It was dark. That was all Trazon could comprehend as consciousness flickered back to him. Groaning, he felt around, and his hand came into contact with what he recognised as the leather surface of his command chair. Picking himself up, he stumbled on something. Feeling downwards, he came into contact with skin. Warm skin. So, at least I'm not an only survivor, he thought. "Er..." he tried to speak, but he found his throat too dry to pronounce any comprehensible words. "Who's there?" said a flat, whining voice. Trazon groaned. Of all the bloody things, he hazily thought. * * The doorbell rang.