"Dragan?" Ruth whispered again, hand still extended, as she looked down at the empty chasm.
She blinked, curiously calm. In one ear, she could hear Skipper blasting Heartbeat Shotguns at the enemy Repurposed. In the other, Bruno was desperately shouting sothing. She tried to shrug him off, but his grip on her was strong -- and he pulled her away from the edge.
Those words he was saying… what did they an? He’s gone, he’s gone… they didn’t make any sense at all.
Ruth’s mouth moved in reply, but even she didn’t know what she was saying. All she could do was vaguely reach out for the spot Dragan had fallen while Bruno dragged her away. Her feet slid against the smooth tal of the bridge as she wildly kicked.
Here, her strength was aimless, mindlessly lashing out -- and so Bruno’s focus won. He pulled her into the maw that was the building’s entrance, cool darkness pressing against her skin even as she scread and flailed.
"Heartbeat Bayonet!"
With a final attack, Skipper sliced off the legs of the Repurposed pursuing him, sending them onto their stomachs. Then, he blasted himself into the entrance of the building just as the main doors slamd shut. He let out a deep breath as finally, finally, the Repurposed vanished from view.
"Well, that was a lot," he sighed, rising up into a sitting position. He glanced around. "Where’s Dragan?"
He hadn’t seen. He didn’t know. Cold ice crawled over Ruth’s heart, and when she opened her mouth this ti she could hear the words loud and clear.
"He fell," she murmured.
The grin on Skipper’s face froze. "What?"
Ruth dropped to the floor as Bruno let go of her, his arms swinging limp by his sides. She looked up at him: his mouth was an utterly flat line, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared off into space. He elaborated with just a few words.
"He’s gone…" he whispered, his hands shaking, his eyes wet. "He -- he --"
The doors further into the building flew open, and a squad of security officers ca out, pointing their weapons at the group and barking commands. Micah stood, protesting, but was quickly pushed back by the squad’s commander.
"Hands up, all of you!" the commander said, jerking his rifle upwards. "All of you! Now!"
Ruth obeyed without a second thought, lifting her hands up into the air. Bruno stood there just trembling for a mont before Serena took over and acquiesced. Micah looked between the squad of soldiers and Skipper -- who was still sitting there, the grin fading from his face.
"What?" he asked again, deathly quiet.
"Hands up!"
The commander’s finger began to curl against the trigger. Before he could fire, however, Micah stepped forward again -- positioning himself between the commander and Skipper, his own hands up. The commander visibly hesitated.
"Micah, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed, still pointing the gun.
"They’re safe, they’re safe," Micah said frantically, waving his arms in the air. "I an -- just look at them, man!"
The commander bit his lip, shaking the rifle in another attempt to scare Micah off. "Could be infected."
"Look at them, they’re fine!"
"Might not be showing," the commander sniffed. "Could be sleepers or sothing. Wait for us to bring ’em in and then they turn." His eyes narrowed. "Could be you’re one too."
Micah stopped moving. "That’s not how it works."
"Don’t know how it works." The coldness in the commander’s eyes had returned -- and when his finger curled around the trigger again, there was an unshakeable purpose to it. "Rather not find out the hard way."
Ruth should really do sothing. This situation was clearly about to explode, so she should really do sothing. Lift her claws or defend herself, or sothing like that. But when the thought of any action rose to her mind, it imdiately died on the vine. What was the point of effort, when the ti for it had already passed?
I don’t want to lose what I have.
She’d lost what she had.
The shouting of the soldiers, the protests of Micah, all of it faded into an incoherent swirl of noise and light… her feet felt unsteady beneath her. Was she about to collapse? It wouldn’t be surprising. She took a breath that didn’t feel nearly deep enough, and --
"Hey," said Skipper, his voice dangerously even. "Can you guys shut up, please?"
The commander looked past Micah to Skipper. Ruth looked up from her misery, too. Even Bruno, off in the corner, ceased his shivering.
