The following is a notice to all max-level Superbian personnel.
An ergency eting has been called.
All designated personnel are to gather at the Cardinal council chambers imdiately.
Lateness will not be permitted.
This is a direct order from His Holiness, Apexbishop Giovanni Sigma Testant.
Matters of utmost national security will be discussed.
Notice, Superbian Collected Network
Helga’s head hurt.
When she first woke up, she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t move -- it would have been difficult anyway, as her arms and legs were bound. She simply listened. This was a lesson she’d picked up early in her career: never pass up a chance to eavesdrop on your enemies. Ears were the most valuable weapons a spy had, after all.
There were voices near her, muffled, on the other side of the wall. It took her a second to focus on them, but she quickly recognised the speakers: Dragan Hadrien and Ruth Blaine. It was a good bet that Bruno and Serena del Sed were lurking sowhere as well, then. Skipper’s whole crew would be here.
"Well, what about Skipper?" Dragan was saying, cautious, annoyed and unsure.
"He’s not answering my ssages," Ruth replied hurriedly; the way her voice faded in and out suggesting she was pacing. "Do you think sothing’s happened?"
"Well, did you try calling him?"
"Of course I tried calling him," Ruth snapped back. It seed she was annoyed now too. There was a mont’s pause, then: "Sorry. It’s just… stuff is ssed up, you know?"
Another pause. "Yeah. I know."
"Is she… really dead?" Ruth slowly ventured.
Helga’s heart nearly leapt out of her throat, and it took everything she had not to move. If they’d co after her, did that an they’d gone after the other GID agents as well? Was the ’her’ they were referring to… Olga?
Oh, no. Oh, God, please no.
"You’re awake… aren’t you, Helga?" said Mila Green.
Helga stiffened in response to the address, only to realize that in itself would have given her away. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
As she’d thought, she was lying down on an old couch, patches of comfort and discomfort running along its derelict surface, a stray spring irritating her hip. Her arms and legs were bound with steel rope -- and when she reached for her Aether, she found it absent, so there must have been so kind of Neverwire on her person as well.
The room was dark and dingy, walls made of tal well into its transition into dust, with only an old lampshade for insufficient light. Across from Helga sat Mila.
She was on an armchair that looked as ugly as Helga’s couch, with a book on her lap. Doubtless she’d been reading it before Helga had awakened. Judging from the cover, it was an autobiography from a famous actor -- just the sort of thing she liked to read.
"Who are they talking about?" Helga asked, her voice hoarse.
Mila furrowed her brow. "What do you --"
"Who’s dead?"
Mila blinked, silent for a mont, before sighing. "Gertrude Hearth. Apparently, her stomach burst open and she died on the spot. We don’t know how."
The relief that it wasn’t Olga lingered only for a mont before the tension of an Apexbishop’s demise replaced it. "Her stomach…?" she murmured.
Mila nodded. "Like an explosion, apparently."
It didn’t take much thought for Helga to work out what had happened there. Killing like that was Jean’s trademark -- but she hasn’t expected him to go after a head of state like that. It ant that things were far more serious than she’d expected.
She stayed silent for a while, thinking on it, until she realized that Mila was still looking at her.
"What?" Helga quietly asked.
Mila swallowed. "Why is it that you want to stay with the Supremacy so badly, Helga?"
Helga squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth in frustration. "I’ve already told you this," she groaned. "Want has nothing to do with it. My family are with the GID, my siblings. If I deserted, they’d be the ones to get punished. Jean would see to it."
"So you just live a life you don’t want for, what… forever? Until you die?" Mila looked terribly sad. Despite her best efforts, Helga’s heart ached.
"If that’s what it takes to keep them safe."
Mila leaned forwards. "But they’re not safe, Helga. You’ve seen that! They’ve got your sister working for them, doing the sa thing you do -- they’ll drag the rest of your family into it too!"
Headbutt her. Get your bound arms over her neck, chokehold with your elbows. Hold her hostage and make them undo your bonds. Snap her neck when you’re done.
Helga’s training whispered to her, but for the ti being she ignored it. A better question had occurred to her.
"How do you know Olga is my sister?" she narrowed her eyes. "I don’t think I ever told you that."
Mila’s mouth was a flat line. "Dragan Hadrien told ."
"And how does he know that?"
"It’s… a long story," Mila said, looking down at the floor. "It doesn’t even matter. The point is… whatever deal it is you’ve got with this Jean Lyons guy, he isn’t sticking to it. He’s dragging your family into it already. If that’s the only reason you’re with them, then now should be the ti to break free!"
Helga was silent for a long ti.
