You could say it was quick wits and a malleable plan that got us to this point. As well as determination. And perhaps luck, most of all.

For starters, there was no way to know, for certain, that Shiloh's Jacktech would immobilize Daimon. It was more of a confident hypothesis from Cade. A necessary risk. An important component of our hastily constructed plan. And it appears to have paid off.

Daimon stands at an awkward angle, stuck in place, twitching slightly. But the convulsions are becoming more and more frenzied. He's trying to break free. There's a blue, buzzing, electric glow at the connection point of the Jacktech port. Little yellow sparks start to jump out, off the end of the cable. It's only been a second, maybe a second and half, and time is already running out.

"Cade!" I yell, tensing, ready to hold Daimon still if I have to.

Mechanical vibrations overhead. The arm of the Cargo Bay's giant crane, extending, with the massive hook swaying underneath.

The end of the crane comes to a stop. I stare up toward the bobbing hook, waiting. It revolves, dangling, in a slowly diminishing circle. Smaller. Smaller.

The hangar echoes with the mechanical sound of Cade hitting the release. The crane drops.

Falls.

C'mon, c'mon-

BZZZT.

With a spark, the end of the cable ejects from the port, looking burnt and charred. I can feel Daimon push against me, trying to get free.

With a roar, I pull my impaled arm and shoulder back, freeing it from the blade, ignoring the fresh onslaught of pain. As soon as my arm is free, I jump back, away from Daimon.

Impact.

The crane's massive hook slams into Daimon at the neck and shoulder. Crushing him into the floor. Pressing down on his shoulder, and across his entire torso, trapping him. Crumpling his legs at a folded angle underneath him.

His sword goes flying, sliding across the floor.

I scramble for it with my good arm, grabbing it by the hilt.

Daimon points his arm cannon at me, end aglow.

Before he can let off the shot, I swipe up with the sword. The blade cuts right through the elbow joint with surprising ease, marring the air with the smells of burnt metal and electronics. The cannon falls to the floor, smoke issuing from the severed elbow.

Daimon cries out. It's the first indication of humanity, of genuine personhood, beneath the murderous, diabolical facade. But there's nothing disarming about that, for me. For some reason, it's just more fuel for my fury. There's a gratification to seeing the metal demon bleed that makes me grit my teeth.

I smoothly transition from one swipe into the next, cleaving his other arm, just above the elbow. It's the only way to neutralize him, short of ending his life. The second heavy limb hits the floor, rolling and smoking.

The screams transition, turning to frantic, panting gasps. He's reeling himself in, getting back some control.

I kneel down, grab his mask by the corner, and yank it free, snapping the material in a couple of places.

As soon as the mask is off, that burn mark manifests on his cheek, traveling, widening, leaving thin trails of smoke with its passage. His expression is contorted, snarling. His pupils are narrow, glinting pits.

I hold the sword up toward his neck. "Call off the ship."

He spits. Some spots of the spittle land on the glowing edge of the glade, sizzling and evaporating.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"You'd rather die?" I say.

"I'm not going to die," he says. "I'm not going to rescind the ship's orders. And you're not going to kill me."

He's right. I don't have it in me to end his life. Especially since he might have answers I need. And killing him wouldn't make a difference, anyway.

I pull back, as if to make a swipe toward his face.

He doesn't even flinch. If anything, there's a triumphant gleam in his eyes. Even if I were to torture and kill him, he wouldn't give in. Just to show me.

...God....dammit...

I pull the sword back. Drop it. Get to my feet.

I initiate Blast Protocol and begin charging, aiming up at the ceiling of the hangar.

In my periphery, I can see Shiloh rushing toward me.

"Silas!" Her voice muffled just a little bit by the oxygen mask. "What are you-"

I let off the shot.

It hits the ceiling. Explodes.

I squint against the shower of concrete and grey dust.

