The shower runs.
Arthur leans against the wall as water pours over him — distant, the memory of the crash looping behind his eyes.
Arthur sits at the control station.
Sarah and Anna dance on the observation deck.
Thomas practices knife-throwing in the gym. Every blade lands dead center.
An explosion tears across the engine room.
Arthur checks the sensors. A transponder flickers across the display: LHRS1456-239.
“Hunters.”
He banks the ship toward Adragu.
“I can make it back to the city,” he mutters, punching commands into the console.
Halfway through the turn—
Another explosion.
The ship lurches violently as its back third is ripped away.
Metal screams.
The hull scrapes across rocks and trees.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The memory shatters.
Arthur blinks back into the shower. Steam coils around him. Water falls.
He draws one long breath before moving.
---
Arthur turns off the shower. He grabs a towel, wraps it around his waist, and steps into the main room.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Zohn, sir. The bag man from downstairs. I’ve brought your clothes.”
Arthur opens the door. Zohn stands with an armful of neatly folded garments.
Arthur takes the bundle and hands him fifty credits.
“Thanks.”
He closes the door — then opens it again, as if realizing something.
“Zohn, could you get me the numbers for the other hotels in the area?”
Zohn smiles. “Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“I need a salvage company. My ship crashed.”
Arthur sifts through the clothes. “It’s a small craft, but it was my home. All my family photos are in there.”
“No problem, sir.” Zohn nods and heads down the hall.
---
By late evening, Arthur sits at the desk with the comm unit.
He dials through the list, leaving his name and call number with each hotel —
a breadcrumb trail for anyone who might be searching.
---
Floodlights sweep across rows of docked craft.
Arthur stands beside Porter, a scruffy pilot in a grease-stained jacket.
“The bag man said you were good,” Arthur says. “So, Porter… can you take me out there?”
Porter smirks. “Yeah. I can get you out there.”
“Power readers? Life-sign scanners?”
“Got both.” Porter eyes him. “Question is — you got the credits?”
Stolen story; please report.
He holds out a hand. “Two hundred credits.”
Arthur peels off the stack. Porter’s eyebrows rise.
“There’s also a night-operations fee,” he adds quickly.
“Two hundred for working this close to closing.”
Arthur doesn’t blink. “Not a problem.”
---
The ship hovers low over dark water, its lights carving tunnels through the night.
“So what are we looking for?” Porter asks.
“My ship crashed out here two weeks ago.”
Arthur’s voice lowers. “I need some equipment. And I’m looking for my friends.”
“If your friends are out here, you’ll be looking for bodies.”
Porter chuckles lightly. “No one survives crashes in this muck.”
Arthur doesn’t laugh. “If I made it, they will too.”
Porter’s smile fades.
“If you say so. But feels like you’ve got a few funerals ahead.”
Arthur says nothing.
---
“Alright. Here we are,” Porter says, slowing the salvage vessel.
“Take it slow. Spiral out.”
Arthur leans over the side, powering on the instruments.
Hours pass.
Two moons rise over the horizon, pale and distant.
Porter leans over. “We’re gonna have to head back.”
“I’ve got ten thousand credits that say we keep going,” Arthur replies without looking up.
Porter swallows. “Then we keep going.”
The search pattern widens.
Suddenly—
BEEP. BEEP.
“The energy reader’s got something.”
Arthur leans out. “Take us down.”
The ship hovers above the marsh.
Arthur drops into knee-deep water.
Wreckage lies everywhere — torn metal scattered like leaves.
He lifts a soggy journal. Thomas’s handwriting smears across the page.
Arthur’s face tightens.
He moves carefully, lifting a small metal plate.
Beneath it sits a crushed silver box.
He kneels.
Inside — four coin drives.
Arthur pockets them and climbs aboard.
Porter eyes him. “Find what you were looking for?”
Arthur nods once. “I’ve got my equipment.”
His expression hardens. “Now we find my friends.”
Porter nods and turns back to the controls.
“You’re the boss.”
---
Two moons hang higher now.
“You really think they’re still alive?” Porter asks quietly.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “They’re strong. If I—”
The life-signs reader chirps.
“Left side,” Arthur says. “Bring us around.”
He closes his eyes—
—and the White Void unfolds around him.
Rain falls beyond the canopy.
Water trembles around his boots.
“Can anyone hear me?!” he shouts into the storm.
Silence.
Then—
A faint voice.
“I’m here.”
Anna fades in — translucent, flickering.
Arthur runs to her, pulling her close. “Are you okay?”
“A piece of the ship crushed my whole left side,” she says softly.
Her gaze drifts to the rain. “It hurts. I also drowned.”
Arthur snaps back into his body.
“Lower the winch.”
Porter blinks. “Why?”
“Lower it. Please.”
Arthur jumps down, grabs the cable, and attaches it to a massive section of the Solace.
He signals the lift.
Porter hits the switch.
Inside the cockpit, he can’t see Arthur beneath the dark water —
only feels the strain in the controls as the winch engages.
