Alexandrius Toll wasted no time once he finally arrived at the bridge.

Ash del Duran was still unconscious, so he tossed him over to a subordinate who hurried to catch him. His coat was still covered in frost, so he tossed that over to another subordinate. As he approached the sequence of vital consoles that headed up the room, he wiped some of the grime from his face. The maintenance tunnels had been in an abominable state: utterly filthy. He’d have to order a review of this vessel once the battle was over.

Gregori Hazzard was already there, waiting for him. His blonde hair hung low over his face, a single red eye looking out from behind the golden curtain. His hands were plunged into the pockets of his white coat -- and judging from the bloodstains visible on that same garment, he’d had quite the adventure of his own.

“Status report?” he asked, planting his hands down on the console as his eyes scanned the readouts.

“Houston died,” Gregori said casually, his face a mask. “We’ve lost contact with the rest -- and judging from the state of the cold harvest, I’d say they failed to protect it, so probably dead too.”

Alexandrius raised an eyebrow as he glanced at his second-in-command. “That’s quite pessimistic of you, Hazzard.”

Gregori shrugged. “Uselessness is uselessness.”

Hazzard’s words -- as usual -- were harsh, but he wasn’t wrong. It was undeniable now that the cold harvest reactor was on the verge of failure. Once it finally gave up the ghost, the majority of the ship would be flooded with ice… if it didn’t just blow up entirely. Evacuation was now a necessity for survival: but evacuation to where? There weren’t any other vessels in range.

“The broadcast a few minutes ago…” Hazzard ventured. “It said the Supreme was dead.”

“That’s unconfirmed information,” Toll snapped. “Until we have confirmation, don’t go spreading it around.”

It was Hazzard’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “It was broadcast all across the ship, and who knows where else. There’d be no need for me to spread it around.”

“All the same…” Toll grunted. “Speech is silver, but silence is golden. This is already a damnable situation. I trust you’ve had time to look over everything before I arrived -- what are your thoughts?”

“My thoughts?” Hazzard said, voice droll. “This whole thing is a disaster. If we’d brought a whole fleet, we could at least evacuate to another ship, but the Supreme had us all on the Tartarus like this was some sort of working holiday. It’s an issue.”

“Everyone here is well aware that it’s an issue. How precisely would you recommend we solve it?”

Hazzard sighed, scratching his head at the unwelcome mental labor. “The only path of escape is downwards… I guess. We resume landings, accelerate them as much as possible without triggering the barrier, and finish off Regiment RED at the same time. Given the state of things on the ground, it’ll probably be messy, but messy’s probably the best we can hope for at this point.”

Toll considered things, steepling his fingers as he sat down. Hazzard’s proposal had merit: the five-minute interval between landings had been more for the sake of the Supreme’s damned games than any practical reason. Theoretically speaking, they should be able to speed that up to one landing a minute without provoking a response from the barrier… but with so many personnel on board, the evacuation would still take an absurd amount of time.

But it seemed that absurdity was what the situation demanded. Toll was just about to open his mouth and give the order when --

"Rashomon to Tartarus," blared a voice over the console. "Rashomon to Tartarus. Do you read?"

Toll's head snapped up as he looked to the communications operator. The mustachioed man seemed nervous as he leaned into his console, but that was only natural -- the eyes of his grand commander were focused upon him. Probably the eyes of everyone else on the bridge, too.

To his credit, though, his voice betrayed none of that anxiety. Pure professionalism, as Alexandrius Toll appreciated.

"Tartarus to Rashomon," the operator said. "Hearing you loud and clear. Please state your business."

"Pesh Defense Force," came the response. "Acting on orders from the Body -- we've been told to provide assistance. Is your captain available to speak directly?"

The navigation operator glanced towards Toll, and he quickly nodded. Usually, the Body’s interference would be atrocious… but under the circumstances, he’d take what he could get.

“Patching him through now,” the operator said -- and with a slide of the screen, the floor was Toll’s. He leaned back in his chair, glaring forward as if he could see the face of the man on the other end. It was vital that he took control of matters quickly: the worst thing now would be for the operation to be usurped by some dog of the Body.

