A splitting headache is the first thing Nova registers, and her palm is pressed into the throbbing knot on her head. A low groan fills the tiny cell, and the markazian rubs her eyes to reorient herself. "Ugh, stars, no wonder Ratchet used that wrench so much. The thing is effective."

Her mind recounts events up to the current situation, but reliving the past isn't the main focus when it occurs to her that her hands are no longer gloved. "He took my armor." She's thankful she's not exposed entirely, but in a place this hostile she feels completely naked regardless. "Bastard," Nova grumbles as she furrows her brows, sitting upright and narrowing her eyes as her thoughts wander.

Nothing reaches her ears except the sound of a wall clock's tick, blending with fans coursing air through the space that's way too cold to be comfortable. It's a fact that's made even more insulting by the fact that her only clothing for now is the tank top and soft leggings she normally wears underneath her gear. A chill down her spine reminds her of another reason Nefarious' theft seems almost petty: Thermal regulators are built into most armor.

The worst part of things, she decides, is that part of her almost halfheartedly expects a voice to keep her company. Clank, Ratchet, anyone that could give some closure or explanation for why things turned out this way. "I wish I had my brooch," the markazian eventually mutters to herself. "It'd be nice to have someone to talk to. Even if that person's been dead for a century." As soon as the thought escapes her lips, she blinks in shock, chuckling as she scratches her scalp at the absurdity of it all. "Ah jeez, I really am going crazy aren't I?"

The markazian's eyes lock onto a figure, appearing right outside the force field that locks her away from the outside world. It's metal frame, thin and familiar, keeps its focus to the rest of the guards. "Maybe you were right after all." A disapproving hum vibrates in her throat, and Nova gets up and walks over to him. Pressing her back against the wall of light, she slides onto the floor and rests her head against the force field. "You can't hear me, can you Saros?"

She's met with silence; the biobliterated markazian doesn't even stir to look back. "Figures. I really am alone now, huh? Just my thoughts and mistakes. Well, until Nefarious comes by to gloat, I guess. My gut says to apologize, for everything...but I guess there's no point if you're not there anymore."

Silence gives way for ambient noise to take center stage; the wall clock's tick mocking her. There's the fleeting idea in Nova's head to count the seconds in an effort to pass the time, but the onslaught of other thoughts constantly makes her lose count.

'The village is gone. Everyone's gone. That broadcast. Everyone knows I failed.' Her mind wanders to Clank, to the look on his face, and she pulls her knees to her chest. Burying her face in between her thighs, she tries in vain to block out the sound as the ticking goes on.

GIving up on that plan too, Nova steals a glance at Saros. Her lips curl into a pout as she tries to pull forth good memories from their time together, short as it was. "I wish you were here," she mumbles. With a weak chuckle, she grins at the metal figure outside. "We've still got to see the sequel to that movie someday, after all."

Reminding herself of the movie, her mind begins to wander. The cell holding her; the heroes of that movie were once in a similar room. A catchy tune played in that scene, as well. 'Might as well pass the time somehow.' Nova closes her eyes, trying to imagine every detail of said scene as her throat softly rumbles to the music in her mind.

"Pardon the interruption, miss."

A startled Nova whips her head around to find the source of the unfamiliar voice: a wide set robotic butler right at the force field. The tray of food he holds is nothing extravagant; just a simple, light sandwich of lettuce, tomato, meat and cheese paired with bottled water. "I have a meal for you, but you'll have to move out of the way."

She glares at him, huffing as she chooses to turn around and ignore him. "Go away. And tell your boss he can shove that tray up his-"

Unphased, Lawrence simply cuts her off. "I am only doing my job, Miss Nova. Now please, move out of the way so I can give this to you. You've been unconscious for some time now."

The fact that he uses her name directly gets her attention, but she simply rolls her eyes with a mocking scoff. "What, no 'Copy'? No 'Ratchet'?"

"They say it's unwise to bite the hand that feeds you, miss," he deflects. "I'm simply trying to be polite; don't waste your venom on me. I can assure you my employer has greatly built my tolerance for it." The markazian stirs at his words slightly, eyeing him up and down to decide what to think of his words. "Well?"

Giving in, Nova stands up, allowing Lawrence the space to open a small hole in the field as he offers the tray. She hesitates, looking at the food and back to him. "This better not be poisoned or something."

The butler tilts his optics, to simulate a raised eyebrow. "If Dr. Nefarious wanted you dead, would you be standing here now?"

Giving it a bit of thought, Nova sighs, unable to deny his logic. "I guess not." She takes the tray, sitting down in front of the butler cross-legged as she eats. Taking a swig from the bottle, the young woman looks up to the only company she has for now. "But I don't get it. Why bother with the food, anyway? I doubt you and Nefarious care to eat. Doubt you two really care if I do, all things considered."

"For two reasons. Firstly, giving you this meal was to extend an olive branch of sorts." Upon watching her face shift from suspicion to genuine confusion, he explains. "The gesture is one of peace; an excuse to talk to you without my employer's...enthusiasm damaging your eardrums or shorting out my audio receptors."

