Niles hacked up blood as she crawled out of the vent, yellow gas spilling out from behind her. She landed in the hallway with a wet thump -- she didn't have the strength left to do anything but crawl, and even what she was doing now couldn't really be called crawling. It was more dragging herself along by her stomach. Like a snail. A sickly, delirious laugh pushed its way out of her throat, an afterbirth of blood and meat following it.

What had happened? She didn't even understand. Somehow, Roash had lost. The person who had been with Hadrien had killed him. It had been hard to see through the walls, but it had been some kind of sneak attack, surely. Irrelevant at this point though. And then the gas had started flooding in.

She'd hoped that once she got out of the vents, she'd have escaped the gas, but that didn't seem to be the case. It flowed freely out from the vent opening, slowly filling the hallway. Before long it would be completely impossible for anyone on the ship to breathe.

In the distance she could hear strangled screaming. The crew of the Regent had encountered their latest punishment as well, then. Niles tried to resume her crawling, to put more distance between herself and the vent, but all she managed was a violent shudder of her body.

She had to do something. She had to do something, but it was so hard to think, like the gas was inside her head, too, fog choking her brain. Blood dribbled from her half-open mouth.

Was she going to die here, like this, flopping on the floor like an air-drowned fish? That didn't seem fair. That didn't seem fair at all. She hadn't even done anything with her life yet -- she hadn't even had the chance.

Her vision, previously blurry, grew sharper for a moment, and Niles noticed a pair of boots in front of her. Someone had come. Someone had come to save her. With all the strength she could muster, Niles glanced upwards at her saviour's face.

For a moment, Niles thought that the person looking down at her was Daphne, the Cogitant hopeful who she'd originally been allied with -- but that notion was obviously ridiculous. Daphne would never come to save her. There would be nothing in it for her. It couldn't possibly be Daphne, then, this person looking down at her with such cold eyes.

As her vision grew blurry, so did her thoughts, associations between ideas becoming loose and indistinct. A sickly smile spread across Niles' face as she finally realized who this person must be.

"Mama," she choked out. It made sense. She didn't know what time it was aboard the Regent, but if she was feeling tired it surely must have been getting close to her bedtime. Mama had come to tuck her in and read her a story - tales of Supremacy heroes, like Nigen Rush or Achilles Esmeralda.

Yes, yes, that made sense, that was clearly it! Still smiling, blood pouring from her mouth, Niles reached up with a flailing hand, grasping for her mother's far-away face.

Slowly, Mama knelt down, moving her head out of the way of Niles' grasping hand. Then, she reached out and plucked the glasses from Niles' face, placing the Ether Lens over her own eyes instead. That only made sense, though -- Niles could hardly go to sleep wearing her glasses. It was only natural for Mama to take them like that.

What wasn't natural was for Mama to turn around and begin walking away. Mama wouldn't do that. Everyone else would, but not her.

Niles reached out for her fading figure as her vision grew dark, shadows creeping in to cover her eyes.

"Mama," she spluttered, her mouth curiously warm. "Ma...ma…"

In the end, Viv Niles died choking on her last words.

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"Sir," reported one of the bridge crew, turning away from his console to salute the Instructor. "One of the cutter pods is beginning the return journey. Shall we prepare to receive them?"

The Instructor allowed himself to smile slightly. He hadn't expected this batch of hopefuls to be up to much, but it seemed one of them had completed their mission earlier than he'd expected. Probably the Nox twins, or perhaps that Daphne girl.

That would be pleasant, if so: he'd hoped he wouldn't have to kill them.

The Instructor nodded to the white-uniformed crewmember. "Make it so. We must welcome our new Special Officer."

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Dragan did his best to ignore the stinging in his eyes as he made his way down the hallway, clinging to the wall for support.

He'd had no gas mask, no rebreather -- so when the gas had flooded into the training room, the only thing he'd had access to was his mind, his experiences. Not long ago he'd infused his vocal cords with Aether to increase the volume of his scream. Infusing his lungs to temporarily boost their capacity followed the same principle.

Still, it hasn't been easy -- he only had the one gargantuan breath he'd taken in to get him back to the Slipstream, and he knew that it wouldn't last for long. It had taken everything he'd had to apply the Panacea to his stomach wound without crying out, without releasing that oxygen, but he'd managed it.

He couldn't stop moving. If he stopped moving, he knew he wouldn't start again. Dragan did his best not to look down at the corpses as he continued his journey.

The crew of the Regent had certainly had a bad day of it. They'd been shot, blown up and now choked by poison gas. Dragan wondered how many of them were still alive -- he hadn't seen anyone else in quite a while now.

"You know," his younger double said, walking alongside him, hands clasped behind his back. "This isn't your greatest plan ever."

That's not helpful.

