Dragan watched as the figure at the head of the group stepped off the edge of the chasm, plummeting down into the cavern in a split second.

Dust exploded out from the spot where the man had landed, and a sizable crater formed, but the figure didn't seem harmed in the least -- just dropping to one knee, rifle still clutched in its hands. A hollow, modulated breath echoed out from within its helmet.

He was standing nearly ten meters away -- but Dragan got the feeling that if he tried to run, he wouldn't get far.

"Hey there," he said, uneasily, eyes flicking around for potential cover. Anne tightened her grip around his neck.

The figure just continued to stare at him for a few moments, before slowly reaching up and flipping a switch on their collar. Immediately, the dome covering their head and neck retracted, revealing the human visage beneath. Shining orange eyes blinked at Dragan's bright blue ones.

To be honest, he'd expected some kind of horrifying visage behind that helmet -- a warped Repurposed, perhaps, or something even worse. But the face that looked at him was perfectly human, looking him up and down with almost contemptuous intrigue, like he was a particularly interesting stain on the floor.

The man had flowing blonde hair beneath that helmet, framing a handsome and unblemished face. He pursed his red lips as he inspected Dragan from afar. Dragan had never been one for fairy tales, but even he could see that this person looked like a prototypical charming prince.

Those eyes of his, though, they didn't seem natural… Dragan couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was like someone had painted over this man's original shade with their own ghastly colour.

"Did you not hear me?" Dragan called out again, trying to keep the tension out of his own voice. "I said 'hey there'."

The blonde man did not answer. Instead, he looked up towards his compatriots atop the cavern, and spoke. His voice was clear and melodious, like a choir singer, and it echoed through the space without issue.

"What is it that makes a king?" he asked his fellows.

The voice of another of the figures, distorted by their helmet, carried just as well. The modulation made it hard to tell for sure, but it sounded like a woman. "Tell us, John," they said, smirk almost audible. "Tell us what makes a king."

The man -- John -- turned back to Dragan, a thin smile on his lips. "A king is one who knows everything within his domain," he said softly. "Which is why this creature annoys me so. Tell me, boy, how is it you are here?"

Dragan's eyes scanned the figures atop the cavern again, and he saw it this time -- the sniper rifle one of them was holding. He looked back down to John.

"I think you guys probably know that," he said quietly, glaring.

If his obvious hostility put John off any, it didn't show. He simply continued to smile, strolling casually towards Dragan. "You would think so, wouldn't you? And yet I have no clue how you came to be here, walking, breathing as you are." The smile faded. "You should be dead three times over, as far as I'm aware."

His eyes said he was telling the truth. Huh?

John took another step forward -- only to stop as Dragan fired a warning Gemini Shotgun right into his path. The rock was scorched where the projectile struck it, and John raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the burn mark.

"An Aether user…" he mused. "I should have expected as much. Perhaps this explains his survival? What say you, Susan?"

That last bit was called up to one of his companions, the one with the sniper rifle, who leapt off the cliff to join him -- landing with a similar cloud of dust. Their dome retracted, and as Dragan saw their face he couldn't help but gasp in shock.

At the front of the brunette woman's head were a pair of bizarre structures -- balls of human eyes, compounded like those of an insect, each individual pupil flicking around as it inspected the area. A Scurrant, maybe? Dragan couldn't help but shiver as each of those eyes scanned him up and down.

"No," Susan finally said, caressing her rifle -- some of her eyes flicked over to look at John, while the rest remained fixed on Dragan. Her voice was harsh and raspy. "This is the boy from the bridge, sure, but I blew his head off. I'm sure of it."

Panic was quickly beginning to build up in Dragan's skull at these incomprehensible words, but he stuffed it into the back of his mind, filling his Archive. He couldn't lose his cool now. He had to get out of here and figure out what the hell was going on.

"Look," he said, as diplomatically as possible. "I've got no quarrel with you guys. If this is your place or whatever, we can just get out of here. Save you the ammo, right?"

"We?" John murmured, lips pursed. "If we just let you go?"

