Unfettered by the threat of nightmares, the rest of Ono Red-2 has gone simply and easily to bed. Tank and Ghost had a good time skipping the pilots’ party and retired after exhausting the potential of inane discussion in Ono Red-2’s common space, something about crafting musical instruments from industrial scrap. Spider convinced his new pilot friend to join him for the night, and they vanished behind the red-lit rim of a door lock after a brief flash across the length of the common room. And Diamond was already in her private quarters when Misery got back, probably praying or sleeping or deep in contemplation. Her captain has a lot to work through.

The Lady Alodia Lightning, on the other hand, is MIA. Her quarters unoccupied and her presence unaccounted for since they were dismissed from training. As a saint, she can survive off starlight, and can skip eating with the proles if she so chooses. No idea where she went. Misery can pretend she isn’t curious. Misery can pretend she doesn’t care. But that would be a lie. After lying in bed for an hour getting progressively more itchy and irritable, she sat up with a new goal in mind: find the princess.

She must be somewhere on the station. Maybe high up? Talking to the General, perhaps? Trying to get out of pilot duty, to save herself further humiliation. It’s the best guess Misery has. She’ll have the best chances of finding her in the highest levels, anyway—something tells her the princess likes spending her time in restricted areas where no one else is allowed. Misery trusts her gut. How does she get there? She thinks of the fight gym she saw on the way to her first meeting with Ono Red-2. A good, accessible starting point. She’ll work her way up. Maybe bribe some guards into spilling more information. Can’t hurt to try. Misery pings the system now parked in the deep parts of her mind and asks directions.

The friendly system arrow takes her down miles of pale blue carpet, through looping trains of same-ish corridor slotted with the bright, angular features of spacebound living. A lounge pulsing with the shapes of bodies and orange quadrangles of light. Doors of sealed blast steel. Elevator ride. More elevator ride. Awkward silence as she pretends not to notice the other uniformed grunts staring her down, trying to pick apart her existence.