Everything was a blur. Her whole body was covered in bruises, and breathing required more effort than she ever knew it could. A pounding headache and ringing ears made it hard to hear, but she could catch snatches of heated conversations around her as she hung there on death's doorstep, losing blood and ink by the second.

"...It has an 85% success rate"

"Look what it did to you..."

"...She's essential to the process"

"He told me to take care of her..."

Their voices grew in intensity, and a brawl broke out. Three or four men, she couldn't quite tell, engaged in an full-on fistfight around her. One drew a knife. There was more blood. It was quiet. One of the men... the general... took the stretcher she was laying on, and began wheeling her in the direction they had been going.

"It's okay." He reassured her in a low voice, taking her hand as she began to pass out again, "I'm here for you."

She came to in a lab. Half of the equipment was scattered across the floor, and dim light leaked in through the emptiness where the roof had been. The walls were stained with yellow ink.

"They'll be coming for me." General Octavio told her calmly as he filled a black case with a neat row of needles. Some of them were filled with red liquid... blood? Others had a thick substance with a sickly blue-green color that she didn't recognize.

"I'm taking you somewhere else for now," He went on after a moment, snapping the briefcase shut.

"I'm going to have to leave after that."

She nodded weakly as he picked her up in his arms and carried her out.

The next thing she was aware of was a dark concrete hallway, and the general kneeling over her. He had one of the red needles in her arm, slowly pushing the plunger toward her. Four empty syringes lay on the ground next to him. The injection stung, but she felt better than she had before. The bruises remained, but the feelings of lightheadedness and weakness had gone away by now.

"You should be okay." He informed her, squeezing her hand. He snapped the case shut again.

"I have to go now."

He stood up, and gave one final warning before he walked away.

"If you come across Commander Tartar from now on, stay away from him at all costs."

The air of military command that usually resounded in his voice was gone, and she could now pick up an undertone of desperation and fear.

"He's demented, he wants to use you, and as general, I'm telling you that you are not to take orders from him anymore."

She nodded, and made a mental note of the name. Tartar. He turned to leave, and she pushed herself to a standing position. She was sore, and the bruises on her limbs and stomach still throbbed, but she could stand.

"Good luck, general." She called through a dry throat, putting her already-stiff arm up in a salute. He turned around one more time, a wry smile on his face, and looked back at her. She could see tears in his eyes as he returned the gesture of military respect.

"Good luck, Alameda."

Everything was a mess. Her head spun with pain, and she couldn't stand up. There was the sound of a ringing telephone. A combat boot smashed into her face, sending her rolling across the floor. She soon came to a stop with her bloody cheek pressed to the concrete ground, hardly able to move. The telephone rang again, and something knelt down to look her in the eyes. His aquatic green skin looked it was melting, and his blue eyes were foggy and unseeing. Despite his zombie-like appearance, the face was not an unknown one. This was Commander Tartar. Or at least it used to be. He wore the black and red uniform of the Octarian military brass, but it was torn, and a faint emerald glow leaked out through the holes. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. He turned her body to face up toward him, and closed his ice cold fingers around her throat. She heard something snap as a stinging pain shot down her back, sending a short spasm through her core. His skin a slimy texture that made her skin crawl. With his right hand, he opened a glossy black case not unlike the one the general had used, and picked out a glass tube full of the blue-green fluid. She tried to choke out words of protest, but his grip was crushing. He brought the syringe down to her neck, and she winced as he pressed the tip in.

"Hey!" A female voice yelled from somewhere down the corridor. Tartar ignored her, and began to slowly inject the formula. She could feel the frigid solution entering her bloodstream, and she twitched repeatedly as it began to do whatever evil work it had been designed to. A burst of yellow ink hit Tartar in the back, and ungodly noises burst out from his lungs as he turned around to deal with the perpetrator. She pulled the needle out after he stood up, and dropped it to the ground. It was still nearly full. She looked down the hall to see who the newcomer was. It was an Inkling girl... the one who had nearly killed her earlier. Her weapon was raised and firing. The commander pressed on through the Inkling's shots, unfeeling and set on his new, homicidal goal. He never got close enough to lay a finger on her though. His cold corpse collapsed to the ground in a heap of dead flesh, and a faint yellow vapor rose from his now limp form.

The sound of a ringing telephone echoed through the tunnel one last time. The Inkling looked around for a moment, and her eyes landed on Alameda. They lingered there for a second, but only a second. She turned around and walked away, leaving the Octoling girl alone. Alameda could do nothing but watch as the ten-tentacled figure left. She tried to call out, but only blood sprayed from her mouth as she tried to cough out her words. Was she really going to die like this? Alone, on the cold concrete floor? No. This wasn't how it ended. She dragged herself to the side of the hall, and used the surface to push herself to a standing position. She had to lean on the wall for support, but found that she could walk haltingly. Maybe, if she got far enough, she would find someone. She pulled herself along at that slow pace for a time she couldn't measure, leaving the corpse of Tartar behind her. But eventually, her hand came to another wall. It was a dead end. She felt her way across the surface, but it was solid and smooth. She silently cursed, and let herself fall down, her will to move entirely depleted. This really was how it ended. She laid herself down on the grey floor, no longer mindful of her wounds, and hugged her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes as despaired sobs made their way up her throat, only to be trapped in her crushed voice box. Just let this be over, she prayed as a morbid peace filled her.

Let it be over.