I feel the memories I have sent you require greater context, Apexbishop.

The man called Skipper is the only one to ever give the Supreme pause. He is the Supreme’s last dream, the spark that keeps him alive -- even now. Normally, I would suggest he be terminated for this reason, but the memory of him is enough to keep the Supreme breathing. Without doubt, he is a unique entity.

To be candid, he gives me a bad feeling. He is either our ruin or salvation -- and it will be he, not us, who decides which.

This decision is not ours to make. I suggest the Inner Garden be consulted.

[REDACTED]

Jamie Pot reached out for the dead. He'd placed a corpse-fly in the room with the green man earlier -- right in the corner of the room, where the fog was thickest, all the better to conceal himself.

Land of the Dead.

Usually, this ability would be betrayed by a spark of green Aether, but in this case he invested his strength in concealing it. Without even a sound, he swapped places with the corpse-fly: Jamie appeared in the corner of the smoke-filled room, while the corpse-fly was transported to the broken hallway.

He'd never done any actual research on the matter, but from what Jamie understood, most corpse-based Aether-users satisfied themselves with the mere reanimation of the dead. If they built upon that ability at all, it was only to make their zombies stronger or more skilled. In short, their undead horde became a hammer, and so they approached each encounter like it was a nail.

Not Jamie. Jamie understood that the dead were a resource -- and there were better ways of using resources than just throwing them at the enemy.

Take now, for instance. The green man was still in the center of the room, standing over his young companion, turning on the spot to watch for incoming attacks. He was right to: Jamie didn't know where that throwing knife had come from, but he had no doubt that whoever threw it had been intending to kill this target. Jamie couldn't allow that -- he'd been told to bring this man in alive -- and so he'd been forced to stay back and observe for a moment.

Someone else was here. He couldn't sense their presence, but the fact of their existence was obvious. Clearly, however, they were good enough that they wouldn't just reveal themselves. He'd have to force them out and eliminate them before he could capture his original targets.

It was times like this when efficient use of resources became necessary.

Dawn of the Dead. Jamie reanimated the severed head that had been cut off the zombie that had exploded in this room. It snapped vaguely at the air, unseen in the fog.

Day of the Dead. Jamie triggered the detonation, a coil of green Aether winding through the disembodied head as it prepared to explode.

Land of the Dead. Jamie swapped the head -- nanoseconds from explosion -- with a corpse-fly he'd placed on the ceiling of the room. Boom. The detonation tore it apart, sending concrete raining down on the room and the green man, creating a perfect moment of confusion.

And…

His new target took the bait, charging through the smoke to attack the green man as he fell from the explosion.

Whoever they were, they were covered with dirty bandages, gaps between windings small enough that only wide staring eyes could be seen. In each hand, braced to bisect, the figure held cruel curved knives of red metal. Grey Aether coiled around its wrists.

They were good at concealing their presence, then, but in terms of strategy they had a lot to learn. That trap had been so obvious, after all.

Jamie reached into his Aether, and…

Diary of the Dead.

Most of Jamie's zombies were never actually deployed against his enemies -- that would have been a sheer waste. The majority of the corpses remained recorded in his Aether, encrypted into sparks of green, waiting for him. For this engagement, he selected Tal dus Katros.

The Katrosinii martial artist had been a legendary warrior -- said to have brought down one of the mightiest Fell Beasts during the Crisis with nothing but his fists. Breaking into his tomb hadn't been easy. Now, Jamie reached a hand into the legend's cold, dead flesh, spread his fingers throughout his lived experiences -- and absorbed.

New muscle memory activated, Jamie's body instinctively understanding the principles of Katrosinii martial arts. As he leapt towards the bandaged figure, he wasted neither time nor footing, his feet bouncing off the carpeted floor like some kind of rabbit.

With three steps, he crossed the distance in less time than his enemy could take one.

A Katrosinii jab -- only two fingers extended -- lashed out and caught his enemy in the eye, those same fingers curling to latch onto the inside of the socket. A hollow gasp escaped the bandaged figure's throat as it staggered backwards, pulling Jamie along with it -- and allowing him to unleash a flurry of stomping kicks right into its chest.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Like he was playing a piano with his feet, Jamie heard ribs crack in response to his tender attentions. Katrosinii techniques were well suited to him -- the people of that world were small in stature, and so their martial arts focused primarily on defeating enemies larger than them.

The bandaged figure swung at him with its knives, and Jamie finally let go -- kicking off its chest to put some distance between the two of them. The tattered, deflated remains of the eyeball still drooped between Jamie's fingers, falling to the floor as he parted the digits like scissors.

His enemy lunged at him, curved knife ready to open his guts, but before they could meet --

"Heartbeat Shotgun."

-- they were both struck by a resounding force and sent flying.

The green man smirked, finger extended, as the two of them zoomed across the room -- and then, with another burst of sound, he cleared the smoke from the room, revealing everything.

