We are those without shadows or footsteps.

We are those without hesitation or weakness.

We are those without blemish or imperfection.

Where a knife is required, we shall become a knife.

Where a gun is required, we shall become a gun.

Where death is required, we shall become death.

When the Church calls, we shall become the answer.

Words of the Quiet Choir

Two years ago…

It was a terrible thing, to be insufficient.

Jamie kept close to the wall of the alleyway as he made his way down it, the solid structure preventing him from falling to the ground. Pangs of hunger vibrated through his body, making it feel as though his bones were empty and fragile. Rain battered down mercilessly, plastering his loose blonde hair against his head.

Some time ago, it started hurting to breathe. Jamie had the sneaking suspicion that he would end up dying in this alleyway.

Bitter tears stung at his eyes, but it was not as if he were blameless. The eugenics program of the Quiet Choir -- selective breeding to produce the finest candidates -- had resulted in a failure like him, after all. Countless mental and physical deficiencies formed the soul that was Jamie Pot.

It couldn't be helped that he was abandoned by the Choir. The purpose of garbage was to be thrown away. In this way, at least, Jamie could satisfy their expectations.

And yet, tears still stung at his eyes. He looked up through them at the sky, and saw the ocean of stars there. If he died in this alleyway, it would mean dying without ever seeing a single one of them.

That seemed sad. No, that seemed happy.

An involuntary grin sprang to Jamie's lips, stretching out his mouth, as a shudder of malfunctioning happiness ran through him, just as violently as his hunger pangs. It lasted just a moment, but even so the spike of sudden emotion left him doubled over and panting for breath.

These sudden mood shifts were just one of the errors that had come about during his creation. The role of the Quiet Choir was the subtle art of assassination, the control of one's environment. That couldn't be accomplished if one couldn't even control himself. At times, he'd even find himself scratching his arms raw, the discordant happiness in his head driving him to the pastime.

Failure, failure, failure. Reject. A silent sob racked his small frame.

"Are you upset?" asked a soft but powerful voice from up ahead.

Jamie looked up.

There, at the mouth of the alleyway, stood a young boy in the resplendent black-and-red robes of the Apexbishop, crimson-eyed face framed by long black hair. The rain fell around him in a dome -- not a single drop of moisture landing on his body or clothing.

He was much younger than Jamie, only ten or eleven at the most, but as he stepped forward the cold intelligence in his eyes seemed almost ancient. He stopped a meter or so in front of Jamie, somehow managing to look down at him despite the difference in their heights. He had the sort of eyes that were always capable of looking down on someone.

"What…?" Jamie spluttered.

The rainwater choked his words, and Jamie's confusion didn't help, either. Who was this boy, and why was he walking around in Apexbishop robes? Was it some sort of bad-taste cosplay, or…?

"I asked if you were upset," the young boy said, red eyes burrowing into Jamie's blue. "I expected you were, but I wanted to hear it from your own mouth. Now: are you upset?"

Despite the bizarre situation, Jamie found himself slowly nodding.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the young boy said. "Shall I correct it for you?"

Jamie furrowed his shaking brow. "W-What?"

"You said that already." For the first time, a note of annoyance entered the boy's tone. "You shouldn't repeat yourself needlessly. I'm asking you if you'd like for me to correct your situation."

Slowly, Jamie pulled himself further up along the wall -- and even with his exhaustion and hunger, he made not a single sound as he did so. He cleared his throat.

"How…" he said. "Would you do that?"

The boy's smile widened fractionally. "Do you like my outfit?" he said, raising his arms. The robes were clearly too big for him, and so the sleeves drooped like mantis blades. The sight would have been comical, if not for the sheer dignity in the child's expression.

Confusion resurfaced. "Huh?"

"It's a mark of office for the Superbian Apexbishop," the boy explained, letting his arms fall. "Very soon now I am going to be placed into that position. When I am, I would like useful and interesting people to serve by my side. I believe you are one of those people."

Jamie blinked -- his strength failing him, he fell to his knees.

