OH, DEAD BOY

[LOOP/REPEAT/AGAIN] AND [LOOP/REPEAT/AGAIN}, DEAD BOY?

WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOU?

Transmission recovered from the P-Network by the Pandershi Foundation, Partial Translation

"Do you understand," the Chorister said softly, plucking Dragan's crushed eyeball from its socket. "That there is a substantial difference between being prepared to kill and being prepared to die?"

In that moment, Dragan's world was nothing but pain. The operating table beneath him was made of a knife's cold stab. The air above him was sculpted from cruel fire. The lights surrounding him were the pinpricks of violent migraines made physical.

His body was broken, his mind just barely spluttering along -- but even so, he was in no state to reply to the Chorister's question.

If the Chorister was bothered by Dragan's silence -- save for groans of pain -- he didn't show it. "When I saved you, I asked you if you were willing to kill, and you said 'yes' -- in your own way. That was an encouraging answer, but perhaps not the correct one. Any thug with a pistol can be willing to kill. Do you think they'd be willing to give their life for a cause?"

The Chorister scooped a chunk of orange Panacea out of a vat with a small metal utensil, carefully lowering it into Dragan's now-empty socket. His vision exploded into chaotic lights as a new eyeball began to establish itself.

Darkness.

Brightness.

Flickering colours.

Pan's face.

Dragan saw all these things in a moment.

"Again, dead boy?" Pan whispered, sounding terribly sad. "You should look after yourself, okay…?"

She blinked out of existence, replaced by the calm visage of the Chorister as he applied more Panacea to Dragan's stumps. Infantile arms began to wind their way free from the wounds, doubling and reabsorbing themselves as they went.

"The key to an effective warrior, I've found," the Chorister said, watching the progress of the healing. "Is a willingness to die and to kill in equal measure. The former is just a matter for the noose, while the latter is mere bravado. Together, though? That's something truly special."

Dragan's new eye flicked over to the table in the corner of the room. On it was a jar of reddened water -- and in that, the unmistakable forms of several snapped-off ribs had collected at the bottom.

The Chorister followed his gaze, chuckling to himself. "Internal healing is a tricky thing when it comes to Panacea. If I wanted you back in fighting shape quickly, I had no choice but to remove the damaged parts entirely and have the fungi replace them. Otherwise, we'd have had to wait days for the stimulants to prompt natural regeneration."

The pain subsided for just a brief moment, and Dragan took the opportunity to speak. Broken, hoarse words… but words all the same.

"Why… did you save me?"

The Chorister continued to apply Panacea to Dragan's regrowing arms, prompting their growth more and more.

"I have a deal with your captain," he said lightly, leaning over the spreading flesh. "Your dying would jeopardize that -- not to mention, you yourself will also be useful to me."

"How…?"

"How'd I save you?" the Chorister frowned, standing up. "The Quiet Choir is an old and noble institution -- we have networks of secret chambers like this spread throughout most Superbian vessels. It's not difficult for me to get somewhere, no matter where it might be."

Dragan shook his head slowly, ignoring the screaming agony from his temple as he did. "How…am I useful?"

"Ah. I need Giovanni Sigma Testament dead, you see. Despite the final results, you showed some promise in that last bout. I'd like for you to kill him for me. It's a matter of my survival and your Skipper's plan."

Dragan narrowed his eyes, feeling returning to his body with every new movement. "Don't think… you could manage it?"

The arms completed, numb appendages hanging off of Dragan's torso, colour slowly spreading across them as blood flowed through new passageways. Phantom pain began to fade into a bad memory.

"I'm confident in my own abilities," the Chorister said. He stepped over to the wall and retrieved a sterile wipe from a module there, cleaning his hands of the blood and mushrooms. "But I'm a little bit of a bastard, you see. I'd very much like to be the Superbian Apexbishop when this all clears up, and as such I can't be the one to murder the previous one. Best if a random maniac like yourself does the dirty work."

He opened up a medical kit from the same wall and retrieved a generous selection of painkillers and stimulants, lining them up on the table next to Dragan.

"Your body may be whole again," he said. "But physically you're in no state to go running around after your enemies. These things will have you forget that for a little while."

Dragan -- with an effort that would have been impossible mere minutes ago -- slowly picked himself up off the operating table, sitting sideways there. His new arms hung limp at his sides, still disobedient, but the new eye had already fit in perfectly.

He glared coldly at the Chorister. "All this stuff you're talking about… is it part of Skipper's plan, too?"

"Yes," the Chorister said truthfully. "Thus far, everything has gone his way. I'd be careful of that one, Mr. Hadrien..."

The Chorister's smile vanished.

"... he's the sort that can turn his heart to ice."

Skipper took a seat on the head of an ant -- only to fall right down on his ass when the body dissipated into Aether. He frowned up at the two automatics accompanying him.

"Man…" he sighed. "That was over way too fast."

The enemy had multiplied and gotten stronger the more of them he'd killed, so in the end the solution had been obvious -- kill them all at the exact same time. The amphitheater had been utterly ruined by the barrage of Heartbeat Shotguns necessary for that, but in the end it had been pretty effective.

