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Description
Inhale.

Heart drums twice.

Exhale.

      The steam from the piping fogs the exterior of my eerily glowing visor.  I recall how easy it is to eject the cartridge of a military-issue Pulse Rifle; a full clip is inserted by way of the flick of my wrist.  The stock feels cold against my sweat-frosted shoulder; the micro-fibre of my suit shifts to support it.  Finger on the mechanism of the trigger, the light-emitting diodes on the end of my self-defense initiative show down the dank corridor filled with sparks of unknown origin.  I see stains of crimson fear.  I see believers lying against their scribbles on the walls; they are waiting for "God's work" to be done, silently resting.

Inhale.

Heart rate climbs.

Exhale.

      Mysterious creeps and taps torment me.  Remembering words of friendliness and courage bring no sanctuary to this God-condemned pit of hell.  Here, terror lives...and breathes.  It pierces one's consciousness; it rots and cracks fragile souls.  There is no comfort here.  There are no such ideals of safety and security and protection.  There is no Heaven here.  There is no God here.  Here, there is only pain, dolor, and damnation...

Step.

Inhale and exhale.

I step once more.

      I cannot escape this anguish.  I cannot escape this truth.  Angels have ceased to spectate with their gazes of light and kindness.  God has been relieved of his post.  I cannot escape her face.  Her words and body once brought warmth to me; they were a barricade for my soul to cower behind.  Now they just haunt me; her residual individuality inside my heart plagues me.  I can still hear her beg for mercy.

I can still hear her scream...

      That son of a bitch will pay for what he did to her.  That inhuman beast will pay.  You bastard!  Why?  Why did you do it?  Did you do it just to satisfy your twisted religion?  Were you insane?  Were you vengeful in your actions, you prick?  She didn't do anything but throw her heart and soul into the nice and selfless things she did.  You had no right.  You had no right to kill Noelle.  You will pay.  This infection, this monster, this alien nightmare will not cloud my mind of my objective.  I will make you suffer.  I will make you feel more pain than she did.

I will make you feel MY pain...

      I continue to trudge on; through metal and stagnant air I move.  I sense someone--or something--watching me.  The glow of my visor shifts with my leer to the right and over the edge of my shoulder.  I ready my rifle.  Nothing.  I only hear ghosts.  I only see death.

Noelle...

      I turn one-hundred and eighty degrees to the left.  My rifle follows suit with my desire to stay alive.  I pump round after round into the necromorph's body, hoping to deal sufficient damage.  After its legs give way, it still crawls, roaring its terrifying roar.  Is it its drive to kill me?  I won't let it!
      The blue hologram of the ammunition counter reads seventy-three.  The goblin's broken body rests, as I pick up the med pack that was still in this former man's trouser pocket.  He was an engineer.  His R. I. G. still contains a few precious sparks of Stasis energy; I salvage it.  One down, ten million to go.  "Dinner will be served in the mess hall in fifteen minutes", so says the Ishimura's on-board computer.  I wish I had some food to eat.  The last meal I had was with her.
      This ship is what I call home now.  The Boogeyman's gonna creep up to me, coming out of my bedroom closet a hundred times over, and a hundred times again.  Ammunition is the opposite of plentiful.  Ghosts haunt me.  Bodies scare me.  Writings predict my future.

Revenge drives my actions.

Description
Inhale.

Heart drums twice.

Exhale.

      The steam from the piping fogs the exterior of my eerily glowing visor.  I recall how easy it is to eject the cartridge of a military-issue Pulse Rifle; a full clip is inserted by way of the flick of my wrist.  The stock feels cold against my sweat-frosted shoulder; the micro-fibre of my suit shifts to support it.  Finger on the mechanism of the trigger, the light-emitting diodes on the end of my self-defense initiative show down the dank corridor filled with sparks of unknown origin.  I see stains of crimson fear.  I see believers lying against their scribbles on the walls; they are waiting for "God's work" to be done, silently resting.

Inhale.

Heart rate climbs.

Exhale.

      Mysterious creeps and taps torment me.  Remembering words of friendliness and courage bring no sanctuary to this God-condemned pit of hell.  Here, terror lives...and breathes.  It pierces one's consciousness; it rots and cracks fragile souls.  There is no comfort here.  There are no such ideals of safety and security and protection.  There is no Heaven here.  There is no God here.  Here, there is only pain, dolor, and damnation...

Step.

Inhale and exhale.

I step once more.

      I cannot escape this anguish.  I cannot escape this truth.  Angels have ceased to spectate with their gazes of light and kindness.  God has been relieved of his post.  I cannot escape her face.  Her words and body once brought warmth to me; they were a barricade for my soul to cower behind.  Now they just haunt me; her residual individuality inside my heart plagues me.  I can still hear her beg for mercy.

I can still hear her scream...

      That son of a bitch will pay for what he did to her.  That inhuman beast will pay.  You bastard!  Why?  Why did you do it?  Did you do it just to satisfy your twisted religion?  Were you insane?  Were you vengeful in your actions, you prick?  She didn't do anything but throw her heart and soul into the nice and selfless things she did.  You had no right.  You had no right to kill Noelle.  You will pay.  This infection, this monster, this alien nightmare will not cloud my mind of my objective.  I will make you suffer.  I will make you feel more pain than she did.

I will make you feel MY pain...

      I continue to trudge on; through metal and stagnant air I move.  I sense someone--or something--watching me.  The glow of my visor shifts with my leer to the right and over the edge of my shoulder.  I ready my rifle.  Nothing.  I only hear ghosts.  I only see death.

Noelle...

      I turn one-hundred and eighty degrees to the left.  My rifle follows suit with my desire to stay alive.  I pump round after round into the necromorph's body, hoping to deal sufficient damage.  After its legs give way, it still crawls, roaring its terrifying roar.  Is it its drive to kill me?  I won't let it!
      The blue hologram of the ammunition counter reads seventy-three.  The goblin's broken body rests, as I pick up the med pack that was still in this former man's trouser pocket.  He was an engineer.  His R. I. G. still contains a few precious sparks of Stasis energy; I salvage it.  One down, ten million to go.  "Dinner will be served in the mess hall in fifteen minutes", so says the Ishimura's on-board computer.  I wish I had some food to eat.  The last meal I had was with her.
      This ship is what I call home now.  The Boogeyman's gonna creep up to me, coming out of my bedroom closet a hundred times over, and a hundred times again.  Ammunition is the opposite of plentiful.  Ghosts haunt me.  Bodies scare me.  Writings predict my future.

Revenge drives my actions.