North gulped as Skipper's finger hovered in the air, the tip pointing right between his eyes. He knew better than anyone that any offensive movement would be met with instant death. His defenses weren't up to scratch -- after all, he was a lover, not a fighter.
What were his options here? Skipper wasn't living his best life right now, so convincing him to let bygones be bygones would be easier said than done. Ruth had always been a little more gullible, but under these circumstances he doubted even she could be fooled. It was a damn shame -- Bruno was the pragmatic sort, and would no doubt have seen the benefits of having North around as an ally.
No doubt that was why Skipper had sent him away.
"Come on, guys," he grinned uneasily, feeling the tightness of Skipper's grip pulling at his collar. "This is really how you treat old friends? I'm wounded. You've wounded me."
Ruth didn't blink. "Friends don't let friends think they're dead for months, asshole."
She was talking back -- there was communication, which meant there was opportunity. Some of his confidence returning, North put a hand to his chest as he continued.
"I've been thinking about that, too," he said, voice strained slightly by Skipper's stranglehold. "And I totally agree. That's why I've been doing my best to make changes in my life. It's a learning process, though, so you've gotta be patient with me, okay?"
Just insincere enough to be endearing -- it was a delicate scale, and if he misjudged his place on it he'd be killed before he could blink. That was where North usually lived his life, though, so it wasn't much of a new stressor for him.
Skipper hadn't responded yet. His green eyes were hollow, inscrutable -- what thoughts were going on behind them? Was he weighing the benefits and risks of letting North live? Cold sweat ran down the back of North's neck: Skipper never had been mathematically minded.
"Come on," North beseeched, a little quieter, as he stared into Skipper's eyes. "I know you've got questions aplenty, boss. Kill me, and you're killing your answers, too. Ain't worth it."
Skipper slowly blinked.
Really, this whole thing served North right. He'd been overcome by sentiment again, going out and making sure these idiots didn't get themselves killed by the Repurposed. He'd have been much better off just watching from afar, tricking them into moving the way that he wanted. Much better off, and much more entertained.
"Don't you wanna believe in something?"
North frowned at the intrusive memory. Skipper's eyes couldn't look any more different from that day.
It was starting to look like he might have to use Nightmare Underground. Eleven Devils in the Rain had the best odds of getting him out of this situation -- using it would probably burn some bridges, but right now that was looking inevitable anyway.
One more try.
"Come on," North said softly. "Skipper. For old times sake?"
Skipper's eyes widened fractionally, and North saw a glimmer of light return in their depths. He had him.
"One more trick," Skipper growled. "Just one, and I kill you, no questions asked. Understand?"
North nodded. He could see in Skipper's eyes that he was telling nothing but the truth.
Skipper released him, and North dropped to the floor, massaging his throat as he gasped for air. As he went to pick himself up, though, he caught a glimpse of Ruth's unsympathetic glare and stopped in his tracks. Skipper may have decided to spare him, but he wasn't sure what conclusion Ruth had reached.
"You brought us here," she said, her voice cold. "It's your fault he's dead."
North grimaced. "I didn't shoot your friend. I went out there to try and bail you guys out."
"But you called us here. Dragan wouldn't have been here to get shot if you weren't calling for help."
North opened his mouth to protest again, only to close it when he realized she was right. He hadn't really known this Dragan fella, so he didn't feel much in terms of guilt, but it would be wiser to shut his mouth about it for the time being.
Skipper stepped in front of him again, arms crossed -- and as those emerald eyes looked down at North, he realised he hadn't really been spared yet at all. He was still in deep shit.
"I didn't get much from your message," Skipper began. "So you're going to explain to us what's happening. Every detail."
North nodded hurriedly. "Before I do that --"
Skipper wagged his finger threateningly. "No tricks, North."
"Not a trick," North replied, with as much earnestness as he could devise. "You're gonna wanna bring Bruno back here."
Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
North took a deep breath. No matter what, this news wasn't going to go down well. "Because otherwise he's gonna get himself killed."
----------------------------------------
Bruno grunted as he was thrown against the wall of the boiler room -- he went to move away, only to stop as Atoy Muzazi pointed that sword of his directly at his throat. The tip of the blade tickled his adam's apple.