"Wh…" he began, before choking back the repetition. "You want… me?"

"Yes," the boy said mildly. "That's what I'm saying." He extended a hand. "My name is Giovanni Sigma Testament. Will you help me?"

Jamie stared at the hand in front of him, completely dry in the middle of a thunderstorm. Then, he looked back up at the boy's -- at Giovanni's -- pale face.

"But…" he finally murmured. "I-I'm a mistake…"

It was Giovanni's turn to look confused, cocking his head as if Jamie had just said something utterly ridiculous.

"My friend," he said. "This entire world was made bespoke by Y himself. How could there ever be such a thing as a mistake?"

Present Day…

Jamie Pot was surrounded by the dead.

Apart from the usual supply kept in his pockets, he'd taken two of the most intact corpses out of cold storage and had them wear concealing robes. Even if their reanimation made them a bit stiff, they'd still be able to pass for living humans if he was careful. They sat on either side of him now, guarding him as the public shuttle made its way to their destination.

Not that Jamie could see them under his current circumstances.

As the shuttle docked on the Aipol Beach, the suitcase Jamie was hiding inside moved -- one of his zombies grabbing the handle and pulling it along with it. The corpse's vision was still mostly intact, and so Jamie was able to confidently pilot it through the docking lobby without issue. He didn't have much in terms of precision -- more like telling the corpse to walk here, walk there -- but it would suffice for the task at hand.

With a jerking movement, the zombie handed a counterfeit ticket over to the automatic receptionist, receiving a room key in return. Dead fingers heroically overcame rigor mortis and stuffed it into a pocket.

Some hacking had managed to unearth the rooms his targets were staying in, and he'd managed to produce a ticket that would put him right next to them. From there, it was just a matter of breaking through the wall and subduing them with a sneak attack.

At his command, one of the zombies unzipped the suitcase -- just a little -- and Jamie took the opportunity to release his swarm. Green Aether sparked within his pockets.

Dawn of the Dead.

Sixty dead flies, animated using his ability, flew out of the gap in the suitcase -- sharing their senses with Jamie directly like a fleet of surveillance drones.

A hallway, lined with numbered doors. Fluffy carpets and wooden walls. Lights built into the ceiling. A painting of a boat. The hallway was understood.

The ship was running on night-hours, so his targets should logically be in their rooms either sleeping or getting ready to sleep. Rooms 53 and 52 were occupied by them. Jamie had his zombie carry him into room 51.

The zombie carrying him was A. The other one, which he'd left outside in the hallway, was B. B was now in place to begin the attack.

A put the suitcase down on the floor, and Jamie emerged as soon as the zipper was opened. There were countless clicks and cracks as he fixed back into place the joints he'd dislocated to fit into the cramped confines of the bag.

The room was fairly standard -- a bed, a videograph screen on the wall, some dressers, and a door that presumably led to the bathroom. Jamie had little interest in it. He strolled past his cloaked zombie and put a careful ear to the wall, straining to see if he could hear his targets speaking.

No sound -- but that didn't necessarily mean his targets were asleep. The absolute silence instead indicated that the rooms were soundproofed. That made things a little more difficult.

A flare of happiness struck at him, and his face split into a painful grin… which died a moment later. These pangs of joys had been increasing in frequency over the last few hours: no doubt he had a frenzy coming on. Ideally, he'd like that to hit during combat, to quicken his step and harden his hands.

Happiness was his Aether core, after all.

His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the bedside table. Thirty seconds to midnight. He'd time his assault right as the clock switched to 00:00:00. Something about the symmetry of it was appealing to him.

23:59:30. Jamie stepped back from the wall, taking cover behind his zombie as he drew his shotguns from his back.

23:59:40. He checked his weapons, making sure each was loaded, diffusing his ghastly green Aether into the shells.

23:59:50. Out in the hallway, one of his corpse-flies landed on B's head, giving him a view of the zombie's perspective.

23:59:59. Jamie Pot wiped a bead of sweat from his own forehead.

00:00:00.

B knocked on the target's door.

