The Servitor ricocheted off Piero’s shoulder with a sickening crack, then continued on, barreling with total momentum into the clear, tall rectangle of the brig. Then came another crack, a louder one, and a high metallic sound, likes two knives scraping together. The clear sheeting couldn’t take the impact, splintering and caving in at three distinct points, then falling, collapsing inward. Edison threw himself backward against the wall, flattening himself to avoid the sharp edges.

Piero’s shoulder hung loose in its socket, but that seemed to bother him not at all. He righted himself at once, smiling with his ragged wound of a mouth. JAX’s blow had knocked his arm out of alignment and torn away most of the muscle, revealing the shards of slick white bone beneath. It seemed even starker and more naked, bathed in the glowing blue threads that also hung in shreds around his arm.

But he didn’t come for them as Misato expected. Instead, he turned, surprisingly adroit in his mangled state. He had stripped to the waist at some point, his jumpsuit in tatters, the broad planes of his chest torn clean of human flesh, and the bright blue strands pulsed quickly, mimicking whatever adrenaline flooded his body.

JAX had lodged himself in the brig next to Edison, his head somewhere inside the wall panel. The rest of him jerked and spasmed as if in death throes.

To her credit, Rosalyn ran in without hesitation, holding her little multi-tool up and diagonal to her right shoulder, preparing to slash. But Piero was faster, and more reckless, diving toward Edison in the brig, using the chaos to grab the captain by his forearm and swing him around. With his other hand he pressed on Edison’s upper back, forcing him to his knees and bringing his neck perilously close to the jagged edge of the broken sheeting.

“Wait!” Misato cried out, a hot flicker passing across her forehead. Piero—the Foxfire—wanted in, badly, wanted to control the whole chessboard and not just half the pieces. Part of her almost gave in, not out of weakness but desperation. If she were strong enough, stalwart enough, she could connect to him and try to appeal to whatever was left of his better nature.

Rosalyn heard her, stopping mere feet from the two men, her weapon still raised and trembling.

“He’ll do it,” Misato breathed, staring into Piero’s silvery-white eyes. There was nothing left of his humanity, she thought, nothing there but savage allegiance to the Foxfire within. This was something new, an evolution. Before, the Foxfire had felt invasive, surely, but the takeover had been gradual and almost friendly, as if the monster could cajole them into buying its propaganda. This was not negotiation but bare hostility.