Ruth couldn't feel her legs.

After hours of fighting and running, she'd finally found a moment's shelter -- the crevice between the roots of a great tree, where she could squeeze in and be out of sight. Occasionally, she felt cold water drip against her head, stray raindrops managing to penetrate the barrier of leaves and branches above.

The Skeletal Set covering her body flickered in and out of existence, each time accompanied by a red spark. Dispelling her armour entirely would make it easier to hide, but would leave her defenseless if someone did find her. Ruth wouldn't allow herself to be defenseless.

She adjusted her sitting position slightly, ignoring the ache of protest from her body. She was on her last legs, she understood that. None of the Guardian Entities had managed to land a hit on her during this drawn-out encounter, but it was only a matter of time now.

The roach could only dodge the boot for so long, after all.

Ruth idly wondered if the others had made it back to the rebel base safely. There was no guarantee of it -- some of the Entities could have elected to pursue them instead -- but in her gut she had the distinct feeling that they were safe and sound. She had that, at least. She hadn't fucked that up.

Robin put a finger to her lips. "Hm… I suppose I must've thought you were a good person?"

"Shut up," Ruth muttered, dream and reality mixing together as exhaustion made itself truly known. "You're dead. I'm no good."

"And there you go," Skipper said, cheeky grin on his face. "Proof there's more to you than you think."

"You shut up too. You're probably dead as well…" Ruth said weakly, her tone like a crossbreed between a chuckle and a sob. "I fucked it up. I fucked it all up."

Rupert Grave glared down at her -- in her imagination, he was perpetually taller than her, a giant from the perspective of a child. “You owe everything you have to us -- and you’re not repaying in kind.”

"Shut up!" Ruth screamed, standing up to her full height, her claws fully re-establishing themselves into reality as she pointed them at the hallucination.

There was no reply. Of course there wasn't -- this had never actually happened. There was no memory for her exhaustion to draw upon. The figure simply faded from consciousness…

...to reveal that woman, Grena, standing behind it, eyes cautious as she observed Ruth through the opening in the roots of the tree.

Ruth didn't miss a second. Exhaustion was thrown to the side as her body moved automatically, reaching her enemy in a single breath and slamming the woman against the tree with one hand, the other pulled back to run her through on the claws.

"Where are the rest?" Ruth growled, holding Grena tight by the collar. "Your friends. Do they know I'm here?"

A croaking sound emerged from Grena's throat -- and when she spoke, it was obviously with great exertion. "Not-friends," she rasped, as if she wasn't used to speaking out loud. "Enemies. Like-you. The-same."

Ruth narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean? I don't get you."

Grena suppressed a coughing fit as she went on: "Ally. I'm-ally. Friend."

"You weren't being very friendly when you tried to set me on fire," Ruth scoffed.

"Had-to-look-good. I'm-spy. Had-to-know-you-strong." Grena's breath heaved as the words came out, and Ruth could have almost sworn she saw a sliver of blood running down from one side of the woman's mouth.

Ruth's grip tightened on Grena's collar. "Lily Aubrisher didn't tell me anything about a spy in the camp. Honestly? I think you're bullshitting me, trying to buy time."

The woman shook her head rapidly, bandana flopping from side to side as she did so. "I'm-not," she whispered frantically. "I'm-not."

"Can't exactly take your word for it. Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

Robin put a finger to her lips. "Hm… I suppose I must've thought you were a good person?"

"Not-spy-for-Aubrisher," Grena rasped, the edges of her eyes looking bloodshot. "Spy-for-Grinhe. Grinhe."

"No clue who that is."

Grena lifted her arm -- the sudden movement almost causing Ruth to finish her on reflex alone -- and thumped her fist against her own chest. "We," she said insistently. "We-are-Grinhe. My-people. Enemy-calls-us-forest-folk. We-hate-them. Regulators. Like-you. Ally."

Even with the obvious difficulty the woman had speaking, her tone seemed genuine. Ruth felt her grip loosen, just slightly, and was sure that moment of weakness would be met with a crossbow bolt in the chest. She'd messed up for the last time.

But no finishing blow came.

Instead, Grena simply fell to her knees, massaging her throat and hacking up blood on the ground. Ruth gave her a moment to recover -- she wasn't a monster -- before fixing her with a glare once again.

