The mention of a bad shoulder gets a sympathetic wince, at least. "And more contained than my best option," Eula agrees. They pat the bandolier of small cartridges at their belt. "We would have had to step much further away, and it might not have been as effective in any case."

They are largely conventional, as explosives go.

"That would explain why it is now sealed off," Eula says. "No point in maintaining a space when there is no crew to make use of it."

Malos will see, as he comes up the stairs, that the room at the top is dark except for the light coming in the windows, painting everything a washed-out grey. The room they come up to seems to be some kind of employee lounge on the landing, with a real couch and one of those little diner tables where people could eat their lunch or whatever. There's windows along the one side, and another door that leads to a more forward part of the ship.

There's a towel - one of the ship's standard issue ones - tossed over the couch, stained lightly in incredibly old blood, not like it was used to mop up the floor or staunch an injury, but like someone with blood on their face or hands wiped themselves up and just tossed it there. It barely even smells of blood anymore.