigid again, pulling away from him, and Winterwing followed her line of sight over his shoulder. Sure enough, his own face was looming behind him, watching at them both with laser intensity.

Emily looked down at the floor around her, at the smears of red ink, and then the red vines covering the walls, muttering, “What the fuck, just what the absolute fuck.”

“We need to get out of here,” was the copy’s dispassionate answer.

“What about…” the younger girl in the hallway said, her eyes darting back the way they had come.

“I don’t think we can do anything for him,” the copy said, carefully. “If we can get out of here, maybe we can do something for us.”

“I haven’t exactly seen a front door,” blue-hair interrupted. “Or an exit sign. Or any proper fire safety, now that I’m thinking about it.”

The copy moved to the doorway, and handed the leather-bound tome to the smallest member of the group, who was so surprised by its weight that she nearly dropped it. She recovered it and clutched it to her chest, the size of it against her own slight frame making her resemble a schoolchild. The duplicate chose to keep the pilfered energy weapon at the ready, peering out into the hallway cautiously, as if he expected something far more dangerous than the empty dry air and ancient lizards.

“We need to find a way down,” it said.

“Down,” blue-hair repeated, doubtfully.

The copy forced the most insincere, impatient smile possible, letting the rifle rest at his side for a moment. It made a sigh that Winterwing found annoying but could not explain why.

“The last time I saw this ship,” the copy said, “it had crashed into an ocean. Given that it’s a pile of garbage and we’re not all treading water, I don’t think that’s where we are. No engine noise, so I’m assuming we’re on the ground somewhere. We go down, to the cargo area, and get out that way.”

Blue-hair narrowed her eyes. “You sure know a lot about this pile of garbage.”

“I’ve had the pleasure,” the copy agreed, with absolutely no pleasure in his voice.

“And if you’re wrong?”

“We’re not any more dead than we would be if we stay in place,” the copy said, the false smile completely gone now. Still no one moved.

The double lost all pretense of gentle persuasion. “Get her up and let’s go.” Apparently satisfied that this would be motivational enough, it turned and left without saying anything else.

Winterwing went to stand, and Emily’s hand gripped his shirt, stopping him. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t follow it,” she insisted.

He extracted his shirt from her hand, and stood. “Emily—”

Blue-hair gingerly stepped over the red vines. “Can you walk?”

“Don’t, don’t make me, I don’t—don’t touch me,” Emily swatted their hands away, then stopped suddenly, gripping at the jacket over her chest, and for a moment a sliver of fear rushed through him. Perhaps she was going to rip to pieces after all. She relaxed, slumping forward, and the pain seemed to pass. Whatever else the copy was, it was right enough that they could not stay here. He needed to find help–actual help–for her.

Emily caught her breath, at last, and looked back up to him, pleading. “Something’s wrong, you know something’s wrong.”

Winterwing opened his arms in a gesture that encompassed the room, encompassing everything beyond the room. To have singled out one specific thing as profoundly wrong in this moment was doing everything else a grave disservice.

“Don’t trust it,” she begged.

Winterwing sighed, partially, and then caught himself, because he had just seen that same sigh. “Okay. How about me? Can you trust me?”

She stared at him, and then back to the floor. Home felt a lifetime ago, but their last real conversation, before waking up in this place, had been an argument. She had made a choice once already today, to distrust him. She had lied to him, and then again when he offered her the chance to correct it.

That ached too.

She studied the destroyed pattern on the floor, eyebrows furrowing, before she said, quietly, “Okay.”

“All right,” he crouched down and tried his best to thread an arm under her shoulders. “I took a bit of a fall-”

“How-”

“I don’t want to talk about it. So, what we’re going to do is I’m going to carry you for five minutes, and then you’re going to carry me for five minutes.”

There might have been the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. He tried his best to pull her up, and cringed simultaneously at her complaints of discomfort, and his personal injuries.

“I have,” Emily leaned against him, pausing for a moment, trying to catch breath again, “the most exquisite headache.”

“Oh, I must have misplaced that.”

Blue-hair laughed openly, offering her own arm to take some of the weight off both of them. “I think we’re going to be friends.”