"I guess it's better than silence, or his squawking," she decides. "But my time's up anyway; I'm sure your boss will want me dead later, for whatever's in that dumb script. Not sure what kind of 'peace gesture' that's supposed to be."

"I wanted to thank you directly." Lawrence looks into the hallway, presumably towards his employer. "I haven't seen the doctor this inspired in a very long time; since he met my child I think. We all have our interests, and this line of work gives him purpose."

The markazian's eyes narrow as she turns her attention to the sandwich before her, confusion flipping back to annoyance. Picking off the tomato, she discards it onto the tray before digging into the sandwich. "And why should I care about Nefarious' good mood?"

Lawrence doesn't clap back. Instead, he simply smiles with a strange sense of pride as he watches her eat. "I can see it now, in your eyes. You really are Ratchet reborn."

There's another, harsher scoff as she turns her face from his. "Don't insult me," the young woman grumbles, polishing off a final bite of the sandwich. "I never asked for any of this drama."

"It was not an insult, but a compliment. It's a strength that, from my perspective, suits you well. Now, to the other reason I came." Opening his personal storage, the butler offers a new set of clothing; one that Nova immediately cringes at when she sees the orange material. "Nefarious has requested that you wear these. Don't worry for privacy; there are no cameras in your cell and the force field blurs all detail within."

"Gee, thanks. I'm glad Nefarious isn't a pervert at least."

"We may be villains, or villain-adjacent at least," he shrugs, "But we do have standards."

Stepping closer to the pile of clothes, Nova pouts as she begrudgingly accepts them. "Fine. He gets the clothes, but I am not wearing that hat. I'd rather cut it into a hair tie or something, personally."

The butler can't help but smile at her tone as the hole in the force field closes once more. "I'm sure the rest of the clothing would be sufficient. However I must agree; the cap wouldn't suit you at all. As far as modifying it, I unfortunately can't allow you to have scissors, thread, or a needle here."

"That's understandable, I guess." The markazian's gaze wanders, unsure what to say other than that. It does, however, occur to her to think of things from Lawrence's perspective. She decides in the end, that he's at least been kind to her and that deserves recognition. "Thank you. For the food. For being Nefarious' partner, you're not that bad."

"For being Ratchet's spiritual successor," he counters, "I must say that I do appreciate your personal methods and style. I have shown my family some of our footage of you, and they share a similar sentiment. Good luck, Miss Nova." With that, he bows his head and makes his leave.

Despite it all, she can't help but smile at the thought, if only for a moment. That feeling sticks, until the markazian remembers the weight of the clothing in her hands. Tapping a finger to the shirt, she immediately recoils in shock at the unexpected texture. "What the—is this plastic?"

…

Right on schedule, Two of Nefarious' guards, as well as the metal Saros, return to their posts outside her cell after giving her time to change. The beeps of buttons and the hum of a deactivating force field grab her attention, and she turns to glare at them both. Saros, she notices, holds a set of plasma handcuffs and walks in her direction. In response, she coldly swats them away. "Don't bother, I'm coming." To her genuine surprise, he obliges.

The walk through the space station's cold halls is quiet as two guards lead the pair forward.

…

Various Nefarious troopers practically run circles around Nova, who's currently sat at a vanity with a well-lit mirror. They each carry some sort of styling product, from hair to high quality makeup, taking their time to make sure their master's orders are carried out to perfection. The colors aren't what the valkyrie stylist she had before would pick, but it matches the outfit and Nefarious insisted to his troops that he had a vision.

"Shape out the eyebrows, but don't pluck them thinner. Put yellows and oranges on the eyes to add depth. Accessorize accordingly and make it look right," he had said. It's a tall order, and three stylists have already been sent to the west wing's incinerator. The new head stylist shudders as they wordlessly apply eyeshadow.

Meanwhile, Nova watches. Her face remains still and blank, but it hurts her very soul to watch as they brush through her hair, harshly destroying the natural curl pattern and turning it into a frizzy wall of brown. At one point it was braided, but that was the first stylist's suggestion that was immediately rejected by Nefarious personally when a photo was sent his way. It looked "all wrong," he'd said quite aggressively, but the markazian didn't quite catch the exact words; something about 'country bumpkins'. It's a mystery to her why it matters so, and what that phrase exactly means without knowing any further context, but there's not really the mental energy available to question it.

And so, it was decided to straighten her hair and leave it be. It'll certainly a process, considering it's sheer thickness, but orders are orders after all.

The lone organic silently reflects on her appearance; the makeup is by technicality flattering in design and style, with sharp eyeliner and contour that suits her face's shape, yet according to the color scheme she knows deep down who it's representing.

And it all feels like a complete and utter mockery. A silly face paint, paired with an overpriced holiday costume made with cheap, itchy material held together by tiny square fasteners that would blow away with a slight breeze, doing nothing to protect against the chilly autumn air. 'It's not my color. It's not me. It's wrong,' she thinks to herself.

