Atoy Muzazi kept his hand on his blade as he walked into the empty function room, his footsteps echoing in perpetuity.

He could only tell that this had been a function room by the sign outside. Any furniture in here had long since been moved out -- the only survivor being a lonely-looking table in the corner. A security camera watched from the opposite corner of the room, just next to an open door.

That door was open because someone had stepped through it. Someone coming from the opposite direction as Muzazi. The one he'd come here to intercept.

DEAD HAND, their armour read, the letters bold and declarative. Tense, industrial steel covered their body, the hulking mass of it more suited to a spacewalk than a combat situation -- and yet the way they moved displayed no discomfort at all. Clearly, they were incredibly strong to handle such weight.

A massive plasma rifle was held in the figure's hands, the barrel glowing with residual heat. Smoke gently drifted from its mouth up into the air filters. Through the porthole on the figure's helmet, Muzazi could see the faintest outline of a human face observing him.

Marie followed Muzazi through the door, standing alongside him. Her eyes seemed resolute as she cracked her knuckles, but something about her seemed yet distant, like her resolve was coming through habit rather than determination. Ever since they'd met back up, she had seemed distracted somehow -- once this scenario was resolved, he would have to ask her about it.

But right now, they had work to do.

The figure stopped their approach, maybe three meters away from the pair, and observed them carefully. There was the slightest modulated sound of breathing from behind the helmet: the Repurposed still required air, then. That was good to know.

"I don't think we've met before," the figure said, a clear male voice forcing its way out of the metal. "Names?"

Muzazi drew Luminescence and held it ready, narrowing his eyes. Hessiah had said these elite Repurposed retained residual intelligence, but he hadn't actually expected them to speak. Still, if he was asked that question, honour bound him to answer.

"Atoy Muzazi," he declared, adjusting his footing slightly. "Special Officer of the Supremacy."

"The Supremacy? Interesting," the armoured man mused. He angled his body slightly towards Muzazi's partner. "And you?"

Marie's fists were clenched, her back hunched slightly -- she was ready to pummel her foe to meat. "Marie," she answered simply.

Muzazi drew his sword back, Luminescence glinting in the light. "I believe it's good manners for you to name yourself also now."

For a moment, there was silence and stillness -- three bodies waiting for the command to move and kill. Then, with careful slowness, the man reached up and took the helmet off his head. Beneath was a face framed by long golden hair, orange eyes inspecting inquisitively.

"What makes a king a king?" he asked.

Muzazi glared. "I very much doubt that's your name."

The man rolled his eyes. "John Blair. Now tell me: what makes a king a king?"

Muzazi furrowed his brow. "What does that question matter?"

"It is the only question that matters. I would hear your answer, Atoy Muzazi, Special Officer of the Supremacy. I trust you have one for me."

Muzazi exchanged a glance with Marie, who moved her shoulders in the slightest shrug. After a second of consideration, Muzazi opened his mouth again.

"A crown is warranted with strength," he said. "Power is what makes a king a king."

John Blair smiled, just slightly, his lips curling at the edges. "I couldn't agree more. If that is your aspect, I see no reason for us to be enemies. Throw down your blade and pledge yourself to me."

Hot anger rushed through Muzazi's veins. Throw down his blade? To ask him to do that was to ask him to abandon himself. Luminescence was no stick of steel -- it was the shape his will and ideals took in this world. He could no more cast it aside than he could tear out his own heart.

"If that's the outcome you expect," Muzazi growled, holding Luminescence ready. "Then you shall be disappointed, sir."

Blair sighed, but he didn't sound especially surprised -- and with the barest of efforts, he threw his rifle away, slamming it into the wall.

"I shan't let it be said I didn't give you a chance," he said -- and with a shower of sparks, he drew his own blade. It was a crude thing, more like a machete than anything else, intended to clear dangerous terrain -- but with the strength of the Repurposed and the angry red Aether coursing through it, Muzazi knew he couldn't take it lightly.

"Ready?" Muzazi asked Marie without looking at her, bracing himself for combat.

