“Look, 300K is the best I can do,” Cyrus was saying, his voice straining as he tried to reign in his impatience. “So that’ll get me — “

“40 kilo-gals,” grunted the clerk across the counter, crossing his arms. “That’s my final offer, kid.”

That was all? Shutting his eyes in frustration, Cyrus heaved a sigh. That amount of ship fuel wouldn’t get the Dionysian much further than a neighboring moon unless they siphoned a considerable amount from the Beacon. Was it worth it?

At the very least, it would get his desperate crew off this rock. Everyone was in need of a change of scenery — not that this place even offered much scenery to begin with. The dry, dusty town had exactly one pub (which the crew frequented every night) and hardly any work or passengers to take in. Cyrus didn’t want to consider the word, but he couldn’t help but think it: stranded.

What was it Fiearius used to say when they were out of ideas and at a loss of what to do next? He always said they just had to make a move. It didn’t need to be the right move, exactly. Just a move.

What Cyrus wouldn’t give for some real captainly advice in this moment. But it wouldn’t come from Fiearius, of course: immobile in the infirmary bed, he hadn’t uttered a single word in four days. After weeks of shouting hysterical nonsense, for some reason, he’d gone entirely mute. Even Leta hadn’t been able to coax anything out of him.

Without making a final decision, Cyrus wandered out of the shop and started the slow walk back to the ship, his mind heavy as he weaved through the alleyways alone in the dimming afternoon sunlight. He’d been at this all day: negotiating for fuel, trying to trade his mechanic skills for a buck. Meanwhile, the crew was getting antsy and worried, and Cyrus couldn’t blame them. He’d told them they would stop on this planet for a few days at most.

They’d been here a month.

As he pulled himself up the Dionysian’s ramp, he looked up to see that someone else was walking down it: Dez. Before Cyrus could give a start of alarm, he saw the man’s hands were tied behind his back and Corra was on his heels, gun in hand.

Cyrus almost didn’t have the energy to ask. Almost. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, exasperated.

“Taking him for his bi-weekly walk,” said Corra, jabbing Dez in the back with the rifle. “Trying to be a humane captor, y’know. Give him some fresh air. We’re gettin’ to be quite close friends, aren’t we, Cordova?”

Stony as ever, Dez said nothing, but he leveled Cyrus his cold, empty stare. Cyrus knew exactly what was coming.

“Let me talk to him,” growled Dez for the thousandth time. “Let me see Fiearius.” He’d been asking ever since they’d left Satieri, and Cyrus’ answer never changed.

“No,” he said at once and, turning his back on the two of them, continued up the ramp.

“Let me talk to him, Cyrus,” Dez called back, his voice just strong enough to make Cyrus slow in place. “I can help.”

Without turning around, Cyrus stopped at the top of the ramp and took in a deep breath. Clamping his eyes shut, he said in false, impatient cheer. “Okay. Sure. Let’s go talk to him. Right now.” He turned back to look at him. “You and me. Let’s go.”

Dez just stared up at him, empty and hollow as always. “No. I need to speak with him–”

“Alone,” Cyrus finished for him, nodding slowly. “Right. So you’ve said.” He gave it one more second before he provided Dez a sharp glare and snapped, “And until you change that stance, you’re not going near him.” Turning back towards the cargo bay, Cyrus walked on, waving his hand absently in the air. “Enjoy your walk.”

Eager to get away from the unsettling sight of Dez — and confident that Corra had things under control taking him back to his cell on the nearby Beacon — Cyrus trekked downstairs.

For reasons unknown, he’d begun to visit the Dionysian’s infirmary every few hours since Leta had moved Fiearius there, although he had no reason to. Though she claimed being in familiar territory would ground him, nothing about his condition would be different now than it had earlier. There would be no news to report. Fiearius would be on the exam bench (that Leta had turned into a makeshift hospital bed) and Leta would be bustling around the room, avoiding his eyes, trying to act as business-like and normal as possible. Nothing would be different at all. And yet …

“How’re things?” he asked Leta in the hallway. She was exiting the infirmary, pulling the door closed behind her.

“About the same,” said Leta calmly, though her expression told a different story: redness circled her eyes, her hair was limp and unbrushed, and she looked dead on her feet. And of course she did. Leta barely afforded herself sleep now, and Corra had to beg Leta to sit down for meals. Between Ren and Fiearius, she was running herself to the ground as a caretaker.

Pity touched Cyrus’ chest. But he also knew she wouldn’t have done anything differently, no matter what he said otherwise.

“Vitals are good,” she went on. “And he is getting stronger on his feet now. But … “

Cyrus felt a smirk come to his face. “But still feels like you’re talking to a wall?”

