Ruth grunted as she pulled the bandage taut around her waist, doing her best to ignore the piercing pain that rang through her body.

Purposefully getting herself stabbed had seemed like such a good idea at the time, but in retrospect she wasn't so sure. It was true that she'd needed the momentum, sure, but maybe there was a better way she could have done that?

It was a bad habit of hers; she'd been consumed by the thrill of the fight, seeking victory without any thought as to what she'd do afterwards. She'd beat that guy Simeon up, and buried him under enough tables that he wouldn't be able to move, but now what?

Now Sait, she reminded herself.

That was right. That old guy was what this whole thing was about - the fights going on were just distractions. She'd heard explosions from down below, so presumably one of the others had engaged the enemy as well. Hopefully, they'd be distracted enough that she could get to Sait's office without further trouble.

She forced herself to her feet, putting a hand against the wall to support herself - and when she moved that hand, she noted distantly that it left a bloody handprint on the wall. That probably wasn't good, but she didn't have time to worry about it.

Move on. That was what she had to do.

----------------------------------------

"Do you think life can be better than this?" said Robin, looking wistfully up at the sky. She'd just come back from one of her father's functions, wearing a dress that probably cost more than Ruth's whole village - but her face was so quietly distraught as she watched the stars.

Ruth shrugged. "Life ain't so bad."

They stood in the shadows of Robin's greenhouse - one of the rare parts of her father's estate that wasn't surveilled. Ruth had always thought the place stank - full of weird plants that weren't native to Granis - but Robin seemed to like it all the same.

Robin smiled sadly. "You only think that because you haven't known anything else."

Ruth raised an eyebrow, adjusted the assault rifle slung over her shoulder. She hadn't had the easiest time of it, true, but she'd never thought her life was bad. Things were just the way that they were.

"You can't be scared, you know?" Robin went on, smiling sadly. "Of new things happening."

In the years since, Ruth would often wonder if Robin had had some idea back then - of how things would turn out in the end. Was that why she always looked so sad, even when she was happy?

But the Ruth of years past only scoffed. "I'm not scared of anything," she grinned. "A paleo-beast came near the village last week, and I blew its head off like it was nothing."

Robin giggled, putting a demure hand to her mouth as she did so. "Sounds interesting," she sighed, turning her head slightly as she heard a distant guard patrol. "They'll be starting curfew soon. You should go."

"'Course," Ruth nodded, pulling the straps of her backpack taut. She'd already stuffed it full of the few supplies Robin had been able to procure for the militia. "You stay safe too, yeah?"

Robin smiled, the moon shining down behind her. In its pale light, she looked more like a phantom than anything else.

"Of course I will," she lied.

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Dir didn't like this.

He drummed his fingers along the barrel of his stun cannon as he waited, stock-still, staring at the entrance of the hospital. Assuming everything had gone well, Skipper and his crew should have brought Sait out by now.

He'd heard explosions - had something gone wrong? If the Citizen's crew had beat them to the punch, there was every possibility that a battle had already begun. Sait could very well already be dead.

Drum, drum, drum. His fingers came down against the gun barrel like raindrops.

"Sir?" said a deputy - Abrams or something like that. He'd clearly noticed Dir's trepidation. "Is something wrong?"

"It's the quiet of it all out here," growled Dir, still vigilantly watching the entrance. "This Citizen bastard - he's got us all running scared, and he's never even shown his face. Thing like that does a number to your pride, son. You understand?"

Abrams nodded. "Yes, sir."

Probably he didn't - pipsqueaks like Abrams liked to buddy up to their superior officers to get the cushy assignments. Dir kept staring at the hospital entrance for a few moments more before finally breaking away, turning back towards the transport that had brought him here.

"Keep watch," he called to Abrams as he walked away. "I'm contacting Team B."

Their team, Team A, had been assigned to watch the main entrance and prevent anyone from getting in or out. Team B had been assigned to do the same for the potential exit through the district's sewer system. He didn't envy that kind of work, but it was best to make sure they were all on the same page.

Two officers standing guard saluted Dir as he approached the transport, and he nodded in response.

Team A didn't quite describe it, to tell the truth - there were nearly a hundred men covering this location now, setting up turrets and barricades for cover. It seemed a little overkill at first glance, but none of them had any idea what they could be facing.

Better safe than sorry.

He stepped into the transport, out of the crisp night air. The space that half an hour ago had been packed full of men was now completely bare, save for Dir and the scraps of equipment that hadn't been taken out. He approached the communications console, put his finger down to press a button.

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The air shifted, and he stopped. His breath caught in his throat.

He didn't know what it was - but this was a feeling familiar to him. As a fighter, you got a sixth sense for it, for the moment when a brawl was about to turn against you. For the times you needed to start moving back. Something was wrong.

He moved his hand away from the console and instead put it to the local communicator on his head.

"Abrams," he said slowly, mouth dry. "Come in.'

There was no answer.

"Anyone on this frequency," he tried again, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "Report."

Again, there was no answer.

Dir took in a deep breath - deeper than most people could manage, thanks to his prosthetic windpipes. If something was happening, he wouldn't have to give up his position with ill-timed gasps for air.

