Rokoara was the only one still awake in the cell. Truth be told she was almost asleep herself, but one keen eye watched the end of the hallway. It was her plan that they were all clinging onto, and if it broke down thanks to some little man's inability to revolt against an invisible, all-powerful group of thugs to try and get in her underwear, well, she was going to be the one they were cursing as their tongues found a sudden disconnection from their lungs.

Also her jaw hurt like a bitch, but that was neither here nor there.

She turned her thoughts once more to her friends, hopefully holed up somewhere and under no circumstances thinking of a rescue attempt. It violated the code they had silently agreed with each other; if someone falls, they fall. People can do their utmost to save those they care about but, at the end of the day, each man or woman or Kakr is responsible for their own fate. Don't like the chances? Don't come along for the ride.

She knew that Crysis attempt a return journey; he was too overconfident for his own good. She knew that Rhama, the over-emotional little thing that she was, would be in floods of tears. And Doone? Well, he was a living embodiment of Russian roulette. You hoped he would keep himself together long enough to get something productive done before he exploded.

The night passed in uneasy slumber. Kris had drawn up into the far corner and shivered in her sleep. The others had tried to comfort her but she'd shunned all methods of communication and shut herself in her own little world. Who could blame her?

Rokoara had been on the receiving end of a gun between the eyes too many times to count, but she couldn't remember a time when she had been actively (or passively, in this case) awaiting her execution. It was a new experience, one that she didn't much care for. If they were going to kill her, just get the damn thing over with.

I can kill them all without blinking an eye...

Rokoara slapped her head. She hated that voice. It never spoke of anything good or particularly useful, and normally when she listened to it, there was a lot of blood on the walls after.

She put her hand down on the floor of the cell and felt the microscopic hairs tingle. That wasn't just the ship. It was movement, and movement close by. She turned to the hallway and squinted, as if there were suddenly a large, old fashioned key that was dangling in the shadows just out of reach, if only she could reach out for it. The guards outside had their backs straighter than a ruler and with Beta's across their chests. It wasn't they that had suddenly stomped off into the unknown.

Around the corner emerged two guards. They marched with resolute purpose, visors down to obscure their eyes. 'Time to change over,' one said to the cell's protectors.

It's him, Rokoara said to herself. He came for me after all.

One of their guards stepped forward. 'Ain't changeover for another hour.'

Replacement Number 2 shook his head. 'Orders are orders. I don't make them, just report 'em and do it.'

The two guards with their backs to the cell looked at each other. Their brows creased, and then they shrugged. 'Extra time off, that says.'

'Bar?'

'You got it. Thanks for taking over, guys. We owe you one.'

Replacement Number 1 high fived one of the leaving duo. 'Save me a beer.'

'You got it, bud. See you later.' One of the old guards jerked a thumb behind him to the cell, which was slowly rousing with the noise. 'They're nice and quiet. If I hear that you've riled them up somehow, it better not be my neck on the line.'

Replacement Number 1 laughed, but to Rokoara it sounded decidedly forced, the same way a kid will laugh at their dad's bad joke as long as it gets them to shut the hell up. 'Think nothing of the sort.'

The new guards took up their places flanking the door. The replacements holstered their guns and sauntered off, exchanging a rude joke or two and cackling like witches. They rounded the corner and the changeover was complete.

Rokoara watched the new guards with a keen but casual eye. They didn't move from their post, didn't turn to give any sign of acknowledgement to their prisoners. The shimmering wall between them was as unfaltering as the silence between the jailed and the jailors.

Just a little longer, Rokoara told herself. They'll let us out. Any minute now. Just got to be patient.

Skreem looked around her, saw the changed guards, sighed disinterestedly, and went back to sleep. Heratrix kept her eyelids closed, but Rokoara knew she was awake and alert. She could see her eyeballs fluttering underneath the lids as her brain ran algorithms and simulations and whatever else that usually filtered through her head. Sometimes it made Rokoara's head hurt just thinking about what the woman must have floating around inside her skull, what computer-like lines must be whirring in there. But there was no doubt that when it came to executing a logical plan, there was nobody better.

