Dust spilled from the ceiling as the building shook.

As Marsh marched towards the quarantine cell, one of the younger guards accompanying him looked up nervously. "Sir?" he questioned, voice cracking. "Are we under attack? Shouldn't we respond?"

"There are automatics for that," March responded gruffly. "We have our orders -- take the specimen for analysis."

"But…"

Marsh paused, turning on his heel to face the younger soldier, planting a firm hand on his shoulder. "You questioning me, Hendrick?" His voice was dangerously low, like it was crawling out of his beard.

Hendrick's red face turned pale, and he shook his head. "No, sir. The automatics will handle it. As you say."

March patted his shoulder heavily, and turned back to the quarantine cell. His eyes narrowed as they made contact with Dragan's, and a cruel smirk tugged at his lips.

"Angry person," mumbled Pan, curled up on the bench, her head resting against the cold metal. "Person that's angry."

Just from a glance, Dragan could tell he wasn't in for a fun experience here. He could very much see the word dissection coming up in his future. Would North be able to bail him out of this? Hell, was he even still here? He'd seemed pretty eager to recruit Dragan to whatever cause he had going on, but maybe he'd made a run for it when that explosion had gone off.

No. He couldn't depend on North.

What, then? Dragan bit his lip, pondering the possibilities as the security squad approached. With this Neverwire wrapped around his wrists, he couldn't use his Aether. He'd gotten better with hand-to-hand since joining up with Skipper, but without his Aether he had no illusions of being able to fight off a trained security squad. Besides, chances were they could use Aether.

"What, then?" the Archivist asked, slouched down on the bench as well. "You just let them take you? Good way to get yourself cut open."

Pan's eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect circle as she looked at the new arrival. "Two, dead boy?! Two dead boys?!"

Dragan groaned as he put his head in his hands. It really, truly was getting crowded in there.

One of the security guards rapped her fist against the glass wall. "On your feet. Don't make us drag you out."

Her eyes were covered by shades, but Dragan could see from the marks on her knuckles that she was no stranger to violence. A punch in the gut would be the most likely outcome if he didn't comply, at least for the moment. His joints cracking, Dragan rose to his feet.

"There you go," the Archivist sighed, rolling his eyes. "Yes ma'am, no ma'am, please don't hit me ma'am. Maybe if you're lucky, you can lick their boots next!"

Pan frowned. "Why is dead boy so mean to dead boy? Just be nice, fucko."

The Archivist cast a harsh side-eye at the mushroom girl. "We're compromised," he snarled. "We need to get rid of this thing, soon as possible. You understand?"

"Dead boy's dead boy is mean."

The glass wall slid open, and the guards kept their rifles trained on Dragan. "Hands on your head," the shaded woman said. "And turn around. No funny business."

Dragan complied, swallowing as he turned away from the guards. The Archivist raised an irritated eyebrow as they came face to face. Ugh. His inner monologue was becoming awfully uppity lately.

"You only have yourself to blame," the kid muttered.

Dragan stood there for an awfully long time, hands on his head, waiting for the guards to grab him from behind. He had no illusions that this would be a comfortable trip, but… no hands came. No gloves seized him.

There was only quiet, and his own breathing, and the slow drop of liquid. In the distance, there was another rumble.

Slowly, his brow furrowed, Dragan turned around…

…and saw bodies scattered before him.

The young guard stared up at the ceiling, his stomach utterly ravaged and open to the elements. The woman with the shades lay in a heap next to him, her throat cut so thoroughly her head was only attached by stray strings of sinew. The rest were similarly butchered, knife wounds covering their ravaged forms.

The only one still standing was Marsh, and he just quietly stared at Dragan, blood-drenched knife clutched in his hand.

"Who are you?" he spoke softly, with a voice not his own.

For the first time since Marie had met him, Titan Hessiah seemed panicked. Countless arms, like the branches of a tree, arranged numerous holographic screens around him -- each displaying the view from a security camera.

On one, a hole had been visibly blasted into the outer wall of the building, concrete and steel spilling out into a hallway. The number in the corner of the screen indicated this was the twentieth floor, ten floors below them and nineteen above the refugee area.

A second showed a view of three heavily-armoured figures, armed with hulking heavy weapons. Already, a trail of wrecked security automatics were laid out behind them. Those things had been huge, two heads taller than the tallest man, and those soldiers had blasted them apart like they were nothing.

They were heading up.

"Damnation," Hessiah hissed, eyes sprouting over his head to keep all the screens in view. "It's the Dead Hand -- those disloyal, impudent pests. They're here for my Enfant, my children." Another hand went to his communicator. "Marsh? Marsh, intercept their approach immediately! Answer me, damn you!"

Marie's eyes flicked to the screen as the leader of the three figures kicked a hole right through the chest of another automatic. She frowned: they were pretty good, but tearing steel apart wasn't that impressive for someone like her.

"You're scared of these people?" she asked, raising an eyebrow -- only to cut the sass and take a step back when Hessiah turned a rage-filled expression towards her.

"Dispatching them would be simplicity itself," he spat, fingers clicking in the air. "But without exposing my nature? No. For regenerators, shredding is the best way -- and I can hardly shred with this mundane form. We are not yet ready to be exposed."

Marie crossed her arms as the light above the far door turned green. "Well, if you don't want to be exposed, I'd turn back now. He's here."

It took only a second for Hessiah's many arms to coalesce, for his many eyes to sink into his skin, for his many mouths to shut and seal. His business suit shifted with his form, and it occurred to Marie that it must actually be part of his body.

