"The auto-brain," Yaza hissed, collapsing to her knees. "Marco. It's compromised. Compromised."

"Explain," Pierrot said, returning his pistol to it's holster. "How is it compromised?"

Yaza shook her head, vaguely -- delirious from stress and blood loss. "Langston said. Called me here -- direct channel, not using the…"

"Not using the new communication system," Pierrot nodded. "So the auto-brain couldn't listen in, I take it?"

Yaza twitched her head in what could have been a nod. "He said he'd looked -- said he'd been suspicious because of the delay -- the -- Marco taking too long to respond. He wasn't sure why, but… he was certain someone had tampered with it."

The Widow glanced down at Langston's body, splayed out on the floor -- the puddle of blood like a halo around his head. "And what happened here?" she asked.

Yaza was in no fit state to question why Ambassador Dalcina was here, asking such questions. Instead, she obediently responded: "I don't know, he was -- he was telling me this, and -- just like that, he was cut open, like he was -- like he was being mauled by something we couldn't see, me too -- I retreated into the storage locker, but he -- dead too quickly, got him in the heart, nothing I could -- nothing I could…"

"That's enough," Pierrot said sternly -- The Prince had not detected any lies. He put his script to his mouth to call for a medic, then hesitated.

If Marco was compromised, would it attempt to interfere? Block the communication, or even attempt to finish them off by interfering with the air or gravity? No. If that was the case, it would have done so originally, rather than have this invisible third party launch an attack.

Besides, he could hardly leave Yaza here while he went to find a medic on foot. It was inefficient, and there was much work to be done. He cleared his throat and spoke into the script:

"Marco," he declared, making sure no traces of suspicion entered his tone. "Priority order: order a medic to the office of Overman Langston immediately."

And then there was the delay Yaza had spoke of, nearly ten seconds of waiting when there should have been two at most. "Order received," Marco said, voice deceptively helpful. "Deploying requested personnel. Will there be anything else?"

"That's quite alright."

The script beeped, and the communication ended. Almost instantly, Pierrot turned to the Widow: "We'll proceed to the physical auto-brain and assess the situation," he said. "If necessary, we'll shut it down."

The Widow raised an eyebrow, nodding down at Yaza's prone form. The woman seemed to have returned to blissful unconsciousness. "You'll just leave her there?"

"Taking her with us isn't practical, nor is waiting here for the medic. The best course of action is to disable Marco, if it's truly been compromised. Is that an issue? I was led to believe you were more cold-hearted than this."

"Oh, I am," the Widow smiled. "I simply forget how disgusting it is to meet somebody like me."

For a moment, Pierrot just stood there, face impassive -- as if trying in vain to offer some rebuttal to her assessment. None came, however, and he simply turned away, marching out of the open door. A second later, the Widow followed.

"If this auto-brain truly is compromised," the Widow went on as they stepped into the hallway. "How do you expect to disable it? Surely the thing can defend itself."

"It's smart enough to take orders from the wrong people," Pierrot explained. "But not enough to improvise. It does as it's told -- it doesn't plan independently. So long as the auto-brain's new master doesn't become suspicious of me, I should be able to deal with Marco." He sighed. "Of course, there's a slight problem with that."

"And that is?"

"Them," Pierrot nodded forward -- the Widow followed his gaze, ice-claws already forming on the tips of her fingers.

At the end of the hallway, framing the entrance to the elevator, were two cloaked figures -- clad in red, with cyclopean masks staring straight at Pierrot and the Widow. Black braids of hair brushed against the floor behind them.

"I'm assuming you're not part of my crew," Pierrot called out, hand on his pistol. "I wouldn't allow my Undermen to be caught dead looking like such clowns."

The Widow had to admit -- whoever these two were, they were impressive. Even as they stood there, they had almost completely erased their presence. She could feel her gaze sliding over them as though they were just part of the scenery -- twin statues in slightly bad taste. She could hardly even see them breathing.

