Breathe.

Blue eyes pleading for mercy.

Breathe.

Hole in the head, eyes still gleaming, not yet aware he was dead.

Breathe.

Mansion in the sky. How many hundreds inside?

Breathe.

“Please!”

Breathe.

Finally, his survival instinct, always strong, kicked in. He shut it out, all of it- Mory, Ram, the 19s. All of it. He had one goal. Survive.

He started by assessing his situation. He had slid into a side room some hundred meters away from the impact point. Outside, he could hear the occasional Piercer hit the ship. Throughout, he heard the sounds of beamers, explosions, cries of pain and fear.

“Most of these go down real peaceful like.” Not this one, apparently.

Next, he took stock of what he had. He’d left his beamer behind, which meant his only source of defense was the Pulser at his side and the utility knife in his boot. He’d started keeping it ever since he’d first run into Vik on the ship. Not ideal, but potentially fine. He’d done a lot with a Pulser before.

His breath started coming easier. What next? What was the plan?

He could stay here, turtle down, pray the pirates took the ship, despite the resistance. It was tempting… awfully tempting. However, the fighting was close, and getting closer, beamer fire growing louder by the minute.

He looked around the room. The space was dark, only illuminated by a very dim light shining underneath the door. It was a small, barren room, empty of all but a few crates, pressed against the walls. There was nowhere to hide. If someone found him, that would be it.

That left him with one option. Try and find a group from the Junk Dog, either Daro or someone else.

It was risky, but there was safety in numbers. And, on the off-chance there was an escape plan, he wouldn’t get left behind.

That thought alone was enough to force him to his feet. He would try and find another raiding party from the Junk Dog. He wasn’t sure it was the wisest plan, but at least it was an actionable plan, and he wasn’t sure he could handle stewing in misery anymore.

Shakily, he made his way to the door. Taking a moment to gather himself, he reached for the button to open it. Then, he heard something that made him stop- voices.

He paused, straining to catch details.

“.... by room.” He heard someone say. “.... any pirates that … hunkered…” The order was muffled but also unmistakable. Whoever it was wasn’t on his side. That was for sure.

He cursed, quietly, and once again looked around the small room. Nothing new caught his eye, still empty but for small crates against the wall. If he moved a few, he might be able to hide, at least from a cursory glance.

No other choice. He ran to the near corner and started moving one of the crates away from the wall, as quietly as he could manage. He briefly entertained the thought of trying to pry it open, but it was sealed shut. All he could do was drag it, inch by inch.

Outside he heard boots, moving in military rhythm, creeping closer. One last mighty heave opened up enough of a gap between the crate and the wall for him to squeeze into. The footsteps were nearer, they were almost at the door. It was now or never.

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He flung himself over the crate and into the small gap, wedging himself as low as he could into the narrow space. As he did, he felt a small irregularity push against his back. Outside, several footsteps passed, but one pair stopped. Someone had reached the door.

Panicking, he shifted his back just enough to get a glimpse at whatever was digging into it. It was a small conduit, an electric box. For what? The door?

Someone pressed a button and the door slid open, mild light pouring into the dark space from the hallway, a man’s shadow looming at the entranceway, gun in hand.

No, not the door… the lights!

As the man glanced around, Vas reached into his boot, withdrawing the utility knife. He heard cursing, a hand grasping at the wall, looking for a button. If he found it, he would see Vas, clear as day.

Without making a sound, Vas opened the box. There were two wires inside. He could only guess at what they did. Hopefully, nothing too important because a second later he cut them.

Right as he did, the man found the button. Triumphant, he slammed his fist against the light switch… and nothing happened. No light poured into the room, no sudden burst of illumination.

Vas was safe, for a second. He slid the knife back into his boot and reached for the Pulser. He would need it.

“Piece of junk.” The man muttered. He paused at the doorway, and, for a second, Vas hoped he would simply give up the search. Instead, he took a deep breath and started circling the edge of the room.

Hand wrapped tightly around the Pulser, Vas considered his very limited options. Hope he wasn’t seen, or act before he was seen.

