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Feb 23, 2020 6:09 PM
Margaret among space debris
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The further figure starts to draw closer, slinging her weapon over her shoulder and reaching for a case at her hip.

"I've got a medkit, but..."

 

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The nearer figure holds up a hand to halt her comrade's advance.

"It's going gray. Medkit won't fix that."

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A voice from a radio asks an indistinct question.

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"Yes, the sterilization agent deployed successfully."

The soldier carrying the medkit answers the radio.

"Yes, we're past the window for full saturation of the facility."

Only one half of the conversation is legible to those nearby.

"No, there's something here." She speaks urgently into the device on her shoulder. "Something's still alive. I don't know. I don't know how but it is..."

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(The airlock behind the two soldiers begins to cycle as this exchange takes place.)

 

(When it opens again, a third new arrival emerges onto the scene.)

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Are they talking about her? They didn't answer her, maybe they can't help. At least she's not alone.

Margaret can pretty much only see dim shapes at this point. She pulls off her useless goggles, grits her teeth, and tries starscaping her eyes back how they were, silver irises and slit pupils and all. This takes a lot longer than it should, because fixing her eyes involves looking at them with the starscape's magical third-person vision and she keeps flinching away.

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The two figures that Margaret has been speaking to have dark skin and soft features. They both wear contoured bodysuits, with intricately supported joints and tactical gear clipped all over the less mobile stretches of fabric. Their faces, though, are exposed. The invisible Hazard swarms around them yet they show no apparent harm.

 

The smaller of the pair, with the slim box she called a medkit clutched in one tight fist, has short cropped and intricately patterned hair. She glances rapidly between the others present, searching for some cue as to how to proceed.

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The larger of the pair, with her rifle still at the ready, has long unkempt hair and fierce eyes. She does not look to others for guidance, she speaks with a tone of command even when her words acknowledge the presence of superior.

 

"I advise caution, Founder O'Cuana." She gestures for the newcomer who just entered the hallway from the airlock to maintain distance from Margaret. "We don't know what we're dealing with here. We can't risk your life. If you need samples taken while it's still alive, send me or Trinket instead."

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The newcomer, his pale features angular and wrinkled with age, wears not combat gear but livery--rich silks and supple leathers and glittering silver jewelry.

Unarmed and unarmored, he leaps weightlessly past his soldiers and comes to a sliding stop a scant meter from where Margaret sprawls flinching--never taking his eyes off her as his boots find familiar footholds on the station's walls.

 

"You're the reason I'm here." He crouches down before her. His platinum blond hair that shines like a halo in the glare of allied flashlights. "You found my library. I feared it had gone dark forever." His gaze trails down to the laptop still pressed to Margaret's chest. "Thank you."

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" . . . Leon?" She assembles a shaky smile.

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He nods and smiles back slightly, but his brows remain creased.

 

"You're hurting."

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