Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "How Not to Negotiate, and Accidentally Win Anyway"
The last words of Director Cross seemed to echo far longer than they had any right to, filling a room already too small, too warm, and entirely unsuited for polite conversation. Four people in a service compartment designed to hold perhaps half a toolbox had never been anyone’s idea of comfort, and now, with the truth squeezed in alongside them, the air was almost unbearably thick.
Schmidt tugged at the collar of his uniform — a gesture that was equal parts the sweltering heat, the pressure of an unpalatable revelation, and the disquiet of realizing he was quite possibly in the middle of the most ridiculous stand-off of his career. He opened his mouth to speak, only to be bulldozed by Hans’s voice, which had suddenly acquired the depth and volume of a foghorn in mating season.
“Well, Hermann? Nothing to say? You just stand there in silence, accepting our fate like a docile little bureaucrat signing away our lives?”
Hans’s voice ricocheted against the metal walls like a wrench dropped in a corridor. Then, in one fluid and surprisingly dramatic movement, pushed himself off the crate he had been leaning against and jabbed a finger at the crowd.
“You know what? Maybe I am the odd one out here. But you — you two — and you—” he wagged his finger at Cross for good measure, “you’re absolutely mad. Mad, the lot of you!”
With that he spun toward the hatch. “I’ll do the only sane thing we should have done hours ago. I’ll walk into the first KPR office I can find, and I’ll report everything. Every overheard word, every speck of dust, every godforsaken detail we dug out of this cursed ship.”
“Hans, what the hell are you doing?” Albert’s voice cracked an octave higher than nature intended, somewhere between a panic attack and an overexcited parrot. “You’ll get us all killed!”
Cross turned her head first toward Albert, offering him a look that suggested warm reassurance — the kind one might give a child worried about thunder — and then toward Hans, with the calm composure of someone who has already rehearsed this argument dozens of times in her head and is just waiting for the script to catch up.
Before Hans could take another step, Hermann’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm. His eyes stayed fixed on the deck plating.
Hans struggled once, twice, and then exploded.
“At least look me in the face, Hermann! Do you think I’m insane? No, it’s you — all of you! You, Albert—seriously, do you believe a word of what she said? Either it’s all a bluff, trying to scare us into obedience or—” he swung toward Cross, “—we’re not leaving this ship alive, no matter how politely or obediently we play along. Either way, silence is just suicide with extra paperwork. So I’ll leave. I’ll try to get home. Or—” his voice dipped into a dramatic growl, — “I’ll die trying."
At last, Hermann lifted his gaze. Hans expected weary resignation or perhaps a final admonition. Instead, Schmidt’s face flickered — a brief, unmistakable wink. For half a heartbeat Hans froze, caught off guard by this wholly inappropriate piece of levity at the gallows. Hermann let go, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned not back to Hans, but to Cross.
“Director,” Hermann began, in the solemn, slightly too formal tone of a man about to apologise for something that may or may not be his fault. “I owe you an apology. For Hans’s words… and for my poor ability to control my men.”
He looked her straight in the eyes. For the tiniest sliver of a second, something flickered there.
“As you said yourself — only you, as our leader, know what’s best for us. And in my own small way, as their captain, I know what’s best for them.”
Hans opened his mouth but stayed silent.
“We’ll play along. Not because we must, but because it’s the right thing to do. For us. For everyone. I’ll make sure my crew understands and follows your directives. Whatever the cost.”
“I imagined you’d come around sooner or later,” Cross sighed. “It took you some time, but I suppose exhaustion makes men reasonable.”
“Perhaps,” Hermann said, with the weary honesty of someone who had just realised bed was now a myth.
“We are exhausted,” Albert muttered, less dramatically but with more sincerity.
They all turned toward Hans, who after several seconds produced a nod so tired it nearly collapsed halfway through.
A silence settled in. A big, awkward, heavy silence. The kind of silence that walks into a room, sits in the best chair, and refuses to leave until someone coughs.
“Well then,” Cross said at last, faint smile in place, “it’s been a long night. I’ve traveled, you’ve been on your emotional rollercoaster, and there’s much work ahead. Shall we head back to Baden Baden? As one united… work family?”
“Certainly,” Schmidt replied.
“Wait—seriously? That’s it?” Albert exploded. “We were ripping each other apart minutes ago, and now it’s all smiles and group hugs? We’re not forgetting anything? No skeletons in the closet? No unchecked bureaucratic forms to fill in?”
“Oh, you’ll have time to talk it through. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. With a clear head.” Cross turned toward the door.
