The Dragan Hadrien of six years ago looked up from his chair as the door to his quarters opened. His curious gaze instantly transformed into a frown when he saw who it was.

"Who told you where I lived?" he glared.

Mr. Fix - if he had a first name, Dragan didn't know it - was a huge man, skin a sickly grey, wearing a trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. His face was square, features looking like a rock that had been sculpted by repeated pummeling over the years.

He took off his hat politely as he entered the room. "It's easy to find out where someone lives, if you know the right people."

The room wasn't very spacious, and Dragan had had to do some serious bootlicking just to get it to himself rather than sharing it with some other mouth breather. The walls and floor were stark Supremacy white, with the only furniture being a table, two chairs, and a bed built into the floor. Any cooking would have to be done in the communal cafeteria.

"Ha," Dragan laughed the least genuine laugh possible. "Don't make it sound like you're capable of using your brain. You beat someone up in an alley and they told you, right?"

Fix grunted - neither affirmation or denial. He glanced down at the object in Dragan's hands. "See you've got a new script there."

"Mm. It's standard issue for AdminCorps. You didn't know that?"

"It any good?" The awkwardness in Fix was almost visible. They both knew he hadn't come to talk about Dragan's new script, so why couldn't they just dispense of the pretense?

"Does what it does," shrugged Dragan, doing his best to look over Fix's shoulder rather than at the man himself. It wasn't that Fix intimidated him, of course - he just brought back bad memories.

"Bet you play some games on it. Right? When I was a kid, there was a popular game about turnips -"

"Listen," said Dragan, cutting him off. "What do you want?"

Fix's face, as ever, was impassive. No matter how uncomfortable his voice and body language may be, his face was immovable as stone. "Old man can't catch up?" he said. "I am your legal guardian."

Dragan scowled. "Until I can get that amended."

"You're thirteen. You can't get that amended."

Dragan's scowl deepened. Fix was right, of course, but he couldn't say that. "I have my ways," he lied - and then he asked again: "What do you want?"

"Wanted to see if you were okay. Been a while."

Dragan stood up - with more anger than he'd expected - and his chair fell to the ground behind him as he did. "I was doing okay," he snapped, voice harsh. "Because it had been a while. The second I saw your face, it ruined my week - probably my year, actually. If I don't ever see you again, it'd be too soon. That's how I'm doing now, thanks for asking."

Fix blinked slowly, placidly, like some colossal herbivore. "That's not fair."

Dragan took an angry step forward, waving his finger up at the taller man as he spoke. Even with the huge difference in stature, Dragan glared up at Fix, his rage stoking itself more and more every second. "It is - it is fair. Do you want me to tell you how you think of me? You think I'm a cute little dog that you can throw treats at to prove to yourself that you're not a bad person."

"That's not true."

"Don't lie to me!" Dragan screamed - wincing internally as he did so. This would doubtlessly lead to awkward questions from the other cadets later. "You're not good enough at it! That's what you think of me!" He took a deep breath - and when he continued, his voice was quiet, but full of venom. "You think that you can do whatever fucked-up crime lord shit you want - burn down some houses, get people killed - but because you're nice to poor little Dragan Hadrien, you're a good person deep down! Let me tell you: you're not a good person deep down."

He took a deep breath, looking down at the floor, before he finished.

"You're a piece of shit, and I wish you were dead."

Fix blinked a few times, quickly - a subdued emotional indicator, to be sure, but it was the most extreme Dragan had ever seen from him.

Dragan stood there, hands balled into fists, waiting for a response. "Well?!" he shouted. "You got something to say?!"

Before Fix could open his mouth as he had originally, the Dragan Hadrien of six years ago whirled around to face the Dragan Hadrien of the present, who was observing from the corner. "And you!" he went on.

"Me?" said the present Dragan, voice faint and almost lifeless. This wasn't right. This wasn't how this memory was supposed to go. In his memories, Fix had said something and then stormed off. This hadn't happened.

"Yeah," glared the past Dragan, now completely ignoring Fix. "You. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Dragan looked down at his younger self, faint confusion still racing through his head. "I'm … remembering?" he said tentatively. It felt as if he was being interrogated right out of bed.

"No!" said the younger Dragan, fists to his hips. "You're giving up! Your life's flashing before your eyes! Stop dying and think!"

"But," mumbled Dragan, arms hanging limply by his sides as he became aware that he had a body in this space. "It's not that I can't win - I've already lost. He's going to smash my skull in a second."

"Are you dead?" interrogated the younger Dragan, now waving his finger in front of his older self's face like a teacher being presented with an especially stupid pupil.

"I don't … I don't think so?"

"There's no ambiguity," the thirteen year old admonished. God, he was such a little shit. "You're either dead or you're not. Answer the question."

"Then … I'm alive, then. Yes, I'm alive. I'm thinking right now, so I must be alive."

"No," said his younger self.

"No?"

"You're not thinking. You're remembering useless stuff like this. You're able to think, but you're not doing it. Your lifespan right now is measured in seconds - and you're wasting them!"

"So what do I do?" said Dragan - his voice more firm than before. His thoughts were starting to have more cohesion.

"You're asking a kid for help?" His younger self's voice had this constant mocking undertone. It really was annoying.

"No," said Dragan, concentrating. "I'm asking me for help. What? Are you too stupid to think of an answer?"

His younger self scowled, then snapped his fingers. The floor and walls of the apartment fell away, revealing an image of Zakos' head slowly coming forward to smash into Dragan's.

In other words, his present situation from a first-person perspective. This was his Archive.

The younger Dragan observed, hands clasped behind his back. "You'll definitely die if he lands that attack," he said unhelpfully. "Your Aether's good enough to land attacks where he isn't expecting them, but your defense is shit."