Break free…? It had been a long ti since Helga had seriously considered that idea. When she was younger, she’d thought about it often, fantasized about a great escape with her family to a place where Jean would never find them.
But reality had a way of strangling dreams.
"I can’t," she finally said, bitterness dripping from her tongue. "He won’t let ."
"Then…" Mila said, fidgeting as she moved around in her seat. "I realize it’s a little awkward to say, but couldn’t you just… mmm… you know?"
Helga blinked, suddenly confused. "No. I don’t know what you an at all. What?"
"Just…" Mila made a bizarre and inscrutable movent with her hands. "You know, ah… get rid of him. That sort of, uh… kill him?"
Helga frowned. "I’m surprised to hear you suggest that."
"From what I’ve heard and experienced myself," Mila said, her voice cold. "He doesn’t sound like soone I’d lose too much sleep on."
That, Helga seriously considered. Running away had always been the pipe dream, because he would pursue, but if he couldn’t pursue… was there a chance? Could she really be free of him?
The mont that thought occurred, however, so did dozens of mories from over the years. mories of tis when soone had attempted to kill Jean, and what had happened to them afterwards.
The states their corpses had been in.
Helga squeezed her eyes shut, and hung her head. "No. I’m sorry, Mila. I can’t. He’s too good. He’s too strong. I can’t beat him."
The door to the room squeaked as it swung open.
"Perhaps not," said a familiar voice, its owner striding into the room. "But I might have better luck."
Helga looked up -- at the swordsman silhouetted in the doorway. She’d read this man’s file before the disastrous operation on Yoslof, so his face was familiar to her -- but he had a kind of presence you couldn’t feel through a photograph. Not to ntion he looked so much more tired than he had back then.
"You’re not the only one who has matters to settle with Mr. Jean Lyons," said Atoy Muzazi, gaze resolute.
"Thank you for joining us, sister," said Giovanni Sigma Testant.
He sat at the end of a long table that had been set up, hands clasped before him. Huge reddened bags hung under his eyes -- clearly, he hadn’t slept, and whatever he’d been doing instead didn’t seem pleasant. His pupils were lifeless, staring at Isabelle without passion as she entered the Cardinal’s chambers.
Isabelle Pi Testant had to admit, though: she wasn’t much better. This eting had been called in the middle of the night, and so she’d only had four hours or so of sleep. It took everything she had just to prevent herself from yawning.
Still, she got the sense that she couldn’t let her guard down. There was a strange atmosphere in the room -- acidic, almost, as if everyone there were about to begin lting any second. Any careless actions here, she knew instinctively, would have massive repercussions.
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She cautiously took a seat opposite Giovanni, watching him from along the length of the table. Giovanni’s supporters lined the room, all the way up to Pablo sitting at the Apexbishop’s side. Every eye, she realized, was on her. Waiting for her to speak.
"I’m surprised," she finally said. "An ergency eting like this would usually have the Cardinals in attendance."
Giovanni continued to stare at her. "I’ve sent plentiful invitations," he said, his voice dull, nearly emotionless. "Yet it seems the Cardinals are unwilling to break their seclusion for this petty matter. Their dedication is truly to be admired."
"Hear, hear," muttered Sir Helel the Knight of Reason, his helt jangling as he nodded. Nobody else joined him in his agreent.
"In which case," Isabelle continued. "I’m surprised that I was invited. With no undue humility, I don’t believe my position asures up to those of the esteed assemblage here."
As Giovanni spoke, his face was slack, the only part of him moving being his mouth. "You are my sister. I have asked that you be here. That is all the qualification needed."
Isabelle’s eyes drifted over the table, at the faces of the n and won cautiously regarding her. This was not a eting, she realized. They already knew what was up for discussion.
This was an announcent -- one they wanted to see her reaction to.
"Very well," Isabelle said, mirroring Giovanni by clasping her hands on the table before her. "I’m grateful for your consideration."
Slowly, Giovanni blinked. Then, he spoke: "Gertrude Hearth is dead."
Imdiately, Isabelle’s face fell.
There was no way that could be true, but if it was… oh, God, what had Giovanni done? Had he actually had her killed? That was insanity. Forget the quarantine on Polis -- he’d put the entire Superbian sect in danger like that!
Giovanni continued. "At the mont, this news has not leaked to the public. We know this solely through the efforts of our brave investigators. We believe Hearth was killed by elents within her own organization, a faction keen to open hostilities with us. They disposed of her so as to install one of their own in her place, a new Apexbishop who would be willing to persecute the Superbian church."
Isabelle kept her mouth shut, but she knew bullshit when she heard it. A few days ago, Gertrude Hearth had been Giovanni’s avowed enemy, an obstacle to his goal of Superbian supremacy. Now, all of a sudden, she was a peace-loving martyr?
