Dragan narrowed his eyes. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Even though hot anger was pumping through his veins, causing his extended finger to tremble slightly, his mind was still calmly dissecting the scene before him. He was not speaking to a human being: that was certain.

This person with the long ginger hair standing there… their body language was too perfect, as if it was rehearsed -- and the patches of wood visible on their fingertips, along with the noticeable seams running along their face and limbs, betrayed their true nature. Some sort of wooden puppet. Remote controlled, maybe?

That realization wasn't what was making his heart dance crazily, however. What accomplished that was what Dragan saw off to the side, dumped there as if it was nothing but trash.

A bleeding, severed foot, still wearing a very familiar boot. Bruno's boot, and Bruno's foot.

"I'll ask again," Dragan growled, when no response came. His finger was still jabbed out, ready to fire off a Gemini Shotgun the instant it became necessary. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The gun the formally-dressed puppet was holding fell limply to his side, swinging in his hand, as he stood up out of his crouch. With the slightest creak of wood, he cocked his head, eyes scanning Dragan up and down.

"I don't see how that's any business of yours," the puppet said, his voice quiet and emotionless. "I'm certain someone with your abilities would have received the Hunter Game rules just as I did. It's only natural I would endeavour to eliminate a target and obtain the bounty."

Dragan scoffed. "Fuck off," he snapped. "Bruno and Serena are at the bottom of the table as far as the Hunter Game goes, same as me. There's no way you'd set up an ambush like this for such little reward -- unless there was something else you were after. It'd make me very happy if you told me what that was."

This had been a stupid plan from the beginning -- rather than sending Bruno out, they should've just stuck together and waited a little longer. They hadn't been under any time pressure, had they? If they'd waited just ten more minutes, they would've still been together when Skipper came back and met up with them.

As Dragan aimed, eyes cold, he did his best not to look at the foot on the floor: it opened avenues of thought he didn't want to walk down.

Another cock of the head -- this time to the opposite side, with such speed that the puppet's long hair flopped over his face for a moment. A slow, humourless smile spread across his lips. How did he manage that if he was made out of wood? Were some parts of the structure more flexible, or was it some kind of optical illusion?

"Well," the puppet said, that thin smile infuriating. "What exactly will you do if I don't share that information?"

The warm rage in Dragan's body heightened into a cold, quiet fury. "I'll make you tell me," he glared, finger stable and fixed. "We've got plenty of time."

He wasn't sure if a puppet made of wood could actually experience pain, but Dragan was more than willing to get creative with this enemy.

The smile didn't fade in the slightest. "I see. Well, good luck with that."

The puppet moved faster than Dragan had thought possible. Before he could so much as fire off his Gemini Shotgun, the puppet raised his own gun in a blur of motion --

-- and smashed it back into his own face.

With Aether infusing the weapon, the damage was considerable. Nearly half of the puppets head was demolished by the first strike, pale wood exposed where cranium had crumbled away, glass eye falling free and shattering to the ground.

Dragan lunged forward, ready to try and restrain the enemy, but his opponent wasn't done yet. A second smash of the rifle finished the encounter, the scraps of wood that still remained scattering to the ground -- followed a moment later by the puppets limp body.

It lay there for barely a moment before dissipating into orange Aether, which -- like a bolt of lightning in reverse -- speared up into the air and vanished into the darkness. Dragan's grasping hand met only empty air.

"Shit," he muttered, and then, louder: "Shit!"

He whipped his script out of his pocket and called Ruth as he made his way down off the water tower and towards the apartment building the puppet had been aiming at. Judging from the angle the enemy had been shooting at before Dragan had interrupted, it was likely that their target was in the basement. Hopefully, he wasn't too late.

Ruth answered on the second ring: "Dragan?" she said immediately, urgently. "What's up? You find them?"

"Maybe," Dragan panted, Aether coursing through his limbs as he forced the shutter to the basement open. "I think I've found them, but I think they were under attack. Might be best for you all to head to --"

His words were interrupted as another bolt of orange Aether zoomed past him, escaping through the shutter door in the moment he opened it.

"What was that?" Ruth asked. "I'm on my way."

"Some Aether bullshit, what else?" Dragan sighed, deciding to ignore it for the moment as he knelt down and entered the basement. "I'm in. Looks like --"

He was interrupted once again -- not by outside stimulus, but by his breath catching in his throat. His grip tightened on the script to such a degree that he was surprised the thing didn't break.

"Dragan?" Ruth's voice was distant.

There, in the middle of the basement, lay Bruno and Serena. Their body was splayed out in some kind of crater, like sections of the floor had been carved away, and their eyes were closed in firm unconsciousness. Ghastly red blood slowly dribbled from the stump of their left leg, the makeshift tourniquet there loosened by time and exertion. Barely, only barely, Dragan could see the slow rise and fall of breath -- of human life.

He jerked the script back to his mouth, eyes wide.