"Silas!" Shiloh shouts. "Wait! Don't-"

I run. Jump. Onto one of the shipping containers, metal feet pounding and thumping with each footfall. I jump again, to higher ground, where a row of containers is stacked three-high. From there, I jump again, boosting off the roof of the crane machine. I leap through the hole in the ceiling.

As soon as I'm out in the open air, the wind pushes hard against me, tearing at my clothes, making my hair rage about my head and face.

The sun is low. A dim, orange half-ball on the horizon.

I land, skidding on a flat stretch of rock. It's just a mountainous, craggy ridge, up here, with no evidence of the bunker itself, except for the hole I've made in it.

I scan the horizon. Searching.

Please don't let me be too late.

Please...

It was my idea. That's the thing that keeps echoing in my head, over and over again. I was the one who initially suggested that if anyone could get out now, they should. Because I had a feeling this fight could get out of hand, and I didn't...want...anyone...

Focus.

But how can I ignore the truth? I didn't want to be responsible for the deaths of these people. And yet, somehow...

There.

I see the ship, first. Like a great black bird, off in the distance.

And then I see the rest of it. The debris. The thick, black clouds of smoke. Distant, but discernible. Unmistakable.

The ship itself hovers idly, in some kind of holding position. Because it has no orders. Not anymore. It already did what it was supposed to.

I was too late.

"Silas!" I can hear Cade yelling behind me, below. "Don't go doing anything yet, just-"

But I'm already gone.

It takes mere seconds to descend the mountain, jumping, landing, splitting boulders underneath my feet.

I hit the dunes. Running. Quickly accelerating to what must be my full speed, at least in this environment, across these smooth ridges and slopes. Kicking up a constant spray of sand behind me.

I have to believe that there's still something I can do. That perhaps there are still survivors. And if I just move fast enough, if I'm just strong enough...

The ship. It's on the move. Maybe because it's detected me as a threat. Maybe because Daimon is still controlling it remotely.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

A couple of red circles pop up in my vision, with a notification having to do with a 'missile detection' system. A second or two later, I can see the actual missiles themselves, as well as the fiery trails of smoke in their wake. They have a lock on me.

I bring up my arm cannon, firing off one blast after another as I run. Little yellow balls of energy, zipping at great speed. The missiles arc together, curving, trying to avoid the shots. I feel like I'm in a WWII dogfight, trying to hit another plane out of the air.

I hit one of the missiles, exploding it. Meanwhile, the black ship is gaining, almost closer to me than the remaining missile is. The ship open fires with its guns, cutting twin trails of gunfire across the sand toward me.

I start charging a Blast, still running.

Another notification. In big, red letters, with an arrow pointing off to my side, toward the remaining live missile. Accompanying this is a loud, repetitive beeping sound, blaring in my head, letting me know the missile is on top of me.

I make a flying leap at the last second.

The missile explodes behind and underneath me, rocking me forward and up, with an intense blast of heat and kinetic force.

I aim my Blast shot down and back, firing it, giving myself even more thrust, like a rocket-jump.

I charge up another Blast, flying forward, with the ship directly ahead of me.

Everything's happened so fast. The ship is still realigning its guns, now that I've managed to bring myself to its level so quickly.

I'm charging. Charging. Big, radial glares of light fan from the end of my cannon, like a cross.

The black ship pivots, rotating sideways so it won't crash directly into me. It swerves, exposing its underside as it passes.

In that split second, when it's right there, practically on top of me, I aim for one of the rear engines. And fire.

What ensues is a blistering sound wave, like a sonic boom. A flashy, fiery explosion.

The black ship splits apart, spinning on its axis—a chaotic fireball in a complete dive.

And then there's me. Falling. Washed over with a wave of heat that won't go away. Because the heat, the flames from the explosion, have caused the very metal of my body to catch fire.

All kinds of alerts and alarms are going off inside my vision and head. But none of it matters. I'm limp. Lifeless. Adrift.

When I hit the sand, so hard that I sink into it, I don't feel the crushing impact. I can't feel anything at all.