Atoy Muzazi had changed since the last time Bruno had seen him, back on Taldan. Rather than combat gear, he was wearing what looked like some kind of formal attire -- a blue business suit that had clearly seen better days, the tie utterly abandoned and the fabric utterly coated in orange dust.
The look in his eyes, though, that was unchanged. Ready to kill.
With him -- in this out-of-the-way boiler room Muzazi had dragged Bruno into -- was a woman. She wasn't someone Bruno recognised, a young woman with a bob of blonde hair, wearing a similarly disheveled tuxedo. She held no weapons as she looked Bruno up and down, but from the way she held herself he could tell she was an experienced combatant.
Let's go, Bruno! Let me fight!
Bruno shook his head as subtly as he could. It was a safe bet that this person accompanying Atoy Muzazi was another Special Officer. Against two of the Supremacy's best, in such cramped quarters, there wouldn't be a happy ending.
"Allow me to be clear about my intentions," Muzazi said, his blade still in the air as he glared down at Bruno. "This is an interrogation. I will ask questions, you will answer them, and things will proceed harmoniously. Do you understand?"
Somehow, he'd found himself in the interrogation room again. Bruno glared back up at Muzazi, body tense, waiting for the moment any opportunity presented itself. He could send out an Aether ping to alert Skipper and Ruth to his location, but there was no guarantee he'd be able to hold these two off in the time it would take them to arrive.
For now, at least, he would have to play along.
"What do you want to know?" he demanded through gritted teeth.
The blonde woman, her eyes scanning Bruno, spoke up before Muzazi could so much as ask the first question. "He's up to something. Be careful."
Muzazi spoke without looking back at his companion. "Lamentably, I find that most people are 'up to something'. I didn't expect this criminal to be any different. Nevertheless, I will be careful." Then, finally, the first question came. "Where is Dragan Hadrien?"
Bruno could have laughed. He really, really could have laughed. Of course that was what Atoy Muzazi was here for, but… what a joke.
What a tasteless, evil joke God had played.
This, at least, was one piece of information Bruno didn't mind surrendering.
"He's dead," Bruno said simply.
Muzazi's eyes widened, and the tranquility of his blade faltered somewhat, the sword wavering in the air. "A lie," he said quietly, but the doubt on his face spoke volumes.
"He was shot outside, before we came in," Bruno went on. "Shot in the head. His corpse fell off the bridge and down into the canyon. He's done."
"A lie," Muzazi said again, more firmly -- but when he glanced back at his companion, she simply shook her head.
"At the very least," she sighed, running a hand back through her messy hair. "He believes he's telling the truth. Shit."
Bruno furrowed his brow. From the way she was talking… was she a Cogitant of some kind? No, her eyes were bright red, not blue, but there was still something about her that was strange.
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"An illusion, perhaps," Muzazi turned back to Bruno. "You merely thought you saw Dragan Hadrien die, but you were misled. Someone is attempting to deceive us."
Slowly, Bruno shook his head.
He'd considered that, of course, hoped for it -- but when Dragan had been shot, his blood had hit Ruth's face. She'd had to wash that off using running water. North's illusions weren't capable of that kind of fidelity.
When he tried to explain it all, however, the words stuck bitterly to his throat. He said all he was capable of.
"No. He's dead."
The sword waved in the air for just a moment more, before Muzazi returned it to its sheath with a groan of utter frustration. He turned away, running his hands through his hair as he paced.
With a similar sigh, the woman sat back on the railing that ran across the room. She shrugged, her mouth a flat line.
"If he's lying," she said simply. "Then he's the best I've ever seen."
"I believe you, of course," Muzazi muttered, voice muffled by his hands. "It's simply… oh, hellfire. After we traveled all this distance? It's… argh, this is unbelievable."
"What do we do now? Without Dragan Hadrien, we've no reason to be here. But we can't exactly leave."
Bruno's hands tightened into fists. Clearly, the death of one of his closest friends was inconvenient for Atoy Muzazi and his companion. Hot anger flooded through his veins, like a loop of flame intensifying through each rotation.
His body was tense. In a few seconds, he would do something extremely foolish. He would --
Ping.
