[Taban’s breathing has acquired the faintest wheeze, though he seems to be moving easily enough. When the HARE looks up at him, the camera’s view is partially obscured by his gloved hand.]

Taban: My oxygen’s at 5%. But it’s been that way for the last half-hour, or more. I don’t get it.

HARE: There are anomalies here.

Taban: Yeah. No kidding.

HARE: This planet—designation: HARPA—is dangerous.

Taban: Yeah. No kidding.

[A minute passes. Taban continues to breathe with a slight rattle.]

Taban: Seriously, fuck Daley. I’m leaving his ass. Soon as we get back. I don’t even care if I don’t know how to fly. I’ll figure it out.

HARE: I will assist.

[It periodically turns its lens to check on Taban’s condition. Through the dark curve of his helmet, it looks like his nose is bleeding.]

Taban: How far away is the Wyvern?

HARE: Approximately twenty minutes at this current speed. If this is the right direction.

Taban: Do you not know?

HARE There are anomalies here.

Taban: . . . We’ll make it. It’ll be there.

HARE: Yes.

Taban: Fuck.

HARE: How do you feel?

Taban: Sick. Nauseous. Like the ground is moving under me. Pulsing like a heart. Do you not feel that?

HARE: No.

Taban: . . . It’ll be fine.

[They continue walking in silence. Taban moves gamely, keeping a brisk pace—but his breath comes in hard, labored pants. He tries to steady himself, but the rasp of his lungs can be heard clearly through the HARE’s audio array.]

[Twenty minutes pass. Despite their steady pace, the landscape around Taban and the HARE never seems to change.]

Taban: Is he following us?

HARE: No. There has been no sign of USER Daley since he left the party.

Taban: Some party. Does he have any way of getting back? Does he know how?

HARE: . . .

Taban: Whatever. It’s the least of my concerns. I’ve gotta get to a med pod.

HARE: USER Daley might be dead.

Taban: What?

HARE: I enacted defense protocols. He was attacking you.

Taban: What are you talking about?

HARE: I targeted his chest. I struck it. Such a blow may have induced cardiac ischemia. The chances are likely.

Taban (breathing heavily): Can’t worry about that now. Wouldn’t be your fault, even if that did happen. He brought it on himself.

HARE: There are chances that he is well.

Taban: Yeah. Fucker.

HARE: There are chances that he is not.

Taban: Yeah.

HARE: . . . I am sorry.

Taban: Don’t apologize to me. There’s nothing to be sorry for.

[The HARE suddenly stops dead and enters analysis mode, its antenna stretching upward and emitting a pulsing green light that reflects off the ground beneath it.]

Taban: What is it?

HARE (looking around): We have reached the coordinates of the ship. It should be here.