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(AU Note: For maximum effect, listen to this )

Skkkkreee.

He could hear it again – as if something was scurrying across the ceiling. Lying down on the adjustable bed, his green eyes traced the constantly changing pattern of the dynamic screen, trying to find the source of the sound but knowing that he would fail anyway.

“Are you hearing that sound again, Mr. Raynott?”

“Yes,” he replied with a sigh. Turning to the woman seated to his right, he smiled. “Just call me Kylan, Dr. Anjoul.”

“Alright then… Kylan.” She looked up from the thin tablet in her palm, offering him a smile. “Now, I just want to assure you that despite my position as the company therapist, everything you say here will remain strictly confidential, alright?”

Kylan nodded his understanding while discreetly appraising the woman. Sharp, calm, and in her mid-thirties – that’s how he would describe her. Maybe he had made the right call to see a therapist after all. As someone who grew up in the generation before hers, he didn’t really believe in the effectiveness of psychotherapy. But after the shock of yesterday, he decided something extreme had to be done.

“Please face the ceiling now, Kylan. I want you to close your eyes and relax.”

He obeyed, resting his hands on his abdomen. The soft whirring of a drone filled the empty room as it fired up and moved into position somewhere near him.

“Now, you won’t feel a thing but basically, the drone you hear will be showing me scans of your mental activity. It will help me ascertain your emotional state. I’m going to initiate the session now, so you’ll start to feel a bit drowsy in just a second.”

A few seconds later, he felt the bed slowly morph beneath him. It hugged his frame comfortably, swaying to and fro like an old rocking chair while the sound of a grandfather clock echoed in the background. The tension in his muscles faded, his breathing slowed down.

He felt weightless. Just like in space. Just like… back there.

The woman’s voice filled the vacuum. “You are the docking pilot of the Hybrid 114 on its way to Charon of the Kuiper Belt. What is your mission?”

Anya, Itzhak, Dreg…. They were all there with him. A professional crew.

“To transport company scientists to the site and return with selected specimens,” he replied monotonically.

“Can you describe to me how the mission went?”

It was a standard mission. Three weeks to Charon using the newly fitted hybrid propulsion system on the old model spaceship, a few days break on Charon, and then three weeks back.

“We reached Charon on time,” he started, his eyebrows creasing. “But… we were delayed by a few days because the on-site staff had not gotten the specimens ready.”

Time was precious. Especially when it came to space travel. Frustration ran high among the ship crew who had to answer to the company for the delay. But neither could they go back empty-handed.

“How did you feel about that, Kylan?”

“Annoyed… restless.”

There was nothing else they could do. So instead of their short hibernation inside the sleep pods at the space station, it turned into a much longer slumber. Ironically though, the excess of sleep made him feel even more edgy and lethargic.

“But the specimens were ready to take back after that, right?”

“Yes.”

With the help from the space station staff, they resupplied the Hybrid 114 with the required necessities and the specimens before taking off. Everything went fine…. Until…

“When did you start hearing the sounds, Kylan?”

It started with a low constant hum. He figured it was the machinery.

“About the same time as Anya… my crew member.”

Even though no one else heard it, they investigated the source of the sound… just in case. But nothing was wrong, as expected.

“And then when it intensified, what did you do?”

Soon after he dismissed the hum as a hearing problem was when those annoying click-clack sounds started. Like a Morse code, it followed him throughout the Hybrid. Then, it morphed into hisses, screeches… a cacophony.

Tttttthhhhhrrrrr.

There it was again. “I told my crew members about it but they could not hear it. Not even Anya.”

He could see their looks of confusion, disbelief, suspicion even. It was around that time that things started going wrong as well. Rancid odors, flickering lights, disturbed inner décor.

“So what did the crew decide to do, Kylan?”

“We investigated the entire ship but…. We found nothing wrong.”

Absolutely nothing wrong at all. So the investigation turned inward. Of the crew members, he was the only one who had first identified the sounds. The sounds that somehow started the whole turn of events.

“How was the relationships among the crew then?”

“…. Bad. Really bad.”

The atmosphere among them was tense. Everyone seemed like they were hiding secrets of their own. And all of them held the same thought that he was mad, delusional. That he was somehow the cause. Conversation stopped whenever he was around. Looks were thrown his way wherever he went. Tasks were not entrusted to him. He was isolated and alone…

His angular jaw flexed and clenched. Biting down hard on his bottom lip as he sucked it in, his body tensed. The memory that accompanied that feeling becoming all too clear.

Alone again.

“Kylan,” he heard her calm but authoritative voice pull him back. “Relax. What are you reminded of?”

Those gaunt cheeks, the scowl on his face… a whip in his hand.

“A monster,” he breathed out shakily. “My…. father.”

A pause followed. “How did you feel, Kylan?”

“Sad… unwanted…. Alone.”