The wreckage rises—
Anna’s mangled body appears beneath it, twisted and half-buried in muck.
As the pressure lifts, her wounds begin to knit —
ribs shifting, skin closing, color returning.
She rolls over and vomits swamp water.
A crab-like creature scuttles out of her mouth and disappears into the mud.
She wipes her face. “Thanks.”
She vomits again, steadies herself.
“Have you seen Thomas or Sarah?”
“Not yet,” Arthur says, helping her to her feet.
They look at each other — fear, hope, relief tangled together.
Together, they climb aboard the ship.
Porter sees her for the first time and freezes.
“It’s a miracle. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“The name’s Anna.”
She locks eyes with him. “Let’s get moving.”
---
They continue the search.
Hours pass.
No sign of Thomas.
No sign of Sarah.
Porter taps Arthur’s shoulder.
“The ship hasn’t got much left.”
He checks the gauges. “We can manage one more hour.”
Anna’s stare is cold. “Then we go another hour.”
Arthur nods. “Give it everything.”
He turns to Anna. “We’ve put a lot of hours into this search. It may be through.”
Time slips faster than she wants.
The wreckage thins.
The horizon lightens.
“We leave now — or we don’t leave at all,” Porter says, anxiety creeping in.
Arthur rests a hand on Anna’s shoulder.
“Take us back.”
Anna leans into him as quiet tears fall.
No words. No comfort. Just grief.
They fly home in silence as the sun rises.
---
Meanwhile, on a hunter ship somewhere in gate space, the hum of the gate chain fills the compartment — the only comfort in the room.
In the corner sits a ten-foot-square cage.
Two Hunters are inside.
A third sits outside, half-asleep in his chair.
“What is your name?” one hunter asks Sarah.
She lifts her eyes, meeting his.
Says nothing.
He punches her hard enough to knock the chair she’s strapped into onto its side.
Her eye swells — then recedes instantly.
Thomas works at his cuffs, tearing skin from his hand as he twists against the cold metal.
“Hit me if you need to hit someone to feel powerful.”
The hunter turns toward him — then grabs Sarah’s chair and drags it across the floor toward Thomas.
“What’s your name?” he asks Thomas.
Thomas hesitates only for a breath.
“Doug. My name is Doug.”
The hunter turns back to Sarah and slaps her again — hard — flipping the chair onto its back.
Thomas’s voice goes cold.
“We’re obviously who you’re looking for. What difference do our names make?”
“What is your name?” the hunter repeats.
Before they can answer, he kicks Sarah in the head.
She screams.
Thomas tries again — a better lie this time.
“You know who we are, right? I’m Arthur. This is Sarah.”
The hunters believe him immediately.
It’s the name they were looking for all along.
“That wasn’t so hard,” the second hunter says.
“You could’ve saved yourself some pain.”
Thomas looks at him.
“I once killed fifteen hunters with just a knife.”
His eyes slide to the one who hit Sarah.
“I carved the last one up like a melon — just to send his friends a message.”
He smiles.
“You apparently didn’t get the message.”
“What message is that supposed to be?” the hunter asks.
Thomas’s eyes snap back to him.
“That your life isn’t worth a couple of credits.”
The hunter laughs.
“You’re chained to a chair. Shut up before I carve you up like a melon.”
He steps on Sarah’s fingers, then grabs her by the hair and lifts her.
As the chair’s last leg scrapes against the metal floor, he asks again:
“What’s your name?”
Thomas leans forward.
“What’s your name? I just want to know whose body I’ll be stepping over.”
The hunter barks a laugh.
“What’s your name?” he insists again.
He draws back his arm to hit Sarah.
Thomas moves.
He tears free of his chair — bones grinding, cuffs splitting — and snaps the man’s neck before the blow can land.
The body collapses forward, falling into the doorway of the cage.
The second hunter panics, fumbling for the clasp on his pistol.
Too slow.
Thomas slams him against the bars, driving a forearm into his throat.
The man shoves him back — just enough space to breathe.
Thomas headbutts him.
The hunter staggers, dazed.
He goes for his knife.
Thomas smiles.
The man lunges, slashing — a messy, desperate arc.
Thomas traps his wrist, steps in tight, elbows him across the jaw, then spins back out, stripping the blade free.
With the knife now in Thomas’s hand, he moves again.
The hunter swings — wild — and Thomas slips inside the punch, jamming the blade into the man’s neck.
Blood hits the floor.
Movement outside the cage.
“Behind you!” Sarah shouts.
Thomas whirls, releasing the blade.
It flies straight—
—but a moment too late—
embedding itself in the chest of the once-sleeping guard just as he presses a button on a handheld device.
The sonic blast detonates across the room.
Thomas is thrown to the floor beside Sarah, the air punched out of him.
Their eyes and ears bleed.
Pain rips through them — near-unbearable —
dizziness, nausea, the world tilting.
Through the agony, Thomas whispers,
“Sorry.”
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