"Get here as soon as you can," he snarled, eyes fixed on the shape before him. "We need to find a doctor!"

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

Many years ago…

It was dark. There was nothing else to this place but that.

The pitch-black chamber was filled with two sounds: the rumbling of starship travel, and the whispering of frightened children. The rumbling had been uniform since they'd set off, and the whispering just the same. There were only really two questions to be asked here, after all.

Where are we? Where are we going?

There were no answers. The only thing these children knew was that the masked men had brought them into this starship and locked the doors. It was funny: they'd barely resisted at all. With the situations they'd been in, whether they were taken away or not made no difference to their safety.

Some had been youth workers forced into illegal enterprises. Some had been homeless kids plucked off the street. Some had been kept for the money in half-rotted orphanages.

Save for a few exceptions, all of them were afraid.

One of those exceptions had managed to make his way over to the far wall of the cargo bay, planting himself against it. That in itself was a kind of reassurance -- the feeling of the cold metal against his hands proof that he wasn't just floating in a dark void. He breathed in and out, slowly, the sensation of life-giving oxygen pouring down his throat another reminder of his existence.

Off in another corner of the room, someone was crying hysterically. Their voice bounced off the walls of the room, becoming something incoherent and warped. If anything, that only increased the fear in this place.

"Hello?" whispered another boy's voice from next to him.

He almost jumped out of his skin, his fist thumping against the wall as he scrambled around, wary of any incoming threat. He'd lived on the streets most of his life, and had learned long ago how much an unseen punch could hurt.

"Who's there?" the Boy half hissed, half whispered -- quietly, so that nobody else would be able to tell where it was.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The other boy didn't answer the question. "Where do you think they're taking us?" he asked. His tone was light, but the wavering in his voice revealed his own fear too.

The Boy shrugged, unseen as he was. "No clue."

"Really? I think we're going to the Supremacy," the other boy eagerly explained. "They're all about strong fighters, right? They probably want us to kill each other in an arena or something."

Kill each other? He said something so macabre as easily as if he were discussing the weather.

"I don't think so," the Boy replied. "I'm not a fighter or anything. Are you?"

"Sometimes. Where do you think we're going then, if we're not going to the Supremacy?"

Again, a blind shrug. "No clue. I said already. But maybe…"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe it's somewhere good. Like some rich guy wants an heir or something? I saw that in a videograph. Maybe someone will take care of us like that."

"You really think that?"

The Boy shook his head. "No."

Silence -- save for displaced sobbing -- took dominion over the cargo hold once again. As the Boy sat still, wondering if the other person was still there, he felt a warm hand reach out of the darkness and grip his own. For a moment, he considered pulling free, but instead held tight -- like this was some kind of anchor to keep him from falling into this void.

"How about this?" the other boy said quietly. "Let's make a deal. I'll watch your back, so you watch mine. That way we can take care of each other. Okay?"

The Boy squeezed the offered hand, feeling the warmth of another person like a current through a wire.

"Okay," he whispered.

"What's your name?" his new comrade asked. "Mine's Cottian, but my friends call me Cott."

Should he lie? The thought occurred, but when the Boy opened his mouth he found the truth coming forth:

"Yakob. My name's Yakob."

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

Now…

Cottian del Sed sipped his canned drink as he sat on the edge of a skyscraper, legs dangling over the abyss below. As he drank, he watched the stars above as he usually did. Well, the cars, in this case. Those were the closest thing you got to stars in a shithole like the Cradle.

The last sip of his sugary drink came up dry, and Cott tossed it down into the void. He vaguely wondered if it would hit something on the way down, but of course he did not linger on it for more than a second.

"You shouldn't drink that stuff, you know," someone had once told him. "It's awful for your health."

Cott clicked his tongue, flipping his long hair back as he watched the can vanish into the black. He was supposed to have left all of that behind, so why the hell was he remembering stupid shit now?

The answer was obvious, of course. That asshole had shown his ugly face again, after he was meant to be over and done with. As soon as the aspects he sent out finished them off, he'd be able to --

A bolt of orange Aether, zooming through the sky, slammed into Cott with incredible speed. Despite its apparent momentum, however, Cott didn't so much as flinch as it joined back up with him.

If anything, the look in his eyes may have turned just a little colder. That was the only indicator of any change.

Memories flooded into him, the after action report of his dispatched Ruthlessness. Serena del Sed had managed to outmaneuver Caution and Ruthlessness' coordinated attack, and then one of Yakob's allies had come dangerously close to capturing Ruthlessness. Suicide had been the correct decision in that case, of course, but it didn't make it any more vexing to lose.

Moments later, a second bolt of orange Aether struck him, and Cott gingerly pulled his legs off the edge of the building.

Caution had been absolutely mauled by Serena del Sed, using a mixture of swords and ruined fingernails. If wood was able to feel pain, it would have been excruciating. Cott sure was glad he wasn't that guy.

