Pela slammed her palm against the emergency release panel beside the airlock, the red indicator light sputtering to life. The heavy outer hatch sighed open, revealing a tense Maris Corven, eyes sharp despite the freezing secondary hub behind her. Rusk, already discarding the empty fuel cylinders, leaned against the frost-rimmed wall, a fresh bandage stark white on his arm. He gave a clipped nod. “Did you get them?” Maris’s voice was low, cutting through the hum of failing backup systems. Her gaze flicked to the bundle of power cells Pela clutched. “Every last one. And a message from our gracious host.” Pela’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual lilt. “Defenses down. Attack now.” Maris squinted, her mouth drawn thin against the biting draft. “Expected as much. He’s running out of time before the core gives out completely, regardless. Get those cells in.” She gestured towards the main panel of the core room’s door, still sealed by Joren’s override. “Rusk, the key.” Rusk produced the slim device, its polished chrome glinting even in the dim light. Pela checked the lock housing, her fingers steady despite the cold. Maris laid out the plan with brutal efficiency. “The core room has an overhead maintenance conduit running nearly the full length of the chamber, but the access point is on the far side. I’ll take that route. Pela, you’ll go in through the main door. You draw his attention, keep his focus pinned on you. Don’t just distract him, *baffle* him. I need five minutes, minimum, to get into position.” “Baffle him?” Pela asked, a dry edge to her tone. “How do you suggest I do that?” Maris’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smirk. “Go back to being the dizzy cargo dispatcher who couldn’t find her own desk. He despises that version of you. He’ll underestimate it. Use it against him. Rusk, once they’re in, secure this door. No one gets in or out.” Rusk grunted his assent, already moving to brace the door with a thick support beam. Pela nodded. With Maris already shimmying into the narrow vent shaft on the far wall, Pela inserted the first fuel cell into a slot Rusk indicated on the override key. A faint hum vibrated through the device. She pressed it against the door panel. A series of rapid clicks echoed within the lock, followed by a deeper thrum. The heavy door slid open with a hiss, revealing Joren Hest standing amidst the humming, flickering consoles of the thermal core room, a triumphant, almost manic grin on his face. “Pela! So glad you could make it,” Joren called out, his voice a mocking lilt. “Couldn’t let the old gang freeze to death without a proper farewell, could we?” Pela stepped past the threshold with loose shoulders, offering a vacuous, crooked beam. She looked around, crinkling her brow. “Joren? Oh, thank the stars! I was wondering where you’d gotten to! The whole place is an absolute mess, darling. I mean, the temperature has dropped, what, thirty degrees? And the secondary power relay is making that awful grinding sound again. I told you about that last week, remember? It’s going to chew through the conduits.” She tilted her head, a familiar, exasperating gesture. “Did you ever get that requisition form for the new optical sensor array approved? My desk is just drowning in old inventory reports, and I can’t even begin to sort it out without the proper filing sleeves. This whole situation is simply *not* organized.” Joren’s triumphant expression faltered, replaced by a look of utter bewilderment, then growing irritation. “Pela, what are you babbling about? The sanctuary is collapsing! Raiders are at the gates! I’ve taken control of the core!” “Oh, I know!” Pela chirped, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s simply dreadful. But honestly, the administrative side of things is a nightmare right now. You wouldn’t believe the backlog. I mean, who approved those supply shipments for the south wing? We barely have enough rations for current personnel, let alone expanding into an extra sector that’s, frankly, falling into the ocean! It’s just so much paperwork. And the ink cartridges for the thermal printers are completely empty. Did you manage to order more?” She frowned, her lip jutting out slightly in a pout. “This whole system is going to be completely inefficient if we don’t get a handle on the supply chain. I mean, how can we defend ourselves if we can’t even print a proper inventory manifest?” Joren stared at her, his jaw slack, the manic glee draining from his face, replaced by a deep vein of frustration. He had prepared for desperate pleas, for angry accusations, for cunning attempts to reclaim control. Not for *this*. He let out a strangled laugh. “You’re… you’re still talking about *filing sleeves*? The world is ending, Pela! I’m saving it! I’m saving *you*! And you’re worried about *ink cartridges*? This is why you never grasped the stakes! This is why you weren’t fit to lead!” “Oh, but I always kept track,” Pela said, her pitch steadying by degrees. “I knew that if you don’t have your supplies in order, the whole operation collapses. It’s basic logistics, Joren. You always said you were so good at logistics.” She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, did you ever find that missing manifest for the Ventus-Class coolant cells? The ones for the secondary output regulator? Because if those aren’t properly documented, the whole load-bearing calculation for the central power conduit is going to be off, and then we’ll have another… oh, what was that awful term you always used? Ah yes, a ‘catastrophic systemic failure.’ Is that what you’re planning now, Joren? Another one of those?” Joren’s face flushed a deep crimson. The sheer, weaponized incompetence of her words, the triviality of her concerns in the face of their imminent doom, was an affront to his self-importance. “You always did this, Pela! Always prattling on about petty nonsense! While I was here, slogging through the real work, crunching the numbers, making sure this station actually ran, you were just… gossiping about supplier contracts and what flavor coffee creamer was in the break room! You hid behind that insipid smile and that vacant stare, letting everyone else do the heavy lifting! I built this, Pela! Me! I deserve it!” He pounded a fist on a console, his voice rising to a furious roar. “I deserve to be the one to save us, not some airheaded cargo dispatcher who can’t even organize her own paperwork!” Pela’s smile, though still wide, held a new, chilling quality. Her eyes, no longer vacant, were sharp and focused. “Oh, Joren,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, clear tone that cut through his rant. “You never did catch on. My paperwork was always immaculate. My inventory, always precise. It was *your* schematics that had the oversight.” Joren’s tirade died in his throat. The shift in her demeanor, the sudden clarity in her gaze, hit him like a physical blow. He saw the brilliant mind he had so easily dismissed, the strategist he had so fatally underestimated. His gaze, wide with dawning horror, darted upwards. A faint scuff, a glint of metal above his head. He spun, but it was a second too late. Maris Corven dropped from the ventilation shaft, a heavy wrench already swinging down towards his temple. Just as the blow connected, Joren’s hand shot out, not for a weapon, but for a small, metallic fob hanging from his belt. A single, ominous click echoed through the core room as Maris’s strike sent him sprawling. His last conscious act was to press the hidden dead-man’s detonator.

The Idiot Act