There is a certain solemnity to space - it is peaceful, tranquil, silent. It is a place for contemplation, for exploration, for study. It is the ultimate destination, the final frontier, the last obstacle that must be overcome.

But space can never be overcome. It always wins in the end.

In the end, everything that enters the cold of space is doomed to one day be like it - cold and silent, lifeless, but also full of life and ever open to new horizons.

Dash looked at the oxygen generator with disgust scrawled all over her face.

But there wasn't a choice.

She took the folding knife and cut the main tube, barely wider than her mouth. She stared at it for some time, the wiggling nozzle and the jet of cloudy oxygen that came out.

It would hurt. It would hurt and she was sure of it.

As Gilda's floatpack maneuvered her against the wall, Dash swallowed hard and held her breath.

Then, with all the force her weakened muscles could muster, she stuffed the oxygen-rich tube down her throat.

In the end, everything that goes Faster than Light is doomed to one day die.

Clouds of oxygen came out of her mouth, and she desperately tried to cough.

But there was no mouthpiece, no regulator, nothing to help her breathe. The emergency tank she had been living off was nearly empty. There was no other way.

She tried to suppress the gag reflex but it did not work - the remnants of her poor meal came flying out through every orfice it could, including her nose.

It hurt. It hurt but at least she wouldn't die.

Trying desperately to relax, Dash inhaled, feeling the cool oxygen flood her atrophied lungs.

In the end, despite our best efforts, the void of space will eventually consume all who dare set foot or hoof within it.

Dash tried to scream, but the ship, broken and scarred as it was, didn't have an atmosphere with which to scream into.

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