Killjoys

I know you're out there.

And I know that you'll eventually hear me.

Wherever he's taken you, whatever he's done to you...

I will find you.

I will find you.

That's where Khlyen took you.

- That's Red-17. - Yup.

Security was peachy, by the way.

We're outnumbered by a factor of holy times shit.

We could just run the other way.

For once.

All right, boys.

Let's go ring the bell.

Missed you bastards.

Hello.

You might want to run in five... four...

whoops!

Go, go!

- Eyes. - Clear!

Breach it!

Fancy?

Hey, squarejaw. You made it.

What are you doing here, Fancy?

Wow, I just saved your ass, and you still

don't trust me. Why is that?

I don't remember.

Seems legit.

What's wrong?

That's where they kept me.

Johnny, can you get us in?

Do Tarkesians eat their young?

Yes. The answer is yes.

God, people. Read a book.

Fancy. With me.

What happened in there, D'avin?

Tell me again how you found me.

You broke out... we tracked your comm signal

until it came back online.

What if I didn't escape?

What if they let me go?

Dutch, I don't think this is a rescue.

I think it's a trap. For you.

I know.

But it's only a trap if it works.

Until then, it's a lead, okay?

Whatever Khlyen's been doing to people here,

whatever he did to you, I have to know.

So I'm going, and you're staying here.

Oh, really? Doing what?

Same as always:

Have my back.

Ah, shit. Screw it.

Is he... humming?

Dreaming.

Neural wipe kicks up some crazy last fantasies.

Crank the juice.

I think he needs another dose.

Seriously?

I hate this part.

Open.

Hey. We're ready.

Let's go save my dumb-ass brother.

Status?

Armed the shit out of a probe.

Full sensors, liquid cam... the works.

And on a side note: I remain amazing.

We doing this?

Oh, yeah.

Entering Arkyn's orbit.

Uh, probe has a liquid cam.

Liquid cam should work like a satellite,

snag us pictures of the ground

so we can sweep for a drop spot.

Lucy's still picking up some strange radiation

on Arkyn, by the way.

But the probe should tell us what we're dealing with.

Good. Lucy, let 'er rip.

So that's bad, right?

- What the hell's happened? - I don't know.

The beta radiation is through the roof.

There's no way that these levels are random.

It's a defense layer. Man-made.

- Over the whole moon? - I don't know.

I don't know, it fried the probe

before I could tell how deep the field went,

but I can... you know, I can run some more tests...

- John... - And we can figure out, uh,

- you know, within a day or... - Johnny.

Khlyen's had D'avin down there for five days.

Five.

If we don't find him now, we may not find him at all.

We can't even be sure that he's still down there.

You're right.

Let's go find out.

Lucy, shields maxed. We're going in.

Wha... wait. Dutch. What?

You said "security layer," Johnny.

Layer's got to end somewhere.

Uh, I'm new to this ship.

Do we get a... oh.

Lucy! Status!

Warning: I can't maintain

internal integrity in these conditions.

Environmental toxins are exceeding

safety protocol levels.

- We need to abort. - She's tougher than a probe.

We can make it through. Lucy, keep pushing.

I'm sorry, conditions have exceeded crew safety minimums.

Activating emergency override now.

- Don't you dare! - Lucy, do it!

Go! Punch it! Punch us through!

Cabin conditions stabilizing.

Sugar?

Maybe we should talk about a plan B.

Hmm?

What the hells was that?

Every trail we have followed has led us to Arkyn.

I know D'av's down there somewhere.

- I can feel it. - Hey, guess what?

Your gut doesn't get voting privileges over our safety.

Now, whoever's down there?

You just told them that we're coming.

Are you seriously telling me to give up on him?

I'm the little brother, remember?

I'm genetically incapable of giving up on him.

We can't save him if we die trying.

I know.

I'm sorry.

It's just, we're so close.

We need a shortcut.

All these years, someone must have made it

to Arkyn and back, right?

Johnny? You're looking think-y.

You ever heard of the Connaver gang?

- The Connavers? - So you've heard of them.

I've been a warrant broker 20-odd years, girl.

I've heard of everyone.

The Connaver gang:

Abel Connaver and her brothers.

Slick as melted shit, the lot of them.

Made a science out of ship piracy,

but always escaped company pursuit.

- Want to guess how? - Supposedly?

By hanging out on Arkyn when the heat got too much.

Ding ding. Cookie for blue eyes.

- Hm. - Look, I know it's off-limits,

but we tried landing on Arkyn.

And it's not empty.

There's some kind of man-made defense layer.

- How do the Connavers get past? - Nobody knows how.

What'd the RAC have to say?

They figure Connaver stole some kind of gadget

that protects her ships.

We just need that tech.

If there's a warrant out for it, we want on it.

Why are you always chasing dragons?

'Cause they're the ones with all the gold.

I really need that tech, Belle. For D'avin.

You always told me I can be safe,

or I can be good.

I choose good.

There's a standing "live or dead" warrant

for whoever has that tech now.

Heard whispers that the Connavers

left it for collateral before their last jump,

so I sent an agent after it.

- He never came back. - Where did you send him?

Eulogy.

Whew.

Damn.

Sorry.

Eulogy, the barter town?

Well... poopy.

Two rules for entry.

Got to be a known criminal,

and got to bring stolen goods worth gambling.

I can handle the second part.

How long to build us deep covers?

Why bother risking fakes?

You got the genuine article right in front of you.

Pree?

Oh, like you don't have skeletons.

So what are we in for here?

Beers, bets, and bullets.

Eulogy is one big outlaw casino,

where everyone wages their stolen goods.

What are you looking at?

Come on. Just one hint?

What'd you do time for? Gun runner?

- Sass thief? - Shut it.

Pree, you got this, right?

No problem. I'll get us in.

Searching prison records throughout J colonies.

Match found: Pree Medez.

Alias: Big Daddy Scrimshaw.

- Alias: Paris O'Malley. - Alias?

One subject verified and approved.

- Whoa! - He's with me.

- I'll vouch. - Your funeral.

If he hangs, you hang.