Through the door, Cyrus glimpsed Fiearius: sure enough, he was slouched against pillows, jaw rigid, staring straight ahead like a mental patient.

Leta began to smirk herself, sadness in her eyes. “And just think, I used to wish he’d be this quiet. Now I sort of regret telling him to shut up so many times … “

“I don’t know which I like less,” Cyrus remarked grimly, “the silent treatment or the inane babbling before. I guess at least he’s not shouting at his hands anymore … “

Leta’s smile thinned from her face. Suddenly, she tilted her head at him in earnest. “Hey. Why don’t you give it another try?”

Cyrus hesitated, watching as Leta stepped back and opened the door for his entry.

“If anyone can get him to talk,” she said gently, “I’m sure it’d be you.”

Cyrus said nothing. His heart clenched in his chest. He wanted that to be true. He really did. He wanted to help.

But the vacancy in his brother’s eyes was reason enough for Cyrus to falter and mumble,  “Uh — maybe later. I’ve got some work to take care of. But hey, come by the bridge later, I want to check in with everybody. Just in case something, somehow, miraculously, has changed.”

Unsurprisingly, Leta’s expression fell with hurt and disappointment. But she slowly closed the door behind her and like the true friend she was, she didn’t push the subject.

“Right,” was all she said, averting her eyes as she started to walk away. “I’ll meet you in the bridge in a bit.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Captain!”

Corra was rushing down the stairs, her eyes ringed with red.

“Oh god,” she gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth. “How did you–is he–?”

But before anyone could answer her, Corra suddenly spotted Desophyles as he stepped onto the Beacon’s deck behind them. At once, her expression hardened. Cyrus knew that look. He’d seen it dozens of times before, and it always ended the same: with someone in a heap on the floor.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she snarled, and in one motion, she unholstered the pistol at her side and held it up, fury and fear storming in her face.

“Corra, no — he helped us,” Cyrus muttered distractedly as he struggled with Finn to get Fiearius further into the ship. Dez followed, apparently unafraid of Corra’s wrath.

“The ship’s prepped to go,” said Finn, leading Fiearius toward the elevator.

“No way!” said Corra, her gun still trained on Dez. “No way is he coming with us. Off.”

“That’s unfortunate,” noted Dez lightly, pausing to wait as Leta signaled for the elevator. “Since I was willing to help with Fiearius’ recovery from the ARC.”

Abruptly, Leta spun around, her eyes round. “What? What do you know about ARC?”

“More than you do, I’d wager,” Dez replied.

“What the hell does that mean?” Leta demanded, flaring up at once. “What do you know about the recov — “

“Not to rush anyone,” interrupted Finn, his voice straining under the weight of holding Fiearius, “but that docks officer is probably a little unhappy with us. If I had to guess — “

Corra looked around at them all, appalled. “Cyrus! You can’t seriously be thinking of letting him stay?! He’ll kill us, Cy, he’ll–”

“Shut up!” Cyrus roared suddenly, so loudly that even Fiearius, delusional as he was, looked over at him. “Just–” he panted, “Shut up. All of you. Just shut up.” The room went silent and Cyrus, breathing heavily and trying desperately to quell his panic, looked to Dez. “ARC. What can you tell us about it?”

“Accelerated Rehabilitation Course,” Dez replied crisply. “Subjects are administered a round of drugs that heightens their susceptibility to suggestion. Researchers then use vocal and visual cues to shape what that suggestion is. Mostly, they’ve been using it in Internal Affairs as an alternative to traditional Solutions.”

“You mean killing,” Cyrus said bluntly, in no mood for pretense.

Dez paused thoughtfully. “Yes. Fiearius was administered a very large dosage over a short period of time as the only intention was to keep him under control. It will take some work to reverse the effects.”

Cyrus glanced at Leta, who was listening intently. “And you know how to do that?”

“Of course.”

If he was lying, Cyrus couldn’t tell. There was a short, sharp pause, and then, whether it was a mistake or not  —

“Corra, take him down to the brig,” he ordered. “Lock him up.” Corra opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a quick glare. To Dez, he added bitterly, “Drop the rifle or I’ll change my mind. I’m sure you understand.”

Fortunately, Dez nodded and calmly placed his gun on the ground as Corra, more rough than necessary, jabbed him in the side with the end of her pistol.

“Finn, get the ship in the air in the next five minutes, whatever it takes,” Cyrus went on. Finally, he turned to Leta and nodded towards the elevator. “Med bay,” he sighed, suddenly more exhausted than he could ever remember. “Let’s go.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

As the Beacon lifted from the ground, Cyrus didn’t get a chance to see the last of Paradiex as it swept out of view. He didn’t have a second to consider when — if — he’d ever see the city again. Some homecoming this had been. Instead, he hurried downstairs into the dark, quiet medical bay, the lights flicking on automatically as they entered.

