Aetheral Space

Chapter 182:8.1: Panacea

The thing was not a spider.

For most of its history, the planet Panacea had never been touched by the scourge of the Gene Tyrants -- and so they’d never brought in the animal life they were accustomed to. It’s grand canyons and deep fungal caves had gone unmolested, at least by the flora and fauna of Home. By the time it had been discovered, the Gene Tyrants had been long since dead.

So the thing was not a spider -- but it was close enough for arachnophobia. Eight legs, each with six joints, ringing a hard oval of carapace. What might have been either a proboscis or a sex organ peeked in and out of an orifice on its underbelly, tasting the sands as it traveled. It scuttled, the nibs of its feet leaving tiny imprints on the ground as it went, dusty sand trailing off into the air.

It crested the hill, the orange landscape of the planet laid out before it. The spider-thing had no eyes to see or consciousness to appreciate, but it certainly would’ve been in awe at the vista if it could. A great plateau, elevated slightly from the rest of the planet’s surface -- and surrounding it, towers of lively fungi protruding from deep pits in the ground. They undulated and writhed slightly in the light.

Atop the plateau, a settlement sat, the white metal it was composed of a stark contrast to the rest of the landscape. It was far too big for the name, but the locals called it White Village. The spider-thing, lacking self-actualisation, did not know this, of course.

White Village was one of the few settlements on the planet, built for farm-mining, a network of prefabricated buildings and thirsty wells. The harsh sunlight reflected off the metal, making it seem like the place was glowing. Heaven fallen down to earth, if you didn’t look at the stains.

And today, there were so many stains.

The spider-thing was joined by countless more of its kind as it skittered up the great plateau, using the remnants of the settlement’s elevator system like a ladder. There were so many of the insects that they looked like a reversed black waterfall, rising up out of the earth. Ordinarily, these creatures would remain deep underground -- but today they had caught a scent that they adored.

That scent was found in only two things: certain fruits that grew in the bowels of the earth and, coincidentally enough, human blood.

The spider-things found no shortage of their nectar as they reached the settlement. Countless bodies were piled up in the streets: men, women and children, smoke pouring up from their plasma burns and blood seeping from their wounds. Some wore heavy mining suits, but those had done nothing to save them: the bullet holes through the visors were testament to that. Hundreds of lives used up and thrown into the streets like nothing -- no, like food for insects.

Individually, these insects were no bigger than a fingernail, but today they came in such numbers that they covered the corpses like a great dark curtain. Not even the white surface of the settlement’s name could be seen through their indiscriminate vigil.

The spider-thing positioned itself right above the face of one of the corpses, the dead eye that stared up at the sky, and stabbed down. Slowly, the eyeball deflated, like a balloon being drained of air.

For a long time, there was no sound, save for soft suckling. The people who had done this thing were long gone, swallowed by the earth, twisted and stretched into forms inhuman yet unchanged in their evil. All that was left of them, here at least, was the feast they’d left behind.

Hours passed, the heat of the day passing into the chill of the night, and the insects quietly drank their fill. Eventually, the proboscis of the beasts grew heavy and slack with blood, dragging against the ground, and they left for the warm darkness of their caves. Even as they retreated, however, new insects climbed up the walls of the plateau, eager to absorb whatever nutrients were left.

They didn’t get so much as a drop.

Because that was when the corpses started moving.

There was a dark look on Skipper’s face.

Dragan had first noticed it as he was stuffing the crew’s clothes into one of the ship’s washing machines. Cleaning duty was dull, monotonous work, but somebody had to do it -- and to be honest, he didn’t trust any of the others to do it properly. More than once, Ruth had thrown in those damn red jeans with his white shirts and ended up staining them irreversibly.

Bruno was probably more trustworthy in that regard, but on this occasion he’d won the coin toss -- and the occasion before that, come to think of it. He was cheating, needless to say, but Dragan hadn’t yet felt the need to let on that he knew. After all, if you wanted a job done right, you did it yourself.

