The escape array was the stage of a perfectly executed massacre.

Bodies littered the floor -- Undermen, shot and sliced and crushed and broken. Their empty eyes stared, unseeing, at the ceiling above -- at the object protruding from the ceiling.

A cutter pod, doors opened, forced through the hole it had sliced in the hull. Steam still poured from its metal surface -- and as Pierrot watched, struck with horror, he could see that the section of hull surrounding it was red with incandescent heat.

As Pierrot and the Widow beheld the scene, it was impossible to deny that there were no survivors. The only other person in the room, the only other person still standing, couldn't possibly be considered a survivor.

Their face was the face of a killer, after all.

The young boy stood there, waiting for them with his hands clasped behind his back. His hair was black and stiff, like a helmet, and a malicious smirk danced across his lips as he beheld the two of them. Dark green Aether broiled around him as he cocked his head.

"Jaime Pierrot?" he asked, voice high and clear as a bell. "I figured you'd show up if I waited around here."

Pierrot stuffed down his anger, did his best not to look at his fallen crew as he glared at the intruder. "I take it you're responsible for this?"

The boy chuckled, putting one hand to his chest as he spread the other out theatrically. "But of course. It's hardly a stage if there's no show to--"

Pierrot whipped his plasma pistol out of it's holster and fired at the boy thrice, aiming for his center mass. The first shot hit true -- and the boy went flying backwards much faster than he should have, causing the other two shots to miss and hit the floor beneath him.

The boy slammed against the far wall, his little smug smile replaced by an annoyed grimace. "I was talking," he snarled. "You can't just--"

Two more shots -- slamming into each of his arms. There were twin resounding cracks, and the boy screamed out in pain as smoke poured from the burning wounds.

"You don't seem to need my help after all," the Widow said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

Pierrot ignored her, marching over to the boy's prone body and pressing his boot down hard on his stomach, holding him down in place. "Your ability to adjust your own weight isn't bad," he said. "But as long as I've got you like this, you might as well be powerless."

The boy growled, gritting his teeth. "How do you…?!"

Pierrot pressed his boot down harder, reducing the boy's attempts at questioning to choking, hacking coughs. "You'll find I know most everything. Can I assume you killed my men here?"

The boy's face twisted into a defiant sneer. "Course I did. It was easy. Weaklings like them--"

Again, Pierrot interrupted. "I see," he said emotionlessly. "I'll have to kill you once we're done here, then. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night otherwise. How many of you are there on my ship?"

"Like I'd tell you, dickhead --"

Another shot, this time to the knee -- and another scream to accompany it. Pierrot adjusted his footing slightly to prevent blood from staining his boot. "Answer the question, please."

"Seven," the boy whispered, writhing in pain. "Seven of us. We need to kill you. If we kill you, we win, I -- fuck you. Fuck you."

Pierrot ignored the insult. "Is that seven including you?"

"Fuck you!"

With a shower of dark green Aether infusing his body, the boy lunged upwards, grasping for Pierrot's leg with his least damaged arm -- intending to adjust his weight and crush him against the floor, no doubt. Pierrot simply sighed and watched --

-- as the boy's hand phased through his leg as if it wasn't even there. The boy's face, spread into a premature grin of victory, fell flat -- his eyes staring in wide disbelief.

"Huh?" he mumbled.

He never got an answer from Pierrot -- only a plasma shot through the top of his skull. As the boy's body fell smoking back to the ground, Pierrot took a deep breath and recalled the Aether he'd used to trigger the bracelets under his uniform.

The Revolutions were among the most useful Aether Armaments in his possession -- hence why he didn't go anywhere without them. When properly activated with Aether, they vibrated the molecules comprising Pierrot’s body at extremely high speeds, allowing him to pass through most matter unscathed. It wasn't perfect -- it could only be used on a single body part at a time -- but the flexibility it offered made it an essential part of Pierrot's arsenal.

Turning away from the enemy's carcass, he tapped a button on his wrist-bound script -- opening communication to Langston. "Langston," he said tersely. "This is Pierrot -- there's been an attack on the escape pods. It's no longer safe. Instead advise all crewmembers to prepare for combat. We'll take their ship, if it comes down to it."

Several seconds passed with no reply.

"Langston?"

