If you thought the morning's violence was the limit of filth, you were dead wrong. It was time for "pure art." Violence was replaced by something far more sickening: forced participation in a sketch show. First, Anna was returned from solitary. She wasn't just calm she was lit up. It was that distinct chemical calmness that leaves an alien as nothing but a positively radiant. Her eyes, not moving but a little bit of friendship, now bored into Wilder, sending a chill down his spine. Yes, you can drill hard wall with soft spounge.
Second, they were lined up and forced to dance to an alien version of the hit song "Y.M.C.A." Wilder, Dr. Brans, and Gabriel ridiculously are copying movements after an officer. Flot's Got Talent not like as Prisoners, sounds like a remake. Oh alien, this is where real prodgiy goes to die not on some talent. Now that officer, he's their real Mr. Pliable, moving as if he doesn't have a single bone in his body. The Wilder's crew could survive this, but for the one, it was physically shameful beyond words. Think about who he was: an analyst, a theorist, a famous Doctor of Philosophy, a professor at a top-level university with a big blog following, a billionaire in love with the wormhole... and now, moving in time to happy music within filthy prison walls. But the peak of the crazy happened with Sam.
His adventure looked like a blockbuster shoot with multiple endings: The "Liberal" Take: Sam is driven in a patrol car; they politely read him his actual constitutional rights, process his papers, and release him with a smile. The "Hardline" Take: A bag is shoved over Sam's head; he arrives in chains and undergoes an aggressive questioning yet, ironically, they read him the same rights. The "Middle Ground" Take: The Cameralien commanded something "balanced." He said they'd decide in the edit which image of the Kingdom was more profitable to sell right now. For the King and his circle, the "Hardline" version was a guaranteed hit but they aren't on FIRE.
Then came the "challenges." The prisoners were forced to play a ruined version of football and basketball, a sport that had clearly had a rough night with the rules of rugby. Let's just call it Football. You know how it is inmates killing... time with a sports game. That's the only place where true killer.. instinct take a root. They're taking out... the divide between the guard and the inmate. In movie practically a branch of paradise, rather than hell. The Admiraless remained not happy, pacing and spitting:
"Hock-ptooey! Is this enough? Are there too few prisoners in the frame? Are we sure we should look this happy?"
The discussion continued in the questioning room, leaving only Wilder, the Cameralien, and the Admiraless. Preparations for the "show questioning" were happening fast. Wilder was seated in the center of a circle filled with blinding white light. The Cameralien ran around, adjusting shadows so the bruises on Wilder's neck looked "dramatic, but not criminal."
During this, the Admiraless fixed herself up in front of a mirror, never ceasing to spit out state secrets mixed with phlegm. To her, Wilder was no longer an alien or even an enemy, he was a piece of furniture, like a ficus or a dusty chair. They didn't care about his presence at all, discussing national secrets as if they were in an empty smoking room. Wilder sat in the corner, listening to the fate of the fleet's image being decided. FIRE wasn't entirely under her thumb, and she wanted something specific from these recordings.
"Hock-ptooey... Do we really need to film these 'happy' clips?" The Admiraless looked at the monitor with doubt.
"Of course!" The Cameralien adjusted the focus without looking up. "The population loves to laugh. Have you seen the reach on the major FIRE clips? And besides, it's not all happy... we shot three versions with the old alien, something for every taste."
"Hock-ptooey... Maybe we shouldn't show the hardline arrest? Our position is already weak; the opposition viсe-Admiral is putting pressure on us. Let's send the Kings-press the 'kind' version instead. Let's give an alternative to FIRE, or else aliens will start asking what makes us any different from them." Hock-ptooey!"
"Exactly! It's so good you're finally starting to understand PR," the Cameralien smiled, patting his camera.
