The holystone activates and Misery falls through it, plowing through gel thicker than her head, finding nothing but air on the other side. She tumbles onto her hands and knees, walloped back into her body with an angry smack that shoots up the bone. The epitome of grace, Mx. Misery Nomaki. She swears a little, because she has the mouth for it now. After thousands of melds with holystone, Misery still gets rustled by the out-of-body transitions every time.

Ruin stands in the middle of the outside passageway, arms folded, brows knitted, lips thin. Zie doesn’t need to walk, blinking in and out of places like a photon, and Misery could wring hir neck for it. Can one strangle a delusion? Misery hasn’t yet managed to lay a hand on Ruin: zie moves too fast, flitting out of reach every times she gets close. Of course.

Zie says, “Turn back. Return to the room you were in.”

“Not a room. A cell. And you can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my brother.”

“You will regret continuing upon this path.”

“Great, add it to my regrets pile.” She dusts herself off and takes stock. She’s made it out—good. She hasn’t set off a siren—even better. Some time to think.

Inside the cell it was gray and metal and frigid. Outside it’s still metal and frigid, but at least there’s light. Misery’s at the tail end of a nitro-white corridor, sleek reflective panels rimmed by light at the edges of floor and ceiling. It curves away from her and beyond the line of sight. No vents along these pristine surfaces. No ducts. Hidden, probably. This is deep space, the station’s got to have a circ system somewhere. That oxygen isn’t going to make itself. It’s her best hope, hiding in those veins while she figures her way around and out: she’s not armed, this is unfamiliar ground, and the Imperial Army won’t go light on her. A head-on confrontation would mean death.

What’s the plan? Find the deep vents, find a place to hide. Get to a safely crowded area—civilian dock, merchant zone, whatever, wherever they on- and off-load ship crews. Find a leaving captain willing to take her on, or sneak into a hospitable cargo hold. Get out, at any rate. Anywhere in the galaxy would make a fine landing. How many years has she got left, fifteen, twenty? Possibly less. Lots less. Mother wasn’t forty when she died, and Misery—she’s twenty, and the delusions have started showing up. It’s only a matter of time. Maybe ten. Maybe five. It’s fine. Enough time to drink in the stars, enough space to knock out a few adventures like Mother used to tell her. She’s not interested in being anybody’s savior.