“This is Ascendant-General Alexandrius Toll,” Toll said firmly, the instant the channel came on. “The previous captain of the Tartarus was killed in battle. As such, command is mine. The vessel has sustained heavy damage and continued operation is no longer viable. How many ships are in your present forces, Rashomon?”

The voice on the other end was different this time -- presumably this was the Rashomon's captain. As expected, he seemed somewhat startled by the sudden barrage of questions.

"We, ah, currently number twelve cruisers, seventy-two freighters and six-hundred and ninety fighters."

"That's quite sizable."

"Pesh has a more than adequate defensive force," the captain replied, with more than a hint of pride. "With, ah, all due respect."

"Of course. As you say, the Pesh Defense Force seems quite formidable. I wonder what it's doing all the way over here, instead of defending Pesh."

The response came quickly -- it was a practiced quickness, if Toll had to guess. "The defense of the Supreme is the defense of the Supremacy as a whole. It's only natural for true patriots to make the trip here to protect our nation."

Despite the fact that the Supreme specifically forbid it. But he would not bite at a helping hand too much.

"As I said, the Tartarus has sustained heavy damage," Toll said. "Prepare your cruisers to receive our evacuated crew. Any further orders will come from my subordinate, Gregori Hazzard."

At the mention of his name, Hazzard looked down at Toll. The slightest frown creased his lips. No doubt he was annoyed at being given more work, but with the rest of the Honest Men dead there was nobody else Toll could entrust with the task.

The response from the Rashomon was swift. "Yes, sir. We should be within range in thirty minutes."

"Very good."

Alexandrius Toll flicked off the communication channel and stood up, the chair squeaking in relief as his mighty weight was lifted. Finally… things were back on the right track. Now they just needed to retain this momentum.

"Send word down to prepare a landing pod," he barked to the communications officer before turning to leave.

Hazzard walked alongside him. "A landing pod? Aren't we evacuating to the other ships?”

As Toll went to leave the room, one of his aides tossed him a new white coat -- he pulled it on as he walked. "I'm going down to the planet myself. This news about the Supreme… I'll confirm it personally."

"Is that wise?" Hazzard asked in that impetuous way of his. "There are people who can confirm that for you."

The younger man stopped at the exit to the bridge, but Toll continued walking without so much as a glance back.

"This is something I'll trust only to my own eyes," he said gruffly.

The lighting on the ship was still in chaos, and so Alexandrius Toll vanished into darkness as he strode down the hallway. Soon enough, his footsteps faded away as well. Gregori Hazzard, lingering at the mouth of the bridge, could only close his eyes and sigh.

"How stupid…" he muttered.

A lump lingered in Bruno's throat as he took in the sight before him.

The landscape had been utterly shredded by Avaman's last attack, and so it had taken him a minute to weave through the rubble and get to the center. As he'd run, his heart had been hammering so loud that little else was audible, exhaustion clinging to the edges of his vision and making it difficult to see. Now that he’d arrived, he understood that anxiety had been more than warranted.

It didn't take a genius to see that Avaman was dead.

His skin and flesh had melted off his body like candle wax and then hardened, leaving a grotesque statue standing in the middle of the clearing. Hollow eye sockets were frozen in the middle of shattering, his jaw swinging slowly from a single strand of sinew. Broken bones protruded like spikes from Avaman's carcass -- and as Bruno watched, that corpse shattered entirely into viscera.

But that wasn't what demanded Bruno's attention, or his horror.

Ruth lay on the floor before the corpse of the First Contender, and her legs lay next to her -- separated, cleanly severed at the thighs. Bruno gaped at the injury, at the blood gushing from the stumps, at the visible bone protruding from the red…

No. He shook his head. Don't freak out. You need to act quickly.

As Bruno reached down and tore two long strips away from his shirt, there was a pop from behind him. Wolfram reappeared in a bolt of white Aether, the grass around him rustling from the sudden release of pressure -- and his face, as he looked down at Ruth's injuries, mirrored Bruno's.

"What… happened?" he gasped.

