—Marshall knows, —she pants—. She has soldiers searching every hallway. You have to get out of here.

Mickey7 lets out a bitter laugh.

—Where, Nasha? Out of the colony? Into the snow?

She looks at him—not with pity, but with determination.

—You don’t have a choice.

No. He doesn’t.

But someone else does.

When they find Mickey, he’s at the lower level of the colony, near the service airlock.

Marshall stares at him, her expression a mix of satisfaction and disdain.

—So, here you are.

Mickey raises his hands, offering no resistance.

—I just wanted to live a little longer.

She shakes her head.

—That’s not how this works, Mickey. You know that. There are rules. There are protocols. One of you can’t be here.

Mickey swallows.

—And what are you going to do? Kill me?

Marshall holds his gaze. She doesn’t have to answer. That’s the only logical solution.

But here’s the trick.