The Vantablack days were behind her now, but in her prime she'd have probably offered people like these a job.

The first of the two masked figures spoke -- their voice soft, feminine. "A clown, you say? How unkind for a man to bray."

The second continued -- their voice almost identical, maybe just a tad higher-pitched. "Yes, how truly sad. Perhaps you should calm down just a tad?"

Scratch that. These two had gimmicks. The Widow couldn't abide gimmicks. Give her a boring man with a gun any day rather than something like these two -- an exciting headache.

If Pierrot was intimidated by the two, it didn't show. He just glared down the hall. "Can I assume you two are responsible for killing my subordinate?"

The first tittered. "Assume, assume, you want to know?"

The second echoed that laughter. "To that question our answer is -- no."

Pierrot raised a single eyebrow. "If you're lying, I'll know -- as soon as I rip those masks off you and look you in the eyes."

The laughter intensified. "How frightening, how frightening, oh dear sister!" the first cackled.

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The second continued: "How frightening, how frightening, this senile mister!"

Pierrot turned his head back, just slightly, to regard the Widow. "Ambassador," he said, voice low. "I expect for you to show your worth. I'd like one of them alive, if you please."

The Widow couldn't much say she appreciated being ordered around by a UniteFleet boor, but she couldn't deny she was itching for action. The body did not forget the ecstasy of battle so easily. Her cane clicking against the ground, she stepped forward, keeping both of the figures in her sight.

"I am called the Widow," she said aloud, voice echoing down the hallway. "I dislike killing people I don't know. Who are you?"

The bodies of the figures tensed slightly, just slightly -- doubtful anyone but the Widow would have noticed them getting ready to move.

"Widow will meet widower," the first hissed. "How sad a finale."

"We are the siblings Nox," the second growled. "We'll add your death to our tally!"

And with that -- the Widow vaguely wondered how long it took to come up with such awful rhymes -- the siblings Nox kicked off the ground, rushing towards the Widow with frankly horrifying speed, limbs moving so fast they seemed more like insects than people. As they approached, the Widow released her grip on her cane, and the moment the handle struck the ground --

-- the room was plunged into utter winter.

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

"Never thought I'd be glad to see this thing," muttered Dragan, looking up at the Slipstream.

The sleek, luxurious star-yacht didn't seem to suit its surroundings -- the ostentatious bodywork and smooth aesthetic a stark contrast against the functional, practical Unite Regent. Heavy docking clamps were secured on each side of the ship, magnetic seals holding the vessel in place.

If they tried to take off with those attached, the ship would rip itself apart before they even got off the ground.

Dragan jabbed Werner in the back with a demanding finger. "Hey. How do we unlock this?"

Werner, hands still tied behind his back, glared at Dragan over his shoulder. He growled: "You won't get away with this, you know."

"Cool -- not what I asked, though."

Dragan turned his gaze to Lucia, who was staring frightened down at the ground, Bruno stood dutifully behind her. He felt a little sorry for her, he had to admit -- mainly because she didn't talk as much as Werner. "Hey," he called out in her direction, voice as stern as he could make it. "Unlocking the ship. How?"

Lucia's gaze lifted shakily to regard Dragan -- ignoring what Werner probably thought was the subtle shaking of his head. "I…"

"Don't tell him!" Werner yelled. "You made a pledge to UniteFleet, right? You're a good person -- don't let them intimidate you! You can't just let these guys make their getaway after what they've done!"

Dragan suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He'd expected some resistance from Werner -- it was pretty much the extent of his personality, as far as Dragan was concerned -- but not this kind of cringeworthy protagonist speech. He wondered if Werner heard inspiring music in the background as he spewed out that drivel.

"How?" Dragan repeated, eyes cold, ignoring the word vomit Werner had just released.

"I…" Lucia looked away. "I won't say… sorry…"

That kind of heroic resistance was kind of undercut when you apologized for it right after, but whatever. Dragan had been watching. He understood how to operate machines like these people.