Two more bandaged figures surrounded him -- one holding a truly humongous battle-axe, the other a barbed whip. The green man's smirk spread further into a grin as he realized just how much trouble he was in.

"Ah, you guys," he chuckled. "All this for me?"

Dragan groaned as Bruno picked him up from the dust and rubble, brushing some of the grey from his face.

"You okay?" his friend asked gruffly.

"Feel like I just got thrown into a washing machine," he murmured, drowsiness clouding his mind and slurring his words. "What happened?"

Bruno glanced up. "Floor gave way," he said simply. "Don't know how far we fell."

Dragan followed his gaze. Indeed, the ceiling was little more than a massive hole at this point, chunks of concrete still trickling down into this chamber. Nothing but darkness was visible up there, and this room wasn't much better.

It seemed they'd landed in one of the basement pools of the Aipol Beach, an atmospherically lit chamber with a massive water installation in the center. Right now, the two of them were on an island of rubble in the middle of that water, an unsteady platform that was already beginning to crumble further.

"Shit," Dragan clicked his tongue, looking around -- ignoring the twinges of pain from his long-suffering head. "How long was I out?"

"Maybe a couple of seconds," Bruno said. "Nobody else has come down, though, so I think we're good."

Dragan stepped forward out of his grip, regaining his footing. "Well, even if we're good, that doesn't mean Ruth and Skipper are," he said, voice worried. "You saw the state that room was in -- and unlike us, they weren't behind a forcefield. We need to get back up there and figure out what's going on."

Bruno nodded, cracking his neck. "Sounds good. Elevators are probably a no-go, but if we take the stairs…"

His voice suddenly trailed off -- and his gaze hardened as he looked directly at the entrance to the room. Slowly, his glare became Serena's squint, and she reached down, pulling free a sword of dripping wet concrete that she pointed at the doors.

"What is it?" Dragan asked, looking back and forth between Serena and the door.

"Something's here," she said quietly. "Get behind me, Mr. Dragan."

The seriousness in her tone was unusual, and so Dragan wasted no time following her instructions. As he positioned himself behind her, readying his Gemini Shotgun to provide covering fire, he saw just what had her so concerned.

Something was pressing itself against the glass doors. Something was pressing itself against the glass doors with such inexorable force they were cracking. Something was pressing itself against the glass doors, and it was looking at them.

A monster.

There was no other way to describe it. A nightmare shape of dark fur and red eyes, drool dribbling from between murderous jaws of knife-like teeth, too big and too sharp for their gums. Four arms pressed against the glass, two so bulky they put a gorilla to shame, the other two as anorexic as dying trees.

A tendril-like tongue dragged itself down the glass window. Its eyes were focused on the two of them. When it gasped, the breath came from its mouth dark and frothy as smoke.

Serena adjusted her footing.

The beast smashed through the door with speed incongruous with its size, glass and metal flying in every direction as the creature charged at the two of them on all sixes. Immediately, Dragan fired off his Gemini Shotgun -- using the zombie head he'd absorbed earlier -- but the reflexes of the beast were too much for him. Gore splattered over the animal's face as it caught the head in its jaws, smashing it down between them instantly like a watermelon.

It crossed ten meters in barely two seconds -- and still Serena caught it with a swing of her blade. Violet Aether ran along the surface of the weapon, and as it struck the dark animal in the back --

-- it shattered against the defense of red-and-white Aether it found there.

Dragan took in a breath, going to leap backwards from the creature, and as he did his mind was racing. It uses Aether. Is this a person? Is this a Scurrant? Who is this? What do they want?

His questions were answered only with violence.

Both of the beast's secondary arms lashed out, seizing Serena and Dragan by the collars before they could escape its range. Then, with such speed they couldn't even react, it charged at the opposite wall, dragging the two of them along the ground as they went.

By the time it slammed the two of them against the wall, their Aether defenses were little more than sparks.

Dragan hacked and coughed, his vision a blur of colour and discomfort -- only to freeze as the snout of the beast appeared right in front of his face. Acidically hot breath pressed against his skin.

Sniff, sniff.

It did nothing. Then, it moved onto Serena.

Sniff, sniff.

Its white tongue licked its own blood off its ruinous maw. When it spoke, its voice was as deep and dark as the earth itself.

"You're not the ones."

And with that, it dropped the two of them to the ground. Before they could rise again, it had already charged back out of the room, smashing what was left of the doorframe to pieces on the way out.

Dragan coughed. "What the hell was that?"

Jamie struck the wall first, but before he could even hit the ground, the bandaged foe was upon him, knives shining in the light as they went to cut his throat. Before the blades could reach his jugular, however, a corpse-fly landed on the enemy's back. Just in time.

Land of the Dead.

Jamie and the fly swapped places, the fly appearing on the wall and Jamie reappearing right behind the bandaged figure. With lightning speed, he pressed the barrel of his shotgun against the base of the man's spine.

Bang.