"If I'm not being helpful, it's because you're not having any good ideas. Don't blame me. Seriously, though, holding your breath and walking to the exit? You don't have nearly enough air to make it there -- and you know it."

Nobody asked you.

The spectre raised an eyebrow. "I have a name, remember? We decided on it last time: Dragon Hadrien."

Dragan shook his head. Too confusing.

"What?" the hallucination's brow creased in annoyance. "You're just gonna rename me like I'm some kind of digital pet?"

Yeah. You're the Archivist now -- since you're from my Archive.

"Cute," the Archivist spat in a tone that suggested it was anything but. "But more importantly, how are you going to get out of this one?"

Keep walking. Maybe I'll find another solution along the way -- a spare rebreather or something. But if I stop walking, I'll die.

Dragan stumbled, nearly tripping over the corpse of an Underman gripping his throat, but he kept his balance and managed to keep going.

"That's it?" The Archivist laughed, stepping on the Underman's corpse as he followed. "That's your plan? Hope you get lucky?"

Never said there was a plan. Don't have time to come up with one. Just gotta… just gotta keep moving.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Dragan's head was growing light, and the sardonic voice of the Archivist seemed to be coming from very far away. Maybe if he just took a breath of fresh air, he'd feel better...

"Hey!" the Archivist barked, snapping his fingers in front of Dragan's face to jolt him back to consciousness. "Don't you dare die in my presence! Do you have any idea how much of an eyesore that would be?!"

Right, Dragan nodded. Gotta keep moving.

"No," the Archivist snapped. "It's not 'gotta keep moving'. It's 'I gotta come up with a plan right fucking now or I'm gonna die'. You can't just expect to get lucky and -- oh."

What is it?

Despite everything he'd been thinking, Dragan paused for a moment. Had he heard something? The Archivist wasn't an actual individual, after all -- he was just an anthropomorphized representation of one of Dragan's thought processes.

Therefore, if the Archivist had noticed something, it was only because Dragan had noticed something.

Boots approaching from behind him, for example.

Dragan whirled around, ready to fight -- he wasn't going down quietly -- only to be stopped as a metallic hand firmly planted a rebreather down on his mouth. Sweet, sweet fresh air flooded into Dragan's mouth as he opened it in surprise, and the fog that had been enveloping his thoughts began to clear.

Skipper grinned down at him, his own face bare. "I gotcha, kiddo," he panted. "I gotcha."

The Archivist chuckled bitterly. "Guess you're luckier than I thought."

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The armoured Supremacy officers -- the Instructor's personal guard -- stood at attention in two rows as the cutter pod floated in, ready to receive it's occupant with all the honours that could be put together on such short notice.

The Instructor himself stood at the far end of the procession, hands clasped behind his back as he took in the sight of the cutter pod. He glanced up at his aide. "Do we have an ID on which pod made it back?"

"Yes, sir," his aide replied quietly. "The Halacourt girl -- Daphne Halacourt."

The Instructor nodded to himself. A respectable ending to this exercise -- Cogitants were always useful, and Daphne Halacourt had the proper mindset to achieve further strength. It saddened him that he'd lost hopefuls as promising as the Nox twins, but the fact that they hadn't succeeded simply meant they hadn't been fit for the position.

That was the way of the Supremacy, after all.

One of the engineers cried out from their console. "Pod opening!"

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"What are you doing?!" Dragan coughed from behind his rebreather as Skipper carried him through the hallways on his back.. "You haven't got a mask. Idiot. Fucking idiot…"

"I've got my own tricks, kiddo," Skipper grinned -- but the expression was strained. "Constant Heartbeat Landmine around my mouth keeps pushing the gas away. It's a, uh, it's a temp fix -- but it's going pretty good so far."

He was lying; Dragan could tell. Skipper was putting on a brave face, but there was an undeniable quivering to his legs as he carried Dragan onwards. He wasn't breathing in all the gas, to be sure, but some was still making it through his countermeasure.

And it was adding up.

"Put me down," mumbled Dragan, knowing full well his own legs wouldn't be able to carry him any further. "I'll walk. Don't… don't strain yourself."

Skipper chuckled. "Mr. Hadrien, you're losing your touch. I almost caught the concern there."

Dragan smiled softly, closing his eyes. "Don't get used to it."

Suddenly, Skipper stopped -- the sudden halt jerking Dragan back into consciousness. His eyes snapped open, and he cried out in annoyance as his face bumped into the back of Skipper's head.

"Hey!" he yelled, sentimentality instantly forgotten. "Watch it!"

Skipper didn't reply -- he just stared forward, face grimmer than Dragan had ever seen it. His eyes narrowed as he growled: "What are you doing here?"

Blinking to clear the cobwebs in his mind, Dragan looked up to follow Skipper's gaze. At the other end of the hallway, silhouetted by the swirling yellow gas, stood an old woman with a cane. A rebreather lay over her mouth, and slung over her shoulder was some kind of humanoid ice sculpture.