“In fact, Directorin,” Hermann said suddenly, “we did forget one thing.”
She froze mid-step, turning just her head. “And what would that be?”
“This.” He pulled the recorder from his pocket — Von Tanner’s final moments still locked inside.
For the first time, Cross visibly faltered. “Ah,” she exhaled. “I was so caught up in my own speech, I’d nearly forgotten.” She extended her hand — a gesture small enough to be polite but imperious enough to suggest she fully expected the universe to obey.
Hermann reached forward as if to comply… then stopped, curling his fist tight around it.
“Directorin,” he said evenly. “You’ve told us much tonight. Promised much. Can we trust you blindly?”
“Oh Hermann? Still questioning, after everything I’ve told you? Of course, yes. Now give me that—”
She didn’t finish before Hermann snapped his fist shut around the recorder.
“Well then, Directorin,” he said, smiling in that way cats smile at mice, “I believe you’ll also have to trust your employees blindly.”
“HANS, CATCH!”
And then — against all laws of physics, probability, and Hans’s own history with sporting activities — the recorder sailed neatly across the room into his arms. He stumbled, rolled, smacked his knee against the wall, and by sheer panic alone managed to stay upright with the device still clutched to his chest.
Cross’s eyes darted: recorder, Hans, Hermann, back to recorder, back to Hermann — like a cat watching a very confusing laser pointer. Meanwhile, Hermann had already drawn his blaster and leveled it directly between her eyes.
“Déjà vu,” Albert muttered, voice just a bit too high, as if someone had kicked him in the dignity.
“Directorin,” Hermann said coldly, “they used to say: trust is good, but not trusting is better. Hans.”
Hans froze. “What—what do I do?!”
“That ridiculous backup server you used for the tea dispenser in our old office. Does it still exist?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cross snapped.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Albert echoed — not because he didn’t know, but because repeating other people’s exasperation was his coping mechanism.
“Does. It. Exist?” Hermann barked.
“Yes!” Hans squeaked. “It still works! If we all don’t pay our share, it locks the system and screams like a banshee—”
A beat of silence.
“Ah,” Hans said, as if struck by divine inspiration.
“Ah, what?” Cross demanded.
“Aaah,” Albert echoed, eyes wide with dawning comprehension.
Hans blinked, grinned, and dove headfirst into the service hatch, yanking out cables like a man possessed.
“Upload everything, Hans!” Hermann barked. “Every log from the antenna, every distress signal, Tanner’s recording — all of it. Build me another dead man’s switch.”
Cross gave a sharp laugh. “A dead man’s switch. Almost clever. And what now, Captain? If one of my men so much as breathes at the end of that corridor?”
“Then Albert,” Hermann said, still glaring into her eyes, “will flip the main ship antenna. And you know exactly what happens then.”
Albert swallowed so loudly it was practically a tactical announcement. “Yes. Exactly.”
“You should’ve been one of my subdirectors long ago” Cross said with grudging amusement.
“There’s still time” Hermann murmured.
Minutes passed — tense, creaking minutes that stretched so long Albert checked twice to make sure his alarm hadn’t gone off again — before Hans emerged, face shining with triumph, datapad held high.
“It’s done! If even one of us fails to log in, the server doesn’t just ping our alarms — it pushes everything to House authorities. From Nevers to Core patrols on Nauru, everyone will know.”
Cross arched a brow. “And what trigger keeps it alive, hmm?”
“Surely not our IC bank accounts, right?” Albert added.
Hans puffed out his chest. “Well, obviously not. I thought of—”
“Don’t. Don’t explain it,” Albert groaned, cutting him off. “Please.”
Hans shut his mouth, but the smug look remained.
Hermann holstered his blaster at last. His smile, for once, was almost gentle. “Now, Directorin, we’re bound together. If we play our parts, omit the truth, sell what you want us to sell… you’ll have your millions. And we’ll have safety for ourselves and our families.”
He looked to Albert and Hans — their weary, slightly deranged grins were proof that sanity had already checked out for the evening.
“If we screw up, we’re dead. If you screw up…”
Cross finished softly: “Then I’m finished.”
“Mutual assured destruction?” Hermann extended his hand.
Her smile returned — sharp, dangerous. She clasped his firmly. “Mutual assured destruction it is.”
At that exact dramatic moment, the room erupted with a cacophony of bells.
“Ah—sorry!” Albert fumbled with his datapad. “My alarm. Six-thirty. So… breakfast on Baden Baden?”