Venomous green Aether coursed around Skipper’s body, forming an erald haze surrounding his very being. Ruth could hear a formless whispering in the air, like the very air around him was vibrating in fury. When he looked up, his eyes held murderous gleams.
"I’m really trying not to kill soone right now," he growled. "So it’d be a huge help if you didn’t get my attention. Yeah?"
The commander, cowed for but a mont, snarled and raised his weapon up again. "What the hell did you just say to , you little --"
A whistling of the wind, and the barrel of his rifle fell, neatly sliced away from the weapon. Face white, the commander slowly looked down at his gun. The cut of the Heartbeat Bayonet had been so fast and so strong the tal was still red from heat.
The commander’s mouth opened again, doubtless to order his n to fire in his stead, but before the words could leave his lips --
"What the hell is going on here?!"
-- the doors into the building flew open.
The man who strode out of the headquarters, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, was a stark contrast to the soldiers they’d seen so far. A dark business suit instead of desert fatigues, a greying combover rather than a protective helt. His eyebrows were so thick and wide they almost ford a unibrow, and that unibrow was creased in anger as he stepped out of the building, flanked by two bodyguards.
Whoever this was, he was in charge. You could tell that at a glance.
The commander’s eyes flicked between Skipper and the new arrival, his ruined rifle lowering just a fraction. "We’re securing the premises, Mr. Hessiah," he said tersely. "They’re potential sleeper agents. We can’t just let them in."
The businessman -- Mr. Hessiah, it seed -- groaned again, wiping his dry handkerchief against his cheeks before taking another step towards the commander, leaning in angrily.
"This situation will not persist forever," he hissed. "When the authorities co to find out what happened, you think they won’t ask questions about your conduct? You don’t think such panic will cost us? There are laws regarding denial of shelter during natural disasters, you know. The legal costs alone…"
Morality didn’t seem to do much to move this man, but money certainly did. The commander holstered what was left of his rifle -- and with a wave of his hand, his n did the sa.
"It’s a bad idea," he said to Hessiah, bravado forced into his voice. "I’m telling you now."
"Of course. I thank you for your continued counsel." Hessiah’s eyes scanned Skipper, Bruno and Ruth, properly looking at them for the first ti. "Put them with the rest of the refugees. I trust you can handle that, at least, Marsh."
"Yes, sir," Marsh said through gritted teeth -- and then, without so much as a word behind him, he strode towards the open doors.
Ruth followed, and she saw that Bruno and Skipper were doing the sa. It was strange. Usually, if she was being treated this way -- talked down to and harassed -- she would feel an irrepressible urge to give just as bad back. Now, though, she felt no desire at all.
She felt… nothing.
"So what happened?" Skipper asked quietly, his voice dark as he stepped in alongside her. "He slipped and fell?"
It took her a mont to rember how to speak. She shook her head. "Soone shot him. A sniper… I think."
Skipper’s eyes scanned the guns of the n escorting them. "I didn’t see those Repurposed things using guns. Interesting, yeah?"
"Mm," Ruth nodded without really thinking about what she’d been told. "Interesting."
Bruno alone was silent, walking behind them morosely. His hands, moving using his Aether, were tightened into the utmost fists. Ruth got the feeling that whoever talked to him next would get a swift punch to the jaw.
The lobby they were led into was massive, filled with what looked like museum exhibits charting the discovery of Panacea and the growth of the industry surrounding it. A humongous model of a Panacea cross-section was suspended from the ceiling by wires, flickering holographic signs pointing out the individual parts of its structure.
There was a long crescent-shaped desk at the head of the room, but it was unmanned, and the procession moved past it without a second glance. The group split in two there -- Hessiah and his bodyguards taking one elevator, the rest taking another. The shafts were made of glass, and so Ruth could see Hessiah’s lift heading upwards for a mont before theirs descended.
"Refugees, huh?" Skipper said with forced levity. "We’re not the only people who’ve made it here, then?"
"Quiet," Marsh snarled. "If it was up to , we’d throw the lot of you outside. You don’t host the enemy in the middle of a siege."
Skipper grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’d like to see you try, pal."
The elevator dinged before the situation could escalate any further, and the doors slid open to reveal the truly colossal room beyond.
Without doubt the room had originally been so kind of storage warehouse, but the automatic shelves had moved themselves to cover the walls, leaving open space in the middle of the room. It was packed with people, a hundred of them at least -- n and won and even a few children. Were these the refugees that Hessiah had ntioned, then?
Blankets and sleeping bags littered the floor, and crates of canned food and drink had been opened in the corners of the chamber. As Ruth, Bruno and Skipper stepped forward, however, Marsh did not leave the elevator, nor did his n.
"Enjoy," he said sarcastically. "And don’t make trouble."
With that, he slamd his fist against the elevator’s control panel, and the module zood upwards again. Seed they were being left to their own devices. Micah shrugged apologetically.
"Sorry about him… the guy’s an ass anyway, but I guess the situation hasn’t helped."
"Who are these people?" Skipper asked, eyes scanning the crowd. "You said the only people left were those who were here when whatever happened happened. Why were they here?"
Micah ran a hand over his face. "They’re employees -- and families of employees. Before this all went down, there was kind of a thing going on with worker rights. They ca here to present Mr. Hessiah with a petition right when the whole thing kicked off."
Skipper narrowed his eyes. "That’s pretty convenient."
"Careful," Micah chuckled. "You’re sounding a little like Marsh yourself."
The look Skipper gave him after that firmly shut him up.
"Apparently," Skipper said. "My friend was killed by a sniper bullet. Those things don’t use guns, do they? And yet you boys don’t seem too surprised. Who killed my friend?"
Micah shifted uncomfortably under Skipper’s glowering gaze. He was the one with the gun, with the position that gave him power here, but from his expression you wouldn’t know it. Skipper had stripped it from him with a glance.
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"I don’t know for sure," he finally said. "But…"
"But you have suspicions."
Micah nodded.
"Who knows? Tell ."
Skipper’s sentences grew shorter and harsher as his anger built upon itself, like a blade shrinking as it was sharpened. Ruth was certain she hadn’t seen him blink for nearly a minute.
Micah looked up, biting his lip.
"Better if I take you to him."
There hadn’t been many Scurrants where Ruth had grown up, but since joining up with Skipper she’d seen quite the number of them. At first, she’d been surprised by so of the more unique mutations they exhibited, but over ti she felt like she’d gotten used to it. She thought she couldn’t be surprised anymore.
She was obviously wrong.
The man Micah had brought them to was quadrupedal, head low to the ground, his eyes so wrinkled and recessed so far back into his skull that they were barely visible. His hands and legs were wide and flat, like hooves, fingers so stubby they clearly weren’t capable of grasping anything. A heavy shell of what might have been tooth or fingernail sprouted from his back, it’s surface so smooth and shiny that Ruth could see her own reflection in it. A bright red robe was tied loosely around the man’s body, preserving his modesty.
It was like the human form had been stretched and twisted to resemble a kind of giant tortoise.
Ruth exchanged a glance with Skipper. Micah had led them to a set of tents in the back of the warehouse, opting to wait outside the flaps while they spoke to this guy. Who was he, then? What did he do to get a tent?
"I’m told you can help out," Skipper said, his voice deceptively calm. "I’m looking for so answers."
The tortoise-man’s tiny eyes scanned Skipper up and down, his warped expression utterly inscrutable. "You’re among legions, then, I’m afraid." His voice, passing through puffed lips above a bloated jaw, was quieter and softer than Ruth would have expected.
"Well, I’m told you can help , pal. That true?"
Joints cracked audibly as the man adjusted his position, just slightly. "By whom? Micah? Curious lad. If I can help you, I’m happy to. My na is Ansem del Day Away. Yourself?"
"Skipper."