Nothing.

Pierrot grimaced as he heard the honest whisper of The Prince, and he glanced up at the Widow, who was still standing in the entrance of the room. "Langston is dead," he said, voice grim. "I need to investigate. You'll accompany me."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Investigate? What is there to investigate? We are in battle. He was killed. There is nothing more to say."

Pierrot shook his head. "Langston wouldn't have left his office until the evacuation was organised. His office is tucked away into a civilian section of the ship -- not a strategic target. The fact that he's dead means someone went out of their way to kill him specifically. I want to know who that is and why before we proceed."

The Widow scoffed. "The fact that he is dead? How are you so confident, just from him not answering your call?"

For a moment, he considered telling her about The Prince -- it would certainly save time -- but The Prince advised against it. That way was not the golden path.

"I have experience," he said slowly. "And knowledge -- and those two things are telling me he is dead. And so we'll investigate. Understand?"

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Even though his speech ended with a question, his tone permitted no argument. The Widow glared for only a moment before relenting, following after him as he'd always known she would.

It was just like she said -- her demon was sentiment. Once you knew a person's demons, you could have them do whatever you pleased.

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"I'm sorry about this," Dragan lied as he took a step back. "But we can't have you two running off on us and leaving us stranded."

They'd bound Werner and Lucia's hands behind their backs -- using Aether-infused laces from Bruno's boots. Dragan wasn't quite sure what the process of releasing a ship from impound entailed, but he was pretty sure they'd need an impound technician to do it.

Werner glared daggers at him, visibly shaking with rage. "You won't get away with this," he promised through gritted teeth.

Lucia looked at him, anxiety dancing in her eyes. "Danny," she said quietly, beseechingly. "Don't antagonize them, okay? Let's just -- let's just stay calm?"

If Werner heard her, he made no sign of it. "You won't get away with this," he repeated.

"Listen to your friend," Bruno warned, slapping his gloved hands together as he beheld his work. "Now -- both of you march ahead of us. We're taking the long way around, following the maintenance tunnels. You shout or try and call for help, and I'll have to get violent. You don't want me to get violent."

Dragan glanced at him. "The long way around?"

"Evacuating crewmembers will be taking the shortest possible route," Bruno explained. "If we want to avoid them, we'll have to do the opposite."

That rang true as Dragan considered it -- plus, chances were that any Supremacy troops would be following the same principles when it came to their movements. Killing two birds with one stone.

Bruno's hard expression shifted to Serena's worried frown. "But what about Mr. Skipper and Miss Ruth?" she asked. Dragan noted the confusion on Werner and Lucia's faces as their captor suddenly began speaking in a falsetto, but he suppressed the smirk of amusement at their reaction.

"They'll be thinking the same thing as us," Dragan assured her. "Skipper's smart, right? He's almost as smart as me."

"Yeah," Serena nodded. "He's just a little bit smarter, right? So you think he'll have the same idea?"

Dragan swallowed his pride. "Yeah," he forced out. "I'm sure he will, Serena."

Serena grinned, bright as the sun, her earlier worry having completely evaporated. "That's great!" she cheered. "I love that!"

In front of them, Werner narrowed his eyes. "Nutcase," he muttered.

"Hey," Dragan snapped, surprising himself with his own anger as he whirled around, jabbing his finger sharply into Werner's chest. "Don't be fucking rude."

"Just leave it, Danny," Lucia whispered hurriedly -- it seemed she had the better survival instincts of the two, at any rate.

Before any more argument could bubble up, Serena drifted away -- and Bruno's harsh expression returned to their collective face.

"March," he ordered -- with more than a little offense on Serena's behalf. "Or we make you march."

It didn't get much clearer than that.

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"You're surprisingly thick, pal," Skipper commented, ducking underneath a punch that would have taken his head off. "I mean seriously, your muscles have muscles of their own. That's kinda extreme, yeah? Do you have a workout routine for this or is it just a natural thing? There's gotta be a diet at least, right? You've gotta tell me the dirt you're on. I need to look like you, pal."

As the muscleman lunged to grab him with his other hand, Skipper launched out a sneaky Heartbeat Shotgun -- and it slammed into the giant's jaw, looking for all the world as if Skipper had slugged him with an invisible fist.

