Rocket bolted through the dormitory, a rather modest room with a less modest assortment of furniture, each piece large enough to hide beneath or behind, with enough items flat against the tiling to obstruct the view across the floor. He scurried past each piece of furniture, out of sight of Sale, then hid beneath a bed near the rear of the room.
Why hadn't the weapon fired? The captain had turned with such certainty, as if preemptively anticipating the jam. There was some nature to the firearm that he hadn't anticipated, or that she'd withheld for a situation like this.
Despite labored breaths, Rocket held shut his mouth, burning his lungs yet muting himself. Sale entered the dormitories, beginning her search, with the perpetual silence interrupted by soft, metallic footfall.
Overheating. That must've been the cause. A weapon such as this is manufactured with the protection of its user as a foremost priority. Under no circumstance would the rifle refuse to fire unless doing so would put the user at risk, the only instrument capable of doing so being the battery, which already was subjected to a superheated environment. Manufacturing error was not considered. Rocket had constructed this weapon nearly from scratch, understanding fundamentally every aspect of the device.
Slowly, to avoid any excess noise, Rocket began disassembling the weapon. Undoing the latches that held together the piece was a silent process, and tentative, precautionary movements facilitated the muting of further detachments. Sale searched through the room tentatively, careful to not allow Rocket the upper hand.
Revealing more pieces of the weapon only confirmed its inoperability. The electrical components responded to a thermal detection mechanism. The mechanism locked the weapon, and couldn't be removed without finer tools. Bludgeoning, burning, or otherwise destroying the detector would render the weapon similarly inoperable.
After a few moments of focused disassembly, removing any extraneous pieces, Rocket was left with little more than useless, component parts, and still charged batteries. Every moment, the captain came closer, the soft vibrations of footsteps growing more resonant with the passing seconds.
Rocket's head and body burned. He was beginning to suffer heat exhaustion. Even thinking became difficult. It would be so easy to lie here and give up. Perhaps she'd execute him quickly if he refused to fight. But yet, the dour cell from his youth was far more disheartening than this situation. Not once did he give up hope. He could attribute his continued drive to Lylla, yet with her absence, his willpower was similarly expunged. The captain, during her provocation, was correct on one matter. Rocket only escaped through the sacrifice of his crew. If their deaths were of any value, his continued survival was imperative.
There were just a few places left for the captain to check, leaving Rocket mere moments before his imminent death.
Less than a day ago, this same fear coursed through him, extinguished only by the actions of the same woman now inducing it. Why had she saved him yet so willingly murdered the child? She saw the child as a threat, yet not him. But why save him at all? She sought redemption for her previous actions. Yet, was this drive for redemption so consuming, that she was numbed and blinded to her own corruption? Her actions were not driven by remorse or justice, but fear. An inescapable fear of death that overwrote any morality or dignity the captain once had. Her kindnesses were afforded only to those within her graces, all others were extraneous. Her survival was her own utmost priority, surpassing all other drives, and that was her weakness.
Deep in ideation, Rocket recalled the blow torch in his pocket, an idea manifesting within his mind.
Day after day, nightmare after nightmare, Sale relived her mistakes. Every possible iteration on the night her crew was lost, she played in perpetuity within her mind. She knew not to trust the child, yet she let them onto the ship. Every moment of every day she dreaded for the safety of her crew, keeping a close watch on the child.
Sale entered the dormitories, beginning her search, with the perpetual silence interrupted by soft, metallic footfall. Rocket was mostly uninjured, and turning her back on the assailant, Sale knew, would surely result in her death. As such, his execution was necessary.
Yet she was not infallible. Every living creature needed rest, including her. The child knew this and struck accordingly. The ever paranoid captain was awoken by the barely audible sounds of struggles in the crew's quarters, muted by thick, metallic walls. Her fears were set alight, then confirmed as she entered the room. The child, covered in blood, was soon executed by the captain.
Sale searched through the room tentatively, careful to not allow Rocket the upper hand. While she was injured, her condition was stable, and the drugs within her system allowed her mind and body to continue mostly unfettered by the heat.