Bruno's purple Aether flared around his body as the Aether ping struck him -- and a second later, Muzazi's white Aether did the same. The blonde woman just looked up from her seat, surprised by the sudden lightshow. Was she not an Aether user, then?
Skipper or Ruth must have realized he was missing. As Muzazi's cold grey gaze settled on Bruno, he readied himself to leap up and fight for his life. By sending out that ping, they'd rung the starting bell.
It was up to him to hold out until they got here.
"My apologies," Muzazi snarled, unsheathing his sword in a flash of silver. "But it seems the time for conversation is at an end. I --"
"Heartbeat Bayonet."
The voice was cold, utterly passionless -- and utterly efficient. Like a cruel knife, the attack slashed Atoy Muzazi vertically up the torso, white Aether flashing around him as it attempted to defend. It absorbed the majority of the damage, but the impact of the attack was still such that the Special Officer was sent flying back into the far wall.
The blonde woman leapt out of her seat, eyes intense and dilated as she charged towards the entrance. Bruno turned to follow her, getting just the slightest glimpse of Skipper's silhouette at the end of the hallway before the second attack came.
"Heartbeat Bayonet."
"Atoy!"
The woman's feet fell out from under her, ankles neatly sliced in twain. As she fell to the ground, however, the Heartbeat Bayonet did not stop.
The invisible, whistling blade looped around her body, inflicting further wounds. It snipped her jugular, sending out a veritable waterfall of blood. It clawed across her eyes, blinding her. It ran across her arms and legs in a network of slashes, cutting through nerves and disabling them. She landed on her face, nose crunching from the impact -- and as she did, a final revolution of the Bayonet carved out her spinal cord.
The body lay there, a puddle of blood slowly spreading out around it, and Bruno blinked.
"Kinda brutal…" he muttered, as Skipper fully stepped into the room.
"You'd think so," Skipper replied, finger still pointed out in front of him. "But I've already blown her head off once. Not got time for this."
Atoy Muzazi, however, did seem to have time for this. He launched himself back into the fray, sword lifted high over his head -- and he and Skipper danced.
Aether coursed around Skipper's prosthetic arm as he used it to block and parry each and every strike Muzazi sent his way. Thrusters burned around Muzazi's arms and legs, increasing his speed tenfold, but his maneuverability was limited by these cramped confines -- and that was enough to allow Skipper to predict the path of his attacks.
Whistle.
Muzazi stopped mid-thrust, drawing his sword back into a defensive stance instead as he deflected the Heartbeat Bayonet that would have cut his head off. The Bayonet continued to strike, however, each attack aimed for the most vulnerable locations. Armpit, eyes, throat, groin… if a single one of those got through Muzazi's defenses, it would have been devastating, but his sword moved like a trick of the light, blocking each and every slash.
The corpse on the floor began to move, hands planting themselves against the floor as its wounds began to close.
Bruno's eyes widened: Skipper had been right. Even with all the injuries he'd inflicted, it hadn't been enough. Was this woman like the Repurposed, then, using Panacea to regenerate in some way?
She didn't stay up for long. Bruno stomped down on the back of her neck with Aether-infused strength, and the sickening crack that resulted told him he'd severed the spinal cord once again.
Muzazi growled as he saw his companion go down once more -- and as he dodged to the side of another Heartbeat Bayonet, he made his best effort to end the battle quickly. He thrust his blade forward, thrusters blaring from the hilt so that it could continue stabbing even if he went down, the tip of the sword aimed right for Skipper's eye.
But this was not the usual Skipper.
Bruno had been with Skipper for a while. He'd grown used to a man who treated the greatest danger like a joke, a man who always held himself in reserve. That was not this man. This man was ready to do whatever was required to win -- to win utterly.
Skipper attacked three times in one instant.
The first Heartbeat Shotgun, delivered from an unusual angle, knocked the sword out of its path, causing it to fly off and embed itself into the wall. The second Heartbeat Shotgun, delivered by Skipper's other hand, slammed into Muzazi's stomach, causing him to double over.
The third attack was much more analog. Skipper's fist, enhanced by Aether and sound, struck Muzazi in the jaw -- smashing through his defenses and sending him down to the ground in a crumpled heap.