Dragan nodded. "That's right."

He cocked his head. "And what if we don't let you go? Are you going to fight us, perchance?"

Dragan clenched his fists, brought his body lower to the ground as his Aether buzzed around him. "That's right," he repeated.

John's smile didn't falter in the slightest. Instead, he slowly reached up with one of his gloved hands and pinched his own ear between two of his fingers.

"I always find," he said conversationally. "That a demonstration of futility is more effective than a statement."

Then, without another word, he twisted and tore.

His ear came off surprisingly easily, soon becoming a flap of flesh and skin that he dropped onto the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. Not a trace of pain crossed John's face as red blood gushed from the wound, dribbling down the left side of his face, a stark contrast to his pale skin.

Dragan looked down at the crushed remains of the ear, his eyes wide. "You're crazy," he breathed.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" John replied lightly. "And yet…"

Something was bubbling inside his wound -- orange Panacea, running out of it like candle wax, forming itself into a mass of ears like a gathering of coral. Ten ears became five became one as the most accurate replication won out, sealing itself against his skull like nothing had even happened.

John wiped the remaining blood off his face with his hand and then -- maintaining eye contact throughout -- licked it off his palm.

Dragan gulped. "You're Repurposed." He'd assumed all those that were infected by this thing, if it was an infection, would be as mindless as those they'd encountered in White Village. Evidently, he was mistaken.

"Repurposed?" John said with the tiniest hint of amusement. "Is that what they're calling it? But it's irrelevant -- I'm asking you how exactly you would fight me if you can't hurt me. Violence is the application of pain via overwhelming force, you understand?"

Dragan took a step back, reaching over his shoulder for a moment to secure Anne's position. He had to admit -- this really did look bad.

"You understand your position," John smiled. "Why, that's very good. I might have changed my mind about killing you. Listen to this, young man -- I have an offer for you."

Dragan paused.

"I am going to give you sixty seconds to run through these wonderful tunnels. After that time has passed, I will come and kill you. Should I do that, it would mean I win, of course."

Another gulp slithered down Dragan's throat. "And how do I win?"

"You can't win. Sixty. Fifty-nine…"

Dragan turned and ran, legs pumping with all the strength his Aether could provide as he sprinted towards the mouth of the nearest tunnel. He didn't know where it led, but if he could put distance between himself and this psycho that was good enough for him.

He didn't use Gemini World, not yet -- if he could keep that a secret, he could save it until he really needed it to take this guy by surprise.

The darkness swallowed him.

Bruno rapped his fist against the barrier surrounding his cell, only to wince when he received a shock in return.

"It's good stuff," he sighed, sitting back down on the elevated section of floor that served as a seat. "Can't force our way through."

He looked down at his wrists, at the tight Neverwire that bound them. All of this was nightmarishly familiar. His warped hands ached in sympathy.

The three of them -- Bruno, Skipper and Muzazi -- had been restrained and tossed into separate cells by Marsh's thugs, left with only a single guard to watch them. He sat at the far end of the room in a chair, holding a hand to his face as he yawned.

Ordinarily, Bruno would think this was a prime opportunity to escape, but he honestly couldn't figure a way out of this. It didn't look like Ruth had been caught, so could she bust them out? Did she even know what was going on?

"As it doesn't seem we're going anywhere," Muzazi spoke from his cell. "I'd like to ask you two a question."

Bruno narrowed his eyes as he glared at the Special Officer. "I've got nothing to say to you."

"Then you need not answer." Muzazi turned his gaze to Skipper. "How about you?"

Skipper shrugged, arms crossed as he looked out of his cell. Even now, his eyes were scanning the room, doubtless looking for a way to bust out.

"Shoot," he said.

Muzazi sat up in his seat. "Why do you oppose the Supremacy with such fervour? I don't understand."

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "You don't understand?"

"I do not. What exactly is so repulsive about us, our way of life, to you? I felt your strikes, the power behind them -- you are incredibly strong. You would do well in the Supremacy. Why choose the life of a dissident instead? Please, explain it to me."

