THOMAS "TOM" O'REILLY|| NAVIGATOR
It didn't take a lecture nor an explanation for Thomas to realize that whatever type of shit they've gotten themselves in was the type of shit that smeared on no matter how much you've cleaned it; until you went insane trying or gave up and let it go. The undulating blackness that they've left behind just swallowed the latter option. When the last members of the expedition came through the passage, O'Reilly marched along, catching a row of disturbed glances others threw back at the disappearing way they came through. He didn't turn to look behind. Whatever they've left behind was gone - for all they've known - forever. Dwelling on it was a waste of an already dwindling prowess of the group.
"What are ye lookin' at?" His voice cut through this new, unfamiliar place. "Eyes forward. Watch yer step."
He gave a courtesy glance to his hand one more time, acknowledging that nothing had changed before the scenery emerging around him invaded his perception. It was an unnatural layout made to look like it belonged as if the space replicated it from imagination to the best of its abilities. With an unreadable face, Tom took out his notebook and wrote down a few notes. With the previous hallucinatory incident still fresh in his mind, he sought out anything that would anchor his mind in the reality he found himself in.
The piercing sound of a rifle shook the eery silence of the place. Was he finally out of his damn mind? With a groan, O'Reilly marched to the front of the group, where a heated argument took place.
"You. There's something more to this, isn't there? Something you're not telling us."
Tom approached without interrupting as men on edge finally ripped into Henry. The man did not sit well with the Irish. He found no reason to intervene in his favor. Not even while questioning the time and the place chosen to tackle the topic of mistrust. Before long, his eyes drifted into the distance, landing on a shambling figure made of strings of vines and roots of trees that moved forward.
"What in the ever-lovin' hell..."
The second shot rang out, and this time, Tom welcomed it, silently relishing the moment when the bullet pierced through the abomination. Realizing those things could be injured meant he hadn't found himself in a dream where he could only run away. And, more importantly, it meant that - should the need arise - they could be killed.
He did not need additional encouragement to join in. With a swear, he reached for his gun and stood shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the men who aimed at the creature.
"Say when fella," Tom responded to Andrew's order, his aim laying calm and precise on the pile of vines that kept approaching, seemingly unbothered by the fact that they were losing precious liquid that seemed to have kept it alive.
Don't think.
Just kill.
The order to fire was given, and he shot in unison with the rest, gunning down the abomination without a second thought. When the creature hit the ground, staining the onyx black stone with its life's blood, it felt like mercy.
"Grand. Let's move ahead before it changes its feckin' mind," Thomas grumbled as he lowered his gun. A morbid curiosity over what awaits up ahead flooded his mind, having him welcome Andrew's order with an impatient huff. But before he responded, a head of red hair walked past, carrying a shaky torch in his hands. Tom rolled his eyes as he eyed the young man.
"Fin, for feck's sake, lad."
Undeterred while simultaneously looking pale with fright, the boy marched on towards the creature's body. In part out of a worry for the young fellow's safety and in part out of eagerness to see it for himself, O'Reilly stored his gun and reached for his trusted machete, following behind the botanist.
"Nice and easy, lad," the Irish encouraged.
The creature lay unmoving, absurd in appearance, and riddled with holes that oozed the thick red. With a nervous chant, the young Irish brought the flame to the corpse. Tom wrapped his hand securely around the leathery handle of the blade, ready to strike it down again.
