Zie says nothing. Of course not; zie only knows as much as Misery knows. She strides past the delusion into the depths of the loading bay, looking for a way out. Gone are the high ceilings and the sense of space; here in the intestines of the Capital, halogen lamps punch circles of light into narrow corridors lined with machinery and regulators. Misery ducks a hanging pipe as she steps into the metal tube that connects the bays. It twists and vanishes to the left, inviting her further into its depths. According to the map, she’s significantly overshot the level of the transit jetties; she’ll have to fight her way upward in an aching body while her enemies close in. Not ideal, but nothing in her life ever is.

Corridor leads to corridor, stacked on the sides with gray and silver boxes that radiate heat. Her footsteps ring on the mesh flooring and sweat gathers on her lip. Ruin hovers nearby, exuding an air of amusement that tips, at times, into delight. Zie is all of Misery’s worst impulses condensed into literate and aesthetic form.

Past another duodenal twist, the corridor opens into something resembling a walkway, with slightly more space and branches to either side. Voices drift from one of these numerous mouths, and Misery picks up her pace. She needs to find an elevator up, but the map is hopeless, the whole of the service sector is a black box. No one’s supposed to be here unless they work here, and if they work here they don’t need the map. Misery has an innate knack for navigating architecture, but will it work on the Capital? A space station does not follow the rules of gravity-bound moons.

Sound from behind. Footsteps. She turns: a pair of the white saints have emerged from the same tiny corridor she came out of. Void shit, how did they find her? They march forward, blank-faced and determined, and Misery breaks into a run, streaking down the walkway.

Another saint-pair emerges from the other end, blocking her way. “How many of you are there?” Misery screams. There’s the toolkits she’s taken, and she plucks one off her belt and hurls it with all the force she can.

Without blinking, one of the saints flips hir left hand, palm up like a door. Around the wrist is a silver band that hums. The toolkit freezes midair for a half beat and clatters to the ground. The saints watch it drop, then turn their cool gazes to Misery.