"If you're telling the truth, then I'll trust you," she said. "But why should I believe you're telling the truth?"

Boom. Boom. Boom.

The sound of the massive Guardian Entity was distant, but growing closer by the minute. Ruth looked back over her shoulder, watching as the treeline on the horizon shook.

"What is that?" she muttered. All the other Entities seemed to have given up, but this one refused to break off the pursuit.

When she looked back at Grena, the woman was shrugging, a troubled expression on her face. Even she didn't know, then?

No, she couldn't get distracted.

"You didn't answer my question," Ruth growled, flexing her claws. "Why should I believe you're telling the truth?"

Grena didn't open her mouth again -- instead, she just pulled her bandana up -- but the message in her eyes was clear.

You come with me, you live, they said. You stay here, you die.

Fair enough. Ruth couldn't exactly argue with that.

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As Skipper spoke, he lay back on the rock, staring up at the stone roof of the cavern as if it were a starry sky.

"Dunno if you guys know this," he said after a moment of hesitation. "But I'm not exactly the number one fan of the Supremacy."

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "The time you assaulted one of their ships -- with me in it -- sort of gave me a clue. Plus the time they cost you an arm and locked you up in a cell."

"Nah, nah," Skipper waved a lazy hand. "This ain't a recent thing. Remember back on Taldan? I told you there was someone that I needed to kill, no matter what. I didn't tell you who that person was, though. Guess that's where the other half of things starts."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and for a moment it seemed as if he wasn't going to continue at all. It took Dragan a second to realize he didn't dare to breathe either -- even Bruno was leaning in slightly, curiosity evident in his gaze.

Skipper spoke: "I didn't tell you their name. They're the kind of person who you're only allowed to name once they're dead. You get me?"

Two cold gears clicked in Dragan's stomach.

Skipper opened his eyes again.

"That person is the Supreme," he said calmly.

Dragan felt the blood rush out of his face, leaving a noticeable chill that clawed at his skin. He bit his lip and clenched his hands into fists with such tension that he almost drew blood in both places. A shaky gulp slithered down his throat.

What Skipper had just said was insanity, sheer insanity, like a child saying he was going to shoot down the sun.

"You're crazy," Dragan breathed. "It can't be done."

Skipper clicked his tongue. "Everyone always says that," he said, with more annoyance than Dragan had ever heard in his voice.

Suddenly, he sat up -- and Dragan found himself stepping backwards, as if this man's delusion was something contagious.

"Tell me why, Dragan," Skipper said seriously, eyes locked on him. "Tell me why it can't be done. Use your words, yeah?"

Dragan took another step back. "You just… you can't. That's the point. The Supreme is the strongest individual there is -- that's the point of the damn title! And he's protected by the four other strongest individuals at all times! You wouldn't even make it to the front door!"

He'd always considered himself above the Supremacist Dream that ran like an undercurrent through society -- the notion of a fair and impartial meritocracy that encouraged exception -- but there was a difference between propaganda and reality.

The Supreme had torn down enemy armies all by himself. His Contenders had written similar legends in blood. Those people were immutable, like the stars or the sky -- they wouldn't be going anyway anytime soon. They weren't the kind of people you killed -- they were the kind of people you stayed out of sight of.

Bruno crossed his arms -- and as Dragan glanced over, he could see the other boys mostly-hidden hands shaking slightly. "He's right," Bruno said. "Going after the Supreme is suicide. Stronger people than you have tried -- they're either dead or Contenders now. What makes you any different?"

"Et tu, del Sed?" Skipper smirked wearily. "You were an agent for the UAP once upon a time. Don't tell me you never considered how much easier life would be if the Supreme just died? If that whole house of cards just came tumbling down?"

"If I ever did," Bruno replied. "It would have been a fantasy. Even if the Supreme died, they'd just find a new one -- either the guy who killed him or the winner of the Dawn Contest. The best result you could hope for is taking his job, and I don't think that's what you want."

Skipper tapped a finger against his nose knowingly. "Ah, well, I've got a plan in mind for the aftermath, Mr. del Sed. Don't you worry about that."

"And what does this have to do with me?" Dragan spoke up again.

The older man rose back up into a sitting position, fingers knitted together on his lap as he took a deep breath. When he'd explained his plan with Bruno, he'd had the excitement of a child talking about his toys -- but now that he was being quizzed on the specifics, his age seemed to settle on his shoulders like a heavy weight.