"Always."

The two of them rushed forward, fists and sword ready to come down -- and Blair waited for them to meet him.

"King's Coat," he said.

Dragan blinked as he took in the gruesome display. "Oh," he said, swallowing down the nausea. "That's, uh, that's the face of God, then? It's kind of… graphic."

Ian continued to circle him, his tattered face still swinging from one of his temples. His eyeballs were still attached to that skin, nerves hanging limp like the roots of a vegetable. The closest thing he had to a visage now was the red lump of Panacea inside his hollowed-out skull.

"Graphic?" Ian intoned through the fluttering of his throat-parts. "Visceral. Extant. It gives me great comfort to know that God bleeds. The warmth of it on my hands provides great proof of its existence."

Dragan kept his hands behind him as he took a step backwards, holding the Neverwire together as well as he could. North had snipped his restraints with some kind of blade, but Dragan wanted to keep the element of surprise for as long as possible.

He gulped. "So, I take it you're one of those Repurposed guys, then? How come you're not going insane outside with the rest of them?"

Ian cocked his empty head. "I could ask the same of you. Human technology pulls my mind to my body. What saves you, little man?"

Human technology. Some kind of cognitive implant? His brain's been taken over, but something else has taken up the slack?

Dragan didn't have anything like that. How was he still walking and talking, then?

"Because I'm nice, dead boy!" Pan said helpfully, bobbing into view from behind Ian's leg.

"Don't fall for it," the Archivist said harshly, arms crossed on the other side. "This contaminant is a different strain from the red one, but I've no doubt we're being used, too. As we are now, we're simply incapable of perceiving it. Don't trust that thing."

Pan frowned. "Dead boy's dead boy is so mean…"

"Don't listen to it," the Archivist snapped.

The cacophony inside Dragan's mind was silenced as Ian spoke up again, that red glowing lump staring into Dragan's soul. It was like an eye all its own, belonging to something else, something using this man as a window.

"A question," he said softly, hand tightening around the knife. "Demands an answer."

The specters of consciousness dissipated, and Dragan took a deep breath before he answered. Under these circumstances, he had no doubt the truth wouldn't satisfy this lunatic, so he did the next best thing.

He lied.

"Cognitive implant," he said, shaking his head slightly to indicate it. "Right at the base of my skull, above the neck. I was in a bad accident as a kid, so my family shelled out for it. Helps with memory and motor function, that kind of thing."

Ian took a step forward. "What model is it?" he demanded, voice buzzing through his skin. "What make?"

"No clue. My family took care of all that stuff -- so long as it works, it's good enough for me."

That was the way to do it. Detail was the marker of a lie. Truth came out in one or two sentences, while falsehood just went on and on… so long as he maintained the right level of vagueness, he could make it out of this.

Ian took another step forward -- and as Dragan stepped back in response, his back thumped against the wall. Nowhere to run.

"Just above your neck?" he whispered. "Show me. Let me feel it."

"Sure," Dragan said, angling his head to show Ian the back of his neck, doing his best to keep his tattered restraints out of sight at the same time. "It's right there, under my hair. Go for it."

Ian took another step forward, reaching out with careful fingers.

Dragan let go of the Neverwire.

Gemini Shotgun.

Two blasts of rock speared out of Dragan's bright blue Aether and through Ian's body, landing with deadly precision. The first severed Ian's outstretched arm, sending it flying up into the air, flipping end over end over end. The second hit him right in his equivalent of a face, like a massive fist smashing into that lump of red Aether.

A huge chunk of his skull was demolished by the strike, but the Panacea persisted -- pulsing harder and faster, like a panicked heart, but remaining intact all the same. The impact sent Ian sliding back over the smooth floor, his braced and tense body making him look like a still figure being maneuvered by a child.

He reached for his tattered face with his remaining hand and flipped it back to cover his skull again, the ill-fitting skin like an empty curtain. His other arm began to regenerate, joints forming with uniform cracks.

"You shouldn't have done that," he growled. "That was unkind of you."

