Now.

“4 minutes of oxygen.”

It's hard to believe we made it to 5000. Three wars. An implosion.

It's even harder to believe that someone, away from the black ocean and blood-red sand, would want to get back there. Desperately. So desperately that she is crying, yelling in an airtight container.

“3 minutes of oxygen.”

She finally takes notice and sharpens her breathing, restricting it to her nose. She moves with as much economy as her shattered elbow will permit. Streams of silver hair dance in-front of her vision of the door. Locked from the other side.

“2 minutes of oxygen.”

The room shakes her to the floor. A blast of blue outside surges in and sucks any colour from the room before dissipating in disappointment like a probe scanning for life.

Time is vacuuming her soul. She thinks. Hard. Who would do this? A crew of 9. Three engineers. Two doctors. Two guards. Herself. Her partner.

“1 minute of oxygen”.

She drags herself back to the porthole and peers out. Tired. The other containers - protruding from the side of the curved bow - now have active lighting. The portholes are lit white. 8 of them.

 

To be continued soon in: Then.

 

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