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I'm terrified.

I'll go ahead and admit that now before the finger pointing begins, not that anybody has time for it.

My shoulder heaves into yet another bulkhead, aiding Sal and Leonov in creaking it shut. The artificial priest hammers at the frame with his elastic arms, hopefully impairing any efforts to open it from the other side. I'm not certain if it's been working; the last few times, nobody stuck around long enough to check, either. We pack into narrow corridors with no cover, with junk spilling out of the alcoves evenly spaced to either side, all of it too mangled to quickly make use of. Not a good place for a last stand.

I'd rather not think about it that way, either. This would be my... well, not my first stand, but I'd hate to die here. Cold and off-kilter, between the sword of the enemy and the bodies of people I've come to vaguely enjoy. If I had to die in combat, I think I'd rather be alone. The image people might have of me upon getting the news might be more dignified, if they're generous.

I'm thinking too far ahead again. By technicality, I am still alive. I will operate under the pretense that this will continue to be the case. And if I die, maybe it'll be quick enough that I won't--

I slap myself. Too hard. Ouch.

But stop it, me. I'm panicking again. Ruminating again. The flashing, sparking lights brought back to life by the energizing auras of mages channeling into them don't really lend themselves to a calming environment, nor does the shouting of the rear guard as they drop behind at the entrance to a larger room. I haven't processed a word anyone has been saying; in one ear out the other, lost in a spiral of worries bubbling up. I slap myself again, softer this time but enough to get the point across and bring myself to focus.

Hard to tell what this room used to be but it's spacious at least. High ceilings, plenty of debris. An engineering bay, maybe? Robotic arms lay tangled about, likely once having been for deploying Aberrations, but none remain to be seen. Probably for the best.

I jolt as I feel a hand on my shoulder; it's Yhana, wearing what I can only describe as an expression of concern though I could never have envisioned it on her. "Merion, you hanging in there?" she asks.

"I... yeah. This is a lot," I admit.

She sighs a bit, adding some pressure as she moves me along her route through the debris, boxed in by personnel on all sides. Some familiar faces in view, at least.

"It doesn't usually go like this," she says. "But we're all going to do our best to keep you safe. You're under our protection. Mine especially."

I want to utter my thanks to her, truly appreciating her sincere care in this moment but before I can stammer it out, an explosion echoes down another way, with force enough to cause bits of the ceiling to rain down.

"New platoon approaching!" Sal calls out, tearing defunct machinery in front of himself as cover and aiming down his bladed rifle. A few others outfitted for combat beyond mid-range join him, one of them not drawing her weapon but instead channeling aether in her folded hands.

Color around them saturates as time accelerates for them, releasing precision rounds with terrifying alacrity, thinning an incoming crowd that only they have properly laid eyes on so far. It seems almost unstoppable at first, but it's easy to almost forget that everybody has their tricks.

The enemy's arrows come forward in retaliation, one striking Sal square in the chest, his armor saving him, but the crow beside him isn't so lucky as a wooden shaft projects from his throat. Their caster begins to literally glow as she tries to pour all of her remaining energy into rewriting that second gone awry, a feat that most Fluxreaders fail anyway, but in the midst of her attempt, an assailant teleports into the air above her, a flash of green raiments and silver blades descending with a brutal slash of her curved sword.

She is only the first of many to break the line; others teleport in, others still rush in with time-distorting effects of their own such that only those among us with similar abilities are adequately prepared to meet them, and the remainder simply break in through brute force as our front line scatters.

Captain Tsing lunges forth, the rims of her arms whirring as she snatches a shielded Gapwalker out of the air in all four hands and rips him apart in a single savage pull to the bloodcurdling tune of an animalistic roar.

"For the Empress!" she cries; her snarling face and fearless tone, showered in fresh blood, is an ensemble that seems to dull the resolve of those whose collective speeding charge is already carrying them into odds they are no longer so sure about.

Tsing hurls the halves of her challenger into the crowd, and as she rushes past me, the core temperature being expelled from her body vents is so intense it's like standing next to a furnace. I am thunderstruck, but those around me, an assortment of everything to imperial veterans to freelancers, bellow out in as good an attempt to come close to their captain's ferocity as anyone could, but there are far fewer voices than any of us had hoped remained to bolster one another's morale. And yet, even that inspires a sense of vengeance; I only catch a glimpse of the fury on Yhana's face as she charges as well, her fur bristling with crimson lightning, ready to liquefy the first Prelature soldier that dares get in her way.