They gave Wilder some cream to cover up his bruises and finally removed his chains. The heavy, tense silence that followed didn't last long, though, a sound cut right through it. The buzzer for the direct line screamed through the room. Admiraless Hanna froze. Her finger twitched toward the panel by habit, but her face was a mask of choking terror. She looked trapped, her eyes darting between the Cameralien and Wilder as if searching for an anchor while the shaking rattled the silence. She knew exactly what this was: the high command. The Cameralien, maintaining a professional chill, hit the answer button himself. He knew that if they didn't pick up soon, they were all dead.
"Hello, Hanna!" The voice from the speaker was dry and short. "I'll be brief. Get yourself to the home world. We have urgent business. Remember our arrangement? I certainly hope you aren't siding with the King."
"I... that is..." Hanna swallowed, forgetting even to spit. "I'm guarding the border. I cannot abandon my post..."
"Is that the King's order? Forget it!" the voice snapped. "You are needed here, and you are needed now!"
"And who... who else is with us?" her voice trembled.
"I can't say over an open line. Just fly here immediately."
"Admiral Hopes... is he with us?"
"Well, sort of... yes," the voice hesitated.
"Why do you sound so unsure?!" Hanna nearly broke into a shriek.
"Listen, he's busy fighting right now; I don't want to distract him. Otherwise, what's the point of a takeover? Just so another federation of planets can snatch the power? Anyway, with you, we win for sure. Drop your useless game on border and fly. That is an order!"
The line went dead. It was a Rear Admiral! You couldn't exactly say he was on par with the King, but from what we gathered, he wants. The King had overplayed save his back, as creating his own private division FIRE. That turned out to be the tipping point for the loyal flot. Though exactly which Admirals want a roal revolt remains a secret. Or maybe they're nonexistent. Hana realized she'd already been branded a rebel from second boss, and there was no turning back now. What if the Rear Admiral really did have a massive army and serious clout? Who's the better bet to side with? Hanna's eyes practically devoured both witnesses. She looked ready to snap, but instead, she just let out a wet, heavy spit. It was a mercy her own officers hadn't heard that dialogue. Immediately, a second call rang out—it was the King. Still shaking from the first call, she hit answer instinctively. Her heart hammered against her ribs. What had she done? Though, if she'd missed it, the result would have been the same—or she'd have had a heart attack.
"Hanna! How is your mood today?" The King's voice began, full of aristocratic arrogance. "It really is a rather strange day, wouldn't you agree? I was looking out over the terrace this morning... " Twenty minutes of blah-blah a fucking King's speech! "Anyway," he finally sighed. "My situation is a bit... unstable. I need allies. You aren't particularly busy, are you?"
"I am guarding the border at your command, Your Majesty!" Hanna held on with every ounce of her strength, trying not to leak her panic. Saliva pooled in her mouth, but she was afraid even to swallow.
"That's all very well and good, but I believe a FIRE unit is enough for that. They aren't letting anyone out, but we're going to flip the script so they won't let anyone in You don't have many real threats there, and I won't be pulling others off their tasks. I expect you here."
"I hear and obey, Your Majesty!"
The line cut. Hanna snapped. She began to hit the table wildly, spitting in every direction. It was the panic of an alien backed into a corner.
"Lucky you! A minute ago, I was going to have you executed—you know too much! But our 'just' King saved you. And now, one of these two sides is definitely going to screw me over. I need advice!"
"Ma'am, us? I'm just the cameraalien! What about the ship's officer council?" the Operator stammered, sweating.
"Think, Drayk! Hock-ptooey! If I go to my subordinates, they'll give me advice that makes dying right now look easy. You think none of them have choices? You think none of them have the goal to stab me in the back? Think, Drayk! This is your last chance! Oh, how lucky you are."
Wilder slowly raised his head. His eyes were shining—a perfect plan was forming in his mind.
"Why is that, Hanna? I believe you are the one who is lucky. You've just pulled the winning lottery ticket."
"Oh yongster, why are you being so rude to the Admiraless..." the Operator tried to cut in.