When he finally managed to stuff the machine shut, and looked up from his considerable labour, Dragan caught a glimpse of Skipper up ahead in the captain’s seat. His feet were up on the dash, a script buried in his lap, but his expression betrayed his seemingly carefree demeanor. His brow was furrowed, eyes troubled, as he looked down into the depths of his script.

Dragan wiped the sweat from his brow as he stood up. "You okay?"

Skipper did not answer, nor did his expression change. Slowly, his finger slid over the screen of his script, eyes scanning over whatever text lay there.

"Skipper?" Dragan called out.

"Hey, kid," Skipper muttered, his gaze still not wavering from the script. "Can you get everyone in here? Now, please."

Slowly, Dragan nodded. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen Skipper so serious, to be honest. Whatever was going on, it had to be something big.

When he peeked back into the crew quarters, he saw that Serena and Ruth were still at it. They’d picked up some second-hand VR headsets at the last station, and so the two of them were walking around the cramped quarters with bulky contraptions wrapped around their heads, swinging their arms as if they were playing farball.

"It looks just like it’s real, Miss Ruth!" Serena chirped excitedly. She clung to an invisible bat with her hands, swinging it through the air like it was one of her swords.

Ruth just grunted in response: it seemed she was really getting into it. As Dragan stepped in, she swung her own bat, smacking him right in the face.

"Ow," he said, voice flat.

There was an awkward moment of silence before Ruth peeked out from under the headset, wincing apologetically. Serena, for her part, just kept swinging obliviously. Dragan could hear the tinny cheering of a crowd through the speakers on her helmet.

"Skipper wants us for something," Dragan said, rubbing his cheek. "Sounds serious."

As Ruth helped Serena get that damn helmet off, Dragan strolled back into the main bridge. There, Skipper had turned his seat around to face them, his fingers steepled under his chin. The script he’d been so fascinated with was nowhere to be seen.

"Having fun, girls?" he grinned easily as the two of them walked in, but the levity in his voice seemed a little strained. "You, uh… you enjoying that game thing?"

Dragan leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "What’s going on?"

Skipper chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Damn," he sighed. "You wanna get right down to it, huh?"

"You’re acting really weird. What’s going on?"

"Skipper?" Ruth prompted as well, her brow furrowed. Serena just cocked her head.

Skipper sighed again, dragging the sound out as long as he could, leaning forward in his seat. Once, twice, he lightly clapped his hands together. As always, Skipper let awkwardness consume him: if it was up to him, he’d sit there umm-ing and aww-ing forever.

"So," he finally began, clicking his tongue. "I kinda got a message from someone a little while ago."

"Who?" Serena asked curiously.

"Well, uh, that’s the thing, you see…"

"Who?" Dragan asked, his voice considerably more harsh.

Skipper winced. "Well, sort of an old friend. You know North, right? You remember him, Dragan?"

Dragan narrowed his eyes. "I remember how he left me to choke on poison gas. Umbrant, grey hair, annoying, right? We’re talking about the same old friend?"

"That’s the one!" Skipper snapped his fingers as he leaned back in his seat. Clearly, he was choosing to just power through the obvious hostility. "Well, the thing is… I sort of got a message from our old buddy North a little while ago. He’s on the planet Panacea right now -- where they, uh, make Panacea, heheh -- and it looks like there’s kind of a situation going on there, and he’s in big trouble, so I’m thinking we head over, yeah?"

He spoke pretty quickly, so quickly Dragan found no opportunity to interrupt -- but the moment those last words left Skipper’s lips, he was drowned out by a wave of protests.

Bruno settled into Serena’s form. "What exactly do you mean by a situation?" He rested his chin on his fist, biting his lip.

"Who cares if he’s in trouble?" Dragan snapped. "The guy’s an asshole!"

It was Ruth’s protest that seemed to sink in deepest, however. She looked up at Skipper, her face pale, fists clenched as she squeezed her sweatshirt with all her strength. Dragan could swear there were even tears brewing at the edges of her eyes.

