The reward for all of Wildwing’s struggling was being thrown to the floor.

The body armor did its job admirably and redistributed the kinetic energy of the impact. He barely felt the force when he struck the ground. The armor was less helpful when the full weight of Siege pressed down on his chest, pinning him in a cage of bulletproof shielding. It also did very little to protect him from the blaster barrel rested against his forehead.

Chameleon has lost interest in more elaborate antics, and had settled instead on skittering around them both, just out of reach.

Siege shared none of his companion’s enthusiasm, and rather than deliver anything eloquent or creative, growled a simple warning: “You can come in one big piece of a lot of little burned ones, I don’t care.”

Wildwing did have an immediate snappy response, but thought that perhaps, this time, it would be best to keep it to himself. That he was not already dead following his capture was promising, but that did not guarantee how lively he would be feeling at the end of this adventure. Today was not the day to test Siege’s commitment to following through on threats.

Wildwing’s silence was enough agreement that Siege stepped off of him, grabbed him by his armor’s collar, and dragged him through the darkened halls of the Raptor, rather than give him a chance to get back to his feet. Chameleon found this especially amusing, following behind and making commentary whilst out of kicking range.

There was a distinct lack of dignity to their procession, but it was better than being shot point-blank.

The Raptor itself appeared to be in a state of absolute disaster. Wildwing’s vantage point on the floor was not favorable, but it did not fill him with confidence for his safety. The support structure itself had been twisted unnaturally, and he could see beams above them that had been outright sheared in two. The Mask was of limited use, its readout and analysis distorted in a way he hadn’t seen before; filled with static and afterimages that strained his eyes when he tried to focus on them.

The majority of the damage was Wildwing’s own doing, the result of an order to destroy the dimensional gateway generator. He had sincerely hoped, for months, that the resulting explosion had caused a large enough feedback through the little warship that it had been drowned under the Pacific, where it would rust and decay, along with its occupants. Perhaps it would have confused human archaeologists when it was discovered a few centuries later.

No such luck, as it appeared the ship had survived the fall from the sky intact enough that Siege could now provide him with this unwilling tour. Joints and paneling around them showed the ripples of strain. There was a lingering, sharp smell that could only be the remnants of electrical fire, and his backside informed him the floor tiles were severely misaligned. But the damn ship was still there, and Wildwing had obviously failed in his one job—his one fucking job—to ensure the Saurians would not harm anyone ever again.

He tried to imagine where the Raptor was, now. He guessed that it was impossible for the Saurians to carry out full repairs. The cloaking device functioned well enough that it had been outwardly undetectable, but the ship did not seem airworthy—or, more correctly, it did not seem airworthy enough that he wanted to be inside it the next time it tried to fly. He wondered if it would have been possible to hear the bulkheads creak and groan under the strain of water, if they were on the ocean floor.

Wildwing could not think of a plan of escape.

The ambush in which he had been captured was not just unexpected, but embarrassingly effective. The team’s urgency and concern for safety had drifted away into a lax routine. It had been too long. It had been months since they had gotten any trace or hint of Dragaunus and his little band of bumbling stooges. They had been entirely unprepared.

He had no idea where the team was. The Saurians had been after him alone, that much was clear. That didn’t mean the others were untouched, only that they were not here. He could not decide if that was a relief or worrisome, and he oscillated between levels of anxiety the more he thought about it.

There was a headache building in his right temple.

The walk carried on so long that he began to wonder why they had not simply teleported to their final destination. Siege dragged him behind without any further remark, and the journey through the twists and corridors was convoluted enough that Wildwing could not remember the route. The Mask, through whatever interference was effecting it, could not follow the route either. Perhaps whatever was interfering with his enhanced sight was also effecting the Saurian tech. He did not know what could have caused a disruption strong enough that it bothered the usually unflappable Mask. This was a vital realization, but it filled his stomach with dread rather than intrigue.

The tight hallway finally opened to a tall ceiling, and Siege gave him a final, unceremonious grunt when he let go of the armor’s collar, dropping his head to the floor.

Wildwing had never seen the Raptor’s command center before. Not directly, anyway. It looked different from what he imagined, somehow smaller, but at least part of the deficit from expectation was half the room resting in scorched disrepair.

He had to stifle a laugh at the chamber’s central feature – which appeared to be a comically askew, ugly, anachronistic, useless, over-sized throne. Of course there was a throne. Why the hell not, really? Sure, a throne, just put it right there in the middle of your little spaceship. Perfect, my Lord, now everyone will know you’re being serious.

He could laugh about it later. When he was with the others again. Right now, he needed to regain control of the situation.