"Try anything," the swordsman muttered, deadly close to Mila's ear. "And I will cut you down where you stand."

Mila gulped, staring right into the retinal scanners as its red light inspected her. "I won't," she said, her throat dry and nervous. "I promise."

Behind her, the swordsman's voice was dark. "I don't imagine your promises mean very much."

How had she gotten here? Everything was hazy. She'd been meeting up with her mercenaries, then she'd been captured, and now… now it seemed they'd docked with the ship Helga was being kept on, and for some reason Mila was giving these two access.

The red light turned green, and the swordsman thumped her in the back with the hilt of his sword to push her on as the door opened. Mila nodded, holding her hands up as she cautiously stepped through into the laboratory proper.

Everything was as she'd last seen it, consoles and specimens lining the walls -- and of course, Helga's tank hanging from the ceiling. Mila spared a glance upwards, and was greeted by Helga's ever-sleeping face.

Something was wrong. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be doing this… any efforts to trace her memories back were only repaid with throbbing headaches.

Dr. Cloud was in the laboratory, pouring over some research papers as he moved from console to console. He spoke without looking up at her.

"Mila, good-to-see-you, yes," he said hurriedly, shuffling the files in his hands like they were a deck of cards. "Some-very-good-news. You remember I was doing research on non-human-Aether? All-dead-ends, of course, save for some minor urban-folklore. However-however-however, I've managed to get my hands on some testimony on the Thinking Forest of Eizhnabalde from before Paradise-Charon came and did her work with it. It's-very-promising intelligence, so I'd like you to put some time aside and…"

Finally, he looked up -- and saw the two people standing behind Mila, the swordsman and the child. The excitement drained from his face quickly, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Who are you people?" he growled. "This isn't some petting zoo for children. Get out."

The child, red scarf trailing across the floor behind her, looked up at Helga's tank. "Open it," she said quietly, almost silently.

Again, Mila gulped. "Just do as they say, sir," she said, her voice shaky. "These people are serious."

Cloud's brow furrowed. "What?"

He did not say another word -- for before he could open his mouth again, a cold blade was pressed against his throat. In a split second and a flash of white Aether, the swordsman had moved across the room and pointed his black sword right at Cloud's windpipe.

"She said open it,” the swordsman said.

Cloud's eyes drifted across the dark surface of the weapon, before finally he closed his eyes, accepting defeat.

"Override Cloud," he said, voice scratchy, the room lighting up in response. "Open main specimen tank."

For a moment, it was like a rainstorm inside as the vat opened, the fluids within pouring down onto the floor and spilling into the drain.

A second later, there was a mechanical clunk. Mila found that she wasn't breathing.

Helga's body fell out of the vat unconscious and without grace.

Before her body could hit the floor, however, it was caught by the child's scarf -- it's surface stretching out to break her fall like a hammock. There was the lightest groan, nearly inaudible, from Helga's prone form, pale from so long in isolation, making her look like some kind of spirit in the stark light.

"I'd be very careful now, if-I-were-you," Cloud snapped, regaining some of his vigor. "I'm not the sort of person you do these things to. Who sent you? The Superbians? I'm not going back, if-that's-what-you-want."

“Shut up,” the swordsman snarled.

“I-beg-your-pardon?!”

He was ignored. All eyes were instead focused on the unconscious woman, who was slowly shifting on the floor.

"Sis…?" the child whispered.

The door answered by B's third knock, swinging open to reveal a tired-looking older man in a green polo shirt and shorts. He scratched behind his ear as he looked the cloaked zombie up and down.

The face matched Jamie's intelligence. This was his first target.

"Yeah?" he yawned. "What can I do for ya, pal?"

Jamie's zombies weren't capable of speech, but at this point it didn't matter. All he needed to do was use his trusty ability. If these people were Aether-users, they surely wouldn't die from something so simple.

Day of the Dead.

As if his body had been packed with dynamites upon dynamites, B's body exploded -- sending the green man hurtling back into his room.

One shallow breath. Two. Three.

And then Helga Malwarian's eyes opened.