“Hello, Vik.” Vas muttered, stunned at his continual bad luck. “What’s that you got on my neck?”

He could feel the grin behind him. “Oh, this? It’s a beamer.”

“Yeah…” Vas sighed.

He knew the grin was growing larger. “Why don’t you drop that pulser of yours?” Vas reached for his waist. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

Vas hesitated for a second, very much considering doing something stupid. Vik had been a soldier though. It wouldn’t work. Better to bide his time. Hope for another narrow escape.

Delicately, he lifted the Pulser from his waist and dropped it on the ground.

“Good.” Said Vik. “Why don’t you stand up now?”

“Look around.” Vas said, nodding ever so slightly at the bloodshed around them. “Is this really the time?”

The beamer pressed deeper into his neck. “I think it’s the perfect time. Stand up.” Vas did, rising slowly, arms held in front of him. “Good. Let’s go to one of these side rooms. Just want to talk in private.”

“Always with the talking.” But, he did as he was told, letting Vik guide him to the room. To his mild amusement, he noticed it was almost the exact same layout of the room he’d almost died in mere minutes ago, barren but for a few crates. He could acknowledge the humor in that.

Vik walked him to the back of the space, pushing his chest against the wall. “At least do me the dignity of looking me in the eye before you do it.” Vas muttered, feeling defiant.

“Fine.” Vik said. “Don’t try anything.” He stepped back quickly, keeping the gun on Vas at all times, refusing to yield a moment of vulnerability.

Vas turned to face the man who would kill him, looking for his opportunity. It had always come before. It would again.

Vik stared him down, gun steady. Their eyes met. Viks were rapid and wide, overcome by madness. “Well…” Vik began. “What do you want to say?”

There was nothing to say, not really, but he needed time. “What do you think this is going to accomplish, Vik?” Vas asked. “That was your squad, right?” He said, gesturing at the door. “You saw what happened outside. We’re dead men anyway.”

“Maybe.” Vik answered. “No… probably. But I’d prefer to be the one who did it?”

“Why?” Vas pressed, eyes silently drifting towards the gun. “Because I was a kid who tried to live. Because I saw the irony in Mar’s vision. Because I saw the tyrant he would become.”

That got Vik’s attention. He pushed the gun forward, ever so slightly, emotion overcoming years of training. “You know nothing about Mar.” Vik spat. “What he wanted. What he dreamed of. What we dreamed of all those years.”

“Oh, I know what he wanted. Power. Authority. To be the big man in the big chair.” Vik pressed the gun forward again, almost in range. Vas continued. “A few concessions here and there. One or two promises kept. Scraps for the beggars. Otherwise, nothing changes. Mar becomes Creighton. Same story everywhere. He was using you, using me, whether he knew it or not.”

One more push forward. “You think you know any…” Beamer fire down the hall. Far away, but close enough to draw attention. Close enough for Vik’s eyes to flick away, for a mere moment, a hair of a second. It would have to be enough.

Vas lunged. Both hands grasping out and towards the gun. Just in time, he shoved it to the side, the beam of energy narrowly missing his hip. His momentum continued, driving the gun downward and out of both their hands, towards the floor.

It hit with a clang, and both men paused. They locked eyes and time seemed to stop. Vas rarely got in fights. He was no good in one. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Vik did. His hands were already curling into fists. Vas did something else. Something a little faster, and a little stupider. He rammed his skull into Vik’s face.

On one hand, it worked. Vik stumbled backwards, blood gushing from his nose. On the other hand, Vas was also stumbling backward, hand on his skull, screaming in pain.

His back hit the wall, and he was able to gather himself enough to look forward. Between himself and the door, Vik still stood. He was reaching for something at his waist…. a knife.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Faced with no choice, Vas charged, ramming his shoulder into Vik right as the man pulled the knife free. Vik fell and the knife hit the floor with a clang. Vas fell on top of him and immediately rolled to the side. To his right, he saw the knife. He lunged a hand out to grasp it, but Vik grabbed him before he could reach it.

From there, Vik’s training took over. He grappled Vas and pulled him in, Vas got an elbow to his chin, but it was weak. He tried again, even weaker. Too late, Vik had him.

The stronger man flipped Vas onto his back, pinning his arms. Then, he reached a free hand out and grabbed the knife. Eyes screaming hatred, he lifted the knife and plunged it down. Vas squirmed an arm out in time to meet it, blocking the downward momentum with his forearm, but he could only slow it.