All around them, the rivers of black blood and the ruined chunks of carcass disappeared as well, until he and the two automatics were alone among the rubble.

"You won't go after her?" said the first humanoid automatic, controlled by Hamashtiel. "That girl is part of your crew, isn't she?"

"Ruth?" Skipper said. "She knows what she's doing. She'll take care of the big guy. I've got complete faith."

The other automatic, piloted by a Paradisas woman named Glendenstout, cocked it's head. "What will you do, then? Sit here?"

"Don't worry, don't worry," Skipper chuckled, picking himself up off the ground and brushing the dust from his legs. "I've got a busy itinerary myself, yeah?"

He looked past the two automatics, to the prone body on the floor. Somehow, among all of that chaos, the body of Isabelle Pi Testament had gone mostly unharmed. She was covered in cuts and scratches, but the steady rising and lowering of her chest was unmistakably alive.

Skipper scratched his nose. "...and it keeps getting busier all the time. Who would think?"

Glendenstout followed his gaze. "Isabelle Pi Testament. The woman who originally sent out the leak. What's wrong with her?"

Skipper frowned. "Hard to say." Her eyes were open, unblinking, staring at the ceiling. "Lights are on, but it looks like nobody's home. I know the feeling."

Indeed, he did.

The time he'd spent with the Vantablack Squad was mostly a blur, brief periods of lucidity accompanied by bloodshed, but he remembered one thing if nothing else… the terrible sensation of having parts of you be blank that once were not. Like you'd been scrubbed clean of yourself.

"Lady robot," Skipper addressed Glendenstout. "Get her somewhere safe, yeah? I get the feeling she'll be an important playing piece to have in her hand."

"You mean card?" Hamashtiel said. "You wouldn't hold a piece in your hand like that."

"Whatever."

Glendenstout shook her head in disdain, but walked over to the body all the same, slinging it over her shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all. These new model automatics the Paradisas had really were something: Skipper already knew they'd be invaluable on Elysian Fields.

The mechanical woman looked back at him, her face a blank expanse. "What will you do, then, blackmailer?"

Skipper cracked his neck. "Me?" A grin slowly spread across his face. "I'm headed down below."

In every aspect of the words, he was sure.

In the dark tunnels of the Deus Nobiscum, Bruno and Serena danced with a monster from a fever dream. Each limb that flew off from the touch of an invisible blade soon grew back, but exhaustion was still hours away from them. They could keep swinging thin air for as long as it took.

In the elegant and decadent hallways of the Deus Nobiscum, Ruth chased after the slavering insect that shredded the world around it. Giant, twisted ants were summoned to block her path -- but with the momentum she'd bought herself, their lifespans were measured in mere seconds. Before long, she would catch up with her prey.

And on the bridge of the Deus Nobiscum…

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Giovanni Sigma Testament turned to look over his shoulder as he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. He raised his black eyebrows -- much less surprised than he should have been -- as he saw the figure emerging from the darkness.

Dragan Hadrien.

His clothes were still stained with his own blood, but no external injuries were visible. There was the slightest discrepancy in the shade of the skin on his arms, though. A telltale sign of Panacea usage.

Giovanni frowned. There was only one possible conclusion: someone had rescued Hadrien, someone who knew the ship well enough to find their way into such an out-of-the-way crevice.

A traitor.

Well, traitors burned like everything else. All Giovanni had to do, at this point, was make sure the bonfire was lit.

He turned away from the console, and -- with a flick of his wrist -- reabsorbed his Replica. In an unexpected situation like this, he wanted all of his Aether at his disposal. He narrowed his eyes, keeping careful watch on Hadrien's form.

"I'm surprised you survived," he said. "And what's more, that you showed your face so readily --"

"Gemini Shotgun."

Bombardment was the only word fit to describe what happened next. Dragan Hadrien must have gathered up every piece of debris and ammunition he could find on the way up here, steeled himself -- and released it.

Second Verse!

Giovanni summoned his shield around himself immediately, the red tint impeding his view of the destruction outside -- but the tiny blurs rushing past told him all he needed to know. The attack went on agonizingly long, thirty seconds at least, as if Giovanni had been teleported into a warzone -- but then, finally, it began to slow and cease.

However, right before the attack truly ended, something unbelievable happened.

The shield cracked.

As the smoke and dust cleared, Giovanni stared uncomprehendingly at the tiny fragment of spider web that had appeared on his shield. It was just the smallest, feeblest sign of damage… but damage all the same.

Not so long ago, this level of attack had been impossible for Dragan Hadrien. The increase in power meant only one thing…

Right now, right here, he was in true synchronization with his Aether Core.

Dragan wouldn't speak to this man anymore. He wouldn't stall himself with useless sentimentality, and he wouldn't entertain his own distractions. He wouldn't let anything in the world influence him except himself.

The only one who decided what happened to him… was him.

His Aether reached a borealis.