'But I guess it doesn't really matter anymore.'

One of the troopers carries in a straightening iron of a brand she's surprised to recognize. The sight of it prompts a memory from the previous weeks, back to a conversation she and Qwark had, of all people. The specific words escape her, but her mind's eye pictures the mall.

She and the others had somehow drifted into a shop with various hair products, and she recalls scanning the wall for something to use for herself on special occasions. A straightening iron had caught her attention, and the green-tinted celebrity had enthusiastically explained the proper etiquette for using such tools without damaging one's hair. Considering his background, she's not surprised Qwark has such knowledge, and deep down she's grateful he shared it.

Silently, she thanks the stars that Nefarious, or more likely Lawrence, she assumes, at least has the courtesy of using heat-protective spray for this, like the green celebrity hero had mentioned before. With a bit more thought on it, Nova asks herself why the doctor would even bother with such tools at all. It's not a personal favor, of that she's certain. If that was the case, Quantos wouldn't have been attacked so harshly. It's important that she looks 'perfect', so she assumes it'll be recorded, whether she likes it or not, but...to look perfect Nefarious' amusement? Or maybe for Ratchet's sake?

It's the only theory she has, and it only leaves her more confused at his reasons.

...

Saros sneaks a glance at a now properly decorated Nova, who looks extremely stiff as if trying to mask her discomfort. Her face is completely blank, and has been since she first left her cell, but her eyes speak a thousand words at once as they reach the tiny elevator. "Level 6." Soft music peeps through the speakers as they begin to shoot upwards. As if by reflex, Nova lifts to her tiptoes to compensate, grateful that her new boots are surprisingly flexible enough for the motion. Her fingers tap her shirt to the beat of the music, in an attempt to distract herself from whatever's next.

Without warning, the metal markazian harshly shoves Nova's arm to the side, throwing off her balance and knocking her into the guard beside them. As the guard moves to strike back, Saros harshly grabs it by the blaster, shooting into the corner of the elevator pod. The second trooper immediately lunges forward, but is shot down just as quickly.

"Hey!" Glaring daggers into her captor, the young woman harshly pulls at her wrists as they're quickly bound by plasma cuffs. "What's the big idea, you walnut?! You-" He points her hand upwards, bringing her attention to the smoldering pile of scrap metal and wires that once served as a camera.

Nova's eyes widen, watching as his optics change in color from their usual red to a softer hue. That color…the color of Zoni magic, she realizes. "How?" To answer her question, he pulls her hair clip from his inventory. "A protective charm," she mutters under her breath.

"Hey, don't give that thing all the credit."

Nova gasps at the familiar voice, and can't help a huge, toothy smile growing on her face. "Ratchet?! Oh, I'd be mad you're here, but right now it's just good to hear your voice. But how? What'd I miss?"

"Your armor was in my inventory," Saros explains. "You guys saved me."

"It must have reacted to Ratchet's charge," the young hero guesses. As Saros moves to return the armor generator, his hand is pushed away. "Hold onto it for now. I don't know if he's the only thing holding Nefarious' programming back. But if there was ever a moment I needed you to listen to me, it's now." Nova's face has dropped by now, taking on a deathly serious tone as he pockets the trinket. "If something goes wrong, run. His reasons for wanting me have nothing to do with you, and you didn't deserve to get dragged into this mess."

Saros shakes his head. "Neither did you. We're gonna get you out of here, somehow." He speaks lowly, nearly whispering into her ear. "Follow my lead, Nova. I don't know what's coming but whatever happens, stay strong." As the elevator slows to a stop and he gets back in character, she nods in understanding before facing forward once more.

Smoke pools out from the space as the doors open, and a holographic Lawrence is there to greet them. "Oh my, what happened here?"

"The prisoner attempted to escape, and has been apprehended," he says, harshly grabbing Nova's wrists to demonstrate his point. Taking the hint, she snaps her wrists back and struggles against his grip, even going so far as to bring the cuffs to her teeth in an effort to bite them off. However, no one warned her that bringing her face anywhere near plasma lining would immediately burn her mouth on contact.

Squinting his optics at the scene, Lawrence is convinced by the near-feral display. "Very well, then. Be sure to bring her to the lab as quickly as you can."

"Yes, sir." With that, the Holo-Lawrence fades away. Grabbing her outfit by the hex mount, he leads them both forward. The young woman's mind reels at the mental whiplash of the situation, closing her eyes as she meditates on the situation to the best of her ability-

And she feels it; Clank's presence. He's close, but where?

"Keep moving, prisoner," Saros orders, and Nova starts walking once more. She focuses once more, trying her best to pinpoint Clank's zoni aura, and it points her upward. 'In the vents?' Sure enough, she can barely hear it. He's moving slowly, carefully, so as not to give away his position.

Nova takes in a deep breath when they stop right in front of a door; Nefarious' personal lab. As Saros punches in a security code, she looks over to him. "I know you can't hear me," she adds, hopefully keeping their cover intact, "But…I liked the nickname you gave me. It was cool."