"Atoy," Marie said quietly, as they stepped through the hallway, private quarters passing them by on both sides. "I need to talk to you about something."

Muzazi looked back over his shoulder, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Marie seemed more glum than he'd ever seen her, her eyes angled distinctly towards the ground.

"Of course," he said. "What is it?"

Marie didn't answer straight away. Instead, she tapped a button next to one of the doors and stepped into the cubical apartment beyond, Muzazi following behind her. The room was compact -- that was a nice word for it -- with barely enough space for a bed and a closet that he assumed had a toilet inside.

The moment the door slid shut behind them, his partner reached up with a suddenly stretching limb and smashed the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. Scraps of metal and sparks rained down on the duvet below.

"Officer Hazzard?" Muzazi frowned. "What are you…?"

Marie sighed -- a long, shaky sound that he'd never heard from her before. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her dress pants as she finally looked back up at him.

"I need to talk to you about something," she said again.

This time, Muzazi simply nodded in response. Marie squinted: her mouth was wobbly, like the words were loath to leave it, but eventually she spoke again.

"It's about Hessiah," she finally said. "Titan Hessiah -- he's…"

Ah. She'd reached the same conclusion he had.

"He's a suspicious character, to be sure," he confirmed, cutting her off. "I would think a businessman in his position wouldn't be keen to associate directly with UAP or Supremacy agents, yet he welcomed two Special Officers far too graciously. I imagine he's up to something."

Under ordinary circumstances, he'd have been touched by the respect a prominent individual like Hessiah held for the Supremacy -- but he knew better than that now. Men like Hessiah worshipped only at the altar of profit. Unless they came with price tags, things like honour and respect were meaningless for such a person.

Marie swallowed, her face growing still, a touch of colour returning to her cheeks. "Yeah," she nodded. "He's definitely suspicious. Glad you noticed it, too, Atoy."

"You were alone with him for quite a while," Muzazi ventured, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall in introspection. "What sort of impression did he give you? Any idea as to his motives?"

Marie stood there for a strangely long time, one hand cupping her chin. Her gaze had returned to the floor, and she was slowly chewing on her lip. Finally, her eyes flicked back up to him.

"No," she said. "No, I don't know anything at all."

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

Even after Muzazi had passed him, Dragan still remained flat against the wall, his heart racing a mile a minute. He hadn't even dared breathe when those two had been making their way through. Invisible as he was, it was a miracle that neither of the Special Officers had bumped into him while they were walking down the hallway.

What the hell was Atoy Muzazi doing here?! He couldn't imagine it was a coincidence: the Special Officer must have come looking for him. As if he didn't have any problems right now.

His gaze drifted to the closed door, to the room Muzazi and his partner had gone into. Part of him was tempted to try and listen in, to figure out what exactly was going on here -- but caution and common sense had always been strong in him, and so he successfully broke away.

"That," whispered North from the other side of the hallway. "Was way too fuckin' close."

Dragan didn't answer, but he nodded -- which only struck him as pointless a second later. As one, the two of them resumed their movements down the hallway, passing through the far exit.

Their journey was remarkably uneventful from that point forward. It seemed the attack had come to an end, but most of the security personnel were still busy with the aftermath. Dragan and North only had to avoid passing patrols twice as they ascended the remaining floors.

The floors were uniform and mind-numbing, empty offices and meeting rooms repeated again and again. If anything, the only difference noticeable as they progressed was the quality of the carpet -- the closer they got to their destination, the more intricate and expensive the weave beneath them became.

Finally, however, Dragan was stopped by North's hand on his shoulder, pushing him into a nearby wall.

The place they'd stopped looked nearly identical to the rooms they'd been making their way through for nearly ten minutes now. If there was a meaningful difference, Dragan certainly couldn't see it. The triumphant grin on North's face -- when he became visible again -- suggested otherwise, though.

"Is it safe to turn off the invisibility?" Dragan muttered, glancing up and down the stretching halls.

It was only when it appeared again that he realised he hadn't been seeing his own nose between his eyes -- it's presence was something to get used to again.

"I haven't," North explained just as quietly. "Just stretched out a nice hologram bubble around us, give us some breathing room. Anyone outside of it can't see us. Relax."

Dragan's gaze drifted upwards, to a tiny set of slits in the wall above them. If he didn't specifically have his eye out, he had no doubt they'd be imperceptible.

"You said I'd be going through the ventilation," he murmured. "That's it?"

North nodded. "Whenever you're ready, champ."

Dragan raised an unamused eyebrow. "Hold on, not so quick. What exactly do you expect me to do once I'm in there? You still haven't said."

"I did say," North frowned. "You just gotta let me in. Easy peasy. What's with all the complainin', pal?"

Dragan drew in closer, annoyed. "You don't even know what's in there!" he hissed. "If the security's so tight, how the hell am I just gonna 'let you in'? Huh?!"

North's cheeky grin didn't so much as twitch. "Well, you just gotta improvise, pal. Don't worry, I believe in ya. Come on, daylight's burning."

