Taurus doesn’t hesitate—point-defense cannons roar to life, streams of fire hammering across the void as he rips into Fatima’s Bounty’s weapons array. Sparks flare, plating buckles, and enemy systems begin to stutter. For Taurus, every pull of the trigger isn’t just battle—it’s payback. Payback for every friend and piece of his life burned away.

At the console, Synth leans forward, calm where others would panic. His hands move with practiced speed, plotting an intercept course to bring the Conrad within a narrow window of Wildcard’s position. At the same time, he splits the transmission—tight-beam laser to Wildcard, local shipnet to Ace. His voice cuts through both channels, sharp but steady:

“Trajectory is locked. Wildcard—you have one shot."

"Ace make it count - the window is very small."

Inside the fractured hull of Fatima’s Bounty, Wildcard tears the Emerald Disk from its Ryders pouch. Alarms scream, bulkheads rupture, and a storm of sparks showers the bay. He doesn’t waste a heartbeat—launching himself into the void, treasure clutched tight. The black rushes in around him, the ship falling away behind as he arcs into open space. For one lethal heartbeat, he is nothing but a shadow against the stars.

Ryder rips free from the pilot chair, ignoring the safety straps—there’s no time to waste. He lunges for Wildcard, but a glance through the cockpit glasssteel stops him—streams of fire from Taurus’ point-defense cannons slam into the front of his ship, shattering plating and hammering his synthetic body with unrelenting force.

Viper scrambles to ready the cargo bay for the “cargo” screaming in fast. Wildcard… no, this is insane—this is a really, really bad idea. He lashes cargo nets across the bulkhead walls in a rush, then ducks through the airlock and slams the pressure seal shut. The Conrad bucks like a wild bronco under Ace’s deft hand, alarms howling and klaxons bathing the bay in red as the cargo doors yaw open.

The instant Wildcard launches, the universe becomes a razor’s edge of agony. Vacuum tears the air from his lungs in a single violent gasp, the cold biting so deep it feels like fire crawling under his skin. His body screams with the pressure drop—eyes burning, veins bulging, his chest convulsing for breath that isn’t there. For a heartbeat, he’s nothing but a ragdoll spinning between stars and metal, stripped bare against the void.   He slams into the Conrad’s cargo bay, nets snapping taut around him with a bone-jarring crack. Something gives way inside—ribs, maybe his shoulder, his skull ringing with the hollow thud of impact. Pain floods him, distant and sharp, but fading too fast as shock drags him down. Red strobes wash the bay as the doors grind shut, sealing out the void. By the time the cargo pressurizes, Wildcard’s already slipping under—his body broken, frozen, lungs screaming for air, clinging to life by a fraying thread.   Viper is on him first, moving with brutal efficiency—cutting the straps, lowering him to the deck with the steadiness of a professional. Synth is already there, medkit in hand, his motions precise and practiced. Neither speaks. The only sounds are the hiss of oxygen, the muted alarms fading, and the faint clatter of instruments against the deck. Viper strips away the cracked armor with swift, sure hands, while Synth sets to work—checking pulse, sealing ruptures, stabilizing failing systems. Their silence speaks louder than panic; the urgency is in their movements, not their voices. Between them, Wildcard’s life is wrestled back from the edge, every action measured, every second precious.

Ace held his breath, angling the Conrad to swallow Wildcard’s body like some great sea serpent. Only when the bay doors sealed and the alarm died away did he release it. His odds had been slim—insane, even—trying such a maneuver. He switched his gaze to the cargo bay cam, searching for a sign of movement, but the console screamed before he could dwell.   Proximity alert.   Three escape pods tore free from the Valiant, blooming across the sensors. Survivors. No time to celebrate. No time to hesitate. Net fishing—except with a starship. Then the Valiant began to come apart, starting with the displacement drives, each rupture a chain of fire across the void.

Ace worked the grapples with a steady hand, weaving in the industrial ice-hauler netting to bind the drifting pods to the Conrad’s hull. The little ship strained like a tug hauling barges, escape pods lashed tight but kept outside where they belonged. Survivors or carriers—no one could say yet. For now, they’d ride the skin of the Conrad until a better alternative showed itself.

"You really are God's perfect idiot aren't you... with all his luck as well," he says softly as he works to minimize the damage of the emergency space walk.

Wildcard to synth, thanks for the save.

> "Not going to lie Wildcard, part of the only reason I arranged your save is I want answers, and we all needed to be alive to compare notes to get them."

No matter the reason I am alive thanks to you synth and the crazy piloting skills of Ace and for that I am grateful.

Taurus stirs on a cot wedged between stacked supply crates and jury-rigged med gear. The cargo bay hums with the low thrum of the ship’s engines, scattered survivors huddled in the background. He groans, forcing himself upright against the restraints of his bandaged ribs.   “...How long was I out?” His eyes dart over the faces in the dim bay, pausing on whoever is closest.   The silence in the cargo bay is thick, survivors avoiding his gaze. The faint hiss of a medline fills the gap. Taurus’ jaw clenches as the weight of the truth presses in, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.