"How…" she took a deep breath, visibly shaking. "How did he tell you he’s in trouble?"

Skipper blinked, taking his script out of his pocket and waving it in the air. "He sent me a message on this."

Ruth blinked. Whatever she was thinking, that seemed to confirm it. "So you’ve been in contact with him?" Her voice was shaking now, too.

That seemed to drive in just what the problem was here. Skipper sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. While he spoke, he kept his eyes shut.

"Listen," he began. "It’s not what you’re thinking."

Dragan cut in. "Whenever someone says that, it’s usually a good sign that it’s exactly what they’re thinking."

Skipper opened his eyes again -- and they were cold. "Hey, Dragan, buddy? Could you shut your mouth for a second?"

That look brooked no argument: Dragan promptly obeyed, and Skipper turned his gaze back to Ruth.

He went on: "Before he… left us, I gave North a communication line directly to me, just in case we ever got separated. He’s never used it: apart from now, well, a couple of hours ago. I didn’t know he was still alive until the rest of you found out. I might have suspected -- he was an illusionist, after all -- but I didn’t know. I grieved just like you did, Ruth."

Ruth looked up at him, nostrils flaring. "You swear?"

"I swear," Skipper said.

Ruth slowly nodded. "Okay. I believe you. But that still doesn’t mean we should help him. Fuck him -- he tried to fuck us, didn’t he?"

Skipper leaned back in his seat as the tension drained out of the cockpit, crossing his legs. "I’m not one-hundred percent on what the actual situation is -- North says that they’re screening messages going off the planet, so he couldn’t go into detail. But whatever is going on, it’s a fireball: people dying, people dead, and the whole situation about to keep blowing up. There’s a limited window for us to make any sort of difference there."

Bruno spoke up. "You’re still not telling us why we should go there."

As the easy grin on Skipper’s face returned, he raised the index finger of his prosthetic hand. "Two reasons. One, I’m sure we’d all love the opportunity to personally give North a piece of our minds…"

"And the other?" Dragan asked.

A second finger came up. "Panacea," Skipper grinned. "Enough to win a war with."

The washing machine dinged.

First, they had stopped at the Hoatlake lightpoint.

Then they’d passed over the edge of the Dranell breaches.

Last they’d heard, the ship called the Slipstream #3 had stopped with a cluster of merchant ships orbiting Adresa Alpha. They’d remained there only a few days, gathering supplies and information -- but from the course they’d taken and the information they’d sought, their destination was obvious. The planet Panacea, right on the border between the Supremacy and the Unified Alliance of Planets.

Atoy Muzazi clicked the script off, slapping it down on the conference table. It was a piece of furniture far too big for the two-person crew, with a holographic map of Supremacy space hovering over its surface. Across it, face illuminated by the digital borealis, Marie Hazzard smiled back at him.

"You’re absolutely sure this is accurate?" he asked, standing up from his chair.

Marie leaned back. "I’m absolutely sure. After a few drinks, that glass-handed merchant was very happy to tell me all about it. Dragan Hadrien and the crew he was with were looking to buy codes to get through Panacea’s shields."

"And you’re certain this man wasn’t lying? Deceit is one of Dragan Hadrien’s primary weapons. It’s entirely possible he paid off that merchant to lead us astray."

As Muzazi spoke, he paced across the room, wringing his hands. The blue lights washing over from the darkened floor made shadows dance across his face, his clear anxiety visible only for seconds at a time.

The Arrowhead.

The ship they’d been given by the Commission was something of a prototype: faster and lighter than most craft, with the stealth shielding to avoid detection by all but the most advanced scans. Even if they weren’t trying to duck patrols, that didn’t mean they’d be screaming out their allegiance. The Arrowhead was encased in a disguise shell, a facsimile of a run-down cargo transport. To the untrained eye, they’d look like just another blue-collar shipment.