Skipper grunted and sat cross-legged on the floor, getting to eye-level with Ansem. The Scurrant blinked slowly as he looked Skipper up and down. Even through the curtain of dark hair that hung over Ansem’s face, the constant thought going on behind his eyes was evident.
"An alias?" he finally said. "Is there a reason you won’t give your real na, sir?"
"Been calling myself Skipper longer than anything else. Far as I’m concerned, it is my real na."
Ansem closed his eyes, slowly nodded. Then, he looked to Ruth and Bruno, standing behind Skipper. "And you two? Nas please, chosen or otherwise."
Skipper smiled thinly. "You’re talking to , pal," he said softly.
"And I dislike the presence of anonymous spectators. I’d ask they shed their anonymity -- or leave, of course."
Skipper opened his mouth to protest again, but the thought of fighting over sothing so pointless just made Ruth feel sick. She cut him off.
"I’m Ruth, and this is Bruno." She nodded in Bruno’s direction.
"Chard. You see, my friend? Now we can proceed harmoniously. What is it I can help you with?"
Skipper glanced back at Ruth, and there was clear annoyance in his gaze, but he let it go. Instead, he leaned in further towards Ansem, hands clasped on his lap.
"A friend of mine was killed outside," he said, almost growling as anger trickled into his voice. "Not by the Repurposed. He was shot. Micah seems to think you’d know about it."
Dragan, half his face gone. Ruth realized, a cold feeling settling in her gut, that there would be a new addition to her nightmares.
With how stretched out and expanded Ansem’s face was, it was difficult to parse his facial expressions, but Ruth couldn’t help but feel that the Scurrant was smiling as he humd to himself.
"It seems to ," he said after a mont. "That you had the misfortune of encountering the Dead Hand."
"The Dead Hand?" Skipper asked.
"Indeed." Ansem del Day Away did not elaborate further.
Skipper rolled his eyes -- just like Dragan would have -- and pressed further. "What is the Dead Hand? Crash course, buddy. We ain’t drowning in ti here."
Ansem’s eyes angled upwards, as if he could see through the ceiling to the floors above. "Titan Hessiah’s attack dogs," he almost spat. "Hired to keep the people down."
"Hessiah? Short guy, combover?" Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t strike as the mastermind type -- besides, he seems pretty freaked out about this whole thing. We t him at the door, and he was pretty about everyone staying inside. Why would his goons be hanging around out there, shooting people?"
"Don’t misunderstand. The Dead Hand once worked for Titan Hessiah, but I have no doubt they have stranger directives now. At any rate, they’re the only ones on this planet with the kind of weaponry you describe. The guards use standard issue ExoCorp equipnt, intended for dium-range conflict. Only the Dead Hand find need for sniper rifles."
Skipper put his fist on his chin, staring Ansem down. "You seem to know an awful lot about them, for a…?"
"Lawyer. I specialise in labour law. The people here on Panacea work in appalling conditions -- the automatics here are out-dated, prone to malfunction. n and won must crawl into the machinery to make repairs, like rats. Sotis there are accidents." He blinked slowly. "Quite often there are accidents."
"Doesn’t explain why you’re so knowledgeable about this Dead Hand."
This ti, Ansem’s thin smile was unmistakable. "The organisation I represent is descended from a slave revolt. We find situations such as these… disquieting. I was dispatched to organize worker action. In response, Hessiah hired the Dead Hand to intimidate the workers into subservience. They’re a small group, but sadly effective. They’re often an obstacle in these sorts of negotiations -- hence, I know them well."
"Union busters," Bruno spoke up for the first ti in a while. His eyes were still ringed red.
Skipper nodded to himself. "So this Dead Hand group -- they’re helping the Repurposed?"
"It would seem so." Ansem shuffled forward slightly, each movent of his legs slow and deliberate. "Hessiah says that they have gone rogue, but I find that notion questionable. The Dead Hand are known for two things: their brutality, and their professionalism. rcenaries live and die based on their reputations. Should word of betrayal get out… that would be the end."
"So you think this Titan Hessiah’s still involved, yeah?" Skipper narrowed his eyes.
"At the very least, he’s hiding sothing. They say communications off-planet have been disabled, but I find that unlikely also. Panacea farming takes place on many planets outside of this one, but it is still a major center. If it fell out of contact, surely soone would have co to investigate by now?"
"Maybe we ca to investigate. You haven’t even asked where we ca from, you know. Couple of random travellers, walking into the middle of a situation like this? You don’t find that suspicious?"
"Not at all," Ansem replied -- and again, he did not elaborate further, instead changing the topic. "After all, your arrival is convenient. My suspicion is that Hessiah and ExoCorp are blocking communications, while sending out their own ssages to make the outside think everything is fine here. Needless to say, this would be considerably illegal. You all seem capable people -- if you could perhaps infiltrate the upper floors, confirm my suspicions…"
Skipper interrupted. "You want us to help you out."
When Ansem spoke, it was with the utmost earnestness. "It may have been one of the Dead Hand that pulled the trigger on your friend," he said slowly. "But Titan Hessiah signed the contract that put him there."
Skipper stopped the Scurrant’s request with a raise of his palm. The smile on his face was just as thin as Ansem’s had been -- and again, it did not reach his eyes. He got up from the floor.
"You’re a plotter," he sighed, brushing the dust off his knees. "Nothing wrong with that -- it’s just the way you go about things. But I don’t trust plotters ’till I know what the plot is."
Ansem raised a thick eyebrow. "How sad," he murmured. "You seem an awfully suspicious man."
Skipper lingered at the exit of the tent, the flap lifted up over his shoulder as he looked back.
"Not at all," he said, fake smile spreading into a fake grin. "I’m a plotter too."
The noise of the crowds inside the warehouse bounced off the walls, making it difficult to hear what people were saying even right next to you. Talking about anything there was pretty much impossible -- so the group found their own little hole to scurry into.
Around the main warehouse the refugees had been herded into was a labyrinthian network of corridors connecting logistics offices, server rooms, even more storage. They weren’t quite alone back there -- they’d passed a few people sleeping against the walls -- but they could at least hear each other.
Skipper leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "What do you think?" he asked Bruno. "This story about the Dead Hand seem legit? You heard of ’em?"
Bruno shook his head. "If they’re a small group, though, I wouldn’t expect to. Why? You think the turtle guy’s feeding us bullshit?"
"Could be," Skipper nodded. "He’s clearly not buddies with Titan Hessiah, so it’d be a win for him if he can turn us against him, too."
"Or he could be telling us the truth."
"Doubt it," Skipper clicked his tongue. "Titan Hessiah’s the CEO of ExoCorp -- if he was deliberately blocking out communications during an ergency like this, it’d be the end of his career. Money grubbers don’t take risks like that."
Their escort cut in. "What’ll you do, then?"
Micah lingered in the middle of the corridor, rifle slung over his back. He’d stuck with them even after they’d spoken to Ansem. Maybe his superiors had ordered him to.
Skipper sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose -- and for a brief second, he looked much more tired and much more old than Ruth had ever seen him.
"We don’t know enough," he finally said, voice muffled as he ran his hand over his face. "We need intel -- and not just what Ansem del Day Away’s willing to feed us. Bruno, you willing to ask around with the refugees here? Ask ’em if they know about this Dead Hand thing?"
Bruno nodded, his face stone. "Roger."
But Ruth couldn’t hold it back anymore.
"Why?" she whispered.
Skipper looked down at her, eyes wide, as if he’d forgotten she was there. "Why what?"
"Why bother…?" The words spilled clumsily out of her mouth like water through a sieve. "Why are we… asking around, trying to -- to figure things out? He’s dead. It doesn’t matter."
The smile faded from Skipper’s face, and the lines of his face again seed much deeper. "You wanna just leave things unfinished?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Dragan would want --"
"He doesn’t want anything. He’s dead. It doesn’t matter."
"He’s not --"
Skipper stepped forward, with more sudden anger and intensity than Ruth had ever seen from him -- and then, when she flinched, the guilt on his expression was just as striking. He sighed, stepping back and slumping down against the wall.
"He’s not dead," Skipper quietly said, staring at his hands. "See? There’s a little… there’s a little Dragan inside my head now, all the mories I have of him all mashed together, and he keeps asking , asking . What am I gonna do? How am I gonna make it right? That’s what he keeps asking . I gotta be able to answer him, Ruth. You want to answer him too… right?"
She thought about it. Her thoughts were sluggish, slow, but she thought about it.
Robin bleeding against a pole. Bones singed with plasma. Dragan, falling into the shade.
The mories gouged at her like knives. One had been a trick, an illusion, but the horror of it had been real. If she could lessen that horror, even if just a little…
"Yeah," she finally said, her resolve hardening just a little bit. "Yeah, I think I wanna answer him."
The grin on Skipper’s face was a fraction more genuine, his eyes relieved.
"Sounds good, right?" he murmured. "Bruno."
Bruno nodded, turning and striding down the hallway to do as he’d been told. Ever since what had happened to Dragan, it seed he’d retreated into his training -- his even, rhythmic marching echoed down the stained corridors.
Skipper took a deep breath. "Okay… so, before I forget."
He moved. Green light illuminated the hallway as Skipper’s Aether raged around him. Then, his body a blur of motion, he turned. His hand lashed out, seizing Micah by the collar, and slamd him against the wall.
By the ti Ruth realized what was going on, it was already over.
Micah choked, legs flailing in the air as Skipper held him up with one hand. "What are… what are you doing?!"
"Skipper?!" Ruth’s eyes flicked between Skipper and Micah, utter confusion written on her face.
Skipper didn’t blink, just continuing to stare up at his captive with dull green eyes. "Enough gas, North. Disguise off. Or I kill you right here." He was telling the truth. Ruth could tell that just from looking at him.
"I…" Micah gasped for air in Skipper’s grip. "I don’t know what you’re…"
"Okay. Bye, North." He raised a finger.
"Fine! Fine!"
For a brief second, light flickered around Micah’s form -- and when it was done, Micah was no more. The man with the long red hair had been replaced by an Umbrant with slicked-back grey, grimacing as Skipper held him up.
The person they’d once thought dead. The person they’d mourned.
North.
"Been a while," he chuckled, shrugging as much as he was able.
There was fear among the people.
Bruno could see that even without being told. He’d asked through the refugees about this group supposedly called the Dead Hand, and even though he hadn’t gotten a straight answer, the frightened looks and hushed voices that told him they knew nothing were more than enough. The situation might not be exactly as Ansem del Day Away had described, but sothing had been terrorizing these people long before the Repurposed had appeared.
Analysis of these things wasn’t his forte, though. When he got back, he’d ask --
Oh.
Focus on the mission, Bruno, he told himself. The mission is a raft in the ocean.
He had work to do. There was no shortage of things to distract him. Serena was bouncing away behind the walls of his skull, like a mad dog trying to run off energy, but he could distract himself all the sa. So long as he didn’t think about what had happened, it wasn’t yet real.
Bruno looked over into the corner of the warehouse, at a small gathering of young n that he hadn’t talked to yet. Diligence was the best dicine -- he’d ask them about the Dead Hand, too, then head back to Skipper and Ruth when he got the results.
He took a step forward -- only to stop as he felt the cold tal of a blade against his stomach.
Without his even noticing, soone had stepped up behind him and pressed their blade to him, ready to slice him open at a mont’s notice. They were in the middle of the room, surrounded by people, and yet the practiced expertise of the movent and position had been such that nobody was even looking at it. As he saw light playing off the sword that could kill him, Bruno slowly gulped -- as slowly as he dared, so as to not provoke anything.
He recognised this sword.
"Say anything," Atoy Muzazi spoke, right in his ear. "And I will be forced to kill you."
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