Found him.
???
Three weeks later…
"And there it is," Skipper declared, pointing his tal finger up at the hologram. "Elysian Fields. Pretty nifty, huh?"
Dragan took in the floating facsimile of the planet before him. They’d been hiding out aboard the ELIZA ever since the battle on the Deus Nobiscum, recovering from their injuries and fatigue, but Skipper had clearly been itching to move again. It seed today he’d hit his limit: he’d pushed the crew into this Paradisas briefing room and begun this little presentation without much preamble at all.
Elysian Fields, huh?
The planet wasn’t too much of a spectacle to look at. From the readings being displayed alongside it, it was mostly covered with grassland and forests, mountain ranges separating more flat plains. Apparently, there were Gene Tyrant ruins sowhere on the planet, but they weren’t quite visible from space.
In short, he was looking at a big ball of green.
Ruth leaned over the table, angling her head this way and that to get a better look at the planet. "This is where we’re headed, then? Doesn’t look like much."
Skipper grinned. "It’s where we take out the Supre, yeah. Don’t worry about how it looks: it’s got sothing real special waiting for us."
Bruno was looking at a copy of the information on his script, scrolling up and down the planet’s environntal conditions. He glanced up at Skipper and spoke.
"You an the weapon, right?"
Dragan swallowed.
Skipper’s smile widened. "Not a weapon, nah. It’s… more of a device, I’d say. Sothing that will force the Supremacy to engage us on our terms. Strip away their strengths, open up their weaknesses. Gives us the best conditions possible, yeah?"
"What kind of device?" Dragan spoke up.
His arms were crossed, his face pale. Even as he spoke, he could feel his heart hamring in his chest, shaking the words that ca out of his mouth.
It was only natural. The day that had seed perpetually in the future was now imminent. Choices had to be made. He’d decided a long while ago that, when the ti ca, he’d make a run for it if he didn’t think there was a chance of victory.
So… did he think that?
Skipper clicked his tongue. "This whole ship is basically one big listening device, kid, so I can’t go into specifics."
"You never can, can you?" Dragan rolled his eyes.
"But," Skipper continued. "There’s a few tidbits that I don’t mind leaking. For one, this is a Gene Tyrant device. The Tyrant that owned this planet was assassinated before he could make it to his little fortress here, so it’s gone untouched since the Revolutions."
Dragan put a hand to his chin as he circled the hologram, its green light washing over the room. "Gene Tyrant?" he mused. "So… I’m guessing this device isn’t so kind of normal machine, then? It’s sothing they made, grew?"
"You got it," Skipper nodded. "Like I said, no specifics until we get there, but it’s a weird one -- it winds underneath the surface of the whole planet."
Bruno’s analytical frown opened up into Serena’s sudden horror, her mouth a perfect ’o’. "But Mr. Skipper!" she exclaid. "If we’re here, what’s stopping soone from going there and ssing with it?!"
If the notion disturbed Skipper, he didn’t show it. He just snapped his prosthetic fingers -- dispelling the hologram -- before grinning.
"Don’t you worry, Serena," he said. "We’ve got allies looking after Elysian Fields for us. There’s no risk of anyone beating us there."
"Allies?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Old friends," Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "Don’t you worry, either. These are people I trust one-hundred percent. They hate the Supremacy more than anyone."
"And that makes them trustworthy?" Bruno asked.
Skipper’s smile dropped. "Sure does, pal. They’re good folks -- you’ll like ’em." As quickly as it had vanished, though, the grin returned. "So… let’s get packing, yeah? It’s a long way to Supremacy space."
As the lights flicked back on, bathing the room in white, Dragan just stood there. As the room filed out, heading off to make their preparations, Dragan just stood there. As the doors slid back shut, plunging him into darkness, Dragan just stood there.
Thinking about the decision to be made.
Marcus woke with a start, nearly falling out of his seat from the neural feedback.
Imdiately, his vision flicked into full clarity, down to the background radiation hanging in the air. His conscious mind joined his subconscious, linking into the network of security caras that kept watch over this minor hangar. His two eyes beca nearly one-hundred, his thoughts partitioning to handle the increased input.
Most of the staff aboard the ELIZA occupied automatic bodies, but legally they had to employ so organic staff, and so Marcus found himself guarding this low-security, low-priority hangar for miscellaneous cargo. He was wired up to the gills, sure, but his brain was still mostly made of at.
Usually, his twelve-hour shift mainly consisted of lying back and keeping himself on sleep mode, but every now and then he’d get so stray rodent tripping off the sensors.
Marcus got out of his seat, reaching underneath his desk and retrieving the plasma rifle stored there. As he unlocked the door out of the security booth, he ran a quick search for the specific source of the disturbance.
The response to that gave him pause.