"Paranoia doesn’t suit you, Atoy," Marie sighed, resting her chin in her hands. "Besides, I can always tell when someone’s lying."

"You can tell as well as a Cogitant?" There was a sliver of doubt in Muzazi’s voice.

She raised her eyebrows. "Anything we gave them, we had first. I’m better at lying than they’ll ever be -- so I can always tell."

Oh. Yes, of course.

Muzazi would often seem to forget the bizarre nature of the company he’d found himself in. The information would still be there, in the back of his mind, but it would only feel real, solid in moments like this. For a few seconds at a time, the person across from him would cease to be his friend and equal Marie Hazzard, and become something far older and far, far stranger.

A Gene Tyrant from the dawn of civilization. A monster whispered of in the annals of history. And, strangely enough, his dearest companion in this universe.

Marie cocked her head. "Uh, you hear me?"

Muzazi blinked, hurriedly looking away. "Well, yes, if you’re certain. Dragan Hadrien is headed to the planet Panacea, then?"

"Definitely," Marie nodded, getting up from her own seat.

She swiped two of her fingers and the map over the conference table was replaced with a display of the planet they were speaking of. Panacea, an orange dustball orbited by three sickly-looking moons. Lines branched off of the planet’s surface, indicating the position of the planet’s primary settlement: White Village.

"The name should make it obvious," Marie said, reading off the information available. "But it’s the planet where they first discovered the Panacea fungi. These days there’s dozens of planets dedicated to farming it, but this is where they found the original stock, around eighty years ago."

"And it’s become a central part of the Supremacy’s military industry since then," Muzazi nodded. "The value of near-instant regeneration can’t be overstated."

"Supremacy and UAP both," Marie said, zooming the map out -- showing Panacea’s position right on the border. "Technically, it’s UAP territory, but ExoCorp pays enough bribes to enough people that it’s basically their own little kingdom."

"Financial power is a form of strength all its own. They’ve done well."

Marie smiled a lopsided, insincere smile. "If you say so, Atoy. Anyway, the point is that they keep their options open -- so they probably won’t say no to official Supremacy visitors, if they think they can get some money out of it."

Muzazi leaned over the table, staring right at the tiny orange marble floating in front of him. "You think we should announce ourselves? I imagined you’d suggest a clandestine approach."

"If two Special Officers of the Supremacy get caught sneaking into UAP space, that’s a diplomatic incident right there," Marie explained. "Two agents on a diplomatic mission? Not such a big deal."

She was silent for a moment, save for the quiet tapping of her fingers against the metal table.

"Can I be honest, though?" she finally said, but still quietly.

Muzazi frowned. "What is it?"

"I… don’t think we should do this. If you really still want to go after Dragan Hadrien, then fine, but we should wait for the next chance. ExoCorp is valuable to everyone -- and if we jump right in there like a pair of idiots, we could bring everyone right down on our heads. No matter who we say we are."

A sigh passed Muzazi’s lips, and he closed his eyes -- as if he could find the answers he was looking for in the depths of his eyelids.

He couldn’t deny that Marie was right: by doing this, they’d be jumping right into a volatile environment, with no assurances save their fists and his blade. Danger was certain. And yet… would that be any change, at all? At what point in their journey had they not faced danger?

And at what point had they had anything but their will to strike back with?

He opened his eyes. "We go."

Marie didn’t ask anything more. "Okay," she smiled.

The planet was hot.

That much Dragan had expected, but he hadn’t expected it to be so damn dusty. The stuff coated his tongue when he opened his mouth to speak, leaving him doubled over and frantically spitting. Skipper slapped him heavily on the back, as if he was choking, which didn’t help much either.

Bruno stepped out of the ship, pulling his bandana up over his mouth. "You wanna keep your mouth closed," he said, voice slightly muffled by the fabric. "Or at least have it covered. Otherwise, you’re gonna be doing that a lot."

"Right…" Dragan wheezed, holding his hand over his mouth.

