“He told me—” Five’s voice breaks a little as he continues addressing Eight. “He told me I’d have a chance to talk you guys into joining. No one would have to get hurt if you just accepted Mogadorian Progress. He kept his word before, I mean, I’m living proof, right? When the charm broke, he could’ve killed me, but he didn’t.”

Five must be talking about Setrákus Ra, about a deal he struck with the Mogadorian leader. He walks around the table, turning his back on us. Marina takes a step towards him, but I don’t let her go any farther. I don’t know why Five is talking so much, but he has to know we’re here. I’m not sure if this is a trap, if he’s baiting us, or what is going on. But I want to listen.

“I didn’t expect you to be so brainwashed,” Five says, standing over Eight, his hunched back presenting a perfect target. “Thinking about everything in black and white, heroes and villains.”

Five reaches down and lifts Eight’s pendant, squeezing the jewel in his fist. His Legacy—Externa, he called it, where his skin takes on the quality of whatever he touches—kicks in, Five’s skin briefly flashing the shimmering cobalt of Loralite. After a moment, he lets the pendant go with a sigh, and his flesh returns to normal.

“But then, maybe I’m the brainwashed one, right? Isn’t that what you guys said to me?” Five lets loose a low laugh, then reaches up to carefully adjust the gauze over his destroyed eye. “They fill your head with all this shit—the Elders, the Great Book. All these rules about who we’re supposed to be. But I don’t care about any of it. I’m just trying to survive.”

I feel Nine’s hand sweating in mine; he must be struggling to hold himself back from attacking. Marina, meanwhile, isn’t radiating the furious cold she was moments ago, probably because the scene unfolding before us is so misguided and pathetic. If Five’s speech—clearly for our benefit—has revealed anything, it’s that he’s pretty much lost his mind.

Five brushes a speck of something gently from Eight’s forehead, then shakes his head.

“Anyway, the point is, I’m sorry, Eight,” Five says, that know-it-all tone still in his voice but mixed with an undercurrent of sincerity. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll be a coward, a traitor, a murderer for the rest of my life. That won’t change. But I want you to know that I wish things could’ve turned out differently.”

Behind us, someone clears his throat. All of us were so wrapped up in Five’s unhinged monologue—Five included—that we didn’t notice the Mogadorian officer enter. He eyes Five warily, his posture stiff and formal. Looking at him, standing there like a soldier ready to deliver a report, it occurs to me that this Mogadorian might actually take orders from Five. If that’s the case, he seems way disgusted by it.

“We are finished loading the ship,” the officer says.