"Tell me," Dragan said quietly. "Or I kill him."

It was a lie, of course -- Dragan wasn't nearly that heartless -- but in cases like these, and against people like Lucia, false threats worked just as easily as real ones. This was the easiest way to get what he wanted: if she called his bluff, which she wouldn't, he could just find another solution.

Lucia did not disappoint. Squeezing her eyes shut to avoid Werner's gaze, she blurted out: "I-It needs biometrics and a password from an impound technician. Like… like me or Danny."

Dragan smiled. "Oh, really? And where would I go to do that?"

Eyes still closed, Lucia jerked her head in the direction of an observation platform far above. Indeed, Dragan could see consoles and monitors lining the room inside if he squinted. If there was a place to operate this machinery, that would be it.

"Thanks," Dragan said, with genuine gratitude in his voice. "Bruno -- take this guy and unlock the clamps. I'll watch the ship."

Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Seems like one of us has the tougher job here."

"Yeah," Dragan said. "I'm having to watch the ship without my strong friend Bruno. You should probably hurry back once you're done."

The slightest smirk rose to Bruno's lips, but seriousness remained in his gaze. "Still haven't seen any sign of Skipper or Ruth."

"We won't leave without them -- but we need to be ready to go the second they get here."

For a moment, Bruno considered it -- then he nodded, pulling Werner along with him as he made his way towards the lifts. Werner glared, accusatory, at Lucia as he was dragged away.

And then it was just the two of them.

"I was telling the truth before, you know," Dragan sighed, more to fill the silence than anything else. "We really don't have anything to do with this. We're just trying to get out of the line of fire, you know?"

Lucia nodded quietly. "I know."

He raised an eyebrow. "What about your buddy, then? He seems pretty certain we're involved."

"When he gets an idea in his head," Lucia shrugged as she mumbled. "It -- it stays there. And you badmouthing the Captain didn't help, either, I guess."

Dragan snorted. "Badmouthing the Captain? That's enough to put me on his shitlist for life?"

Lucia looked up at him, and Dragan was almost forced to step back from the surprising firmness in her gaze. "Danny's from Upo. Do you know Upo?"

He shook his head.

Lucia squeezed her fists tight. "It was a dying world," she said. "Solar storms burning more and more of the surface every time they struck -- but nobody was willing to help, because the storms would have damaged their own ships. So the people of Upo had to just -- had to just sit there and wait to die. Like -- like they were nothing."

Dragan blinked. "What happened?" he asked, already having a vague idea.

"Captain Jaime Pierrot happened," she sniffed. "He drove the evacuation fleet straight through hell and rescued as many people as he could. He -- he didn't care that it was impossible. He just did the right thing."

Dragan bit his lip. "That's… commendable." It was irksome that he couldn't think of an ulterior motive for that altruism, or a way for it to fit in with Dragan's preconceptions of the Captain.

"So yeah," Lucia finished, voice turning raspy as her bravery finally ran dry. "Captain Pierrot saved his life, my life, and the lives of every person we knew. Badmouthing the Captain does put you on his shitlist -- mine too."

A kind of sudden self-awareness struck Dragan, like when you realized you were in the middle of a dream and everything suddenly seemed so much more solid. What was he doing? Pierrot had struck him the wrong way, and now he had some kind of vendetta against him? That wasn't right. He was petty, sure, but not this petty.

Something wasn't right. He was tempted to think Pierrot was behind it, but was even that a result of whatever this strangeness was? Could he trust his own feelings, his own thoughts, where Pierrot was involved?

At the very least, though, he had to admit he'd been a total dick. Dragan opened his mouth to offer some apology, some recompense, some verbal olive branch --

-- but he never got the chance.

There was a sudden flash of red light, the scent of smoke, and the thump of Lucia falling to her knees.

She was dead before she hit the floor.