She tilts her head, expression faceless. “He said I’d clean house after killing you.”
My blood freezes in my veins. “He lied.”
She says nothing. Just stares.
So I try again. More softly. “You remember ‘Messiah and the Maniacs’?”
Her eyes flick. A spark.
I swallow. “You know the theme song. From our childhood? You sung it when we were eight.”
She breathes. That tiny thing.
I start softly:
? He's the Messiah, he's the Maniacs… With his oft-incoherent motto... Run Bar Doughnin!
Her eyes go wide. She stares. I sing the next line. The words feel absurd in this hell corridor, but somehow they taste of home.
Slowly, she hums. Then sings:
? Mashed-up nonsense, made for take-outs... Crazy Heroes, raising HANDS!
I smile with tears in my chest.
She swallows. Voice shaky, but hers again. “Mashed-up nonsense…” she repeats, stepping forward.
I climb off the bunk, slide my arms around her waist. “That’s it. You’re here.”
She closes her eyes, nods, and lowers the pistol. I let her take the weapon and place it on the table.
Our bond crackles back to life, fragile but real. I squeeze her shoulder. “We need a plan.”
She runs fingers through her hair. “We pretend I’m controlled. They’ll let me lead you. On the bridge.” She hesitates. “He wants you there.”
I feel dread coil in my gut. “They’ll be waiting. It’s a trap.”
She glances fearfully down the hall. “Easier than me trying to do it blind. I’ll play the puppet. We bait them.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
We stepinto the corridor as a pair. Jasmine’s gait is subdued—like a marionette, like the monster she was trained to be. I keep my eyes off her face, pretending not to notice the tremble in her steps. “We’re doing this together,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll watch my back if I’m puppet.”
Her eyes glisten. She nods.
We reach the turbolift. She presses the button. Inside, she forces that blank mask and gives a little bow. “Mistress Nakamura waits on the bridge. I bring the prize.” She gestures to me. I keep my arms neutral, palms outward.
The lift ascends in silence. I feel the ship hum with tension around us. The doors open on the bridge—a scene frozen in low, saturated red.
Nakamura sits in the captain’s chair, expression amused. The entire bridge crew lies collapsed, unconscious or worse, around him. The air tastes of overcharged vents and betrayal.
Lanz lies on the floor by the main viewport. He’s pale and still. His good arm lies across his stomach. I rush to him, swallowing a sob. Jasmine stops me, gently pressing my shoulder. I bite my lip. “He’s alive—see? He’s breathing.” I crouch close, touch his cheek. His eyes flutter slightly, but he doesn’t wake.
Nakamura’s cold, clinical voice echoes through the room: “Ah, the prodigal sisters, united at last.”
Jasmine’s gaze is locked on the scientist. She tightens her fists. I glance at her and muster strength. Jasmine may have been a weapon—but she’s my sister again, and she’ll be mine. We’re rewiring this horror.
Nakamura stands. “Lovely display, Jasmine. You nearly glowed under my control.”