Skipper put his hands on his hips as he looked around the landscape, adjusting the wide-brimmed rancher’s hat he’d put on his head. It was just as garishly green as the rest of his ensemble, and Dragan truly couldn’t wait until it died. He had his own scarf, mercifully red, pulled up to cover the lower half of his face.

"Hell of a view," he muttered, and he wasn’t wrong.

Growing up on Crestpoole, Dragan had never really been used to the idea of free space -- but this planet seemed to have little else. A jagged landscape of orange rocks and plains stretched out in every direction, punctuated by the massive pillars of Panacea that protruded from the ground like great branchless trees.

In the distance, a great cylindrical building shone from the sunlight reflected off of its countless windows. From what Dragan understood, that was the main headquarters for ExoCorp on the planet -- but that wasn’t their destination for today.

Dragan returned his gaze to the settlement before them. Apparently, it was called White Village -- and for what was apparently the source of all Panacea in the galaxy, it was… a little underwhelming. A piecemeal construct of prefabricated housing, packed together as tightly as possible to fit onto the elevated plateau.

Ruth echoed his thoughts. "Thought it’d be bigger," she muttered, her voice distorted slightly by the rebreather mask she’d managed to dig out of the Slipstream #3’s storage.

They began climbing the colossal set of stairs that led up to the settlement -- Dragan had spied an elevator system built into the base of the structure, but to be frank it seemed more of a walk than just going by foot. The Slipstream #3 was left where they’d landed it, on a conveniently flat piece of land. Prime real estate for trespassers like them.

Bruno looked around as they ascended. "Most of the actual farm-mining’s done by these huge underground automatics," he explained. "So the people who work here mostly just do maintenance and repair for them -- no need for a massive work crew."

Dragan glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" Bruno looked away. "It’s a strategic hotspot, so we learned about it at the Sed."

"You know," Skipper said quietly, tilting his hat up to get a better look as they reached the top of the stairs. "Even if it’s a skeleton crew, I’d expect at least one skeleton."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Dragan rolled his eyes, looking up at the older man. "Well, actually, skeleton crew just means that it’s a small and basic crew, so Bruno’s right."

Skipper continued to stare ahead. "Yeah. No matter how small and basic it is, though, it should still be more than zero, yeah?"

"Huh?" Dragan followed his gaze.

The settlement was utterly empty, the white streets silent and still. Only faint running water could be heard through the sewer grates that ran through the middle of the road. For a second, Dragan was tempted to think everyone was taking shelter from the dust -- but no. Even if they were, there’d have been noise from inside the buildings, but not a thing.

Each and every house, their doors closed, was quiet as the grave.

"Maybe they detected us coming in?" Ruth ventured, eyes flicking around warily. "Thought we were some kind of intruder, so they went to hide?"

Well, they were intruders -- they’d had to get spoofed codes for the Slipstream #3 to even be allowed through the planet’s forcefield. Even so, though, Dragan doubted the entire settlement would run and hide based on the arrival of one small ship. More likely they’d have been met with an entourage of security guards if that was the case.

Dragan’s nose wrinkled. Y, the smell. He hadn’t noticed it until he’d gotten so close, but now that he did it was all-encompassing. The place stank.

The triumvirate of aromas was familiar: blood, excrement and rot. Something terrible had happened here.

Dragan exchanged glances with the rest of the crew, all levity utterly forgotten. Forcefields began to hover over Bruno’s hands, and Ruth quietly manifested her Skeletal claws. Skipper, for his part, just lifted his hand in the shape of the finger-gun.

"North said there was a situation, right?" Bruno said grimly, taking a step forward. "Looks like we found it."

"Now that we’ve found it," Dragan replied thinly. "I’d very much like to un-find it. First one back to the ship is a rotten egg?"

Skipper stepped ahead into the town square, pointing his finger-gun this way and that as if scanning for targets. Ruth dutifully followed after him.

"You know that isn’t our style, Mr. Hadrien," Skipper said, with bravado he clearly didn’t feel.

"Well, it could be."