Vividly, she recalled every second and sight of the experience. Her pounding heart from the panic of combat and danger her crew endured, followed by the draining blood from her face. A numbness soon washed over her as she gazed upon each bed, her body growing stiff, akin to a statue posed in a combat prepared stance for an already victorious, though deceased enemy. All her training and hardships were a testament to her failures and ineptitude.
Every moment, the captain came closer. Though she was galvanized in her purpose, her mind was stalwart and focused. Even the simplest of enemies necessitated respect.
Time passed, though the wounds never healed. Every day she awakes expecting to undertake the same responsibilities, that being to her crew foremost, then her ship, yet only the latter remained. Involuntarily, she recounted impromptu mantras, reminding herself of her failures and every manner of more proper decision making that would've led to her crew's survival. With every modicum of willpower, she desired a way to atone for her mistakes, that opportunity arriving with the escape of Rocket.
There were just a few places left for the captain to check, though the danger present in the situation did not diminish. Every moment, Sale retained her attention, anticipating any surprise attack from Rocket. Her bare hands gripped her gun firmly, the soft tremors doing little to burden her aim.
Her atonement came through him, yet not in a resurrection of her halcyon lifestyle. Instead, redemption arrived through a reiteration of her mistakes. Rocket was that same child who killed her crew: selfish, deluded by emotion, and willing to execute the only person facilitating their survival. Undoubtedly, Rocket believes Sale is to blame for the fate of his batch. To an extent, she is, yet his naive worldviews only motivate rash action. Sale would not let the jealous, anger driven actions of an uncaring child dictate her survival, just as it dictated the survival of her crew. If the deaths of her friends were to be of any greater purpose, her survival, and Rocket's death, were necessary. In this goal, she was-
She felt the young raccoon ram his body into hers, bursting from behind a piece of furniture. She heard the clattering of metal and a beeping, then felt the grabbing claws of Rocket trace her arms, grabbing the barrel of her weapon.
Granted but fractions of a second to assess the situation, she realized Rocket had over heated a battery and dropped it at their feet as she approached. To prevent her retreat, he grabbed at her gun. Either she gave him the weapon, or they'd both die.
They met eye to eye, Rocket pulling at the weapon, yet holding it above their heads to prevent a direct shot. Sale growled, headbutting forwards against the assailant's snout, hearing the soft crunching of his snout as the unbreakable metallic plates of her skull impacted, and though his nose, at the very least, was certainly broken, he didn't yield his grip.
Sale growled at the failed attempt, releasing the gun and allowing her right arm to deliver a swift blow to his stomach, attempting to stunt his escape before she turned and sprinted away. Moments later, before she could turn back to see if Rocket found cover, the battery detonated, sending a deafening blast through the room.
Sale was propelled forward to the ground, her ears ringing and her head light. Over years of combat experience, she learned to reorientate herself quickly, turning back to see the warped, shattered metal of the various furniture within the room as well as the torn flooring from the explosion.
Rocket's own body was identified by his ringed tail and injured lower body barely visible from what partial cover he crawled to before the explosion. Despite his injuries certainly increasing, he was still armed, and must be dealt with swiftly. Without second thought, Sale produced a knife from her pack, the same dagger the guard used to injure her leg mere minutes ago.
Rocket found himself deafened, lying atop burning metal, his body exhausted and aching. Regardless, whatever lingering adrenaline remained in his system soon returned him to focus. Piercing pain lined his body, small pieces of shrapnel injected throughout his form from the detonating battery.
Despite the pain and disorientation, he held the gun firmly to his chest, soon adjusting it to a more proper firing hold. Adrenaline helped to numb the pain, though every portion of his body felt weak, and pushing his body to his feet was a strenuous task. Still, he stood upright, limping out from his cover and expecting to see the maimed corpse of the captain.
Before his eyes could even focus on the destruction the battery caused, he found himself tackled by Sale, who charged him with her weapon drawn. Her first strike, as she impacted, targeted his hands. As Rocket fell to the ground from her bodily impacted, he felt the heated dagger tear through the flesh of his hands. While the injuries were far from fatal, the pain forced the gun out of his hands, landing mere inches away as he fell onto his back.