Inch by inch, Vik slowly pressed the blade towards Vas’ neck. Blood flowed from his nose, down his beard, and onto Vas’ face as he pushed, malice shining in those dark eyes.

Vas fought with everything, willing his body to strength it didn’t have. Vik was just too strong, too big. His weight pressed down on Vas, pinning him, preventing resistance. No matter how much he wanted to live, he would die.

And then, the world seemed to slow. He felt Vik’s weight on top of him. He remembered the driller crushed into a ball; the mansion turned into a moon. He remembered the moment of weightlessness, the ship’s grav drive temporarily disabled. He remembered that symbol, an eye, missing its upper eyelid. Once again, he was aware of his own weight, Vik’s weight. He felt it. Gravity. Everywhere.

Somehow, he managed to slip his right arm out of Vik’s pin. Instead of reaching for the knife, however, he did something else. He held it out straight, palm down, as he remembered Talian doing. Then, he flipped it.

The world changed.

He noticed the weight first. Vik’s oppressive mass, pinning him, pressing into his ribs… gone. The knife, pointed at his throat, easily pushed back.

Then, he noticed he was falling… upwards. He and Vik were accelerating towards the ceiling. Vik hit first. Something cracked. Vas hit second, directly on top of Vik. There were more cracks. The knife slid out of Vik’s grip and clattered against the metal.

At first, he could only gasp for breath, unable to understand what he’d done. His first thought was that the grav drive must have broken. It was the only thing that made sense.

Around them, the crates fell, hitting the roof with heavy clangs. Reacting more than thinking, Vas rolled out of the way as one fell at an angle, threatening to tip over and crush him.

It couldn’t be the grav drive. The timing was too perfect. The odds were astronomically low. That meant… did he do th…

A hand at his throat. He’d forgotten about Vik.

He turned to meet those dark eyes, always serious but never hateful, never like they were now. There was nothing but pain and hate.

Vik’s hand wrapped around his throat. He didn’t have the strength to restrict airflow entirely, but he was still plenty strong enough to force Vas to gasp desperately for air.

For a few seconds, Vas thrashed, fighting against the strength of true hate. Then, he had another idea.

Desperately, he turned and grabbed Vik, slowly hauling him on top. Vik didn’t resist, eagerly seizing the opportunity to increase his leverage on Vas’ throat. Eventually, Vas was able to flip him on top, albeit at great cost. The full force of Vik’s weight was back on his chest. If this didn’t work, he would die.

One hand wrapped around Vik’s back, holding him there, the other still free, he held it out, palm facing the ceiling now.

Vik’s grip had strengthened. He had restricted airflow entirely and was bringing his second hand to finish the job. There was something else in his eyes now. A bit of finality, a glimpse of closure. He had Vas. It was over.

And then Vas flipped his palm again.

Like before, the world changed. Like before, he noticed the absence of weight first, Vik falling from his chest, hands unclenching in surprise. Like before, he realized he was falling last, rapidly towards the ground.

Vik hit first, even harder than before. Vas hit after, right on top of him again. The old soldier broke his fall, but it wasn’t enough to prevent another gasp as the air escaped his lungs. Pain he hadn’t noticed before shot through his chest and stomach. It was horrible, piercing agony.

His fate was kind compared to Vik’s. The cracks were louder this time, visceral and mortal. There was a great gasp of pain and then silence. A few shaky breaths were the only proof of life.

Slowly, Vas rolled off of his old compatriot, gently flopping to the ground. Almost crying with the pain, he looked up and met Vik’s still living eyes.

The pain was fading fast, replaced by something else, a quiet melancholy. The hate was still there but smaller, quieter.

He whispered something Vas couldn’t hear. Instinctually, Vas crawled closer. He was compelled, as all were, to catch a dying man’s final words.

“It was… a good dream.” Vik said, not to Vas, to someone else. “A good dream.” Then, he closed his eyes for the last time.

Steadily, Vas rose, eyes latched onto the corpse of a man who’d once been something close to a friend. “It was.” He whispered; a little surprised how peaceful Vik looked in death.

Somewhat reluctantly, he dragged his gaze away from Vik. He needed to focus. What had just happened. What he’d just done. That could wait. For now, he needed to live.

After a quick check for broken bones, he limped out, unable to look at the first man he’d ever killed on his way out.