Heratrix hadn't gone back to sleep after the change because she was watching Rokoara's decidedly-illogical plan begin to unfold. The Kakr had the strangest sensation of being observed by a protégée, leading the way. Is she actually, trying to learn something from this?

There wouldn't be much to learn, however, if the guards didn't turn around and do something useful. There was still a shimmering barrier of energy between them and relative freedom, and the new guards that Rokoara had tried ever so hard to win over were still standing like rock carvings on an indigenous planet of sun-worshippers. What good were they? For a worrying moment, Rokoara thought that perhaps, just by chance, they had actually been telling the truth to their colleagues in black, and they had genuinely been ordered to switch an hour ahead of schedule for some strange reason. Maybe they hadn't been worked hard enough, or had spoken back to a superior, and needed to have an additional hour of standing around and doing nothing as justified punishment.

Please. We've got nothing else left. This is the final card to play. Please let us out.

Five minutes dragged on with the agony of having all the oxygen in the room slowly, but audibly, removed. Heratrix opened her eyes again to watch the door, but closed them again soon after. Despite having spent several hours before licking the walls for useful information (whatever that might be), even she seemed resigned to her fate. Resignation was a cocktail always served with a hearty dosage of depression.

The two guards looked across at each other. One of them, the one that had given the signal as they had led the captain away to his imminent demise, pulled out a Halo-Core and checked through a few menus. Maps, diagrams, dots moving along cybernetic corridors. He came to a conclusion and nodded to his companion. His companion plugged a code into the panel on the wall and the barrier dissolved, like someone blinking to clear a blurry film of moisture from their eyes.

The cell was suddenly awake. Kris, upon seeing the guards in the cell, leapt to her feet. 'You!' With teeth like a savage animal she jumped at the first guard, who promptly raised his gun barrel to her chest. Kris backed off, but her fangs remained exposed.

'You've got a window of ten minutes, and only if you're lucky. We don't have to help you if we don't want.'

Rokoara stood up. 'Why are you doing this, helping us?' She knew exactly why, but it was always better to get them to say it out loud. It helps reaffirm it in their own minds, and the more sure they are of what they are doing, the less likely they would be to suddenly shoot your legs out, call for help, say they were overpowered but managed to regain the upper hand on the despicable enemies of the cause, and get some half-decent promotions off the back of it. Rokoara's leg didn't heal properly for three years the last time it happened.

'Because... it's the right thing to do.' Replacement Number 1 extended his hand to Skreem, who waved it away and got up by herself. 'Suit yourself.'

Heratrix looked them over with a disapproving but reluctant eye. 'Names?'

'Tonne 457. This is Tonne 788.'

Skreem shook her head. 'Nah. You're Tonne, I can cope with that. But you're 'Double-Eight' from now on.' The pigtails agreed.

The guards looked behind them. 'Who cares? Let's go before we all get blasters in the back.'

'I hear that.'

The prisoners filed out. Double-Eight had a gun at their back for appearance sake, 'moving them to another cell,' they would say if asked.

Rokoara hung back and tugged on Tonne's arm to keep him behind. 'Thank you,' she said. She concentrated on trying to make herself blush. It didn't take much work; she'd had plenty of practice at winning over young, lonely men.

Tonne looked away. 'We need to move now. We'll get caught if not.'

Rokoara smiled and pecked his cheek. Now it was Tonne's turn to change his face to an alarming shade of scarlet, which didn't suit him in the slightest. It made him look like he'd wrestled a bear on a treadmill, and nobody wanted someone to look that sweaty unless they'd just won the HyperGP or had just collapsed off from being on top of you; preferably both.

Rokoara left the cell and Tonne put his gun to her back. She put her hands above her head, tossed a smile behind, and then returned to looking scared. She hoped he was telling the truth about the ten minute window. She'd never had more than five, and some of those escapes were purely by luck.