The safest way out of the ship was likely stealing a personal teleporter from one of the underlings, if he could figure out a range at which it would work, or perhaps determine and disable whatever was causing the interference. He did not know if the Raptor had its own escape craft, but this would also be a decent choice if one could be found. Depending on where the ship was, he might be able to simply utilize his own two feet.

Or maybe they were at the bottom of the ocean after all, and he was going to have to test how long he could hold his breath. He did not like that option.

Fitting for someone who had once built a monument to himself in his previous dwelling, Dragaunus remainedinterested in theatrics over practicality. He must have heard their entrance to the room, but feigned disinterest. It was his way of being smug. He stood before one of the remaining intact consoles, as if pondering the display of the very large, very broken screen.

“You will have to excuse the state of my abode,” the overlord bellowed.

Dragaunus turned, in a maneuver that was surely calculated to make him seem the most menacing. The purple of his robes flared out, the red scales of his tail lashed just a bit more than was necessary. The grin of sharp yellow teeth faltered at the corners, just ever so slightly, when he discovered Wildwing was not standing to meet his gaze.

“I-” Dragaunus stammered slightly, “imagined this confrontation somewhat differently.”

Wildwing, craning his neck from his position on the floor to make eye contract, gave the best commiserative shrug he could manage.

“No matter,” Dragaunus gave a snort of dismissal, regaining his composure. It was a confidence that was entirely unearned and infuriating. Wildwing had a moment to reflect on how much he hated to have been thrust back into this performance. It had been so nice, just for a short few months, to cobble together something approaching normalcy. He wouldn’t have described himself as happy or content, but up until today the time had been…

Adequate.

In the most authoritative voice Wildwing could manage from someone prone on the floor, he played his part and asked what they all expected him to: “What do you want this time, Dragaunus?”

Delighted at Wildwing’s compliance, Dragaunus regained his grin. “A great many things,” he responded, and his gaze drifted away to the far distance, as if he were picturing his deseires, just out of reach. And then he refocused his attention on Wildwing. “But, we shall start simply.”

A few hundred pounds of muscle and claws moved for Wildwing on the floor, and he had just enough time to consider that perhaps the only reason he had been kept alive was so that Dragaunus himself could finish him off. But, instead, he bent over Wildwing, considered him for a long moment, and then ripped the Mask from his face with one forceful swipe.

Wildwing had enough time to be surprised, and get out half a yelp as feathers were torn from his face. Dragaunus stood back with his prize, considering the artifact in a single large hand. He waited, glancing about the room, making sure absolutely all eyes were on him for the climax of his performance.

He let the Mask clattered to the floor before Wildwing’s face with calculated carelessness, and then brought the full force of his taloned foot down upon it.

It hadn’t even finished the transition from active gold to inert white.

There was an impossible moment where Wildwing simply heard no sound at all. It had all been swallowed, and everything was silent.

This had all been planned. They had snapped him up specifically, and he had been stupid enough to think it was because they wanted him. Wildwing himself could be replaced. The Mask, however, was likely the most important thing the nineteen worlds ever produced. It had no equal, was not even totally understood, was far beyond any other tech or magic Wildwing had ever seen.

And it was now in about twenty pieces.

Dragaunus was incompetent. He was not the master strategist of his fore-bearers, had no willing subjects left beyond his three henchmen, and his attempt at empire was thwarted in a matter of months. With all his advantages, Dragaunus could not even manage to establish a foothold here, on the little defenseless backwater of Earth.

Wildwing had just lost the most important artifact anyone would ever create to this absolute failure.

“There, don’t you feel much better, when you don’t have to play at soldier?” Dragaunus asked.

Wildwing thought that perhaps now would be when he died. Previously, the Saurians had chosen any number of elaborate circumstances for his demise, but today they seemed to be feeling a little more focused. It could have been as simple as a blaster to the head. Or, if they felt a little more dramatic, perhaps one of them would crush the air out of him. Roll the remains out an airlock and take a break for an early lunch.

Dragaunus chose instead to surprise him again, and turned away. Siege grabbed once more at Wildwing’s collar, and began to drag the dazed drake out of the room. He was not going to die, not yet. Dragaunus would have insisted on being present. They wanted him for something more. The afterimages of the Mask’s display still played in his vision as he stared up at the dark ceiling. He should have fought, should have done something, and could not make himself do so. He was dimly aware that Chameleon had fallen in behind them again, but Wildwing could not hear the gleeful boasting over the dull roar of his own thoughts.

Dragaunus’s line of sight ignored them entirely. His attention was on the third henchmen, who had remained silent and unnoticed until now. Wraith bowed his head in acknowledgment of his master.

“You may proceed.” Dragaunus bellowed, the moment of triumph gone, refocused on his goal. “Do not disappoint me.”