Visalagi stayed close to the ground as he crept forward through the no man's land of Noble Rock. The space station was a behemoth, meant to pull double duty as a minor shipyard, a large logistical hub —one of several around Nagalan— and a key point in the orbital defences. In the heyday of the Confederacy it had stood proudly, a testament to the determination of the Novican people and their skills.

Now it was a warzone.

He heard something and froze immediately. He didn't know what it was, whether it was real or his imagination, human or just one of the countless little noises that the machinery of the station caused. Or battle damage, he added. Can't discount that. In either case he waited. Counted to three hundred, as was his habit. It was excessively long, had caused even his comrades to think that he was being paranoid, but it had saved his life on four occasions so far. Probably why he was the only one of the advance scouts who was still alive.

He wasn't a soldier. Never had wanted to be one. He joined the workforce on the station just to satisfy his hobby, which was camping. And since you couldn't camp on a planet completely encapsulated by factory districts and warehouses, that meant getting off this planet and onto another one. Which became a whole lot cheaper if you were an orbital worker with friends aboard freighters. Part of it was connections, part of it was the not insignificant package deal that came with his contract.

Now he was here, with thousands of others, fighting for his live. And the lives of the people of the planet below. He was on the sides of the good guys, as he saw it. You couldn't be a good guy if you tried to turn those massive anti-ship guns onto a planet full of your own people, now could you? He'd figured that was common sense, as the commanding officer refused the new orders, even as High Command overrode voice controls and broadcasted it around the station. He had figured everyone would agree with the officer. Hell, he just realised he never even knew the man's name.

His beliefs had been violently shattered when an idiot pulled out his sidearm and shot the man. That had been the beginning where everything went to shit.

Now half the station was in hand of those idiots, with the other half fighting against them. It was utter mayhem and he estimated that at least a fifth of the entire population had been killed in the fighting or the resulting damage. He'd seen his friend, Nicolai, get cut in half by an emergency pressure door. Not a nice way to go.

Three hundred. Still nothing. He began to move again, taking his time. The few soldiers left alive on their side may be in a rush, but he'd not get himself killed over it. He had no family down there, unlike them. Being overeager got you noticed. Being noticed got you dead. His own family was safe and sound on the station, well behind their own lines.

It was a funny thing when you thought about it, really. Most dock and station workers, the folk manning both the inside and the outside of the docks and virtually any other blue collar worker had resisted the order, even though their families were on the station with them. The richer sods, cubicle slaves and pencil pushers seemed unperturbed by the idea of unleashing global annihilation on the planet, as long as it wouldn't hurt their bottom line. Bastards, the lot of them. Those fuckers still had families down there.

Then there were the soldiers, who were split roughly down the middle. Some followed orders like good little unthinking drones, others, those who still held a conscience, were the first to arm up and shout at everyone to get back from the gun controls. He met a few of them. Liked them even, for, you know, people who killed for a living. Ironic coming from a guy who occasionally slaughtered an animal to eat, but that was different. Animals weren't sentient. Still, good guys.

The worst were these young, brainwashed kids, fresh from those propaganda schools. Heaven help him, but those little tykes were the worst of the worst. They fully bought into the crap spewing out of the speakers. To them, the Confederacy was God. And being young, immature and utterly, utterly stupid, they held no qualms about killing others either. Which was both good, as they rushed ahead thinking themselves invincible, little more than wild animals themselves, and bad, as most folk on his side hesitated shooting at them. He wasn't sure if he could do it himself. He was averse to killing. He had forced himself to take a detour rather than take a shot with his silenced pistol more than once, even when he'd get away with it. Human life is supposed to be sacrosanct, dammit.

He paused again, not because he heard any noise, but because he had finally reached his target. He took out his tools and set to work. Slowly, carefully, he began to unscrew the grate. One by one he placed the large metal screws onto the tarp on the ground. He learned that one from Nikolai, bless his soul. Soon enough the grate was loose and he could take it off. He winced as it groaned in protest, before coming free.

Almost immediately he heard another noise. Human. He rushed. Slammed the thingy in place. He didn't know what it was, just that it was supposed to go here. Pushed the grate back in place, quickly, quietly. Rushed to get the screws in. He heard it again, a voice. Coming closer. He began to panic, then forced it down. Abandoned the screws and stood up, walking towards the corner. There was a slight incline there, at the side of the bulkhead. He left his tools behind, pushed himself into the narrow opening, and waited, his pistol at the ready. He was averse to killing, but…

Soon enough two kids rounded the corner and he swallowed down a loud swear. Kids, dammit. From all the damned people it could have been. One of them couldn't be older than thirteen, fourteen years old. The other seemed around sixteen. Their helmets and suits couldn't hide their bungling, unsure way of moving. Both of them were young, far too young, but each of them had that crazed look about them.

He hesitated. He should take the shot, he knew. If they called it in, if they spotted him… He raised his pistol, sighted down. It would be so easy. Just pull the trigger. They'd go down in an instant. They weren't looking at him, attention fully focused on his tools.

"Infiltrators," the youngest hissed. "We've got to find them! We've got to kill them!" His voice broke as he said it.

"You don't kill infiltrators, idiot," the older kid bit back. Visalagi almost dropped the gun in horror as he realised the voice was female. "You capture them and torture them for information, then you get the rest of the bastards."

"Right! Good thinking."

"Really, you'd just shoot everyone. Now search for him, he can't be far."

"Yes, I will. If he resists, can I still shoot him?"

"Yes, try to get him in the leg, though. We need him alive. I'm sure the boss will have plenty of questions for him."

The amount of bloodthirst was insane. What had happened to those kids to make them behave like that? He thought of his own kids, similar in age. They were huddling in the back, bravely helping out where they could, but frightened out of their wits. They'd never think to harm a fly, much less casually speak of torturing others. Still… They were kids. He raised the pistol again as the pair began to search for him, and looked down the sights. His finger was on the trigger. His mind warred with indecision. They were so young. The boy looked just like his own son. Then the kid saw him, shouted, and began to raise his own gun.

Shots rang through the hallway.