Dragan Hadrien stared down at the floor as the elevator descended, doing his best not to look at the Special Officer next to him.

Atoy Muzazi stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back, doing his best not to look at the Cogitant next to him.

The ride down to the ExoCorp garages was long and laborious. The awkward silence stretched on. Dragan vaguely thought about clearing his throat, but the atmosphere in this little oblong was such that he barely dared considering it. Floor numbers flicked across the monitor above the door.

When noise finally broke into the space, it came from Atoy Muzazi's mouth.

"So," he said, voice low. "It's been a while."

"Yep," Dragan fidgeted.

"When we last met, I recall you abandoning me to the mercies of the Fifth Dead. Do you recall?"

Dragan glanced away. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Muzazi murmured quietly, only the slightest anger audible in his tone. "I'm surprised you can only 'sort of' remember it. It was very memorable for me, after all. But I suppose you weren't fighting."

"I hardly abandoned you," Dragan rolled his eyes. "Besides, there's no way you'd have died to someone like that anyway. You're way too strong for that."

Muzazi raised an eyebrow, still staring straight ahead at the door. "Could that be a compliment, Hadrien?"

"Savour it. You're probably not getting another one."

The doors opened, revealing the garage beyond. It was packed with jeeps and atmospheric craft, all of which looked to have seen better days. Smoke was still pouring out of several upturned vehicles.

"Apparently," Muzazi said, stepping out. "The Dead Hand attacked this place here when they first became infected -- no doubt to prevent us from making an easy escape."

"They'll still make good cover," Dragan commented, inspecting a jeep on its side as they passed it.

"I've found that vehicles generally don't respond well to sustained gunfire," Muzazi said, with the closest thing to sarcasm he was capable of. "You've had a different experience?"

Dragan stopped and turned to Muzazi, frowning.

"The Dead Hand were the only Repurposed that could use guns," he explained. "And if we've done our counting right, there's only two of them left. Cover like this will suffice against the rank and file."

"Leave it to you to seek a hiding place first," Muzazi sighed, continuing his stroll to their ultimate destination.

"Excuse me?"

"I said nothing," Muzazi lied.

A couple of refugees hurried past them as they walked, carrying boxes of supplies in their arms. They'd decided it was too risky for Dragan to take part in the operation to destroy the incoming beast directly -- so he and Muzazi had been assigned here, where the smaller Repurposed would likely try to breach the tower.

It's the weakest point, Skipper had said. They'll go for it as their entrance -- guaranteed.

Some rudimentary barricades had already been set up, with the more hardened miners and security officers standing by with the weapons they'd scrounged together. They'd managed to set up some sentry guns too, the automatic weapons ready to fire at any threat that presented itself.

All their eyes and all their guns were fixed on a single point.

At the massive garage doors -- where they all knew the enemy would break through to kill them.

Dragan swallowed as they came to a stop in the midst of the preparations.

"There's a non-zero chance we will die here," Muzazi quietly spoke, closing his eyes. "So I suppose I should ask you now."

"Ask me what?" Dragan murmured.

"Why did you leave the Supremacy?"

Dragan shot him an annoyed glance. "You already asked me this, back on Taldan. I answered you."

Muzazi shook his head. "I asked you why you betrayed me," he said. "And you answered that. But why abandon the Supremacy altogether? Your circumstances were dire, so was it simple self-preservation? Was there some ideal behind it?"

"I…"

Dragan opened his mouth, but the words would not come. In truth, this was a question he'd already asked himself many times. Back at the start of this journey, he'd admonished himself for being stupid enough to abandon all he had for some strangers he barely knew. Now, though, it had softened to a vague curiosity.

One that was difficult to put into words.

Muzazi's gaze hardened. "Don't let me die wondering, Dragan," he said, almost beseechingly. "I want to understand what has happened this last year. For my own peace of mind, if nothing else."

Dragan looked off to the sealed doors, and spoke. Even he didn't know what he was going to say until the words left his mouth.

"The Supremacy was… cold, I guess," he said. "I don't know if that's the right word, really -- but it's the only one I can think of. It was a cold place, like you were climbing over people to do anything, and I felt like it made me cold too. Part of that was just me, I guess, but… the Supremacy made me a worse version of myself. You had to become like that just to get anywhere. And I… I felt what it was like to be something else, just for a little bit, and I guess I must have liked it. I didn't want to go back to being me. I wanted to be happy."

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Atoy Muzazi said nothing in response.

"I don't know if I had that in my head at the time," Dragan concluded. "But when I think about when I shot you, that's what comes to mind."

Muzazi's sigh filled the space -- and despite the sounds of machinery and busy preparation, that quiet breath seemed the loudest thing in the world.

"I see," he murmured. "Yes. Yes, I think I can understand that. And… are you happy?"

That was much easier to answer. "I don't know."

Muzazi frowned, raising an eyebrow.

"You never know if you were happy until it's over," Dragan explained.

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Skipper stood up in the back of the jeep, grinning to himself as he watched the incoming horde through his binoculars.

"Damn," he whistled. "That's a whole lotta shit coming our way."

