The End is Never Final
folder
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,525
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › SeaQuest
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
37
Views:
1,525
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own SeaQuest DSV, and I do not make any money from this writing.
The End is Never Final
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters featured on seaQuest DSV or seaQuest 2032 and am not making any money from the writing of this fanfiction. This particular seaQuest fanfic takes place in an alternative universe. As a result, several of the characters that left after the first season are appearing alongside characters that didn’t appear until the third season. If you aren’t into this kind of thing, don’t read. If you are, enjoy and send me feedback. ☺
Timeline: Season three, sort of. The seaQuest and her crew were never missing for ten years, but Oliver Hudson is her Captain and Nathan Bridger does have his grandson.
-----------------------------------------------
The smoke is intolerable, it fills the room, clouding his eyes and burning his lungs. Breathing it in left a rancid feeling that he could almost imagine oozing from his pores. His breaths are shallow, unsatisfying; however, even willingly depriving himself of oxygen does little to prevent his eyes from slightly tearing whenever the smoke hits his screaming lungs. The submarine, ordinarily his home, was under assault. At his side, hands balled in impotent rage.
Somewhere to his right, someone is crying with pain, almost lost among the harsh orders and barking commands. The voices unfamiliar, he moves away from the sounds, startled when his sneakers slide under him. Looking down, he finds the clutter of fresh debris and the smears his sneakers made through the tracks of fresh blood. Something inside clicked and, working on an autopilot he wasn’t aware that he had, he reaches down to pluck an abandoned gun from the alarming pools of dark liquid. He wipes it off on his jeans, a slight grimace of distaste on his face.
He changed direction, free hand absent-mindedly fingering the drying stains left from the gun, “Darwin?”
He reaches a hand out for guidance. The smoke dense enough that he finds it impossible to judge how close he is to the splashing noises. Moving cautiously, a scream dies in his throat as his foot slips and water closes over his head with a ferocity that almost scares him.
He begins struggling toward the surface, lungs crying for the very air that they had previously (and venomously) rejected. As his body moves with practiced ease, the pathway to the surface is blocked. Panic begins to seize him and, despite the approaching voices, he pounds his fists desperately into the blocking mass. The rubbery material gives slightly under his assault. . .but not enough.
Garbled by the water rushing in his ears (or maybe by the depleting oxygen supply), voices muddle their way through the haze. Only one is familiar: Tim O’Neil’s shrill and frightened. O’Neil falls into the tank with an empty “pop.” Sight hindered by Darwin’s body, Lucas can only guess what happened. It is too dark to tell what the dolphin already knows; the water around them is tainted with spreading blood. Far beneath them, still plunging heavily toward the tank’s floor, Tim O’Neil’s good eye, the other shattered by his corrective lenses, half closed in reflex. Lucas, still pinned by his friend’s body, found his eyes closing and, weakened, his fists dropped.
Timeline: Season three, sort of. The seaQuest and her crew were never missing for ten years, but Oliver Hudson is her Captain and Nathan Bridger does have his grandson.
-----------------------------------------------
The smoke is intolerable, it fills the room, clouding his eyes and burning his lungs. Breathing it in left a rancid feeling that he could almost imagine oozing from his pores. His breaths are shallow, unsatisfying; however, even willingly depriving himself of oxygen does little to prevent his eyes from slightly tearing whenever the smoke hits his screaming lungs. The submarine, ordinarily his home, was under assault. At his side, hands balled in impotent rage.
Somewhere to his right, someone is crying with pain, almost lost among the harsh orders and barking commands. The voices unfamiliar, he moves away from the sounds, startled when his sneakers slide under him. Looking down, he finds the clutter of fresh debris and the smears his sneakers made through the tracks of fresh blood. Something inside clicked and, working on an autopilot he wasn’t aware that he had, he reaches down to pluck an abandoned gun from the alarming pools of dark liquid. He wipes it off on his jeans, a slight grimace of distaste on his face.
He changed direction, free hand absent-mindedly fingering the drying stains left from the gun, “Darwin?”
He reaches a hand out for guidance. The smoke dense enough that he finds it impossible to judge how close he is to the splashing noises. Moving cautiously, a scream dies in his throat as his foot slips and water closes over his head with a ferocity that almost scares him.
He begins struggling toward the surface, lungs crying for the very air that they had previously (and venomously) rejected. As his body moves with practiced ease, the pathway to the surface is blocked. Panic begins to seize him and, despite the approaching voices, he pounds his fists desperately into the blocking mass. The rubbery material gives slightly under his assault. . .but not enough.
Garbled by the water rushing in his ears (or maybe by the depleting oxygen supply), voices muddle their way through the haze. Only one is familiar: Tim O’Neil’s shrill and frightened. O’Neil falls into the tank with an empty “pop.” Sight hindered by Darwin’s body, Lucas can only guess what happened. It is too dark to tell what the dolphin already knows; the water around them is tainted with spreading blood. Far beneath them, still plunging heavily toward the tank’s floor, Tim O’Neil’s good eye, the other shattered by his corrective lenses, half closed in reflex. Lucas, still pinned by his friend’s body, found his eyes closing and, weakened, his fists dropped.