"Such strength…" he wheezed, hands nursing his stomach. "Back on Caelus Breck… you weren't so…"
"Sorry, kid," Skipper said, his voice firm even as his shoulders heaved with effort. "You caught me on a bad day."
His finger was still pointed at Muzazi's head, ready to deliver the coup de grace -- but when Muzazi spoke, quietly, there was no fear of death in it.
"Is he… really dead?" he asked, head bowed.
Skipper blinked. "Yeah. He's really dead."
Bang.
----------------------------------------
As Dragan Hadrien woke from his long sleep, he took in a hungry gasp of air.
The first sensation he became aware of was pain -- he was lying down on rocks, their points digging into his back. As he sat up, one hand nursing his aching head, more than a few of the stones that remained stuck to the back of his shirt.
What had happened? Dragan squinted as his eyes attempted to adjust to the darkness. For that matter, where was he?
There was stone on all sides, rough, formed by nature rather than human hands. Some kind of cave system, branching off into tunnels that led into even deeper darkness. Far above, so high up that it might as well have been the sun, harsh light leaked in through a massive crack in the rocky roof. Had that been how he'd come in?
He'd been shot. That was the last thing he remembered -- well, the last thing he remembered was seeing a sniper and then having his head hurt, so he could put two and two together. Gingerly, he searched around his skull with his hands, but found no wound.
It had been an ordinary bullet, then, without the strength to properly breach Dragan's defenses? It was surprising that he'd gotten so strong, but he couldn't see another explanation. Even so, the blow must have knocked him off the bridge.
How, then, had he survived? That fall would have been colossal. The answer to that came just as easily: when he used Gemini World, it cancelled out his momentum. He'd used that before to save Ruth. He must have used it in the same way, unconsciously, to save himself.
His joints cracked as he pulled himself up off the floor, standing uneasily on his feet. Knowing how he'd gotten here was one thing, but was how he meant to get out?
As always, more questions presented themselves before answers.
"Bubble and fuck," muttered the voice of a child from the darkness. "Blue boy know where else he goes? Washrot kettle king."
Dragan squinted his eyes further, and as he did the form of the speaker became clear. A young girl, maybe eleven or twelve, huddled in the corner of the cave -- dirty orange hair hanging over her eyes in clumps, the ragged green shirt she wore so oversized it was more like a dress. Her teeth chattered wildly in the cold.
He stayed still, cautious, as he called out to the girl. "Hello? What are you doing there?"
The girl looked up slightly, her eyes still hidden from view. Her hands grasped at her arms like claws. "Corpse hand throws it down…" she mumbled. Her voice was hoarse and crusty. "What are you doing here, dead boy?"
The way she spoke was strange, with seemingly random clicks of the tongue scattered throughout. Clearly, she wasn't all there.
Dragan sighed: he'd never been good with kids, but it seemed in this situation he had little choice. He squatted down in the dirt, bringing himself to eye-level with the girl. Her mouth moved silently, teeth clicking together.
"Are you from the settlement?" he asked, as patiently as he could. "White Village? Did you run down here?"
The girl cocked her head, and Dragan caught a glimpse of hollow orange eyes behind her hair. She scratched at her ear with one of her hands, her fingernails dirty and encrusted with sand.
"Run? Nay. Here from White Village, here from big stick, here from space boat. Here from everywhere. Where you from, dead boy?"
"Uh, I guess I'm from space, too?" Dragan ventured, doing his best to parse that nonsense. "A planet called Crestpoole. What's your name, kid?"
The girl muttered something that might have been 'Anne'.
"Well, Anne?" Dragan smiled as kindly as he could. "This place isn't safe, you understand? We need to get out of here."
Slowly, as if the words were taking a while to sink in, Anne nodded -- then, as Dragan went to stand up, he found the little creature was clambering up onto his back. She looped her little arms around his neck, securing herself in place with a huff of breath. The girl was curiously light, her weight barely noticeable -- but Dragan supposed that made sense with how scrawny she was.
He sighed to himself as he began walking. He'd lost his friends, but somehow obtained a goblin child.
How typical.