A moment after he returned to normal, the doors slid open, and Atoy Muzazi marched into the room. One hand was on the hilt of his sheathed sword, but a relieved smile crossed his lips as he saw Marie.

"Officer Hazzard," he nodded. "It's pleasing to see you are well."

The way he tried to conceal his excitement was fairly adorable, but the seriousness on his face as he turned to Hessiah was completely genuine. His nod was far more respectful, too.

"It's an honour to meet an esteemed businessman such as yourself, sir," Atoy said. "I… appreciate your assistance in resolving that dispute with security. Officer Hazzard, has your Aether ability fully healed you yet?"

Nice cover story, Atoy, if a bit unnecessary.

All Atoy knew was that the CEO of ExoCorp had vouched for him and gotten him out of that security cell. He didn't know that Hessiah had intended on having him killed for his experiments initially. Best not to mention that: doubtless he'd just assume Hessiah was some kind of Supremacy sympathizer, instead.

"It's good to see the Supremacy has friends this far out," Atoy smiled.

Bingo.

His smile faded as he caught a glance at one of the holographic screens still floating in the air. The intruder had just ripped the head off another security automatic, throwing it into the wall with such strength that it left a visible crater.

"The building's under attack?" he asked urgently, rushing forward to look at the screen. "I felt a shaking when the elevator was bringing me up. An explosion?"

Hessiah cleared his throat, one hand behind his back. "It would seem so. From what I understand, some of the Repurposed have maintained some residual intelligence."

Marie glanced at the four vats that contained the Enfant. The glass on them had tinted black, concealing their occupants from view, and Marie had no doubt there was some kind of sound-proofing, too.

Atoy narrowed his eyes as he inspected the monitors. "They're… on their way up here, correct? That's what I'm seeing here?"

Hessiah nodded grimly, taking a step forward to him. "There are tales of Special Officers told far and wide. Their unparalleled valour, their unrivalled skill… even out here, as you say. Could I trouble you to…?"

"Of course."

Atoy Muzazi unsheathed his sword, the blade emerging with a shower of sparks as he turned back towards the door. And as he did, Marie saw it.

She saw Hessiah's face, in that single moment, looking at Atoy.

It was hateful, creased beyond human shape, eyes recessed so deep they were like demonic tunnels. His teeth were bared like the brickwork of a wall, lips pulled back so far the bones of his jawline were clearly visible. For a horrible, horrible second, Marie thought the man might just leap upon Atoy and tear him apart there and then.

"Officer Hazzard?" Atoy asked.

The moment passed, and when Marie looked to Hessiah's face again it was as human as they came. He smiled softly.

"What are you doing?" Dragan asked, glaring at Marsh as he took a step outside the open cell. He felt blood sink into his shoes as his foot came down in the puddle.

The man called Marsh just continued to look calmly at him, knife still dripping red. A thin smile crossed his lips.

"I wanted to meet you," he said, in that same quiet voice. "To know what manner of being you were."

Dragan gulped. "Name's Dragan Hadrien. I'm a Cogitant. We done? Can I go?"

He didn't understand what was happening here, but his situation hadn't actually improved much. He was still bound and sealed with Neverwire, after all. If this maniac decided to turn that knife against him, too, there wasn't much he could do to stop it.

The smile didn't fade. "John sought you dead, but he is the hasty sort… perhaps you are more like us than he anticipates. Another archon to the new god."

Dragan narrowed his eyes. "John? You're with those Dead Hand guys, then?"

"My name is Ian. I took this skin for infiltration purposes, but the time for that is at an end. The false flesh shall be destroyed, and the crusade from this place shall commence. Before that happens, I would know the measure of you."

Dragan's eyes flicked to Pan, in the corner of the room. She looked visibly worried as she looked at this man called Ian. The red shade he'd seen when Pan was probing his memories, the one that wanted to 'destroy everything'... was that the new god Ian was talking about?

Only one way to know.

"I don't know what you mean," Dragan lied. "Crusade? New god? What the hell are you talking about?"

Ian sighed, wiping the back of one hand over his temple. Even his body language had changed utterly -- before it had been mechanical, purposeful. Now it was filled with delicate grace more suited to a ballerina than a soldier.

"We came here with foolishness in our hearts," Ian said softly. "We pummeled and beat for money and power, as if money ever mattered, as if power was ever real. There was a man agitating the sheep -- we slew him, as was our way, and went to dispose of his body in the tunnels."

The look on his face changed, a rapturous awe washing over his features.

"We went down into the tunnels…" he whispered, arms spread wide as he stared up at the ceiling. "And a god reached out and took us." He ran a finger over his arm. "It gave me new skin," he purred. "It gave the others gifts as well. What, I wonder, did it give you?"

Dragan bit his lip as he stared into the eyes of the man across from him. This was a true believer he was looking at -- no, a zealot. That knife would be turned on him if he said the wrong thing here.

Snip.

An invisible blade sliced through his Neverwire restraints, and the fear that had settled on Dragan's shoulders lessened somewhat. Seemed North wasn't as much of an asshole as he'd assumed.

"So where is it, then?" Dragan asked, with the bravado he'd just received. "Where's this god you're so in love with?"

For a moment, Dragan thought he had gone too far -- but then Ian just slowly blinked and reached up with one hand.

Like he was opening a door, he peeled his own face away. Strands of sinew snapped as they were pulled taut. Dragan felt nausea welling up in his throat as he took in the bloody sight.

Behind that sheet of skin, there was only a hollow cavity, like the skull had been mined in. Sat there in the centre, around the size of a clenched fist, was a softly pulsating lump of bright red Panacea -- like a ball of organic yarn.

"Behold." Ian spoke without a mouth. "Behold the face of God."