Admiral

I panicked. I saw Albion and the others, their lifeless faces, and I spoke. Almost more for them than for my droids—if calling them "mine" still makes sense. They barely seem to obey me anymore. Maybe they just don’t understand what I said. Truth be told, I’m not even sure myself what I just uttered: Leave? Go? Escape? Outside? Freedom? The precise meaning of their words still eludes me. Maybe it’s all of that I truly desire.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m messing up. This isn’t right. Walking back in like this, suddenly speaking their language, and having the "Bavils" obey me? Suspicious as hell. Way too bizarre. In fact, downright sketchy!

"Do not obey. React differently. Put me back with them," I mutter under my breath, making sure no one sees my lips move, nor hears a sound.

The idiot droids remain fixed, just like since I commanded them—if you can even call it that. Their blank stares locked on the cave’s wall, unmoving, like statues frozen in time. Inside the cavern, everyone stirs, sensing an opportunity. They’re starting to think this might be their chance. Shit! I’m losing them!

"Do not let us go!" I murmur just before someone calls my name—or rather, my title.

"Admiral!" I hear, spoken in a rough, strange accent.

It’s Albion. His hoarse voice cuts through the noise, freezing me in place like an idiot standing between the droids and the rancid-smelling cavern. Why did I say that? Why did I come back? My hands are clammy, my heart pounds against my ribs, and my thoughts are a tangled mess. Leia—damn that AI—has abandoned me. She’s glitching. Ignoring me outright. And here I am, playing hero for people I could’ve left to rot in their own filth without a second thought. Or… maybe not. Maybe I do care. Shit, I don’t even know anymore!

The droids—those useless hunks of metal—don’t budge an inch. Their glowing eyes remain locked forward, waiting for a command. But I have nothing coherent to give them. "Let them out"? "Keep them in"? I’ve whispered both commands like a lunatic talking to himself, and now they’re as confused as I am. Or maybe they just don’t give a damn. Maybe Leia told them to ignore me. To act as if I no longer exist. I grit my teeth. At least I hope she’s still recovering the cryopods!

Albion stares at me, eyes narrowed. He looks exhausted, but there’s something unyielding about him—a leader’s resilience, standing tall despite everything. He gave me water, words, fragments of their strange language—he kept me sane in that miserable hole, more than Leia did when speaking bullshit in my ears. And now I’m out here, thanks, ironically, to their failed escape attempt. Behind him, the others fidget, murmur, some ready to lunge. They think this is it. That the "Bavils" are frozen. That I’m their key to freedom.

And I wonder—if I let them go, I lose everything. My only connection to their world, their magic, their secrets. But if I keep them here, then what? Watch them waste away?

"Admiral, you… What. You, do?" Albion asks determined. He steps closer, wary, and I see his people lean in, ready to follow his lead.

I raise my hands, palms open—hold on, I got this—but I don’t. My mind is blank. The droids, those bastards, finally react—barely. A faint creak, a tilt of the head. But not toward me. Toward the entrance, as if sensing something unseen. Then it hits me: they’re not listening to me. They’re waiting for Leia. She’s still communicating with them. I can almost hear the radio waves buzzing. So I’m not worth maintaining contact, but the droids are?!

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"MOVE, DAMN IT!" I growl under my breath, jaw clenched, hoping the droids will pick up on something. Nothing. They remain motionless, while Albion steps closer, eyes scanning me, trying to decipher why the Bavils are frozen.

And I… I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I want to learn their magic, their world. I want Albion alive to guide me. But I also want to get out, find Leia, fix her servers, force her to tell me what’s happening with the cryopods. How many are dead? How many still survive? My people, my responsibility—it’s all slipping through my fingers while I play games with these locals.

"Amiral!" Albion shouts again, this time with anger. He’s afraid, more than I am—because he’s still trapped inside. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I should just leave. That would be pragmatic, wouldn’t it? Cruel, sure, but efficient. That’s what the Empire taught me: when everything goes to hell, you cut your losses and save what matters.

But what matters right now?

"Amiral! RUN!" a woman’s voice shrieks—it’s one of the sharp-eared ones.

I see panic in her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide, strangely so, given the cave’s dim lighting. I don’t have time to process why she’s yelling at me when a droid suddenly grabs my collar.

"Leia!" I hiss.

What the hell is she doing?!

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Albion

I thought the Amiral had done something—some kind of magic, or maybe the Bavils had suddenly turned stupid. But no. They grab him roughly by the collar, dragging him away.

I see him muttering, spitting words—probably curses, though I can’t make sense of them in his language.

Lyrel just screamed at him to run. Too late.

"Albion! It’s now or never!" a guy shouts.

"For Elinak and Ptojé!" another cries.

The weight of the dead clings to us like a shadow. Those we left behind. Those who burned in our failed escape. But this shadow doesn’t paralyze us—it pushes us forward.

I turn to Salina, Groboln, and the others, all looking at me like I’m their last hope. Like I’m the hammer to break these statues.

"EVERYONE, WITH ME!"

I leap. But this time, I’m not alone. More than thirty of us surge like a tidal wave.

I have no weapon. Just my fists, muscles screaming from exhaustion. But I charge.

The first impact is brutal. Marnéo crashes his entire body into one of them, throwing everything he has into it. The blow sounds like a rock crashing against another. The statue barely flinches. Salina tries to climb one, clawing at its neck as if she could rip its head off.

I smash into one myself, striking with my palms against its smooth, unyielding torso. No grip. No hold. I crash into it with my full weight—it stumbles slightly but dislocates my shoulder in the process. Better than both my wrists.

A metal arm rises—too slow. As if hesitating. As if something is jamming its movements.

"KEEP PUSHING!" I scream, staggering back.

“COME ON!" another voice yells.

A guy to my left staggers, but he keeps pushing—they are five against a single Bavil. Salina strikes with all her might against a stone-like leg, and I see her flinch in pain. Yeah, kicking metal? Not the smartest move. Others join her, trying to topple the thing.

I mimic them. No weapons. Just bodies, weight, raw determination. And above all, stones—Lyrel leaps onto the first Bavil that collapses, smashing its head with a rock. But it does nothing. Blood drips from her hands, the stone shatters, yet the Bavil still holds strong.

A longer, grinding noise. The remaining Bavils hesitate—then flee. A breach opens.

A chilling breath courses through my chest.

"Go through!" I shout, locking eyes with Lyrel. She can't stay on that Bavil, she has to move!

"We can't all make it! We have to hold this one down!" she yells back, catching my gaze.

"LEAVE IT!" I order her. She shudders under the weight of my words. She's older than me, but she listens. The golem rises in a fraction of a second and scurries away like a child being scolded.

Then, I see my comrades outside—and the Admiral—all sprawled on the grass, facing dozens of Bavils. Maybe even hundreds.

Fuck. And here I thought we had made it out...