I can't say I collect myself, as my pulse still races and every second blends into the next, but at the very least, I'm no longer frozen there. Geometric patterns weave around my left hand, growing into interlocking lattices that simultaneously strike as a point in the space beyond my outstretched palm as I step forward and release a bolt of hungering nothingness screaming down the hallway, the thunderclap of its dissipation joining the chorus of every other Gapwalker in the room. I can feel the radiance burn out of my aura, almost exhilaratingly; it practically manifests the next shot by virtue of its own momentum.

The moment it leaves me, satisfyingly vaporizing a shield and knocking its wielder flat in one shot, the hatch we entered through blows wide open, a storm of spells bursting into the room in a deadly flash.

Through the newly opened path comes an intimidating shape, clad in stained plating to guard its emaciated figure. Vibrating, curved spikes take the place of feet, sparking on the floor as it enters, as if skating against gravity. One can hardly tell what this creature used to be, but it was neither Human nor Xeeok, when it lived. A curtain of razor-edged, whiplike tendrils hangs from each shoulder plate, and they rise, ready to lash forth. It immediately becomes the captain's new focus.

"Regroup, regroup!" Tsing urges, striking foes to the floor with her blazing claws as those under her command fall behind her. "Formal combat-trained personnel, hold the line. All others... flee." There is dejection in her tone, but it does not dull her determined growl.

The creature slows as she takes a step towards it, its many arms wreathing up and writhing about its sleek, runed, plating-encased head. The shape reminds me of a greyhound, but if the straight, hornlike projections from the sides of the helmet contain ears, they are far too long for that.

I refocus into the crisis as it's happening as the construct is flanked by more soldiers yet, and I feel overextended even where I stand. I hurry back with the designated crowd as they destroy another bulkhead to escape through, its protective runes having gone long without charge. I jolt as I feel a hand grip my arm, but it's just Yhana. She drags me forward, ahead of her.

"Go!" she shouts. "There's more I can do here, I'll catch up soon!"

I can only give her a glance back as I squeeze through, and then she's out of sight, another bright red flash the only indicator I have that she's still there. My attention is immediately and forcibly brought back to my immediate footing as we have some chasers, stepping through the void and out of thin air to catch us. I duck a burst of un-light and bring my macana around in a wide swing, but the caster slides backwards, just out of range.

He turns his shortspear over in his hand, lunging with it, but that arm and a good chunk of his torso and veiled face turn to cinders in an instant as a deafening boom sets my ears ringing. Nym stands beside me, his back pressed against the wall from the recoil of his odd weapon, its barrel gushing with volatile vapors. The look he gives me is one of intense self-satisfaction, even amid the severity of the situation; I don't doubt he'd have worn it for minutes to come if not for the continued addition of Prelature forces materializing in the corridor. At the next junction, they begin to divide our aggregation up, I don't give it much thought as I follow him. As I glance over my shoulder, it's Dahlia, the engineer, behind me, turning, gun in hand, to dispatch another soldier, the aether coalescing in the hyena's hands tight on her weapon stretching out the split-second she needed to outdraw them in.

So I've got a couple of familiar faces around me, at least, and competent ones at that.

There's only so many places one can run to, it would seem, but this wreck is enormous, even by the standards of its former occupants, often twice or more the size of a Nayrean. The corridors never go entirely quiet, no matter how much distance we would have presumably gained. There's always the sound of shouting, of clashing metal, of spells discharging... and the rattling of pipes.

I look down at the lattice platform running atop all those snaking tubes, shivering beneath. I'm not the only one to notice; Nym at the front turns to speak urgently but as the first syllable leaves his mouth, the pipes rupture, spewing streaks of noxious gas into the air. Nym and the red-bearded Human I recognize from before with us immediately start manipulating the air, trying to clear it, but it takes rapid effect; Dahlia is the first to hit the floor.

It only takes seconds for Nym and I to be the only ones remaining standing, but even he isn't immune to it, his stance wavering even as he tries to clear the fumes and exert magical force onto the burst pipes, twisting them closed as best he can before faltering.