"Quiet!" Wilder didn't even look at him. "First, you should have asked permission to speak from a higher officer. You've been telling her lies about 'magical marketing,' saying a 'Star Marines' is better than FIRE. That is nonsense! Your idea hinges on the assumption that the Monarch will watch your footage and then move to cancel the FIRE unit's special orders. From what I understand, that special unit was created as a tool for keeping the fleet in check. Their main goal was to take away the Fleet's power to act as police. As for your dances and challenges—those were nothing but a total waste of time!"
Hanna froze, wiping her mouth.
"Hock-ptooey! And what's 'second,' sonny?"
"Second," Wilder leaned forward, "you've captured 'enemies' from the wormhole, but the FIRE agents blew it. They processed us with fake documents as researchers from the Red Planet. Tell the King you are expecting an attack from that direction. Tell him FIRE are useless idiots who let spies through, and only you are the final barrier. The wormhole is an enemy tunnel!"
"That is extremely stupid!" the Operator declared.
Wilder was dragged through the corridors to the cell where his exhausted team awaited. Gabriel, pacing in tight circles within the cage, was on the verge of a total nervous breakdown. Sam was trying to fish for any scrap of news from a neighbor.
It was the most strange and horrific scene the walls of the Royal Navy isolation block had ever witnessed—a moment where the beauty of madness twisted together with the ugliness of violence in a single, dream-like rhythm. In the center of the filthy cell, under the flickering neon light, Anna began her dance. High on Royal tranquilizers, she moved with a strange, ghostly grace. These weren't the sharp, disciplined movements of a warrior; it was the smooth glide of a broken porcelain doll, her strings pulled by an unseen puppeteer of extreme joy. She spun, arms outstretched as if trying to embrace the void. Her eyes, wide and empty, shone with a chemical shine, and a simple, childish melody drifted from her lips:
"La-la-la-la..."
"Sam, Gabriel... Anna. Forgive me for everything. Please, I beg you, forgive me," Wilder said guiltily, his voice straining as his face was pressed hard against the bars.
"I forgive you!" Anna spun playfully in place, her eyes gleaming with a manic, chemical fire. "I forgive you, Wilder! La-la-la-la!"
A silence, broken by the guard's question:
"Who wants us to hit him?"
"No, I don't think that's... a good idea..." Sam began, his voice trailing off as he looked at Wilder's bruised face.
But Anna cut him off, her voice ringing out with terrifying cheerfulness:
"Me! La-la-la-la!"
The first strike of the baton caught Wilder square in the ribs. He doubled over, and a bright, almost artistic fan of red blood sprayed across the grey concrete. But Anna didn't stop. It was as if the sound of the strike became the missing beat in the music playing only in her head. She continued to rotate, her movements becoming even more expansive, her clothes whipping around her legs and stirring up a century's worth of dust.
"More! La-la-la-la!" Anna kept spinning, having completely lost touch with reality under the influence of the drugs.
The guard, shrugging, found the rhythm. Swish. Strike. Wilder fell to his knees, clutching his side. His breathing turned into a raspy whistle. Anna made a graceful sweep of her hand. Swish. Strike. The baton came down across Wilder's back. He gritted his teeth, making no sound, accepting the pain like a well-deserved payment. Anna whirled, her shadow flickering wildly against the walls. Swish. Strike. Wilder finally slumped toward the floor.
It was a horrible dance. Every one of Anna's steps, light and airy, was accompanied by a heavy hit to the body of her former commander. She flew in the skies of her drug-filled dream while he was being hammered into the earth by reality. Sam and Gabriel lunged forward to stop the madness, but Wilder, barely breathing, signaled for them not to interfere. This was his price. His willing sacrifice for dragging them into this hell. Finally, Anna's strength failed her. She slowed, stumbled, and making one last, shaky bow to the void, sank to the floor, still humming a fading "la-la-la." The guard lowered his baton. The music was over.
Nothing remained but Wilder's heavy, bubbling breath in the silence that followed. But he found the strength to squeeze out the following words along with the blood:
"I hope... you are truly not angry," Wilder swallowed blood. "Because we are flying into the wormhole."