"We won," Bruno replied, a trace of bitterness entering his tone. "Now welp me stop the bleeding."

Wolfram's ability came in handy. With it, they were able to tighten the bindings to a point that would have been impossible for hands alone -- and with Bruno's minutely placed barriers, they were able to reduce the bleeding further. Still, it wouldn't be enough. They needed to get her to a medic, as soon as possible.

There were medics at the pyramid, Bruno, Serena suggested. I know it blew up, but maybe some survived? Or maybe some showed up to help the survivors?

It was as good a plan as any.

"Wolfram," Bruno said. "If you shrink Ruth, are you able to shrink the bindings on her legs as well? I know you've already shrunk them once, but…"

As Bruno glanced towards Wolfram, though, he saw that the boy was looking straight up into the sky -- his eyes wide as saucers.

"Um, Mr. del Sed?" the boy breathed. "I think… that's not good, is it?"

Bruno followed Wolfram's gaze and saw that the boy was dead right.

That was not good.

Now that night had come, the stars were visible -- or rather, they should have been visible. Great swathes of them were blocked out, flooded by darkness, the moon seemingly cut in half by a shadow. But with a second's consideration, one could see that these were not shadows.

They were silhouettes. The silhouettes of countless ships, in orbit around Elysian Fields. Supremacy reinforcements.

Damn it, Skipper, Bruno gritted his teeth. You'd better get back here quick.

"Still…" Bruno said slowly, tearing his gaze away from the fleet above. "Still, we need to get Ruth healed. Shrink her down and we'll get her to the pyramid. Just --"

Bang.

A noise, all encompassing, blasted through the skies like a sonic boom. Immediately, Bruno's attention was dragged back to the fleet above. Had the attack started already? Had they given up on landing and resorted to orbital bombardment?

But no, that wasn't it. Bruno watched, mouth dropping open… as a second fleet arrived.

The first time the rescue fleet had arrived, they'd been destroyed within minutes by the Supremacy forces.

The second time, they'd lasted twenty minutes.

The third time, they'd lasted forty.

The fourth, sixty.

The fifth and final time, two hours. That was probably the best they were going to get.

Sam Set put a hand to his head as it pulsed in agony, his ability retaliating for his reckless usage. Having him run a simulation that took so many different factors into account, and went on for such a long time, not to mention doing it five times? The Widow was a goddamn slave driver.

To look at Sam Set, you wouldn't think he was a member of Vantablack Squad. He was small and slight, wearing a black sweater and loose fitting jeans. His fluffy dark hair was drenched in sweat from the exertion of his ability, and his Cogitant-blue eyes wavered in and out of sight, the mole beneath his left eye like a piece of punctuation.

"Well?" asked the Widow, standing behind his chair. She put a thin, bony hand down on his shoulder.

It took him a minute to open his mouth with confidence that he wouldn't vomit.

"Go with the fifth strategy," he said breathlessly. "That gives us about two hours before the Supremacy destroys us. It's enough time to evacuate the people from Elysian Fields."

The Widow put a contemplative finger to her chin. "Depending on how many survivors there are, it might not be enough."

Sam Set winced. "If you're asking me to try again and find out how many survivors there are," he said. "Know that'll put me down for the count -- and there's no guarantee the number I give you will be accurate. These are simulations."

His nameless ability was the fruit of Abra-Facade, the land of precognition, where he'd been raised. It allowed him to run a simulation of future events based on his conscious and subconscious knowledge, able to predict up to five hours in the blink of an eye. He experienced the simulation as if it was real life -- and if he was killed, the prediction obviously ended early.

This meant, of course, that he'd just had the luxury of being blown to bits five times in the span of about two seconds. His bad mood could be forgiven.

As usual, the Widow had dragged him off to a secluded spot to perform his simulations -- in this case, the empty captain's quarters. The innumerable intelligence he'd gone through before running the simulations still hung in the air before him on floating holographic screens -- and with a wave of his hand he dismissed them.

The Widow seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. “I hear that this barrier Skipper has erected is quite the thing -- only one person can leave or enter at a time. The shuttles we brought are piloted by automatics, so they’ll be fine going in, but I’d rather us not be stuck here as they trickle out one by one…”

“So what?” Sam Set said.