I rush to catch him, and my fur stands on end; my head jerks to the left just in time to catch sight of several Prelature soldiers waiting in the room to the left, toppled bunks arranged as barricades. One of them has their hands dug into the pipes, tendrils of vapor curling around their fingers. Of course. Why wouldn't there be squads lying in wait to catch stragglers?

They seem unsurprised that one among us remained unaffected, perfectly ready to spring into action if any of their targets had prepared with respiratory equipment, or in my case, had reduced dependency on air. The one most centered with the frame of the open bulkhead lashes out with an arc of shimmering void, the scent of ozone collecting in its wake and scattering as frigid condensation as I parry with a rift of my own. For all the good it'll do, I blast right back at them, but there are five of them and only one of me, they deflect it effortlessly before descending upon me.

I expected one of them to teleport into the fray, but I'm still too slow to stop her from smacking the side of my skull with her weapon. My vision turns black, and stars explode across the empty space.

I think only a few minutes have passed. They tied us up quickly it seems, wrists and ankles bound. I can feel a hard cylinder within grasping reach, wrapped in with the ropes. I can make out small engravings in it, probably runes to prevent casting. Not that it matters for me, I think I'm all out of juice.

Fighting off the haze in my brain, I catch part of their discussion, held near the barricade. One of them has his back to the wall as if to watch us, but he seems distracted by their conversation, lucky for me, so I can return to pretending to still be unconscious.

They carry on in Radiant, which I don't have much grasp on, but I piece together the gist of what one of them is suggesting, to take apart their undead captives here. Likely to save them the trouble of dealing with us later.

There's some consideration given to that, but judging by the dismissive tone they end on, I can only assume that the suggestion is being discarded. A couple of them turn to one who hasn't said anything, prompting her to chime in, when one of them suddenly sounds alarmed. They hold up fingers as they speak, indicating six at first... and then seven.

They're right, there's one extra now.

She doesn't move, but I process the briefest beginnings of a flash of light. In the next moment, there are three dead, blood coating the walls. She's on her feet, about three times my height; they grow them big in the Prelature, but she shortens the other two nearing her height with a whirl of bladed polearm she carries, swishing over her back and lopping off their heads. The last one turns to run, her hands still smoldering with aether, but an almost casual thrust of the weapon runs her through, dropping her unceremoniously and setting her rolling down the tilted floor in her last moments, gathering her own crimson.

I forget to feign being incapacitated, I'm so transfixed by this terrifying display. She turns, her veiled, blind eyes turning my way as she flips the double-sided weapon over a couple times, raising it once more.

"Hey, we can talk this out maybe," I want to say, but I'm stammering, recoiling as much as my bindings will let me as she brings it down, but as it slices something, I process that I'm totally unharmed.

I open an eye to check, confirming that my ankles have been freed. She crouches over me, a lean, muscled mountain of an opossum, simply breaking by hand the remaining ropes around my wrists.

"I uh... thank you," I finally manage.

She moves soundlessly onto Nym, severing his bonds and giving him a soft shake to try and rouse him, but he's still out cold. Rocking back to sit cross-legged, she holds out the flats of her palms, aglow with the sterile light of condensed aether over his form. Seconds pass, and he begins to stir, his image playing sped-up. With perfect timing, she stops just as he comes to.

The fox rolls over and sits up, still groggy from the gas, but as his gaze travels up our savior's figure to find her face, his vigor is restored.

"Samsara!" he exclaims, springing onto shaking legs and stumbling to hug her.

"Not so loud," she urges; her voice carries a sepulchral, rich tone that instills a tranquility in me just being witness to it. Despite her reserved expression, she returns a delicate hug of her own. "You have to be more careful than that, little prince."

He chuckles awkwardly at the way she addresses him, rubbing the back of his neck. "You really don't have to call me that, you know..."

"I like how warm it makes you," she says, releasing him and beginning her work on the next of us. I could almost imagine it coming with a wink. I wonder if she's really blind or if this part of how she blended in.

The other three take longer to shake off the remaining influence of the fumes, even after being fast-forwarded to the verge of waking up, their living faculties much more affected than Nym's or mine, mitigated by preservatives and alternative pathways aplenty.

"See to it these three get back on their feet, will you? Your crew has found relative safety in the prayer room so I suggest you make for that." Samsara implores, towering back up to her full height and adjusting her hood. "There are a few more hunting parties for me to sneak my way into, I'm sure, so back undercover I go."

"Please, stay safe!" Nym urges, causing her to stall in the doorway.