Skipper gave no reply to that.

With Ruth covering his back, he began approaching the nearest closed door. He tapped his fingers against the panel next to it, and it smoothly slid open -- revealing only darkness beyond. Eyes squinting for purchase in that inky black, he raised his free hand, the Aether coiling around it serving as rudimentary illumination as he looked inside.

"Empty," he finally declared, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. He raised his finger-gun to his lips and blew it as if smoke was drifting from his index finger. "Check the others -- make sure we’re alone. Something’s definitely up here."

Now that he thought about it, did Dragan really care that much about getting back at North? Revenge was such a toxic and futile drive, after all, especially when it put you in horrifying situations like this. He’d have to rethink his stance on forgiveness next time something like this came up.

For now though…

Each of them took three residences, thoroughly

Micah exchanged another glance with Nero, adjusting the helmet on his head. A thin film of sweat ran down his forehead, and he blinked as it dripped into his eyes.

"We call them the Repurposed," he said quietly. "We don’t know what happened, but they’re all that’s left of everyone from White Village. The only sane people left are the ones who were at the HQ when it happened."

"When what happened?" Bruno barked.

Nero, the driver, answered with a gruff voice muffled by his uncontrolled moustache. "We don’t know. Nobody knows. Communications off-planet go down. Then we see you idiots coming down with no idea at all."

"Couldn’t just leave you to it," Micah muttered. "Ain’t right."

How heartwarming. Now they could all die together!

Dragan looked back over his shoulder: the horde of Repurposed had faded to a vague mass on the horizon. They’d made good distance. If that crowd was the population of White Village, were there others that they had to worry about?

The jeep swerved to avoid a pillar of mushrooms, and Nero breathed a sigh of relief. Even as Dragan was forced to hold on tight to keep his grip, he felt relieved as well. Micah put a finger to his communicator.

"On our way back," he said simply. "Extend the bridge."

As the shape of the ExoCorp headquarters grew in their vision, Dragan couldn’t help but feel a little bit awed. From a distance, he couldn’t really appreciate it, but from here it was a marvel. The tower was built right into the isolated butte below, transitioning from rugged orange rock to bright glass as it ascended. In the end, it was so tall that it all-but blotted out the sun, creating the first shade Dragan had seen since they’d landed.

They grinded to a halt.

"HQ sealed itself off after everything happened," Nero explained, fishing a stick of protein out of his pocket and taking a bite. "Micah did a hell of a job convincing them to let us go grab you."

Bruno narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Awfully generous of you."

"I knew people in White Village," Micah said grimly, turning off his communicator. "Recognised faces in that crowd coming after us. Not about to let that happen to anyone else."

The bridge that was descending from the entrance of the building was more like a ramp, angled down from the tower’s elevated position. It was only when he tracked it with his eyes that Dragan noticed the precarious gap it was crossing. Like a moat around a castle, the area directly around the tower was a sheer drop, the size of it almost five times that of the tower itself. Forget death -- if you fell from that height, you’d be lucky if anything remained of your body.

Danger.

As the bridge descended painfully slowly, reaching the three-quarters mark, Dragan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was wrong, some subconscious doubt crawling along the back of his brain. He didn’t know what it was, but --

The sand around them exploded.

For a brief moment, they had managed to relax into silence and calm. That ended immediately. Skipper swore, pointing both fingers out to blast the two Repurposed that had burst out of the ground in front of him -- wearing uniforms like Micah and Nero’s. Their heads immediately exploded like watermelons, but by the time their bodies hit the ground new skulls were already sprouting like grapes.

More Repurposed were climbing out of the ground around them, the majority seizing hold of the bottom of the jeep and pulling it down towards the earth. Dragan could hear the engine roaring beneath them, but the grip of the Repurposed was such that it couldn’t move.

Serena tore a strip of metal free from the carriage of the jeep, turning it into a sword that she used to slice a leaping Repurposed in half. Ruth dispatched a pair attacking her -- dancing between them, stabbing them in the joints and organs with her Skeletal claws.