He had cried and cried every single day. No one was there to take him away from that monster. It was just him, just a small defenseless kid.

“And how did you handle that?”

Then one day, he realized. Only monsters could defeat other monsters.

His lips parted, his voice coming out in a soft whisper. “Skitter.”

Razor sharp teeth, long metallic nails, with a reptile-like body that moved as fast as a crocodile. Strength and speed that surpassed the monster that was pretending to be his dad. Skitter was undefeatable.

“I had Skitter,” he said forlornly. “I created him in my mind and he was always there for me.”

“Skitter was your imaginary companion,” Dr. Anjoul reaffirmed.

“Yes.”

“Did your father eventually change his ways?”

His hands dropped to his side limply. “He died when I was 10.”

That was when the dreams started. But it had stopped two years after that. And then… yesterday.

Those same claws. Claws that wrapped tightly around the neck. Choking…. Calling him….

Skreeee. Skeeeeeeeee.

Thhrrr. Teeeeer.

The sounds getting louder and clearer, his face scrunched up in discomfort. His consciousness wavered, the muscles in his body tensing before suddenly relaxing.

Skeeeee Teeeeeerrr

“Kylan.”

Crrrrrr-ome thhh-o dddddd-adddddd

“Kylan!”

Kylan’s body seized up. His fingers dug into the bed, puncturing the hard surface easily. Mouth curling open into a snarl, a low guttural sound rumbled in his chest. “Nooooo.”

“….Skitter?” Dr. Anjoul said cautiously.

“He neeeeeeds meeeee,” Kylan hissed, his voice barely recognizable.

The therapist remained calm, her fingers flying over the virtual keyboard as she deployed the emergency restraint system. She encountered these situations frequently in her line of work. Stalling for time, she spoke directly to Skitter, the current identity inhabiting her patient. “Kylan’s dad is already dead. Kylan is safe now.”

“Nooooo. Theeeey puuuut hiiiiim baacccckkkk.” Kylan’s body shuddered, spasms wracking through his flesh.

A prick of a needle.

His voice increased in volume. “Theeey diiiiid thhhhhhissss.”

Foreign fluids flowing through the body, a sensation like no other.

“Hhheeeeee iisssss heeeeerrrrreeee!!”

It looms. It wants control.

“Heeeeeee-“

Metal rungs underneath the bed curved upwards and snapped onto Kylan’s torso, restricting his movement. As he struggled futilely against his restraints, the therapist immediately hit another button, calling another drone to inject a chemical serum into his veins. The rattling of the rungs slowly stopped, the serum having taken its effect on Kylan.

After ensuring that Kylan’s movements had stopped and his brain scan indicated normal activity again, the therapist returned to her large desk. Placing down the notes she’d taken on the table, she brought up a new screen and started typing her report.

Subject: Kylan Raynott.
Rank: Docking pilot of Hybrid 114.
Diagnosis: : Delusions and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, possible Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Cause: Based on the mission report of Hybrid 114, it was found that the nutrients balancing system had malfunctioned resulting in a deficiency of thiamine in the food that was ingested by the crew. Although it was later discovered and fixed by said crew, the side effects of shared delusions had already taken place. The side effects were amplified by mission stress and the gravity-less environment of the older model spaceship.

Suggested cure: Further psychiatric treatment with Dr. Anjoul.
Expected time to recovery: One month to full recovery but with constant follow-ups. Pilot duties can be resumed in two months.

Hitting the save button, she glanced up over the rim of her glasses at Kylan. The brain scans indicated he was in deep slumber and experiencing dreams, which was perfectly normal. She returned her attention back to the screen, finishing up the report and sending it to the company’s management.

Had she looked back at her patient, she would have noticed the slight coloration of the skin at the base of his neck. Black scale-like circles forming near Kylan’s shoulder blade, it rippled across his skin before disappearing again… like it had never been there.

“He will not remember all this, right?”

The figure in a white hazmat suit nodded. “The sleep pod will do its job. Have the guys fixed the nutrient system onboard?”

“Yes, everything’s settled. The team back on the base station is also ready to receive these six human specimens.” Completing his report, the young man waited for his superior to finish her task.

“Good.” Systematically taking off the hazmat suit, the woman regarded the person lying inside the sleep pod with callous indifference. She noted the printed words on his pod “Raynott, Kylan”, the name barely registering as a person’s identity in her mind.

The young man shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “What is the company thinking anyway? Sending us pilots to test our experiments on and then needing to concoct up a bullshit mission to trick them?”

“It’s a waste of resources of course,” his superior replied dully, her gloves snapping off. “I guess they’re low on dispensable human test subjects. But it doesn’t matter.”

She regarded the six sleep pods with pride. “These are the first experimental subjects. They should consider themselves lucky.”

After all, they were satisfying a higher calling.