PARALLAX

Relief is too mild a word for what Parallax feels, right now.

"Well," she says, seated in front of the holotable, watching the footage of the three figures marching up and over the wave of a sandy dune. "Looks like they're not quite as resourceful as you thought."

Artifice's hologram transmission is silent. Contemplating.

"We already know what happened with the caravan," Parallax offers.

"It's one of the few things we do know," Artifice says, bitterly. "Daimon wasn't exactly thorough with his documentation."

"Several of their vehicles were destroyed by Daimon's ship. Perhaps all of them. Looks like they had no option but to traverse the desert on foot."

"It would seem so."

"Which means we don't need to mobilize the Armada, or the Corsairs. If we move now, we can catch them out in the open. No fuss, no muss."

"It would appear," Artifice says distantly, examining the footage on her end.

"You seem disappointed."

Because of course you are. You've lost your pretense to have me killed, quickly and efficiently, during the raid. And you always did prefer the most efficient path, didn't you?

Paradoxically, she also craves a good challenge. There's no challenge here, to be seen. Just two under-equipped humans and one injured, baby Blast Model. That, and...

"Looks they have Razor," Parallax says, casually broaching the subject.

"Yep," Artifice says. She makes a motion with her hands, and the footage zooms in on the bound, prone figure trailing behind the Blast Model, by a length of rope.

It’s taking considerable effort for Parallax to mask her emotions. Outwardly, she is tense, focused. Mildly interested in the findings.

Inside, she is ecstatic.

She won’t be helping plan out some meticulous attack strategy. She won’t be dealing with the Corsairs. Given Artifice was likely planning to have Parallax killed under her command, the odds of surviving the operation have now gone up considerably. And on top of all that, Razor is alive.

He has to be. Even if the humans were planning to junk him for parts, they wouldn’t be bothering to lug him across the desert if he wasn’t still functional. They captured him, the same way they captured Daimon.

He’s alive!

"He was still active in the field?” Parallax says, maintaining her casual tone. “But why didn't he report in?"

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"Because he was a bad dog," Artifice says. "And he wasn't quite ready to slink back to the doghouse yet, with his tail between his legs."

"He wanted to fix it, so he could avoid punishment."

Artifice clicks her tongue between her teeth. "And look how that went."

"He had the right idea at least, ambushing them on the road. I doubt things would have gone well if he'd attacked the bunker head-on. He's strong, but he's not 'Daimon' strong. Not to mention, if he did break into the bunker, how was he to know what kind of defensive measures would be waiting for him?"

"Maybe," Artifice admits, frowning thoughtfully. "And yet, he lost anyway. This Blast Model must be made of stronger stuff than I anticipated. He's injured, as you can see, and those singe-marks don't look like Razor's doing."

Oh no you don't. You're not going to bring the Corsairs back into this.

"But no match for the two of us, surely," Parallax says. "I could leave now and have him in my cargo hold before the day's up."

And have Razor safe in the cabin of her ship. The longer this goes on, and the more planning and preparation involved, the greater the chance something will happen.

Now that she knows Razor still lives, she needs to act. Before it’s too late.

Artifice tilts her head curiously, regarding her. "Are you saying you don't want my help?"

"I'm saying if we act now, we'll have the situation well in hand. If we wait, and the humans reach the facility, then of course we'll need a large-scale military operation to breach it. And that seems like a waste of time and resources, doesn't it? Especially when we're so close to the end. We're going to need every able machine we have in the final hours."

Silence.

Artifice's expression is impassive. Unreadable.

"That's rather strategic and long-term for you," she says, finally.

"I've been waiting for this day for a long time," Parallax says, thinking quickly.

"As have we all. Very well. I assume you're already en route. I will depart shortly. We should reconvene once we've both arrived in the Sector, to formulate a plan of attack."

She can't be serious.

"Affirmative. See you then."

Parallax ends the transmission, causing the neon blue light of the holograms to dissipate, leaving her alone, in a dim, quiet room.

The ship's engine rumbles and hums. System lights of various colors flicker within the cockpit, casting a soft, fluctuating, kaleidoscopic blur onto the roof of the cabin.

It is so close. So imminent. The moment she’s waited for all these years. She awaits it with dread. But also a deep, inconsolable yearning.

Perhaps Razor can be there, by her side. Is that too much to want? To desire love and friendship, as well as strength?

She leans back, lying length-ways on the couch. How she managed to maintain her focus and poise during the meeting, she doesn't know. It’s all leaking out of her, now. Even the initial spike of excitement at finding Razor is ebbing away. Her exhaustion is too strong.

Sounds of the ship's engine and electronic systems, the motion of its flight path; all these things are comforting to her. Familiar.

Sleep seizes her quickly--a creeping, stalking thing, leaping from the shadows to envelope her.

She dreams of a new world. One built on the shattered remnants of the old. She stands among the wreckage, with her hands cupped together, holding something. Hiding something.

Artifice is there, too. For some reason, she keeps demanding to see what Parallax is holding. Parallax refuses, begs even, until finally Artifice manages to forcefully pry the hands apart, revealing—in that strange and uncanny way that dreams have—a miniature version of Razor, cowering in Parallax’s palm.

Too fast for Parallax to react, Artifice snatches up Razor and snaps him apart in her hands.

Head from shoulders. Torso from waist. Limb from limb.

When it happens, Parallax doesn’t cry, or scream. She watches. Sadly. With regretful despondence. Her unconscious self seeming to accept that which she doesn’t want to believe when awake. That ultimately, it can’t be any other way.