Notes:

I warned a few of you that this was coming. I'm a geek for horror games; how could I resist a crossover between Starfighter and Deadspace? I imagine this will be rather lengthy, but I wanted to at least give you guys an introduction in time for Christmas Eve. On a random side note, I do not cuss irl, so writing dialogue for Cain is sometimes a stretch for me, heh. If graphic violence bothers you, please move on. Otherwise, let me know if you like the story!

Starfighter belongs to HamletMachine, and Dead Space belongs to EA Games.

It had started as a virus.

A handful of the crew had reported to medical with headaches and fatigue, with restless sleep plagued by nightmares and waking hours haunted by hallucinations.

Medical blamed it on stress. After all, with the Sleipnir cruising through Colteron-infested space, some men were bound to bend under pressure.

Stay hydrated. Keep eating. Get some sleep. Take pills when you can't.

Frayed nerves weren't limited to this particular craft, either. When the Sleipnir had rendezvoused with Munera a week ago for an unexpected supply exchange and mechanical assessment, one of her officers had admitted that several of the crew members were experiencing similar symptoms, that one of the fighters had even slit his own wrists in the mess hall with a butter knife.

War was hard, they agreed. Not everybody was cut out for it.

Shame, that.

Abel woke up with a shout, eyes wide and breath shaky as he sat up and clutched the bed sheets with white knuckles. He visibly jumped when Cain touched his shoulder.

"Chill, princess," Cain chided him, but it was only half-hearted. "Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

Abel continued to sit there, though, only moving to rub the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Cain watched him warily but didn't say anything else, rolling one hand as he wished his cigarettes weren't all the way across the room.

Abel drew his knees to his bare chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. "It was so…" He shook his head and drew another shaky breath. "What a weird nightmare."

Cain frowned. "Not you too. I'm sick of hearing this shit from everyone. Stop worrying about it and go to bed. And try not to wake me up again."

Abel sighed, wishing for a bit of sympathy but well aware that Cain was Cain. Nodding, he wiggled his toes in the cold bedroom air and pulled the blanket back from where he had kicked it down in his sleep. He rolled onto his side and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But his mind kept returning to his nightmare, to strange red symbols that stuck like hot brands in his mind, uniform in their crude, alien lines. Abel knew they were significant, if not why, the same way he knew that part of his dream lay just out of his memory's reach; fuzzy when it should have been strong, striking, there.

"Cain?" he asked suddenly, licking his lips and glancing over his shoulder at the man beside him. "Does the word 'convergence' mean anything to you?"

In the dark, Abel couldn't make out the way Cain's eyes widened momentarily, or the way his face paled in anxious recognition.

"No," Cain lied. "Does the word 'sleep' mean anything to you?"

Abel gave a guilty, one-armed shrug. "Sorry."

"Since we're both awake," Cain began with an eye roll, moving to straddled Abel, "and since I don't foresee you leaving me in fucking peace anytime soon, might as well make the most of it." He ran his hands across Abel's chest and planted heavy kisses along his throat, nipping when it suited him.

Abel leaned into those feelings, closing his eyes when Cain began to suck on the hollow of his throat. His thoughts still lingered on the markings – the warning? – he had seen in his nightmares, but as touches turned to caresses and sighs turned to moans, he let himself fall into the physical bliss that Cain was offering. It was only a dream, after all.

And Cain, who growled and kneaded and thrust with passion and familiarity, told himself that there was nothing to worry about; that the frantic whisper of convergence hadn't been warring with his own dreams; that the times he had woken up to crashing waves of adrenaline after running for his life, always running, seeking, fleeing, never escaping those snapping, blade-like tendons and flayed limbs, slipping on blood, smelling the sharp clot of death, choking on the stench of swollen bodies and maimed friends, choking until you realized that oxygen was running out, that the breathing on your neck only foreshadowed teeth, jaws, elongated fangs; ripping, clawing, shredding, shrieking-

Cain told himself it couldn't be real.

Because how could it?

It was just stress.

Everything was fine.