The Beacon’s medical bay outstripped the Dionysian’s infirmary so tremendously, it was almost embarrassing. The med bay took up nearly an entire deck and boasted a chemistry lab, a waiting room, as well as gleaming clean exam benches, shining white counters, new equipment; it resembled a small hospital. Maybe this ship, Cyrus thought to himself, would make the difference in fixing this mess.

Fiearius was slouched on the edge of an exam bench, his glassy eyes set on a far wall. Meanwhile, Leta dodged from cabinet to cabinet, shelf to shelf, gathering supplies. Cyrus simply backed himself up to a wall and watched, unsure of what else to do. He knew he had no reason to be here — he didn’t know how to help.

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, either.

“Need me to do anything?” he asked, wringing his hands. Leta looked up quickly from the counter.

“Help me straighten out his legs, will you?”

Cyrus didn’t see how this would be possible, but mercifully, Fiearius didn’t protest as they grasped him by the shoulders. When they straightened out his bloodied legs, he exhaled a hiss of pain and started muttering under his breath.

Finally, Cyrus couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know.

“Leta,” he muttered, “is he going to be alright?”

Leta paused in the middle of cleaning the cuts. She looked up, her face white with shock. But her voice was reassuringly even.

“Whatever drugs they put him on, they’re still in his system. Once they’re flushed out, he’ll be more like himself.”

“What about his injuries?”

“More than likely,” said Leta, more quietly now, “it’ll be awhile before he can walk properly.”

And until then — then what? thought Cyrus blankly. What was he supposed to do with Fiearius out of commission again? At least when he’d been injured before, he still had his senses. He could still bark orders, he could still fly the ship. But this — this Cyrus wasn’t sure he could handle.

Suddenly, Cyrus was quite sure he couldn’t be in the room any longer. So when Leta said, “He needs stitches,” and rolled up her sleeves, Cyrus nodded weakly and turned for the door, mumbling something about needing to check on the bridge. Leta cast him a look of pity but did not refute.

But before he could escape for the hallway, Fiearius’ voice stopped him in his tracks.

“You’re one of them,” he said, in a scratchy, rough voice quite unlike his own. Cyrus turned around and realized he was talking to Leta — and holding her wrist tightly, gazing at her librera mark. Leta went very still.

“You’re one of them,” he said again, his eyes glassy, “so you can do it. You can get it out of me.”

Now, Leta looked startled. “What? Fiearius — “

“You can take it, you can have it.” Fiearius’ grip tightened and slowly, to Cyrus’ horror, he brought Leta’s hand towards him and placed it calmly around his throat. “Just do it.”

Leta’s eyes went wide and she jerked her hand away, but he caught it and pulled her back. Instinctively, Cyrus started forward.

“Don’t you get it?” Fiearius asked, his tone growing more tense. “I need it gone. I can’t be the Verdant anymore. I’m in the way. I’m screwing it up.”

“Fiearius, let her go!” Cyrus snapped warningly as Leta tried to tug her hand out of his grasp to no avail.

“No!” Fiearius shouted, sounding more alive than he had since they’d left the Society headquarters. He sat up straighter and in one motion, seized Leta’s other wrist. She struggled to release herself, but Fiearius held her in place. “You’re the only one!” he begged, his voice cracking and his face more pleading than Cyrus had ever heard it. “You have to do it.”

Torn between horror and anger, Cyrus moved to fight him off, but when he looked at Leta’s face, he stopped himself. If she was afraid, she didn’t show it.

Slowly, she stopped struggling and stared at him solemnly. “I wont,” she said coldly. “I won’t do it.”

“You have to,” Fiearius growled, forcing her hands to his neck again.

“I said, I won’t,” she said sharply.

They stood there like that for what seemed to Cyrus like hours, Fiearius glaring furiously at Leta and Leta glaring calmly right back. Finally, like a breath of fresh air, the tension weakened, as did Fiearius’ grip and he let out a low groan before despairing under his breath. “Gi’ar ni arr’ouat…” Have mercy.

Cyrus was paralyzed by what he’d just witnessed. And then, all at once, he couldn’t bear to look at either of them any longer. If there was such a thing as hitting bottom, this was it and he couldn’t bear to see any more of it. The last thing he saw before he turned away was Leta gently moving her hands away from his throat to rest on his shoulders.

“You’re going to get better, Fiear,” she said behind him as Cyrus fled out the door. “I promise you that. And never tell me to do that again.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –