Zakos' anger was such that there was no more room for words.

The Special Officer lunged forward with his good arm, trying to grab hold of Dragan once again, but his speed wasn't nearly as fast as it had been a few minutes ago. Dragan ducked under the limb, charged forward, and planted his Aether-infused fist right into Zakos' stomach.

The blow only inspired the slightest grunt from Zakos, but at the very least it didn't smash Dragan's hand like it would have previously. He was actually fighting like a human now, rather than an insect trying to dodge a boot.

Dragan dodged backwards, avoiding another attempted headbutt from Zakos, and began circling over to the right - the side where Zakos' broken arm was. He needed every advantage he could snatch hold of.

Seeing what Dragan was thinking, Zakos plunged his good hand deep into the earth and pushed it forward, using it like a shovel to bring forth a torrent of rock and fling it towards his opponent. 

Dragan winced in anticipation. The attack served as both a smokescreen and a repeat of the one that had brought him down not so long ago.

His Aether ping strategy wouldn't work - it might if he was a little faster, but that simply wasn't the case. He'd have to use what he knew another way.

Moving as fast as his Aether-infused body was capable of, Dragan lunged down to the floor and tore away the remains of the stone tile next to the one he was standing on. Grunting with effort, he held it up to block the rain of rubble - pouring as much Aether into it as he could.

The sound of the rubble colliding with the shield was like the rain of an entire thunderstorm compressed into a couple of seconds. Tiny cracks spread in the shield's surface, and for a moment Dragan was concerned that it would shatter and expose him to the onslaught, but it held firm.

The second the sound stopped, Dragan tossed the shield aside - even heavily sedated, he couldn't waste a second against Zakos' speed.

And he was right not to - the second Dragan got rid of the shield, his vision was filled with Zakos' enraged face, black teeth bared in a bestial grin.

Dodge, he told himself, leaping to the side. The only thing you can do is dodge. Don't even think about attacking.

That was right. Like Skipper had kept saying, his victory condition wasn't landing a punch. In this case, his victory condition was staying alive until the sedatives could knock Zakos out.

Still, even with the enhancement to the sedatives, he had no idea how long that would take. Even though he'd gotten himself so pumped up, there was no guarantee of his success.

But unlike before, there was no guarantee of his failure, either.

Dragan and Zakos were like two blurs - one bright blue, the other dark yellow - dancing around each other, always just avoiding contact. Geysers of stone and rubble went flying up from Zakos' blows. A thin trail of blood drops followed in the wake of Dragan's movements.

With every second, the palace was becoming even more of a ruin.

Zakos' speed had definitely been affected by the sedatives, but his strength was unchanged. The man was like a living bulldozer, tearing the building apart in his efforts to smash Dragan. Even the floor was being smashed to pieces wherever he stood. The rage Dragan had provoked to dull Zakos' mind was what was keeping him going now.

It only made sense - Zakos knew just as well as Dragan that he wouldn't be able to keep moving forever. If the Special Officer couldn't kill Dragan before falling unconscious, he'd lose.

He was like a wounded animal, desperate.  Dragan couldn't just wait it out - he had to do something to end the confrontation.

He ducked down, avoiding a punch, and leapt forward, visibly concentrating all his Aether into his fist once again. It was a move he'd already used once - which was intentional, of course. Zakos was in no state of mind for creativity: if he encountered a problem he already knew the solution for, he wouldn't waste time coming up with another one.

And just as Dragan had expected, Zakos reared his head back, preparing to counter with a headbutt.

The second Zakos began to thrust his head forwards, Dragan abandoned the punch, dropping his fist and transferring all that Aether to his leg instead. Zakos' eyes widened in surprise, but it was too late - he'd already committed to the headbutt.

With all his strength and all his Aether, Dragan kicked at a loose chunk of rock on the ground beneath Zakos - and as he did so, he transferred all that Aether through his leg into the stone.

The rock went flying up with such speed and force that it was like a shooting star - until, of course, it collided with Zakos' chin. There was a sickening crunch as the Special Officer's jaw broke, accompanied by a low cracking moan from deep within the man's throat.

He fell backwards.

In the momentary opportunity that created, Dragan's mind raced with possibilities. What should he do now? If he could wake Bruno, his forcefields could be useful in restricting Zakos' movements. Could he pick up the plasma pistol and use its core as an explosive? If he infused the core with his Aether, how powerful would the resultant explosion be? Powerful enough to take Zakos down? 

He had no way of knowing, but he had to think of something quickly, or else -

Dragan blinked. Zakos … Zakos wasn't getting up. He was still lying there, in a heap, immobile. The ragged steadiness of his breath made it clear that it wasn't a trick, either. He was genuinely unconscious.

He'd … he'd won. Dragan staggered backwards, the exhaustion of the last few minutes finally catching up to him, and collapsed onto his knees. A laugh of disbelief rose from his throat.

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He'd done it! He'd beaten a Special Officer! It had taken all the cheating that he was capable of, but he'd won!

God, he was dizzy. Dragan put a hand to his head, then pulled it away when he felt sticky drying blood. That couldn't be good. 

He blinked slowly. Mila. If he could get to Mila, she could help him out - Bruno and Serena too. They were in desperate need of medical attention. The camp wasn't far, he was sure he could make it if he pushed himself.

No, said his younger self, sitting smugly on a chunk of rubble not far away. You can't.

"Why not?" Dragan mumbled.

The younger Dragan groaned, rolled his eyes. Have you already forgotten? he snapped. The automatics. They've been ordered to shoot you on sight without a doubt - and there's definitely at least a few stationed just outside.

"I could … I could sneak around," Dragan said, falling onto his stomach, cheek pressing against the cold stone of the floor. "Avoid their … avoid their sensors…"

The younger Dragan laughed, a malicious sound without any trace of humour. In your condition? It'd be a struggle to walk, let alone sneak around. Hey, I have an idea.

Dragan made a questioning sound, all that he was really capable of.

Why don't you just die? the younger Dragan grinned. Your life's pretty much over anyway. The Supremacy is hunting you, your only friends are idiot criminals, and you can look forward to assholes like this one chasing you for the rest of your days.

Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, tried with all he had to force the hallucination out of his mind. The device his mind had been using to help him brainstorm had turned into a mouth for self-loathing to speak through.

The spectre leaned forward, its face filling Dragan's vision in the way only a nightmare could.

You were meant to die years ago, anyway, it hissed. Why not make it official?

"No," said Dragan, no longer using his failing mouth.

The nightmare cocked its head. No?

"No. I've won. This is my victory. You can't take that away."

Yes, I can.

"No, you can't!" Dragan shouted inside his head. "Nothing you say means anything! Everything you say is a lie! I should know, I'm the one thinking it! So shut your damn mouth!"

The younger Dragan took a step backwards, shrugged, sneered. "Have it your way," it said, as if Dragan was making an incomprehensibly stupid decision. Then it was gone.

Dragan sighed, trying to roll over - unsuccessfully. He'd clearly made huge strides with his self-image issues, but unfortunately he was still going to die, so he wouldn't get to enjoy it for very long.

The sound of smashing metal rang out from the palace entrance. Dragan's eyes flicked over to try and look there, but it was just outside his range of vision. What was going on?

Had Bruno or Serena woken up, managed to do something? No, he could still hear them breathing softly. Whoever was doing that, it wasn't them.

Had the Humilists fought back? Again, hard to believe. They were an archeology team. They didn't have the necessary skills or equipment to take on combat automatics. So who?

It was an interesting question, but strangely enough Dragan could find the effort needed to pursue it. Hell, even keeping his eyes open seemed a struggle at this point. Speaking of which…

Dragan closed his eyes. It wasn't like he was giving up or anything, but his eyes were feeling tired. So he'd just rest for a moment and…

Oh, you're changing your mind?

Fuck that. Dragan forced his eyes open again, and felt a jolt of surprise.

Someone was standing in front of him, looking down at him. His vision wasn't so good right now, so he couldn't be sure - but it looked like a red stain in the shape of a person, a crimson cloak hanging around someone's frame.

He couldn't make out their face. The outfit was designed in such a way that you couldn't make out anything about the wearer. Intentional, of course.

"Who…?" he mumbled, knowing he probably wouldn't get an answer. Someone who dressed like that wouldn't give out their identity for free.

The red shadow cocked its head at Dragan, as if considering him. Deciding what to do with him. Then, it sighed softly - voice modulated by some sort of mask - and brought a fist down into his face.

-

When Dragan opened his eyes again, the stone floor he'd been lying on was replaced by a soft mattress. There were tubes sticking into his arm, and he could hear the soft beeping of a heartbeat monitor. There was something weighing down part of his face, too - a bandage.

Okay, so he wasn't dead. That was nice. That was a good start. There was no point in bandaging up corpses.

He tried to lift his arm. It was difficult, but that was due to fatigue rather than restraints. So he hadn't been captured by the Supremacy. Well, that was obvious - he wouldn't live long enough to be captured by the Supremacy.

Well then, maybe -

"You're pretty paranoid, aren't you?" said Mila flatly, watching him from a chair on the other side of the room.

Oh. He was in the medical tent, then. That seemed obvious in retrospect.

He put his arm back down. "What happened?" he said, enjoying the fluffy pillow beneath his head. "Did someone save me?"

Mila shook her head. "No idea. Once everything was over, we found you dumped on the outskirts of the camp."

Dragan furrowed his brow. "Not in the palace?"

"Nope."

Had that red shadow saved him, then? Why? Who were they, for that matter?

He glanced at Mila. "You're sure you have no idea what happened to me?"

She nodded. "Positive."

It didn't seem like she was lying, but Dragan was hardly in ideal form right now. He couldn't be sure.

He glanced over at the bed next to his. Bruno and Serena were lying there, hooked up to far more machinery than Dragan. They didn't seem to be in a good state.

"Any sign of Skipper and Ruth?" he said, without much hope in his voice.

Mila looked away. "Not yet."

Dragan bit his lip. What was keeping them? They weren't exactly running on unlimited time here.

A thought came to mind - a terribly important thought that was quite overdue. "Where's Zakos?"

Mila clicked her tongue, swallowed uncomfortably. "We, uh, managed to restrain him - keep him sedated so he can't use that Aether stuff. We thought it best to … well, to wait for you to wake up before deciding what to do with him."

Dragan sighed, putting a hand to his face. Why couldn't problems ever just be solved?