"You know," Skipper continued casually, turning around to face his comrades as the Pugnant staggered back. "You're kind of a specimen too, yeah? What kind of diet are you on, uh… Mazda?"

"Mazma is Mazma," corrected Mazma, flexing his own giant arm. "And Mazma has never been a diet in his life! Ever!"

Mazma's arm was more grotesque than their attacker's -- clearly unnatural, given the placement of the muscles -- but Skipper could tell considerable strength was packed into that limb. The muscleman could punch his head off, but he got the feeling Mazma would turn him into pulp.

If he actually managed to land an attack, that was. The difference in weight between Mazma's arm and the rest of his body meant he was stumbling around the battlefield, falling over without any help from his opponent. Skipper didn't want to be mean, but this Mazma guy seemed more like a liability than an asset, no matter how swole he was.

Hell, Ruth was having to dodge him more than the person who was actually attacking them. Skipper had subtly signaled for her to stand back -- he was pretty confident he could deal with this opponent -- but Mazma's stumbling was still coming into worrying proximity.

"Why don't you, uh, just take a breather there, buddy?" Skipper said -- dodging another clumsy blow from the muscleman.

"No! Mazma is strongest guy!"

Behind Skipper, the muscleman reared back his head -- preparing to slam his skull into Skipper with devastating force.

Skipper shrugged. "If you say so," he chuckled -- and then, with lightning speed, he whirled around and grabbed the giant by the jaw, halting his movement. "Hey, buddy, I'm kinda talking here. Could you not?"

The giant tried to break free -- but some squeezing from Skipper's hand and the awful pain that came with it soon put a stop to that. The Pugnant's knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground. Still, he was resistant -- the growl of anger he let out was enough to rumble the ground they were standing on.

"You've got the same problem as this guy, yeah?" Skipper nodded in Mazma's direction. "You've got a body that doesn't match your strength. Makes you clumsy, limited, easy to predict. I'd feel sorry for ya, but you kinda tried to kill me two minutes ago, so I really don't. How about this, then?"

Skipper grinned, and the crimson light flooding the hallway made it seem almost like the grimace of a skull.

"You tell me everything I wanna know," he said. "And I'll let you live. Good deal, right?"

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

Pierrot sniffed. This sort of thing never got any easier.

Langston's body lay sprawled out in the middle of his office, what was left of his face staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. Some kind of sharp weapon had created a long, cruel gash that ran from the middle of his chest all the way up to the top of his skull, eviscerating one eye and leaving the left side of his jaw hanging free.

He was no medic, but he couldn't imagine someone living long after receiving a wound like that. Perhaps that was a mercy.

"Your thoughts?" he said to the Widow, doing his best to keep his voice steady. He endeavoured not to get too close to any of his collaborators, but that didn't make it any easier when something like this happened.

The Widow, stood in the doorway, ran her eyes over the wound. "Long knife, sharpened," she said without missing a beat. "Judging from the jagged cut, I'd say something that extends, yes? The kind of knife you can conceal on your person fairly easily. Something someone brought here with them, then."

Pierrot clicked his tongue. "An assassin slipping in while we're distracted, then."

The Widow put a hand to her chin. "But why would someone go out of their way to kill this man? Was he important enough to demand such effort?"

"Why don't you ask them yourself?"

In one smooth motion, Pierrot drew his pistol, turned on his heel and fired at the lock of the service locker opposite. The mechanism was quickly destroyed by the smoking plasmafire -- and a moment later the locker door swung outwards, it's occupant falling to the ground in front of them.

Pierrot raised an eyebrow. "Overman Yaza?" Not what he'd expected -- The Prince had revised it's advice, now telling him that the person before him wasn't the killer.

Yaza looked up, eyes bleary -- she'd seen better days, definitely. Shallow cuts covered her armoured chest, and everything above the wrist of her right hand was missing, steam rising from the stump. It wasn't a limb that had been shot off with plasma, though -- the mixture of blood and burnt tissue suggested she'd had the arm cut off, and then cauterized it herself using her own plasma pistol.

Ingenious. He couldn't help but feel a little proud.

Yaza spoke, voice croaky from pain and blood loss:

"The auto-brain," she hissed. "Marco. It's compromised. Compromised."