"It's night."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Dragan sighed, taking as big of a step back as he dared without leaving the bubble. He looked up at the ventilation grate -- it was hard to imagine the route he'd have to take through that tiny gap once he was Aether, but he couldn't imagine it leading to too many rooms. So long as he continued just passing through the available space, he should be alright.

He gave North a cold glance. "If this is a trick, I'll kill you."

"Sure."

One last sigh -- then a needlessly deep breath, and Dragan squeezed his eyes shut.

Gemini World.

He vanished utterly from this world. A nearly-invisible cloud of Dragan Hadrien, sparking with soft blue Aether, drifted into the waiting vents. He had no breath, no weight, no mass -- in this time, he existed only as information and intent.

It was dark in the thin ventilation shaft, barely the width of a piece of paper. He had an awareness that, if he had eyes, he would be unable to see -- and yet that darkness greeted him, pulling him along. He knew of cobwebs that grew in the corners of this place. He knew of local vermin that had scurried through and died here. He knew all of this as fact.

And then he knew the open air.

A lab: sterile, white, with expensive and inscrutable equipment lining the walls. Sheets of displays were pasted throughout: scans of internal organs and skeletons, paired with notes scrawled in illegible handwriting. Four vats, their glass black and opaque, took centrepiece in the chamber: holographic panels danced around them, their contents obscured like mosaics.

He went to take in another deep breath, only to realise he had no mouth to open, and no lungs to take in air.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

Gemini World, he told himself, needlessly, and reappeared inside the room.

His aim had been slightly off -- he dropped a couple of inches down onto the hard white floor, the landing echoing painfully throughout the silent space. Wincing, he looked this way and that, trying to see if he'd set off any kind of security system.

No response came. Now that he had the chance to properly look, he didn't even see any security cameras. He frowned: North had been right. Whatever was going on here, it certainly wasn't business as usual.

Well, he was no detective: he was here to open the door for North and then get out of here. The Umbrant could worry about whatever this was at his own leisure. Dragan took a single step towards the array of devices, hoping one would operate the door, only to stop when he saw it.

Pan had been silent for quite a while, but here she was again. She was right in the corner of the room, hunched over, her arms hugging her legs in the foetal position. Her teeth were bared and chattering, her eyes so wide with terror they looked like they might pop out of their sockets.

They were fixed right on the black vats.

"What's wrong?" Dragan murmured, taking a step towards her that really wasn't required -- she wasn't actually in that location, after all.

Pan shook her head, frantically, clapping her hands over her ears. She squeezed those wide eyes shut. "Bad place, dead boy!" she hissed. "Bad place, bad place! Begone!"

"What do you mean?" he demanded, looking around the room for any hint as to its purpose. "What is it -- what's so…"

Suddenly, she looked up -- and at the very same time, Dragan heard the heavy thunk of a door unlocking.

"Here," she breathed.

Gemini World!

Dragan nearly didn't make it in time. The very second after his body had dissipated into Aether, the entrance to the room slid open, and a man entered. He was short, with a grey combover and a smart business suit -- his dress shoes clicking against the floor as he went. Titan Hessiah, no doubt: the man who ran this place.

He paused a few steps into the room, turning to look back at the door -- and then, when they finally closed again…

…he changed.

His two legs split into three at each knee, allowing him to scuttle forward on six feet. His fading hair retreated into his head, eyes sprouting in their place to watch his surroundings with dilated pupils. His arms stretched to obscene lengths like the thin branches of a tree, splitting fingers dancing across the consoles and keypads.

If Dragan had breath, it would have caught in his throat. A deep, instinctual terror welled up inside, like his very blood was screaming at him. Get away, it said. Run away. Leave this place. You should not be here.

The Hessiah-thing was hard at work, an array of holographic screens and scripts floating around it -- hands forming and collapsing as they were needed to interact with them. The images on the screens were going by so fast that Dragan could barely make them out, but Hessiah didn't seem daunted by them in the least.

So Hessiah's a Repurposed, too, he told himself. At this point, nothing surprises me.

He told himself that very firmly -- but not quite enough to drown out Pan's horror.

Not mine, dead boy, she whispered, unwelcome. Not mine or mine. Bad, bad thing. Old, old thing. Cuts thinking out of me and puts it in false flesh. Once he says what he is…

It was all Dragan could do to maintain Gemini World as his nerves ran out of control.

Don't, he hissed inwardly, already knowing it was fruitless. Don't say it.

Pan did not listen.

Gene Tyrant? she said. What is this, dead boy?

He had to get out of here. He had to get out of here right now. Fuck the mission, fuck North, fuck anything that wasn't escaping as quickly and as efficiently as possible. He could feel the shadow of his body shaking, and he knew that his consciousness was doing much the same.

As carefully as he could, doing his best to cloak his Aether as much as possible, Dragan made his way back towards the vent. His movement, usually slow and deliberate, now seemed painfully laborious. He was certain that, at any moment, he would be discovered.

Surely not. Surely this Ge -- this thing couldn't see him. Surely he --

Hessiah twitched.

"Marie?" he said. His voice encompassed multitudes.