The massive monster -- shaking the earth with every step it took -- was only the beginning. The real concern, as far as Skipper saw it, was the mass of Repurposed that teemed at its feet. Looked like the entire population of White Village was coming at them.

The Panacea Walker (it was called that now, Skipper had just decided) was slow and clumsy: all Skipper had to do was not let it step on him. Against that teeming horde of fast Repurposed, however, Skipper had to keep track of dozens of infinitely regenerative enemies while making his way to the Walker's weak spot. Under these circumstances, he couldn't use any of the methods confirmed to permanently kill Repurposed, either -- they'd hardly let him take his time with the ol' nine-by-nine gambit.

"I won't have time to fight my way through properly, kiddo," he called down to Ruth, stood next to the jeep. "You got my back?"

Ruth nodded, stretching her legs, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Her Skeletal Set already covered her body, crimson Aether sparking around her joints.

Skipper clipped his binoculars to his belt and cracked his own neck.

"My normal Bayonet's not gonna be enough to cut through something that big," he said, looking at the cord. "When I whistle, that'll be the signal, yeah? Hit me with a Révolutionnaire boost. That'll give me what I need."

He didn't look back at her, but he knew that Ruth had understood. When it came to combat, she never missed a trick.

Of course, he'd considered using his 'secret weapon' to take out the Walker, but the conditions weren't right for it. Heartbeat Freedom would have to wait.

"Bruno," he called back to the driver's seat of the hovering jeep. "Once we start going for it, don't stop plowing through until the job is done. If I can't get into position, there's no point. You get me?"

"Yep," Bruno's gruff voice came through loud and clear.

Skipper grinned. "And don't let Serena drive."

"Hey!"

He ignored that, taking a deep breath through his nose. He crouched down, holding the sides of the jeep's back-carriage for support. The grin faded from his face, his features turning slack and serious.

"Almost time," he muttered, watching as the shapes on the horizon grew larger and larger. "The second we get the all-clear, we start."

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In the main security room, Marie put a hand to her chin as she circled the hologram of the incoming enemies, watching for any signs that would disrupt their plan.

So far, the Repurposed were acting exactly as she'd hoped -- the horde was moving with the monster, keeping step with it, only maneuvering enough not to be crushed underfoot. It was like they were on autopilot. A straight line of nightmares, heading towards them at a leisurely pace.

The hologram flickered and warped as it updated every few seconds -- Ansem del Day Away's micro-automatics were circling far above the horde, capturing the images this hologram was generated from.

Everything was going as she'd anticipated. She put a finger to her communicator, ready to give Skipper the signal.

And yet…

The slight buzz of the communication channel cut off, the signal going dead. The lights flicked out, plunging them into darkness. The hologram flickered out of existence.

In the dark, one of the officers cried out in alarm.

All Marie could do was scowl a not entirely surprised scowl. It had begun.

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The machine John Blair had spent the last hour constructing exploded into a shower of sparks as its purpose was fulfilled. Watching from the desert ridge, he could see the lights on the outside of the ExoCorp building go out all at once. The stage had been set.

As he moved his now considerable bulk, he kept his tattered cloak covering him with one massive hand. Taking Pion's strength had truly been the right decision -- not only did he feel power coursing through every cell, but his comrade's thoughts of creation and innovation flooded through his mind without cease.

As he had been before, he'd never have been able to construct such a useful mechanism.

Dimly, he felt confusion in the back of his head -- what was left of Pion, vaguely wondering what had happened to it. With a shake of his head -- bleached white hair flapping this way and that -- he banished it to the deepest subconscious.

As he stood to his full height -- now at least eight feet -- he grabbed the handle of his other creation, pulling the massive plasma cannon up with him. A day ago, this would have taken all his strength to carry, but now he held it in one hand as easily as a briefcase.

The massive cylinder shone in the sun, barrel glinting with promise. Adjusting his hood to give himself a better view, Blair slung the weapon over his shoulder and carefully aimed at the sealed garage doors. That would be his best point of entry -- the security forces would be spread thin by their focus on the other Repurposed.

Expert Opinion.

Red Aether crackled around Blair's hands as the weapon melted and reformed in his grip -- optimised in both form and function. Pion's Aether ability had been specialised for his hobby as a craftsman: the cannon would now output the maximum amount of power without fail.

Blair closed one eye, perfecting his aim.

What made a god a god?

This moment, right here.

His finger pulled the trigger, and the lance of plasma that surged forth blew the sealed doors open in one shot.

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Skipper frowned as the communicator went dead, plucking the device out of his ear and shaking it as if that would fix the issue. It didn't. He exchanged a glance with Ruth.

"What's going on?" she asked, concerned.

"No clue," Skipper muttered, before looking again at the horizon. With a shrug, he stuffed his communicator back into his pocket. Trails of emerald Aether crawled across his arms. "Looks like we're on our own, though."

Welp -- with things like this, nobody else was going to give them the go-ahead.

"Bruno," he grinned, more than a little manic. "Let's get going!"

Bruno's foot smashed down on the accelerator.