The blast, infused with Aether, tore through the man's bandages and skin both -- and as he dropped down to the floor, nearly decapitated, there was no doubt that he was dead. Jamie whirled back around with no mind to the blood covering his face.

The green man was locked in combat with the other two assassins, dodging and weaving through the affections of their weapons, each blow missing by mere inches. He was good. Still, though, something wasn't right…

He'd used that soundwave ability to blast through the smog around him, but why hadn't he done that before? If it was that easy, then there was no reason why he wouldn't have just done it while Jamie was stalking him.

The only answer was that something had been preventing him, something he couldn't risk getting caught in the crossfire. Jamie's gaze drifted down to the unconscious girl at the green man's feet --

-- she was gone.

"Hey, asshole," he heard someone growl.

The armoured girl leapt down from the ceiling, where she'd been clinging in the manner of an insect, and thrust her claws right towards Jamie. He raised his shotgun to counter and deflect, but too late. The claws ran his forearm right through, impaling it like a piece of meat -- and the resultant writhing of his hand caused his firearm to slip right through his fingers and clatter to the floor.

Jamie went to scream, but held back the impulse. There was no time for pain. The battle was still going. The girl was raising her other claw, to slice his skull to ribbons.

Land of the Dead.

Land of the Dead.

Land of the Dead.

In a desperate attempt to escape, Jamie rapidly switched places with his corpse-flies, teleporting throughout the building for an instant at a time. By the time he'd finished, he was a long way from the fight, perched on a fragment of rubble hanging above the shattered basement pool.

He panted as he held his injured arm, the four holes of it gushing profusely with blood. Teeth clenched in sympathy with his pain, he tore off the sleeve of his other arm and wrapped it around the wound as a makeshift bandage -- infusing it with Aether to make it hold better. A temporary measure, but the best he could do at the moment.

"Heheheh…" he started to giggle, and a flare of excited panic hit him. Not now!

The frenzy was here. The frenzy had come. A misfiring brain for a misfiring body, looking down at the eye switch of the angled fish-box of a room. A grin curled his face ninety-wise.

Down in the under room he could see two of them injured talking sensely, the silver-boy and the shielder. A strike of Aether laughed midly. He could not kill them he could not do that, those were not his orders, but surely they were not needed all alive?

Flies at his eyes. The man green and the girl red were fighting off the assassins. Things would turn like a wheel. Element of surprise lost. Advantage lost. He was lost? This place was a bleeding afterbirth of a jokeful joking joke. He breathed in saliva.

Choices were needed. A choice would have to be made. If he killed the rest, wished a puff of wind to eliminate all but one, he could keep the last alive. The green man, leader, probably the leader -- best candidate suchly, yes.

The frenzy faded, only slightly, and Jamie's remaining shotgun slid out of his sleeve and into his hand.

He looked down at his two targets, still recovering from their injuries. The Cogitant with the silver hair, and the girl with the blond. He would start with them.

In the darkness of a killer's world, Jamie Pot slowly took aim.

"Are you okay, Mr. Dragan?" Serena frowned, squatting down next to his prone form. "You really got your ass kicked."

"So did you," Dragan growled, slowly picking himself up off the dusty floor.

"Yeah," she grinned, flexing a bicep. "But I'm strong! No problem!"

Dragan wasn't sure if that was an intentional insult, but he decided to ignore it all the same. As he sat up against a chunk of concrete, he realized just how poor a condition his body was in. Each movement triggered pangs of mirrored pain, like his body was rebelling against the fact that it even existed. Running would be an ordeal, let alone fighting.

"I don't think I'm going to be much use," Dragan grunted, holding his side with one hand. "You should go on ahead. I'll try and recover as much as I can with my Aether, and follow you when I'm able."

Serena's frown returned. "You're sure?" she asked.

Dragan nodded. "I'd only slow you down."

There was a moment of hesitation, but Serena quickly nodded back and turned on her heel, running for the broken door. She seemed to be in much better condition than Dragan, for sure -- some people had all the luck. Hopefully, she'd make it back to Skipper before --

Bang.

The gunshot echoed throughout the room, and at the same time Serena spun on her heel, eyes wide in alarm.

Her dodge came a second too late, however.

The shotgun blast grazed past her side, breaking through her Aether defenses and leaving noticeable gashes in her skin. Immediately, she dropped into a roll, scooping up a chunk of concrete and tightening it into a sword. She looked up and --

Jamie breathed a sigh of relief as his shot struck true.

Night of the Living Dead.

-- and she suddenly stopped. Dragan looked up, too, to follow her gaze, but saw nothing but darkness above. His eyes flicked back to Serena.

"Serena," he winced, picking himself up. "Are you…"

He stopped. Something was wrong.

Serena had frozen completely, like a statue, her surprised expression paused in place. Slowly, ever so slowly, her head turned to look directly at him… and eerie green light flared inside her eyes. The sword in her hand inexorably moved to point in his direction.

"Serena?" Dragan repeated, mouth dry.

She did not answer.

But she did move.