Dragan gritted his teeth as he fired a Gemini Shotgun into the eye of a Repurposed as it pulled itself out of the ground. This wasn’t his arena at all: his abilities were specialised for one-on-one confrontations, rather than taking on a crowd. The chaos of the situation was such that he couldn’t get a handle on it before yet another factor came into play.

"No! No!"

Dragan snapped his head around just in time to see two Repurposed drag Nero bodily out of the driver’s seat. Swearing to himself, Dragan vaulted over the side of the carriage, ready to fire off as many Shotguns as was needed to at least stop these things from moving.

He was too late.

By the time he landed, the two Repurposed had already forced Nero down to the ground. One of them had torn his stomach open with yellow, jagged fingernails, revealing dark red blood and intestines. The other had forced it’s thumbs right down into Nero’s eye sockets, holding him in place even as he writhed and screamed in utter agony.

Dragan nearly vomited right then and there, but he retained enough of his wits to do what had to be done.

Gemini Shotgun. Gemini Shotgun.

Two shots struck two bodies, sending the Repurposed flying away. Nero simply twitched and gurgled blindly on the ground, blood bubbling weakly out of his mouth. As Dragan stood over him, horrified hesitation stalling his step, Micah charged in next to him, plasma rifle in hand.

"Fuck," he muttered, crouching down as if to try to pull Nero to his feet -- but then he stood back up, raised his rifle, and shot Nero once in the head. All movement ceased.

Dragan just blinked as he looked down at the euthanised body, snapping back to action only when Micah shook him by the shoulder.

"We need to go," he said simply, before charging off in the direction of the now-descended bridge. Seemed they were abandoning the car.

The group moved across the bridge: Micah running ahead, Skipper covering the back, and the others moving in the middle. This group of Repurposed wasn’t nearly as numerous as the first one, but their regenerative abilities were unchanged. Skipper cut swathes through them with Heartbeat Bayonet as they pursued, but they rose to their feet just as often as they were cut off.

"Keep moving!" he commanded, holding the enemy off. "Keep moving!"

Dragan’s breath caught in his throat as Ruth stopped moving, swinging around to support Skipper with her musket. Nostrils flaring, he grabbed her by the shoulder. What was that idiot doing?!

"Let go!" she said, aiming her musket at the incoming Repurposed.

"Weren’t you listening?! We need to keep moving!" Dragan demanded, eyes wide. "We need to --"

Then he saw it. He saw it, sparkling from a distant hill. He saw it, the telltale glint of light against a sniper scope. He saw it, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Move!" he roared, pulling Ruth back with all his strength --

Bang.

Blood hit Ruth’s face.

"Dra… gan…?"

For a moment, she didn’t even realize what she was seeing. When she did realize, her mind refused to accept it.

The sniper shot had hit Dragan directly. Half of his head had been scraped away diagonally by the bullet, revealing white broken skull and pink brain matter in the gaping wound. His hand, still on Ruth’s shoulder, twitched -- and with it he released his grip.

All sound was gone, save for a relentless ringing in Ruth’s ears. What had happened? Was she hallucinating? Where was she? What was this?

"Dragan…?" she asked again, voice muted to her ear. She could taste vomit, curiously distant, at the back of her throat.

He mouthed something, his one remaining eye rolling back in his head. He staggered backwards. He slipped.

And he fell.

Ruth’s hand vaguely reached out to grab his arm, but too late. Dragan slipped off of the bridge, tumbling down into the abyss below. As Ruth leapt for the edge of the bridge, still grasping for empty space, she saw what became of him.

Like a ragdoll, like meat, he plummeted down off the ground, growing smaller and smaller in Ruth’s vision. Faintly, she could hear someone screaming, and it took her a second to realize it was herself. She screamed as she watched Dragan hit the side of a rock formation with a sickening crack, bounce off, and finally vanish through a sizable crack in the earth.

Into the darkness.