Slowly, with the deliberateness of an elephant, Dir turned - stun cannon pointing in front of him - and marched out of the transport, back into the night. He was prepared. He was prepared for whatever was happening. He was -

His cannon slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a heavy clunk.

Death.

When he'd entered the transport, there had been nearly a hundred people in the square. Now there was only one - he himself.

It was a garden of corpses. Each officer that had been standing out there, just moments ago, was dead - sliced, cut to ribbons, ripped to pieces, their blood staining the ground beneath them. Long, thin metal blades - like the feather of some steel bird - protruded from nearly every body, the obvious murder weapons.

Some men had clearly turned to combat some threat, but they hadn't even had time to fire their guns. The weapons lay in pieces next to their owners, mechanical workings spilling from the sliced machinery just as entrails spilled from the men next to them.

Dir's mouth moved wordlessly. This was … what the hell was this?

As if directed by invisible strings, his head slowly turned upwards, to look up at the hospital. Above, nearly twenty floors up, a massive hole had appeared in the outer wall, dust still spilling out of the gap. It was as if someone had fired a cannonball straight through the building.

Abrams, the kid Dir had been talking with barely a minute ago, was alive - but barely. A silver blade longer than he was tall had impaled him through the stomach, pinning him to the ground and holding him up all the while. He twitched weakly as he slowly slid down the blade, painting it red as he went, leaving small bits of his innards as a parting gift.

"Red eyes..." he mumbled, eyes sightless, blood spilling from his mouth. "Red eyes…"

And then he was gone, and Dir was truly alone in the square. His hands shook violently.

Someone had been here. Someone had been here only moments ago. Someone had come, killed all his men in seconds, and leapt up into the hospital to make their own entrance. Monstrously fast, and monstrously strong. Dir didn't have any evidence, but in his heart he knew…

It's him.

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Ruth thought about knocking - and then kicked the door in a second later.

The wood exploded inwards, showering the entranceway with scraps of wooden debris. The old man in the wheelchair didn't even move from his position, though - he just stayed there, staring wistfully out of the wall-length window.

A corpse lay on the ground before him, alcohol dripping from its nose onto the carpet. Ruth vaguely wondered who he'd been as she approached.

"That was quite the entrance," the old man Sait chuckled as Ruth walked over.

"Shut up," Ruth growled. "I'm getting you out of here. Turn off the lockdown."

Sait's eyes flicked to her, scanned the room. "Turn it off…?" he mused, as if the very idea was preposterous. "Why would I do that?"

She cast a glare down at him. "Because I told you to."

A smirk spread across his skull-like face, and he turned his gaze away from her again. "Forgive me, my dear, but you're not that intimidating. Things will proceed as I'd prefer, I think."

Fine. She hadn't really expected this guy to just come quietly - carrying him out of here would be a pain, but she was more than willing to do it.

She put a hand on the back of his wheelchair, pulled at it. "Like it or not," she growled. "You're coming with-"

Sait's hand lashed out towards her throat - deadly quick, holding a bloody pencil between his fingers. Threat. Ruth's body responded automatically, moving her throat out of the path of the attack and slapping the weapon out of Sait's hand with a gauntlet-bearing hand.

The pencil clattered to the ground, and Sait reared back, clutching his injured hand. Doubtless she'd broke a couple of his fingers with that slap of hers. She didn't find herself feeling too bad for him.

"You done?" she snarled, kicking the makeshift weapon away across the floor.

Still holding onto his hand, Sait looked up at her. "Taking me will solve nothing, you know," he hissed, glaring daggers. "You understand that? Nothing. This is nothing of consequence, this whole thing."

Ruth rolled her eyes. She really hated it when people like this started busting out the speeches. "Yeah, yeah."

Sait didn't stop, though. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut, leaned back in his chair and went on and on: "We live in a world, a world, you understand, built only to consume itself. To consume us, and even as we fall into it's belly we are eating ourselves. Gluttony, pure gluttony. Ouroborous consuming and regurgitating itself, but always in a form more especially suited to decadence, constantly improving on its own depravity. That is the shape of this world, and all worlds, and it always. Will. Be."

A frenzy seemed to consume Sait's voice as he ranted, as if this monologue was something he'd been wanting to unleash his whole life. "It doesn't matter who you kill, who you stop, what bullet you put into what head. All of that - all of this - meaningless. Water doesn't get to decide what shape the bottle takes. All of us - from the greatest king to the lowliest beggar - is helpless. Even me."

He opened his eyes. "Even you."

His speech seemingly concluded, he was reduced to panting for breath, hands shaking on the arms of his wheelchair. His face, which had turned red from exertion, gradually returned to its usual sickly pallor.

Ruth scoffed. She'd learnt a long time ago not to listen to people like this. "I'm not helpless."

Sait's bloodshot eyes flicked to look over at her, a wry half-grin on his face. "I wasn't talking to you."

The air shifted. Her breath caught in her throat, and every hair on her body suddenly stood up as if on command. It was as if a very, very heavy weight was suddenly pressing against her back.

The voice that came from behind her was stern, strong - like two pieces of metal scraping together. A voice that permitted no argument.

"Don't turn around."