This was clearly a cover story… but it was one that Giovanni himself seed to be putting next to no effort into. Even his voice, as he spoke, was utterly passionless. There was no fear at the crisis that would surely ensue, no satisfaction at defeating a hated enemy, just… nothing.
Like he’d beco a void overnight.
The man called the Chorister, on the side of the table, frowned. "These are grim tis, then," he said. "When you say this faction ans to act against us, I assu you an… war?"
Giovanni nodded limply. "That’s right. We expect them to begin their campaign before the end of the Trueet. As a matter of fact, it’s highly likely they’ll open by attacking the Deus Nobiscum itself. Which brings to the order of this eting…"
Giovanni closed his eyes for a mont, took a deep breath, and then opened it again.
"All non-essential personnel are to leave for inner Superbian space imdiately. That, of course, includes everyone in this room."
Isabelle sat up in her chair. "For what purpose?" she demanded.
"As I said, protection. We can’t risk losing the upper echelons to an enemy attack. It’d cripple us."
Isabelle stood from her chair, slamming her hands on the table before her. "The upper echelons?" she scoffed. "What, these guys? What about the Cardinals?! I suppose they’ve told you they want to stay in their seclusion, then?"
Giovanni shook his head. "No. They didn’t say that."
"Then what?"
"They didn’t say anything," Giovanni explained calmly. "They’re dead."
Isabelle opened her mouth in the heat of the mont to reply, only to stop when she realized what Giovanni had just said. In the end, it just hung open. A chill ran down her spine.
She’d suspected, of course… but for Giovanni to just say it was another matter entirely. She finally closed her mouth, swallowing down her saliva, and found that her throat was terribly dry.
Giovanni continued speaking, his eyes locked onto her. "I killed them in this room, with assistance from the Vox Dei. So of them I killed with my own hands. As such, there’s no need for them to evacuate. Is that a problem?"
Isabelle said nothing, her gaze roaming over the table. Was nobody… was nobody going to do sothing about this? The Apexbishop had just admitted to high treason, right in front of everybody, and would be t with silence? That couldn’t be. Surely not.
And yet… silence was all she found, silence and a collection of eyes that would not et her own.
"If that is a problem," Giovanni said calmly. "I’d recomnd you commiserate about that with Mr. Keats, rather than myself."
A shadow fell over Isabelle from behind, bathing her in darkness, and there was a growl -- low and deadly enough to trigger so old animal instinct in her brain. Slowly, she turned her head.
She’d heard about Jon Keats’ bestial form, but hearing about it and seeing it were two different things entirely. He was a mountain of fur and muscle, spindly limbs ending with rapturous claws. His multiple eyes glared at Isabelle as he looked down at her.
He was ready, she realized, to open her up with a swipe of his hand. If she said the wrong words, he would do it imdiately. Those were his orders.
As quickly as she dared, she turned back to Giovanni. "That’s no problem at all," she said quietly. "Under the circumstances… yes, evacuation is best. I’ll need to go arrange things with my staff."
Summoning all her courage, she took the first step to leave the room -- only to halt as Giovanni spoke up again.
"There’s still more to discuss," he said, face dead. "Please sit back down."
Isabelle clenched her fists, urging herself on, her eyes fixed on the exit.
"Nevertheless," she breathed, voice shaky. "There’s much I have to organize…"
She couldn’t see Giovanni’s face, but when he finally spoke, it was as if he was tasting the word for the first ti: "Nevertheless."
That ambiguous statent was all the approval Isabelle needed. She strode out of the Cardinal’s chambers, pushing the door open and hurrying down the hallway. As she left, she could feel countless eyes on her back, sharp as daggers.
She walked for ages, without a specific destination in mind, her only intention being to get as far away from that eting room as possible. Sweat dampened her forehead. Her lungs burned. Although she did her best to conceal it, her arms trembled terribly.
What should she do? From what Giovanni had been saying, it was clear he was going to do sothing drastic. She’d realized by this point that talking him out of sothing was a fool’s errand. But he’d surrounded himself with his yes-n, too, so a coup seed nigh impossible as well…
Isabelle finally stopped next to the ditation quarters, putting one hand on her hip as she caught her breath.
"Hi," said Pablo, from right behind her.
Isabelle whirled around, just in ti to see the barrel of a pistol being pointed right at her face.
She threw herself down to the floor -- just in ti, as the plasma shot blasted past her head, scorching her hair. As she did, she activated her purple Aether, the pseudo-electricity gathering in her left hand and coalescing into a sphere.
