Where is she now? A massive chamber greets her, wider and taller than a reef, curved hullmetal walls so distant they form a horizon. The walkway rings the room, and below that an open pit pregnant with massive gray cylinders, fed by and wrapped in pipes. Has to be some kind of circ chamber, because it’s mostly empty space, drop lights fixed to the ceiling far abovehead. The sense of breath—hot and cool winds blowing over her skin—seems to confirm it. And over there: bright purple rectangle over a recessed door. Universal exit sign. Misery collects her breath, gives thanks for her continued existence, and gathers her determination. Let’s go.

Several steps away from the exit she halts. Next to the door, under the cone of a portlight, stand four figures in atmo-blue jumpsuits. Staring.

“Hey,” she says, propping a hand on one jaunty hip. She’s close enough to see their faces, close enough to see they’ve got no name/pronoun tags on, close enough to see they’ve obviously got a game of rumsake going atop the silver crate that’s upturned between them. Skivers? On a break? Workers, at any rate—people on her side. Two taller ones, a third built like Misery, and the last one skinny and feral as a hungry rat. She tries a smile. “I’m just passing by.”

They don’t mean her any harm. She can see that in their faces. No aggression here, just bafflement, tentative curiosity, and a hope that she’s not gonna mess up their leisure time. She holds both hands up, tender palms outward. “I’m not here for trouble. In fact, just pretend I’m not here at all.”

One of the tall ones says, “You look like you’re in trouble.”

The skinny one says, “Your face got fucked up.”

And the one who’s built like her, the one who seems warmest of them all, points to hir face and says, “You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”

Misery widens her lopsided grin, and the crust of blood on her cheek makes itself known in a wave of small prickles. “Don’t mind that. Just ran into a sharp edge. You know?”

Frowns and uncertainty in response. The workers’ Standard is strongly accented and so unlike the crisp phonemes that dominate the waves, but she doesn’t recognize the locality. Nothing like the Apisian lilts she’s used to. None of the four are saints; their hair lacks that telltale sheen. What would a saint be doing as an hourly wage-grunt in the bowels of a space station, anyway? Misery doesn’t want them to get involved either. It wouldn’t be fair. “Just let me on my way. You never saw me.” She points to the exit. “I’m headed right out.”

The hungry-looking one curls hir lip and snorts. “That door’s locked. There’s no key.”