Without turning, she answers, "No promises."

In an instant, she's gone in another timeskip.

"Who is she?" I ask, admittedly still awed by my encounter with her, perhaps even more so than with those who meant us harm.

"A miracle," Nym says, practically swooning. "We can talk about Samsara more later though, we need to get to safety. She said something about a prayer room, that'll be on a level higher than this one."

"Hang on... Samsara's here?..." one of the Humans asks, the mere mention of her seeming to wake him up.

"Yeah, she's around," Nym says, giving him a pat on the back and helping him to his feet. "Let's get moving."

The other one seems to be managing on his own, so I move to assist Dahlia. I wince a bit at how strong her prosthetic hand grips my wrist, but she stands quickly enough I don't embarrass myself.

We grab our belongings from a pile made in the corner, and a couple of us even take the weapons off Samsara's victims. Nym primes whatever his weapon is, to simply call it a gun would be an understatement, and takes the lead. The others around me seem to have an innate familiarity with the internal workings of the ship, neither foreignness nor foehood lending any remarkable unfamiliarity, and they follow a sort of flow to the place that's simply imperceptible to me. It's not long until we find ourselves a rampwell to scale, but of course it was never going to be that easy.

The sound of whipping tendrils and metal on metal resonates from the cramped space beyond the bulkhead, the light of sparks casting a distorted, menacing shadow.

"Back up, it's back!" Nym whispers urgently. The bearded guy, how I'd love to have a name for him right now, lights a flame in each of his palms, but the fox bumps him softly. "None of that, we don't stand a chance! Everyone, hide!"

He escapes his position at the vanguard, diving into a closet nearby, gesturing the door shut and re-tuning the locks as it seals him in. The Human behind me is next to find a spot, taking up the last of the viable hiding places nearby.

The remaining three of us fall back as stealthily as I can, scattering as the first sign of coiling razors gleam beyond the doorframe. I throw myself to the floor, rolling into a crawlspace beneath the network of pipes in the wall and sitting up in the alcove beyond. I don't see where the other two get to by the time I can hear the buzzing of the Aberration's conical feet grinding at the floor with every step.

Holding my breath is easy, thankfully, not to mention reflexive, as I watch horizontal sections of its shape stagger past. It moves like it's worse for wear, but I wonder by how much?

I don't know how long I wait for the sound of it to pass by, but I recognize the sound of footsteps trying to be quiet hurriedly making for the rampwell. Taking that as a cue to do the same, I lean forward to move.

But, I would have screamed then if not for the fact that the gloved hand that suddenly claps over my muzzle prevented me from doing so. Something clicks for me, something that seemed minor at the time.

There were only five of them, not counting Samsara, so I thought. Six fingers. Here's the extra.

I try to vocalize through my nose but her grip on me is tight enough to smother the sound. I jab my elbow backwards, knocking her in the chest, but it's a pathetic attempt to resist.

My heart palpitates as my insides burn sharply; the point of their curved sword runs through my back and out through my belly, sending pain spiderwebbing through my core.

She scathingly says something to me, I think it's in a language I know but I can't even process it.

The bladed edge carves downwards. Something is spilling out of me!

Am I going into shock? I think I'm going into shock.

Oh, fuck me, I'm going into shock!

There's ectoplasm all over my hands, fingers quivering in front of my face. My eyes focus on something beyond them. I'm straddling a corpse, I think. So many features rendered unrecognizable. Liquefied. Exposed bones turned glistening, obsidian black, and innards as thick, incomprehensible tar.

It's not just on my hands, it's all over the front of my strangely-bloodless coat. I can feel it evaporating off of my muzzle too. My tongue snakes out before I can stop it. It doesn't taste like anything, and yet... it satisfies. But I can tell I've already had more than enough.

I look away from the mangled soldier beneath me; we're out in the passage again, across from the crawlspace. I suppose she thought she had finished the job. For a moment, I thought she had too. No recollection of the moments that followed, though.

I draw a deep breath, letting it out as I get to my feet. It's like a glittering mist, spilling from my lips, heavier than air.

It's been a while since this has happened to me. This would be the part where I would roll back my streak to zero if I ever bothered keeping track. Maybe I should start.

Yeah. Zero days since the last incident, then.

But hey. You and I are going to keep this a secret, okay? It would mean a lot to me.