The man was doing a quick loop, checking every space. He would find Vas. There was one option. He needed to act. The man’s back was turned. He’d need to get within a few feet for the Pulser to work. Now or never.

He vaulted over the crate, almost noiselessly, but not quietly enough. The man heard something. He turned quickly, whipping his weapon around, ready to engage. He wasn’t quick enough, however. Before he could align the weapon with the shadowy figure darting towards him, a low pulse sounded as Vas jammed the device into the man’s side.

Eyes crossed as the jolt shook the man’s body, the sound of the weapon low but audible. He hit the floor with a thud. If his friends hadn’t heard the Pulser, they certainly would have heard that. Vas wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

Boots flying, he was out the door in a flash, madly dashing down the hall in the direction the footsteps had come from. Behind him, he heard voices, exclamations. “Huh.” “What was that?”

Hopefully, they would never find out. Vas was already turning left down another hallway, deeper into the labyrinth of the ship. Briefly, he heard footsteps tracking him, keeping pace. He turned left and then right, randomly selecting his direction, hoping to lose them in the corridors. After a few more turns, he succeeded, his pursuers gone, grasping at a ghost.

He slowed, fighting the manic urge to laugh. Another narrow escape. How many more would there be? How many more could he manage?

Shaking himself back to reality, he refocused. He needed to find another group, preferably Daro. The Second had mentioned they were heading for the ship’s bridge. Maybe Vas could try that direction? Wherever it was. It was an idea, at least. Something was probably better than nothing.

After a few quick breaths to steel himself, he was ready to move. Feet padding softly, ears tuned to the slightest sound, he crept down the hall. At every turn he stopped, glancing around each corner. The sense of danger was ever present, but he felt better than he had hiding. His mind was churning again. Thinking up a plan one minute and dismissing it the next. His conclusion was always the same. His best chance was finding some help, finding one of the Junk Dog’s raiding parties. As he turned another corner, he found one, or at least what was left of it.

It wasn't a pretty sight. Five bodies against the walls of the corridor, pieces of them strewn about. It was a massacre. He looked closer, overcome by morbid curiosity. This wasn’t the work of a beamer. The wounds were clean and straight. They’d been cut up by someone… or something.

Instinctually, he turned away from the grisly sight, once more fighting the impulse to stop and throw up. Then, as he began to walk away, he heard something. A moan. Someone was alive.

Stunned, he slowly craned his neck around. And indeed, one of the men, arm and one leg chopped clean off, was still breathing.

Pulled forward by something he couldn’t explain, Vas approached the dying man, wondering how he wasn’t yet dead.

His nose told him before his eyes did. The hall smelled of burnt flesh. Whatever had cut the limbs off had also cauterized them.

Cautious, he approached, aware that whatever did this might not be too far away. Eventually, he was close enough to make out a face- black hair, round cheeks, and a beard. It was familiar, but not so familiar, a man Vas had seen but didn’t know.

“What happened?” He asked, unsure what else to say.

The man looked up at him, aware, for the first time, of his existence. “Bloo…” He coughed, in obvious pain. “Blooded…” A deep wheeze. “Witch.”

“Blooded?” Vas repeated, fear somehow rising further. “Are you sure?”

A snort, as close to a laugh as the man could manage. “Yeah.” Then, he was unconscious again, about to die, well beyond Vas’ capabilities to help.

“Blooded.” Vas repeated once more. “Blooded.”

The Blooded were the descendants of the Gods. In their veins the power of their divine kin, capable of things beyond imagination. Compared to someone like Vas, they weren’t human. They were something greater. Something more.

He breathed, two competing parts of his brain fighting for attention. There was the inquisitive side, wondering what could possibly bring a Blooded here, onto a merchant vessel, albeit a heavily armed one. There was another part to his brain though, a more practical part. This part was screaming at him to stop thinking and get off the ship however possible.

He decided to follow his more practical side.

As he rose, however, he felt something cold and circular press into the back of his neck, forcing him to freeze halfway up.

“Hello, Vas.”