Dragan slipped through the vent, horror screaming its way through every cavity of his mind -- and when he poured back out the other side, he immediately reappeared, landing in a heap. He didn't so much look at the quizzical North.

"The hell are ya doing?" North demanded, looking at the still-sealed door. He hadn't seen Hessiah come in, then? Was there another secret entrance to that lab?

He didn't have time to answer those questions, nor to answer North's. Terror driving his step, Dragan rose to his feet and sprinted away, Aether coursing around his body to quicken his pace.

To hell with North.

To hell with the Repurposed.

To hell with this place.

There was something worse than all of that, lurking at the top of this tower. An ancient, wicked monster that had crawled out of the great pit of history. Despite the lack of destination, Dragan knew exactly where he was running: away.

Gene Tyrant, Pan had said. Gene Tyrant.

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

"That so?" Skipper quietly mused, his eyes wet. "I, uh… I see."

His new interrogation buddy -- Ian, his name had been -- had encountered a young man some floors above who had been held under quarantine. A young man who'd approached the building in the middle of the night. A young Cogitant with silver hair.

A grin of relief came to Skipper's face for a moment, before he efficiently restrained it. No, he told himself. Don't get your hopes up. Not until you see his face.

"I really appreciate this, pal," Skipper said, rising to his feet and brushing the dust and… other things… from his knees. "It's been a great chat."

Ian now resembled salsa. Clean nine by nine portions littered the ground, the blood spreading out in a wide puddle around them. Not a piece moved. Not a piece regenerated. Skipper's measurements had been exact.

A hand, even a dead one, generally had five fingers -- and Skipper had now eliminated three. If he managed to get rid of the other two, that would be one less thing to worry about on this hellhole of a planet.

Speaking of which…

Skipper's prosthetic hand moved with blinding green speed, catching the tiny flying automatic between two metal fingers. Grinning, Skipper held it up to his face. The machine resembled a tiny insect, miniscule and black. No doubt something like that would fool the untrained eye.

Just a little pressure would be enough to crunch the thing beyond repair, but Skipper had other things in mind. He angled the thing towards his face, looking into what he believed to be the camera.

"Ansem del Day Away, I'm guessing?" he grinned. "You're a lucky fella. I've been thinkin' about that offer you gave me."

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

Dragan ran for his life.

The walls of denial in his head crumbled easily. That had been a Gene Tyrant -- that had been a Gene Tyrant he'd just seen. Titan Hessiah was a Gene Tyrant. That was a devil that had crawled out of the history books, and Dragan had been in the same room as it.

He ran down the stairwell, passing Pan three times along the way.

"What is this thing, dead boy?" she asked, cocking her head each time Dragan saw her. "What is Gene Tyrant?"

No time to answer her. No time to even think about answering her -- that was a waste of valuable time that could be better used running away. Was North coming after him? It didn't matter. Whatever North did, it couldn't be worse than being stuck in the same room as that thing for even a moment longer.

"A scary thing?" Pan continued to question. "Scariest thing? A thing that is scary?"

Dragan retraced the path that had brought him to that room, using Gemini World when he needed to in order to avoid the increasing number of security personnel. Despite his best efforts, he caught scraps of intelligence as he fled: there was an open breach at the midpoint of the tower, security forces were moving to secure the floors above it, the basement was being abandoned.

The basement? The basement, yes, that was what they'd said. North had mentioned that the refugees and his friends were in the basement, too. There'd be no better destination.

Dragan used Gemini World more and more -- crossing the entire quarantine floor with it -- until the network of hallways and stairwells finally led him to the front lobby of the building. The chamber was silent, still and empty -- save for the puddle of blood and meat spreading over the floor. A hanging diorama of a Panacea cross-section swung loosely in a careless breeze.

He stopped, panting for the breath he'd expended -- only to stop a moment later and clap a hand over his nose at the metallic scent of the death here. As he did so, however, he caught a glimpse of something within the human wreckage…

A red lump of Panacea, the colour draining from it, sliced into even and tiny pieces. Slowly, he knelt to look at it.

Something like this had been inside the skull of that zealot Ian, too. When he'd left the quarantine floor, assuming Dragan to be dead, he must have come down this way. This pile of meat that Dragan was looking at, could it be… him? And if so, what had happened?

"Hey, kid," came a clear voice from behind him. "Good to see you."

Dragan turned.

There, standing in the doorway, was Skipper. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and there were heavy bags under his eyes, but the grin that spread across his face was unmistakably genuine. If anything, there was a distinct sense of relief to it.

Dragan's tongue felt numb when he spoke. "Hi, Skipper." With everything broiling around inside him, it was all he could think to say.

"You little shit," Skipper chuckled, his eyes wet. "Making me worry like that."

He took his hands out of his pockets, and Dragan had no time to dodge. Skipper crossed the room in a moment -- and the embrace Dragan was pulled into was so warm and all-encompassing that there was no possibility of escape.

In that moment, all the terror and confusion that had built up over the preceding hours melted away. Dragan's arms fell limp to his sides as the tension drained -- and, despite his best efforts, he found himself softly smiling.

"You dumbass," Skipper sniffed. "Ah, you dumbass…"