Yakob's body hadn't lost any of its efficacy, clearly. Cott wouldn't be getting the easy resolution he'd yearned for.

With a grunt of effort, he picked himself up off the ground and looked out onto the city spread out before him. His hair and blazer billowed in the artificial wind.

This farce called the Hunter Game was set to go on for quite a while, so he'd have plenty of chances. The next time -- the very next time -- Yakob left his guard down, Cott would be there without fail.

Sorry, old friend. Cott turned and walked away. But I just can't feel safe as long as you're alive.

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

Dragan grimaced as he looked down at Bruno, prone on the bed. With Rico's help, they'd managed to get him to a back alley doctor who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut -- but Dragan got the feeling that this display would have been just as unpleasant if they'd been to the galaxy's finest hospital.

Bruno's foot had been severed long enough that it couldn't just be reattached, so the doctor had set to regrowing it using Panacea as soon as they'd brought him in. A structure like a bonsai tree of human digits was growing out of Bruno's stump, new toes growing and absorbing each other as the fungus did it's grisly work.

"How much longer should this take?" Dragan asked, glancing at the attending doctor.

The tired-looking man scratched idly at his ear, eyes fixed on his patient. "Depends," he drawled. "Something like this? A couple hours. But if the Panacea gets confused, we'll have to amputate whatever it comes up with and start again. Can get grisly with this stuff."

Dragan winced. "Confused? What, you mean the Panacea thinks?"

"It's not gonna have a conversation with ya, don't get me wrong," the doctor continued. "But it has to figure out what it's replacing, yeah? There's something a little bit like thought going on there, some kind of, uh, analysis. Fascinating stuff, really." His gaze slid over to Dragan. "Expensive, too."

"The Oliphant Clan will cover the costs," Dragan lied. Having Rico around had its benefits.

There was a low groan, and Bruno's eyes began to flutter open. Dragan glanced at the doctor, and -- with the speed of a professional -- he quietly made his way out of the room.

"You okay?" Dragan asked, looking down at his wincing friend.

"Feel like I got run over by a truck," Bruno grumbled -- and then he glanced down at his regrowing foot. "Oh. Okay, it's worse."

"You took some bad hits," Dragan nodded. "Two wooden guys kicked the shit out of you, from what I can tell. Skipper came and found us a little while after we sent you out -- I went to find you when you weren't answering my calls. Ruth and Skipper are watching the perimeter, in case those guys make another go at it."

"Wooden guys…?" Bruno mumbled -- and a second later his eyes snapped wide, skin growing pale. "Oh."

Dragan furrowed his brow. "Someone you know?"

"Cott," Bruno breathed, like the word was a curse. His Aether-sparking fingers, still behind gloves, gripped the bedsheet with such force that it tore.

Cott.

Bruno had used that name before. Back on Yoslof, when he'd been hallucinating from Decimatus-3, he'd mistaken Dragan for that person and almost strangled him to death. There definitely wasn't a happy story there.

The smart thing to do would be to leave well enough alone.

"Who's Cott?" Dragan asked quietly.

Bruno didn't answer. Instead, when the answer began to climb out of his mouth, it was in the voice of Serena del Sed. Her tone was different than usual -- somehow a mixture of sing-song and a cold monotone, her eyes glaring up at the grotty ceiling.

"There were six of us," she whispered. "Us and Cott and our friends. We were supposed to help keep the UAP safe. Get rid of the bad guys before they could do anything bad. One time, we went into the Supremacy. Infiltrated it. Things went bad."

"What exactly…?"

Serena's gaze snapped over to look at Dragan -- and the cold fire in those eyes was enough to shut him up instantly. "Things went bad," she repeated. "We all hid, in different places, secret places. Cott was in charge. He was supposed to protect us."

Her baleful glare returned to the ceiling.

"He led them right to us. They took us away. They hurt us." Her hands, still gripping the bedsheet, shook with fury and remembered terror. "They hurt us for a long time."

With that, Serena lay back in the bed, the furious expression on her face not changing in the least.

It made sense. It had been obvious from the start that they'd had some bad experience with this Cott person, but even so… hearing it through Serena's mouth, instead of the moody Bruno's, made it seem alien in a way. Like a picture without the context required.

Whatever the case, if Cott was going after Bruno and Serena directly now, that was an issue. The best thing to do would be to come up with a defensive strategy and --

"Mr. Dragan?"

Dragan was pulled out of his Archive, already growing around him, by the voice of Serena del Sed. She was sitting up in bed again, staring at him, her gaze unblinking. The structure at the end of her leg was beginning to resemble something solid again, rather than an artist's first draft of humanity.

"Mr. Dragan?" she repeated, more insistently.

"Yeah?" Dragan replied, throat dry. Seeing Serena so serious -- hell, seeing Serena serious at all -- was unnerving in the extreme.

For the first time since she'd started speaking, Serena del Sed blinked.

"Mr. Dragan, would you help me kill a person?"