His hands, though injured, barely reached to the captain's own arms as she attempted to plunge the knife into his torso. They were held in that position, pitted against each other by strength, though Sale had gravity, aided by the weight of her pack, on her side. Slowly, shakily, the blade moved fractions of inches toward Rocket's body, the silence broken only by their strained breaths.
In that moment, they thought only of their friends.
The blade plunged into Rocket's stomach, and he cried out in pain.
Sale's mind and body recoiled from the reaction. The agony resonant within the outcry reawoke her roots. Her eyes went wide at the sight of Rocket's pain, her hands soon receding from the knife, leaving it deep within his torso to avoid further hemorrhaging.
Rocket, seizing the opportunity despite his pain, shoved the captain away. Sale shakily got to her feet, maintaining only a shocked, silent expression. Quickly Rocket reached for the fallen handgun, then just as quickly lined up and took a shot at the captain, boring a hole directly into her chest. Sale did not feel the pain of the impact, nor the force that caused her body to fall backward.
The captain laid still, her mind unable to parse what she'd done, while Rocket shakily stood. He stepped past the incapacitated captain and toward the computer. His escape and successive freedom were still barred by the tracker. As such, he continued the captain's work on the computer, finding the process complex and unintuitive, further sullied by his nearly inoperable mind.
Sale's head turned toward Rocket, seeing the young experiment work for his own freedom. The drugs in her system began to wane, exhaustion slowly setting in. Within her pack remained one last vial of the drug. Should she inject it into herself, she could easily return to her ship, heal her injuries, then return to her perpetual freedom. Rocket was far too injured to fight back or even give chase.
She produced the syringe from her pack.
Sale recounted her life to this point. Her mistakes and subsequent regrets were overwhelming. Her perpetual remorse was so deeply ingrained, it became second nature. Her sole and only drive. The immeasurable suffering she invoked justified any action toward her redemption, even the death of the child. Yet in what form did the redemption take, if it drove her to the same atrocity; misguided, vengeful murder, that initially killed her crew? Her drive to be remembered as something good did not expunge her shortcomings. Instead, she viewed anyone who saw who she truly was as an enemy.
Focusing was an impossible task. Rocket's body grew heavier with each passing moment. His legs felt as if they'd relinquish his balance at any moment. Standing was a difficult prospect. Far more difficult was operating the complex computer in any precise manner. Every blink grew longer and heavier, numbness coursing through his body as more blood soaked his clothes, his senses dulled to uselesness. His breaths grew longer as his body began to surrender. His actions grew aimless as he worked, the computer soon-
Rocket was shocked into attention in a fraction of a second. All feeling returned to his body, amplifying his senses and pain as reality returned into sharp focus. The sensation, akin in shock to being thrown across a room, began with a sharp injection into his neck, and quickly spread across his form.
His surroundings became far more clear, particularly the figure standing beside him: the captain. Rocket jumped away, drawing his weapon and focusing on the captain. Yet, her focus was not on him, instead looking to the computer while she held a now empty metallic syringe, having injected its contents into Rocket. She dropped the vial to the floor and allowed her hands to work on the machine, not affording Rocket even a glance.
"Get back to the ship."
Rocket looked over the woman, assessing her injuries as far too severe to survive without immediate medical attention.
"I'll remove the tracker."
Her voice was neutral but unwavering. Rocket knew his time was growing scant. His escape would already be quite close, made impossible if he were to remove the tracker himself. His only real option was to trust the woman, then return to the ship and tend to his injuries. He held his stomach as he began to run, leaving the captain behind.
Throughout her life, Sale's greatest and most insurmountable fear was to be relegated as no more than data points, akin to so many experiments. Every aspect of her self being expunged from memory by the greater world.
Sale paused and looked over her shoulder toward Rocket as he ran off.
For a moment, she considered calling out to Rocket, asking if he'd remember her.
The moment passed and the young experiment ran out of sight.
Perhaps it's for the best if she was forgotten.