As Dragan had expected, dismemberment wasn't much of an obstacle for things like this guy. Removing or destroying the arms or legs would only serve to disable the enemy for a few seconds at a time. The lump of Panacea, though, that showed more promise -- Ian had moved to protect it, suggesting there'd be consequences for him if he didn't.

A simple game plan, then. Stop him from moving, and then smash that ugly mushroom in with his boot.

"Hey!" Pan cried, annoyed, but he ignored her.

It was Dragan's turn to take a step forward. He regretted it nearly immediately.

The arm he had severed landed, hand still grasping, and latched onto his shoulder. Dragan went to rip it off with an Aether-infused hand, but too late. Angry veins of red Panacea writhed from underneath the limbs skin, worked their way out, and --

-- made contact.

Marie kept count.

She had ripped this man's arms off four times now. She had relieved him of his legs three times. She'd even torn his head away twice. None of it had left so much as a permanent mark.

The man called John Blair continued to clash with Atoy, their blades meeting again and again at speeds impossible for human eyes to track, blizzards of sparks erupting from the clash of their weapons. Marie hung back on the sidelines, prowling like a predator, waiting for an opportunity to present itself once again. The moment Blair's attention was fully focused on Atoy, she'd leap in and attack.

Dismemberment accomplished nothing but distracting him for a few seconds -- and his skill was such that he could fend off additional attacks in the time it took him to regenerate. If she had free reign here, she'd assume a form that could more easily overwhelm him and slice him to pieces, but she wasn't willing to risk it. If John Blair saw her doing that, and fled to tell the tale, things would get much further out of control.

So here she was, vanilla human, the only adjustments she was making to her body being on the inside. Harder knuckles, more flexible arms… invisible enhancements, to give her an advantage.

Dismemberment wasn't the answer, so the next best thing would be restraining him somehow. Regeneration wasn't possible if something was already occupying that space, so their best bet would be to impale Blair somehow and pin him in place, giving them time to pursue a more permanent solution.

It was a good plan, but still…

As Blair parried and deflected, Marie's gaze drifted to the Aether construct floating behind him. King's Coat, he'd called it. The name was fitting: in terms of appearance, it was like a cross between a coat of arms and a golden clock, a massive hand slowly drifting between four circular emblems.

First, at the top, a glowing blue iris.

Second, to the left, the same eye but gold.

Third, at the bottom, a gaze pitch black.

Fourth, rightmost, a white eye with a melting crown in the pupil.

The hand lingered on each segment of the clock for about fifteen seconds before moving clockwise onto the next. Right now, it was hovering over the blue eye -- and Marie was watching carefully.

John Blair's parrying had improved -- the difference would have been hard to spot by a normal human, but it was definitely there. He was predicting Atoy's strikes more effectively, moving in ways that caused his opponent to slow down and become more easily manageable. Like this was a puzzle, not a deathmatch.

He was fighting just as a Cogitant would. That was the secret of King's Coat -- it allowed John Blair to copy the skills of whatever subspecies the clock was hovering on.

Marie grinned to herself.

All she had to do, then, was wait for John Blair to become Crownless. Then she'd rip that smug smile right off his face.

The building was on fire.

The land was on fire.

The air was on fire.

Dragan could see it.

In the instant the hand had touched him, Dragan found himself standing somewhere else -- a world aflame, shades of red oppressively reflecting each other like a crimson kaleidoscope. The ruins of cities, melted and welded together, forming a grand staircase up to the bleeding stars. Their putrid ichor flowed down like rain, pooling into great lakes that collected in the sky like planets of their own.

Someone stood beneath them.

At first, Dragan thought it was Pan -- but no, this was not Pan. The dress she wore was stained red, her hair bleached white. She had Pan's face, but it was strangely unfamiliar… more clearly defined, in such a way that it was too real, like someone trying to convince you much too hard of something. A con in human form.

She stared down at him with narrowed, bloodshot eyes -- like he was a piece of shit that had fallen into her path.

"You are not mine," she said.