Even with everything Dragan had witnessed today, it was still a bizarre sight.

"Invited, as I imagined you were. It's been a long time, Skipper," the old woman said, looking him up and down. "You've gotten tall."

Skipper swallowed. "I'd appreciate it if you moved aside, yeah?" he said, voice cold. "I'm kind of in a hurry here."

The woman smiled. "You despise me, don't you, boy?" Strangely enough, she sounded somewhat pleased about the fact.

Dragan spoke up, voice halting -- the day had taken its toll. "Who is that?" he whispered to Skipper. "Someone you know?"

"She's nobody," Skipper glared. "Forget about her."

The woman answered where Skipper would not. "I am called the Widow, little one."

She stepped forward, cane tapping against the ground as she walked. As the grey-haired, wrinkled old woman came into proper view, Skipper took a reflexive step back. This was something Dragan had never before seen in the idiot -- actual caution.

"There's no reason for you to be frightened of me, boy," the Widow said, frowning. "We were comrades." She glanced towards Dragan. "You could say I taught this man everything he knows."

"Ignore her, Dragan," Skipper growled -- and he began moving forwards to walk past her. She made no move to stop him, simply watching sadly as he passed.

"How long has it been now, boy?" she called out after him.

That seemed to be the final straw, the final tiny cut that snapped the rope. Skipper whirled around, nearly sending Dragan flying off his back with the movement, and screamed: "Not long enough!"

The smile faded from the Widow's face. "You despise me so much? I saved you, boy. I gave you everything."

"You made me your pet, you damn witch," Skipper spat, with vehemence Dragan doubted he would ever see from him again. "Had me do the dirty work for your Vantablack Squad while you sat back and relaxed. Real nice of you, yeah? Yeah?!"

Dragan found himself keeping as quiet as possible as he clung to Skipper's back, as if any irritation would turn the man's anger towards him instead. It was like clinging to the edge of an active volcano.

The old woman glanced away. "I saved you," she repeated, quieter. "When I found you, you couldn't even talk. Barely knew how to walk. I gave that back to you."

This was an intrusion. Dragan shouldn't have been there. Every cell in his body was screaming that at him -- this was a dangerous place to be right now.

"You gave that back to me?" Skipper chuckled, his laughter hollow. "You say you saved me? There are hospitals to help people in those situations. There are -- there are solutions that don't involve carting the kid around as your own personal attack dog, yeah? Did you think of those?"

"I --"

"Course you did!" Skipper interrupted, jabbing an accusing finger towards her. "But that wasn't convenient for you, was it?! You'd prefer--"

"Skipper," Dragan wheezed. "We need to go--"

That was the worst possible thing he could have done in the situation.

"Shut the fuck up!" Skipper screamed, head whirling around to face Dragan -- his pupils were dilated to pinpricks of fury, and his teeth were bared like the fangs of a wild beast. As he realized what he'd said, though, recognized the resultant terror on Dragan's face, his expression softened. "Oh, I, uh -- kiddo, I'm sorry, I'm real sorry."

Dragan mutely nodded. He'd felt death in that shout, seen it in Skipper's eyes. For a moment, just there, he'd been face to face with a lethal enemy.

Skipper took a deep breath, and then released it -- some of the tension draining from his body. Not all of it, not even close, but enough to restore some normalcy to his tone.

"He's right," he said, to both himself and the Widow. "We need to go -- right now. I'm going to turn around and leave."

"I see," the Widow muttered.

Skipper's eyes flicked to regard her. "I ever see you again," he promised. "I'll kill you. Yeah?"

And with that, he turned and began leaving, pausing for only a moment at the door to the hangar. For a second, it seemed as if he'd turn back around, to continue his argument or maybe even try for reconciliation.

It was only a moment, though, and it passed quickly. Skipper walked through the door, Dragan on his back, and they faded into the yellow fog.

----------------------------------------

The doors to the cutter pod opened, and the Instructor's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as it's occupant stepped out.

Fifty plasma rifles, one for each Supremacy soldier in attendance, raised to point at the person who'd appeared before them. The troops cast more than a few nervous glances toward the Instructor -- asking for permission to fire, or for further orders.

The Instructor, for his part, stepped forward to greet their unexpected guest. His hands slid into his pockets, smoothly putting on the knuckle-dusters that had gotten him to his current rank.

"That vessel doesn't belong to you," the Instructor said, voice steady, eyes glaring.

Jaime Pierrot only smiled slightly as he took a step out of the pod, landing on the hangar floor with a thunk. His eyes glanced around the room -- taking in the layout, the troops, the weapons, the technology -- before settling onto the Instructor.

"Good evening to you," he said pleasantly. "I'd like to challenge you to a duel."