He seemed unsure of how to begin, but eventually he spoke again: "In Supremacy space, there's a device."

Dragan gulped. "A weapon?" Was that how he intended to kill the Supreme?

Skipper shook his head. "Nah, nah. It's more of a card that'll force the Supreme into the kind of confrontation I want. Make him fight on my terms, not his. If I'm able to do that, I know for sure I can finish him."

"On what basis?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. There was undeniable confidence here, but he had no clue where it was coming from.

A smirk spread across Skipper's lips. "I almost managed it last time," he muttered. "This time I can get it right. One-hundred percent."

"And again," Dragan said, anger beginning to rush to his head as he realized Skipper was swerving the topic away once again. "What does this have to do with me?"

Skipper wiped the smirk off his mouth. "This device," he said, hands gesturing vaguely as he explained. "I can't tell you exactly what it is, but it was built by the Gene Tyrants -- operable only by themselves and the Cogitants they created to serve them."

Dragan shook his head. "If all you needed was a Cogitant, you could have hired one. We're not an endangered species."

"Ain't that simple. To get what I need working, I need Cogitants with very specific ways of thinking -- mental, uh, mental architecture, it's called. And those ways of thinking don't exist anymore, cause the world has changed, you get me? So the next best thing is to grab a ton of Cogitants -- with different ways of thinking -- point 'em at the device, and use the average between them to mimic what we need."

What we need -- Skipper had partners in this endeavour, then. People who would be bringing other Cogitants to this device, to unlock it so he could kill the Supreme.

"So the Cogitants are a key to a lock," Dragan muttered. "Is that right?"

Skipper frowned. "Kinda makes it sound a little cold and dehumanising if you say it that way, but yeah, kinda. Pretty good plan, yeah?"

"You're insane," said Dragan.

Bruno nodded in agreement -- and maybe Serena too, judging by the sudden acceleration in nodding speed. Clearly this was the first they were hearing of the specifics of this plan too.

"Well, of course I'm crazy, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, lounging back on his rock as if it were a couch. "I live in a crazy world, yeah? The kind of world where people are allowed just to stomp over others just because they're weaker or less capable or less worthy, and the guy who can stomp the hardest gets treated like a god." He leaned forward suddenly, eyes intense. "You don't think that's crazy, Dragan?"

All the good humour had left Skipper's voice, replaced with an honest and grim passion. His gaze burned into Dragan, as if daring him to argue, and all Dragan could really do was look away.

"So that's it, then?" he muttered. "You see yourself as the Supremacy's big enemy?"

The humour returned to Skipper's face, and he lounged back again.

"Mr. Hadrien, I'm a pal to anyone who opposes the Supremacy, anyone at all," he said, scratching his head. "To anyone else, though? Yeah, I guess I am their enemy."

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Ruth braced herself for a trap as she followed Grena through the woods. This was the perfect situation for one, after all.

They'd been walking for hours, the sounds of that massive Guardian Entity long since having faded into the night. Full dark reigned above them, interrupted only by the occasional pinprick of a star peering down. It took most of Ruth's brainpower just to avoid tripping on the roots that lay invisible on the ground below.

And because of that, she bumped right into Grena's back as the other woman stopped.

"Hey!" Ruth said, eyes narrowing behind her Skeletal mask. "Why have we stopped?"

Here it came. A bomb prepared in advance, perhaps, to blow her to smithereens -- or Guardian Entities ready to burst out of the ground and drag her down to a premature grave. Some kind of trap.

Maybe even a post to strap a whipped corpse to.

The answer that met her, however, wasn't any of those.

"Most likely," croaked a deep voice from the darkness. "She has stopped because you have arrived."

Ruth turned to face the voice, and watched as its owner stepped out of the shadows. An old man dressed in a cloak of leaves and branches, only the tiniest sliver of his wrinkled face visible in the gap between his gargantuan hat and his cowl. A single brown eye, alert, stared out at her from within the ensemble.

The darkness shifted.

Ruth had thought she'd been alert, but clearly that was not the case. If she'd been alert, she would surely have noticed this.

The darkness that surrounded her was not night. It was people. Countless people, clad in camouflage, watching her silently. A legion of shadows.

The old brown eye didn't so much as blink. "Welcome, brave girl," it said. "To the real resistance."