CRICHTON WATCHED HIS DOOR SLICE OPEN.

All around him, he heard the rest on the block he was in do the same, the murmur of the prisoners and then the yells begin. It didn't take long for the place to explode. He pondered it for all of five microts, then pushed his way out into the corridor. Fires were starting to flare, and debris of various sizes was flying. Already there were bodies strewn all over.

He called for Harvey. He didn't answer. With a disgusted sigh, Crichton assessed.

The frelling warlord had put him pretty much in the centre of the prison, in the heavy security wing, and he managed a corridor or two – having to knock a few heads together to get there. He knew he could probably get out relatively easily – but that wasn't why he was here.

Somewhere on this wing was a small family of ladies who were in exactly the wrong place.

According to what he'd been told, Rial and her daughters would be in the centre of the prison, locked in the cells reserved for only the most important of prisoners and Crichton was counting on that meaning there were defensible ways in and out - for the important needed such security. Get in, find that sneaky corridor, get out. Simple.

The frell it was.

As he made his way through the prison, he could see and hear a definite direction to the prisoners movements, all flowing out - looking for exits. He encountered the bodies of guards and other prisoners - vendettas, of course, and knew it wasn't worth searching them. Given the amount of gunfire he could hear, he doubted the dead guards still had weapons and the living ones weren't about to give up any without a serious fight.

He needed a gun and soon.

Rounding a corner, he skidded to a halt, exiting out into a high area of tiers that descended deep, could see the prisoners spiralling down there, all furiously milling or fighting, the flow of them ebbing up his way. He jogged around the tier, and fortune smiled on him for a change - an open and yet unmolested security room, crammed with body armor and weapons.

Crichton hurried in. Armor, explosives, weapons, all neatly stacked and itemized. A quick dash down an armor rack netted him something close to his size, chest piece, arm and leg shields. It wasn't military stuff, but it'd do in the short term.

Feeling much better, he cast a quick glance around the rest of the room and saw something else that brought a smile to his face – Renvekja-class Assault Rifles. Built much like his Forge, but using particle energy instead of Chakkan Oil, it was swift and deadly and he helped himself. Fully charged and ready to go, which was particularly fortunate as a large inmate unexpectedly found the room and with a roar – possibly mistaking him for a guard due to the uniform, charged across the room at him wielding a rather large and jagged piece of already-bloody metal.

Crichton didn't hesitate – the Assault Rifle punched a clean hole through the guy. He actually managed a few more steps before his brain realized that he was dead and he crashed to the floor virtually at Crichton's feet. Outside he could hear the yells and screams - the prisoners and riot ebbing in and out of the sections – and it was moving closer. He pulled a pair of holsters on, quick-checked the pistols and was satisfied.

He looked at the corpse at his feet and knew that he couldn't avoid making more of them. He didn't know if these people were innocent or not – whatever the local's idea of 'justice' was – but he knew the only choice he had was whether they avoided him or came at him. He would let the former go, but the latter…?

If he wanted out of here in one piece – if he was going to accomplish what he needed to accomplish, he would have to kill today – often and a lot.

He stepped out of the room, armed and as ready as he would ever be.

First things first, he told himself. If I could choose otherwise, I would. But I can't. That's the whole wretched truth of it.

He consulted the map in his head of this prison, oriented himself and waited for the inevitable onslaught.

Crichton created a dark reputation that day, one that dogged him for the rest of his life. One that made a host of bounty hunters and enemy soldiers actually fear him, which, whether he liked the idea of not, saved his life innumerable times in the coming years.

He focused only on his goal. He killed and killed. That the majority of them would have killed him without a moment's hesitation made no difference in his mind. He had stepped over some limit in his own head and he knew he could never go back.

This was the cold-blood kind of killing and he didn't dare stop. He didn't dare.

There was too much at stake.

He knew he'd arrived when he turned a corridor and saw the group of hooting, slavering males scrabbling at a single door. A scream told him that they'd managed to open it.

He shouted… something… a word, some inarticulate growl, howl or roar – he didn't remember, but he got their attention.

Some went in after the females and some came on at him, howls and rage and bloodlust.

He drew his pistols and found his vision astonishingly clear, saw the onrush in startling detail, could see that metal rod coming slowly at his head, and that fist cruise leisurely through the air, count every hair, or scale, or tooth and claw. His pistols came up and he could see them with the same radiant clarity, see that his right-handed pistol had a smear of blood on its side and an odd scrape that looked like a lightning bolt.

They died. One got too close, a kick in the chest threw him back and a pulse-blast flung him into oblivion. A face come too close and the butt of his pistol would smash it away howling. When they managed to get under his pistols, he broke bones, he crippled men with his knees and elbows and heavy boots, and he never heard a word they said or a noise they made. They were simply in his way.

