"Well that's it. That was the last thing I could do. So if I'm reading this right, critical failure of the drive core is in... three hours, give or take a half hour."

Thena sat back down, her right hand moving over to cradle her left wrist, her brow furrowing, breath sucked past her teeth at the discomfort. The burns were superficial, not that it mattered. She turned to Remi, taking in that panicked expression on the older woman's angular features. Remi stood as the Skeleton sat, as if taking up some unseen torch from her.

"But... Venting! You said you could vent the... the vents!"

Remi waved her hands over the controls in broad, declarative motions. Thena might have laughed about it in other circumstances. Originals. They just aren't made to be out here. They didn't have the temperament for being in space. That was not to say that Thena did not recognize the panic clawing at the back of her own consciousness, but she knew that if she kept Remi calm, it would calm her also.

"I did that. I vented the pressure, and that's why we have the three hours. Give or take a half hour. If I hadn't done anything, we would just have a half hour. Give or take a half hour. I did everything. That's it. Nothing left to do. Just the waiting."

Remi felt her back straighten on instinct, composure returning. It was not so much what Thena had said, but that she had needed to say anything. A lifetime of conditioning of how to interact with Skeletons and other Abhumans kicking in all at once. Be calm. Be an example. She sighed and sat back down, unable to help the sarcastic smile creasing her lips, decorum demanding that she force some digression to change the subject.

"OK. Well if just the waiting, we should do something else. Cards. Do... Do Skeletons play cards."

"What, with actual cards, or on a pad?"

"Actual cards. I have a deck. Retro-physicality is back in vogue on Origin. Do you know any games? Perhaps... Wolves and Foxes?"

"That's another name for Lighthouses, right? Same basic rules?"

"That's right. I think Lighthouses has wildcards however, but otherwise the same."

"I can muddle through I expect. Deal us out then."

The pair of them moved to the nearby console table and sat across each other. Remi dealt out the three face down cards to each of them, then the three that were face up. Thena caught on to the game quick enough, and it was about thirty minutes before she spoke.

"So... Is anyone going to get a call about you back home? Communications are out, but we could... we could try recording something if you wanted. Kids? Spouse?"

Remi looked up, a touch surprised. Thena was true to the stereotype of Skeletons, bad at conversation. No, that was not fair. She just wasn't holding back. Back home, every word was a brick in some larger project of conversation, measured and weighed and never wasted, and certainly never bringing up things that might offend, that might create tension. But what did all that matter now? Remi shook her head, and then looked up from her hand.

"No. I never had children. Nearly did, once, but the timing was no good. I figured I would be able to do it later, if I wanted. But, I guess the wanting never came. And you?"

Thena smirked and made a scissors motion over her abdomen.

"The license is expensive. I mean, I can afford it, but I figured I'm only in my 23rd cycle. I was in no rush. I guess it's the same. The wanting never came."

Remi and Thena just looked at each other, for the first time really looking. The now silent conversation was broken by a high pitched chime, along with several lights on the main console. The proximity alarm. It was another ship. Thena extended a hand and Remi took it in her own. They both smiled. Two and a half hours to spare. Give or take a half hour.

Garrett clenched and unclenched his hands, the blood tacky, still warm but cooling. He was beginning to rise when he found his voice. It was not the rasp of before, but instead firm, staccato, as you would speak to a dog you did not know but had need to make obey.
"You should pray."
He was standing now, but his head still down, looking at those hands, then past them, onto the floor, at that tangle of limbs and frumpled clothes on the wet ground. Wyatt looked like a discarded doll, face upturned, mouth slack, but the eyes mercifully closed. Edmund blinked, the revolver still aimed unerringly at Garrett, his own mouth opening as if to speak, but no sound came out as he heard Garrett continue.
"You should pray. Pray you don't miss. Pray that you counted right with your shots. Pray you don't get a jam or a sour round."
That voice grew louder, harder, as Garrett craned his head up, degree by degree with each syllable. Edmund felt his hand itch. Then his eye, blinking furiously. His mouth still open, feeling filled with sand. Words would not come, not from his lips, only to his ears, as Garrett continued.
"Pray you can shoot me accurately enough times to put me down."
Garrett turned away from Wyatt completely now, head raising. Was he taller somehow? Edmund had been sure that there was no appreciable difference in their stature, but he swore now that was a lie. The man looked over him, over the dead doll on the wet ground, over what felt like all of creation at that moment like a stormcloud, a roiling thunderhead with the promise of a violent downpour upon all things. Those eyes, as pitiless as the steel of their hue, grasped onto Edmund's gaze.
"So you should pray. Pray to God. Because only God can save you from me now."
Edmund should have prayed.