Dragan nodded in agreement. "So my losing condition is getting hit. How long do I have?"

The younger Dragan leaned in to look at Zakos' extremely slow movement, squinting his eyes as if to inspect it more closely. "Just under two seconds," he said after a moment. "Well, one and a bunch of decimal places, but you know what I mean."

Dragan considered his predicament. As he was right now, he was as good as dead, but for every second he could think there was a chance to turn the situation around. If he knew the method, he could do it.

"Am I strong enough to break his grip on me?" he asked. Start from the simplest solution.

"No."

"And there's no way I can block his attack?"

The younger Dragan frowned. "I already said you can't, idiot. Stop wasting time."

"Respect your elders, you little shit," Dragan said, rolling his eyes. "Is there a way I could attack him before his attack reaches me, change his focus?"

The younger Dragan shook his head. "His arm is too long for you to reach his body. You can only attack his arm, which wasn't effective earlier. I wouldn't recommend it."

Anxiety started to fill Dragan's mind as Zakos' skullbuster drew closer, ever so slowly. "Well, what if I punch him in the face as he's bringing his head in? Would that work - if I infused my fist with Aether?"

With a hand to his chin, the younger Dragan nodded. "Well, it would resolve this problem, yes."

"But?" said Dragan suspiciously. "The way you said that, it sounds like there's a 'but' coming."

"He'd smash your fist instead of your head, and then he would kill you with his next attack."

Dragan took a deep breath, looked down at his hand. He couldn't imagine the pain of having his fist obliterated like that - an image of Bruno and Serena's hands came to mind - but he didn't really see another option. If he could block this one attack, another opportunity could present itself.

The younger Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Wow. You're actually thinking of doing it, aren't you?"

"I don't see any other option," said Dragan grimly, clenching his hand into a fist. "How much time would it be before his next attack, if I block this one?"

"About five seconds."

Dragan shrugged with much more confidence than he felt. "Better than two. I'll have to think of another plan during that time."

The younger Dragan sneered. "That's an awful plan. You're as good as dead, you know."

"No," said Dragan, smiling, shaking his head. "I'm still thinking."

He closed his eyes.

-

He opened his eyes, and plunged his fist forward.

The punch erupted into a supernova of blue Aether - nothing was saved for defense, nothing was left over. Everything he had was poured into that punch, and it shone so bright that Dragan couldn't look directly at it.

Even Zakos hesitated, the descent of his headbutt pausing for the slightest split-second. The punch could do nothing to him, of course, but a spectacle like that would give anyone pause.

It was as if the end of Dragan's arm had transformed into a sapphire fireball. Nothing could stop it's flight -

- Dragan stopped it's flight, holding it in mid-air as Zakos' head came down.

The Aether that covered Dragon's arm dissipated, and he made no further effort to block Zakos' attack as it came in. He didn't have to, after all.

Because he'd noticed.

Zakos' head collided with thin air with a sound like splitting stone, and the man roared with pain. Purple Aether flickered around the nearly invisible forcefield his skull had just clashed with.

The Special Officer's eyes flicked over to the side, looking at where Bruno and Serena's unconscious body was supposed to be.

Their body was there, but it was not unconscious. Bruno glared up from the floor at Zakos, his hand weakly lifted up off the ground, projecting the forcefield. By all rights, Bruno should have fallen unconscious long ago.

But it seemed that Bruno and Dragan had a common motivator - spite. They couldn't let this arrogant prick be proven right.

If Dragan hadn't caused Zakos to hesitate, Bruno wouldn't have had time to make that forcefield - it was a thing that could only have existed for a second or two. It was a tiny victory brought about by coincidence.

Zakos opened his mouth to say something to Bruno, to utter some threat - but in doing so, he looked away from Dragan, and his head was now so very close.

Dragan lunged forwards, syringe in each hand, and plunged the implements into either side of Zakos' neck with all his strength, screaming with the exertion. The syringes penetrated only a few inches, but that was all he needed.

With another roar of effort, Dragan poured every last scrap of Aether he had into the syringes, the resultant lightshow looking as if Zakos had been struck by lightning. Everything he'd been intending to use in that punch, he now used on the syringes - no, on what was inside the syringes.

Initially, Zakos could only shudder violently as the contents of the syringes - glowing bright blue - flowed into his body, but a moment later he recovered himself and threw Dragan down to the floor. He staggered backwards, slouching already, looking at his hands. Blue light could be seen through his skin, flowing through his veins.

"What did you do to me?!" the man roared, eyes wide with panic.

Dragan picked himself up off the ground, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood covering half his face. He pointed a limp finger at Zakos, grinning cockily.

"I injected you," he panted. "Sedatives."

Zakos laughed, but the confidence in it was gone. It was the laugh of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or perhaps he was feeling exhausted already?

Well, Dragan wasn't one to disappoint. He spoke, the plan he'd come up with becoming clear to him as well as he laid it out in words. "Infusing something with Aether … makes it stronger. Blades become sharper, fists become harder. So … instead of infusing the syringe, I infused the sedatives. I … I made them stronger. Feeling sleepy?"

Zakos stepped forward, stumbling as he did so, his broken arm trailing on the ground behind him. "I feel fine, brat."

"I see," replied Dragan, trying to hide the shaking of the weak legs that were holding him up. "Maybe you could do with another shot, then."

He took a deep breath, glanced over at Bruno. The boy had finally fallen unconscious, so Dragan couldn't count on any more help there.

He'd broken Zakos' arm, cut him off from his automatics, enraged him to the point of stupidity, and injected him with enough sedatives to put down an elephant.

It was almost an even fight.