"Well," Skipper leaned back, joints cracking as he did so. "That's kind of a tough question, kid. Before I answer, I gotta know -- what exactly would you say the Supremacy way of life is?"

"Meritocracy," Muzazi answered without missing a beat. "Only those with the strength to carry the weight have it placed upon them. Decisions are made by those of will and power."

"And what happens to those who, uh, don't have 'will and power'?"

"They are protected by the strong. That is their primary duty, after all."

"Really?" Skipper chuckled bitterly to himself, chin resting on his fist. "Think you might be projecting a little there, kiddo. If that's the way you try to do things, well, that's just swell, but that ain't what the Supremacy is all about."

Muzazi bit his lip, frustration clear on his face. For a moment, his eyes flicked back to the guard -- no, to Muzazi's sword, which was resting in its sheath against the wall next to the guard. He hadn't gone a minute without looking toward it since they'd been thrown in here.

Did he really care that much about a weapon?

Satisfied his sword hadn't grown legs and walked away, Muzazi looked back to Skipper, standing up from his seat in outrage. "Well, what is it, then? If I am so incorrect, what is it the Supremacy is 'all about'?"

Skipper looked up at Muzazi, and the look in his eyes was so cold and hollow that the swordsman was forced to take a step back.

"You ever been to Dranell, kid?" Skipper asked, eyes drilling holes. "Were you around for that?"

Muzazi shook his head. "No. I was…" He looked confused for a moment before he continued. "That was before my time. What of it?"

"Seven worlds, each of 'em with millions of people living there," Skipper said, voice a relentless monotone. "They're pretty close to the UAP border, and they've got certain assurances, so one day they decide they're going to secede. Supremacy doesn't like that."

"Of course not," Muzazi replied. "If you were in charge, would you allow traitors to do as they please? Action had to be taken."

"If it was up to me," Skipper sighed, closing his eyes. "There wouldn't be anyone in charge at all. But you're right, you're right -- action had to be taken. The Supremacy had no choice but to burn those skies down. No option except drowning the people, the kids, in plasma, melting them away to nothing. Nothing else to be done but crack the planets open like eggs, make the breaches."

Muzazi had no answer for that at first, save for reflexively moving his hand to the spot where his sheath would have been. Finally, he answered quietly: "Unfortunate measures were taken. I… I have no doubt all options were considered, and the Dranell Breaches were judged the most effective."

Skipper smiled humourlessly, eyes still shut as he angled his head up towards the ceiling. "That was the last time the Supreme went outside, you know?" he said. "Guess after you kill that many people that quick, nothing else really measures up."

The room went silent after that, save for the tinny incoherent hisses of the guards communicator. Skipper settled back in his seat, his gaze dull as he opened his eyes again.

"I guess you're right: it was most effective," he muttered. "After I heard about that, I stopped having any doubts at all."

Ruth held her breath as they walked between the guards, as carefully as they dared.

It was a strange thing, to look down at your own body and see absolutely nothing. North's invisibility worked by projecting a hologram of the surrounding area onto the target's own body -- so if they moved too fast, the illusion wouldn't be able to keep up and they'd be revealed. He couldn't do anything for sound, either: so once she breathed just a little too loud, that'd be it too.

Three guards were making their way through the storage room, swinging their rifles this way and that as they checked between the shelves. Ruth gingerly weaved between them as best she could, arching her back to avoid a sudden turn of a rifle that would have hit her right in the nose.

She felt North's hand clasping her own, physical proximity making it easier to maintain the illusion on them both. She could feel his pulse hammering through his skin -- whatever was going on here, it had him terrified.

The door wasn't far away, just a few steps and they'd be out.

Ruth took a quiet step forward, and --

"More coming. You deal with these."

-- and North let go of her hand.

Immediately, the hologram dissipated -- and three rifles turned to point directly at the girl that had appeared between them. Someone barked an order to get her hands up, but Ruth could only groan in annoyance.

Man, North really was an asshole.

Skeletal Set.