It took her a moment to decide -- but once she did, she spoke with certainty. “Ah… Skipper really didn’t think about his escape, did he? There’s nothing else for it. I’ll go down with the first shuttle -- whatever is keeping that barrier active, I’ll disable it.”

Sam Set groaned. “If you’re going to start doing things like that, tell me before I start predicting. If I don’t know about it, my simulation can’t take it into account. It’s not --”

The Widow thumped her cane on the floor, bringing a swift end to Sam Set’s complaining, and turned around to leave. He knew very well that he could only get away with a certain degree of insubordination -- membership of Vantablack Squad was the only thing keeping him out of prison, after all. The best thing for him to do was do as he was told and keep his head down…

…even if that head ended up feeling like shit.

“The captain’s been concerning me with his whining,” the Widow said as way of goodbye, not even looking at him as she walked out of the room. “If he tries anything, please have Alcera kill him and hide the body.”

Sam Set watched her go, tension constricting his body -- and it was only when the door slid shut behind her that he allowed himself to sigh in relief. How the hell had he ended up in this kind of situation? His biggest ambition in life had been somewhere warm to sleep comfortably, and he'd somehow been dragged into this band of lunatics. What he'd done barely even counted as fraud, anyway -- it was nearly a victimless crime!

He put a hand to his aching head. Why did these things always happen to him?

The sky was alive with fire.

Far above Elysian Fields, the two fleets exchanged blasts, plasma macro bolts and missiles visible all the way down from the ground. Bruno gaped up at the carnage -- and it was to such a degree that Serena was forced to take over just to get them moving.

Ruth didn't have long. Even ignoring blood loss, the golden hours for Panacea were passing by while they wasted time here.

"Shrink her down," she instructed Wolfram, who had been similarly enraptured by the battle. "Yourself, too. I'll carry both of you to the pyramid, okay? It'll be faster that way."

Wolfram nodded, hurriedly shrinking Ruth with another white flash -- but as Serena snatched the tiny doll off the ground, there was a rustling from behind her. She turned her head just in time to see the new arrival.

Dragan Hadrien staggered through the shredded forest, slowly re-emerging from Gemini World. Parts of his body -- injured parts -- stayed recorded, but enough of him became physical for him to walk and talk. He let out a heavy, rasping breath the moment his mouth came into existence.

The last Serena had seen of him, he'd been on his way to back up Skipper. Since he was back now, did that mean…?

"What happened?" she quietly asked, dreading the answer.

Dragan blinked with his one remaining eye. "He did it."

"He… killed the Supreme?"

Dragan nodded wearily, his eye nearly falling shut from the motion. All the exhaustion of the battle seemed to be hitting him all at once.

Swallowing, Serena asked the obvious follow-up: "Where… where is Mr. Skipper?"

And then, the half-man said the fatal words -- so softly they were barely even audible.

"Skipper's dead."

Serena's eyes widened. Serena's mouth took in a sharp breath. Serena's hand tightened.

But, even with all of that, it was strange for her to realize that she wasn't especially surprised. Skipper had been a man who'd seemed to be searching for his own death, the whole time they'd known him. It appeared that he'd finally found what he was looking for. It wasn’t for her to say whether or not it had been worth it -- but it was always going to happen.

No, it didn't surprise Serena -- but what happened next did.

Dragan had doubtless come a long way to deliver that message. It had been quite the distance to that battlefield, and quite the distance back. That whole time, he'd probably had his task in mind -- telling the others what had happened to Skipper.

He'd done that now… and once those words passed his lips, and that job was done, his concentration wavered for a single fatal moment.

In that moment, the Cogitant boy toppled forward, landing on his face. In that moment, parts of his injured body began to fade back into existence, Dragan releasing his ability in the instant of consciousness he had left. In that moment, it was too little… and too late.

Dragan Hadrien lost consciousness, and the parts of his body that had not yet returned disappeared into nothingness. A leg, an arm, scraps from his face and torso and chest…

…and who knew what else on the inside.