Crichton slid in multicoloured blood, inflicted pain and death but he never wavered. Panting in fear and intimidated by the ruthlessness of his attack, the survivors bolted away, scrambled back down the corridor.

Crichton stepped into Rial's cell and that clarity of vision followed, everything outlined with precision. A yell from one, in whose bloody hands a young girl struggled - perhaps twelve cycles old, perhaps thirteen. Two on a struggling woman who fought with grim tenacity. Two girls back-to-back, circled by taunting, viciously laughing males.

Something in Crichton urged him on. There was a creature inside his chest howling viciously for blood, telling him to kill and keep killing, to survive, survive above all else. It felt a million years old and it was a rapidly growing monster that threatened to take him over.

You are only the Creature, it told him, no one will ever care, you must be what you are.

It felt very right. It felt like justice. It felt like Power.

Crichton killed the first man first. The rest died in quick succession, no mercy shown, that precision of vision granting him perfect shots.

He felt pieces of himself go quiet and wondered what he'd suddenly lost for he could not feel a thing missing in him.

Before him, four women looked at him with the same fear and he felt a piece of himself fall away, to smash somewhere inside him like brittle glass, the monster laughing with a roaring fury.

I am what I am, he heard it echo in there, what they made me!

Then he saw a wisp of hope in the youngest daughter's eyes.

The monster started at that hope.

The Creature hesitated.

Crichton shook himself internally. Felt a liquid cool realization that the monster had its place. Yes, he had destroyed violent men. The fates of these females was in no doubt had he not intervened.

The monster had its place, but he ruled, Creature or not.

You're no hero, the monster spat, but hey, whatever gets you to tomorrow, ruthless to the end.

That's all I've got, he told it, hoping some part of it was true.

Rial Ha'la'D'Strand'm'tah shook herself from her daze and immediately regained her presence of mind and rushed to checked her daughters, forgetting the man in the doorway for a moment. Aside from tears and scrapes and a few bruises, they were unharmed.

She looked back as she heard the door close and the tall man in half-armor slump against it, leaning heavily on his rifle. She straightened, motioned her daughters to form behind her and stood tall, faced him.

Crichton took in her bearing, saw the dignity, the proud poise and he couldn't help himself, smiled at her, which seemed to take her by surprise.

"D'Strand'm'tah sent me," was all he said and it was enough. The girls looked at one another excitedly. He nipped that in the bud.

"At the moment, ladies, I'm all there is."

"If you are all, what else is there?" Rial asked, her voice rich.

"We have to go." He pushed himself up. "I'm hoping there's a private corridor out of here, y'know, for important guests like yourself."

"Perhaps," Rial said. She crossed the room, stepping lightly over the corpses. She felt along a wall until she found a switch which opened a hidden door.

"Here," she said triumphantly.

"Yeah, perfect," Crichton said and took a step. Pain lanced through his body, the adrenaline wearing off. He hoisted his rifle, saw it and his hands splattered in blood.

He could find nothing in him to resent or condemn their condition.

First things first.

"Go," he ordered, "stay close to me and do not, under any circumstances, wander off."

Crichton stepped into the hall beyond, the light dim there, nothing moving. Behind them, yells and distant screams ricocheted off the walls. At the end of the hall he saw a heavy door marked with the same symbol of the one in which he'd acquired his guns.

Security bunker.

Good. Once there he'd lock it down and wait on Koiban and Miriya to fry the place and let them escape in the dark.

It wasn't the best plan, but it wasn't bad. Inmates were still running and fighting, flitting through the hallways before him, but they had a relatively clear path to the security hub.

"Go calmly."

They went and he backed down it behind them, eyes watching for any stragglers that might happen by. No one came close.

He paused at the security door, glanced through the window on it for guards, who would be as much a threat to them as the prisoners, was gratified that the room beyond was empty. He opened it and followed the females in, pulled the door closed behind him as he urged them on, heard with satisfaction the lock snick home, heavy bolts drive home.

He heard sighs all around, saw them leaning or sitting down, the tension seeming to flow from them.

Crichton felt more weary than he ever had before, wondered if he'd ever know rest again.

He surveyed the room, crossed to set his rifle on a console and powered on the security system. Monitors sprang to life. He checked the immediate corridors around them, saw only bodies and debris.

Good. He had time.

As he turned away, he caught a glimpse of something in a monitor from the corner of his eye and turned back. An inmate ran up the hallway, only to stagger and collapse. Following at a measured pace, cloaked and masked, she dropped another that charged her, a blur of quills decimating the guy.

Well, hell, he shook his head, of frelling course.

He switched the view to the hall leading to their refuge, saw another masked hunter drawing down it.

A moment later, a silver mask was looking through the window of the door and the intent was obvious.

Hello there, Se'em'aari Triad. My time is up, huh?

The mask vanished and he knew she was looking for a way around.

So much for refuge.