Pablo’s black eyes were wide, yellow pupils dilated, as he looked down at her -- but a wide grin was distorting his face. A stray sadistic impulse had clearly driven him to make his presence known, but he didn’t look like he regretted it in the least. The slightest high-pitched giggle leaked from his mouth as he moved to dodge.
So that’s your real face, Isabelle thought, looking at the ugly visage -- before screaming out: "Painted Moonlight! Chapter Three!"
The sphere in her hand completed, flaring with purple light, and she pushed it in Pablo’s direction. It was the size of a soccer ball, but extrely slow -- barely faster than a snail. Pablo leisurely dodged out of the way, raising an amused eyebrow.
"Really?" he chuckled, raising his pistol once more. "That’s all you’ve --"
Isabelle tackled him with all her strength, throwing him off guard and causing him to miss his second shot. He wrestled with her for a mont, and was on the verge of overpowering her, until she struck his legs with a kick. He stumbled, just slightly, but enough -- enough to make his clothing just graze against the sphere she’d created.
He imdiately vanished.
Isabelle let out a deep breath.
When Pablo ca to, he was lying in a warm bed, a blind pulled around the fra. Faint sunlight stread in through the tiniest gap. Sowhere nearby, he could sll dicine.
An infirmary? Pablo frowned. Had Isabelle managed to get the best of him? Even if that was the case, though, why would he be sowhere with sunlight?
He looked down at himself. The hell…? He was wearing so kind of school uniform. Sharply cut, fancy, clearly the uniform of a private institution. As Pablo was considering this bizarre situation, the blinds around the bed were pulled open.
A well-grood man, clearly too old to be a student yet wearing a school uniform all the sa, looked down at him with concern in his eyes. Those eyes seed to be red with tears as well.
"Clara," he whispered. "Oh, I was so worried… when you passed out in class, I-I didn’t know if you’d… thank goodness… if you had fallen…" He visibly writhed. "...I simply don’t know what I would do, my… petite… bibliothèque…"
With each cringeworthy word, he drew closer and closer to Pablo’s face, until their noses were almost touching.
Pablo blinked. "Eh?"
Isabelle struggled to compose herself as she made her way through the dark corners of the Deus Nobiscum, wary of anyone else coming after her.
Before long, Giovanni would realize that Pablo had failed, and would bring down the hamr of the Vox Dei on her fully. Returning to her office wasn’t an option, nor was eting with any of her few allies. They’d surely be waiting for her there.
Not to ntion, there was no telling how long Pablo would be confined for. Painted Moonlight was a power that transported its target to a narrative of the sa na, a simulation being run on her Aether itself. Pablo would be stuck in there until he completed the narrative.
She’d sent him into Chapter Three, the longest section of the story. Even if he skipped through all the events he could, it would take him at least twenty minutes to escape -- and given his personality, it would take him at least a couple of attempts to get the true ending. That gave her a pretty good amount of ti in which to act.
But what to do with that ti was the question. Right now, she was basically a fugitive. The only tool she had to work with… was her script.
She fished it out of the pocket of her robes. She’d been so tense leaving the eting that she hadn’t turned off the recording -- it had still gotten everything from Pablo’s attack on her. For a few monts, she lingered on the file, finger moving back and forth through the recording, before reaching a resolution.
Giovanni had co this far by making sure information was contained -- information about his coup, about the moves his faction was making, and about their enemies. If she wanted to take him down, she’d have to start by removing that advantage.
She didn’t have ti to be selective. She sent the file to her entire contact list.
Skipper raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the file, the automatic transcription giving a readout of its contents as the audio file went on. Interesting, very interesting. Seed all wasn’t well in paradise for the Superbians.
"Skipper?" Hamashtiel said, his diamond-shaped automatic body swinging around to face him. "If you could please pay attention. We’re arranging the transport route for the Hanged Man?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Skipper said, putting his script back into his pocket. "Keep going, pal."
He didn’t have the ti to deal with this right now, but it was still an interesting opportunity. With a slide of his finger across the unseen screen, he passed the file on to his trusty second-in-command.
Sending… he imagined the screen said. Dragan Hadrien.
Dragan Hadrien narrowed his eyes as he listened to the file, sitting on a tal crate in their warehouse. The earbuds he was using were good quality -- it was as if he himself were in that eting room, listening to the Apexbishop pretty much admit he’d gone batshit.
Skipper hadn’t sent any context with the ssage, because of course he hadn’t, but the fact that he’d sent it basically ant he wanted them to do sothing about it. Dragan clicked his tongue and looked up from his little hideaway.
Ruth was doing pushups in the corner. Bruno and Serena were doing so minor modifications to the Slipstream’s systems.
"Hey guys," he called out. "I think we’ve got a problem."
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