This ti, it wasn’t a rodent. It was a human figure, walking calmly through the middle of the vacant hangar, their features concealed by the black cloak that hung off their fra. More bizarrely… where had they co from? There were no ships docked in the hangar, and they were heading in the direction of the entrance.
Before taking this assignnt, Marcus had been part of civilian security. He’d seen his share of danger, and the instincts you got from those situations didn’t just disappear. He could feel them shouting at him now: adding caution to his step, an anxious hollowness to his breath.
He hesitated.
Before heading out, Marcus consulted the secondary sensors for more information on the figure: body temperature normal, heartbeat highly accelerated but sohow muffled -- like they were wearing so kind of body armour interfering with the scan. Tertiary sensors ran a check for weapons, but found no plasma signature in the hangar save for the one coming from Marcus’ own rifle.
So all he had to worry about were bladed weapons… and Aether. His endoskeletal enhancents would deal with the forr, but the latter…
He’d taken this assignnt to get away from the battlefield, because he’d seen the horrors Aether-users were capable of inflicting. Even so, he couldn’t allow the fear of there maybe being an Aether-user stop him from doing his job.
If it ca down to it, after all, he was the one with the gun.
He waited until the intruder had stepped past the security booth before exiting, slamming the door open and pointing his readied rifle at their back. Safety off, plasma loaded. Just the slightest increase of pressure on his finger required to end a life.
"Hands above your head," he said.
The regulators in his throat kept his voice steady, suppressing the tremor there to near-nothing. Slowly, the figure complied, the black fabric billowing around them as they raised their hands up and placed them atop their head.
"Got anything on you?" Marcus demanded. "Anything that’s going to poke , cut ?"
Still facing away from him, the figure shook their head.
"Okay now," Marcus continued. "I’m going to remove your cloak and conduct a search. I’d advise you not to make any sudden movents. You understand?"
This ti, a silent nod. Marcus circled his prisoner cautiously, rifle still pointed at them, finger still curled around the trigger. As soon as he was facing them directly, he reached out -- carefully -- and pulled the hood over their head free.
It took him half a second to register the ’face’ under the hood. It took another half a second for the facial recognition database to find a match. It took him just a fraction of a second to realize the threat, and even less than that to pull the trigger.
Unfortunately, it took the intruder only 0.01 seconds to murder Marcus.
His head popped like a balloon, fragnts of brain and bone raining down around the surrounding area. His neural implants dropped to the floor like a drained jellyfish, sparks still leaping from their abandoned tendrils. The plasma rifle slipped from his dead fingers, clattering to the floor.
The figure had already pulled their hood back up and continued walking by the ti Marcus’ body hit the ground.
"A mont alone, if you please," murmured the Chorister. The nurse acquiesced, bowing deeply before scurrying out of the bedchambers.
He looked down at the girl in the bed.
All in all, it was sothing of a miracle that Isabelle Pi Testant had escaped physically intact from the chaos of the fighting aboard the Deus Nobiscum. She’d been even more fortunate in that she’d fallen into his hands, rather than one of the old Apexbishop’s supporters. So of those rats were still scurrying around.
The Chorister went to sit down on empty air, and an automatic chair scurried to accommodate him.
This place was like a palace, with decor and facilities that even the richest would be jealous of, and yet Isabelle was fundantally incapable of appreciating it. Her eyes were open, her breathing was steady, and yet there was simply no mind present to drive her forward. More than anything, she was like a living doll. The doctors were hopeful that her mind would eventually reconstruct itself, or that a new consciousness would develop to fill the void… but was that really the best outco?
It had only been two weeks since the Chorister had been nad interim Apexbishop, and that was an interim he fully intended to make indefinite. As the last known survivor of the Testant Project, Isabelle was a figure that his enemies could rally behind, could prop up as his opposition. If she ever woke up, she could be a dangerous weapon against him.
The smart thing to do… the practical thing to do… would be to kill her right now.
Aether danced through the Chorister’s fingers as he considered his course of action. The best way to do this would be to have li expose a weak point in her lungs or heart, so as to cause a seemingly natural death. It wouldn’t be the first ti the Chorister had used such a tactic.
And yet… when he considered doing it now, he couldn’t help but feel a distinct distaste. It was thanks to this woman that Giovanni’s madness had been exposed to the public, and it was thanks to that that the Chorister had beco Apexbishop. Would he really repay that assistance, if unintentional, with the betrayal of one who could not comprehend it?
Once, he had left the Church and the Quiet Choir both, seeking out what fulfillnt the outside world could give him. He’d co back dissatisfied. This world of ruthlessness and wickedness and hungry knives had been all he’d known since then. For a long ti, that had been all he’d been, as well. He’d thought he had no other choice, if he wished to thrive.
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Perhaps, just this once, he would be impractical. He let out a heavy sigh, and the Aether in his hands died away.
Well, he thought wearily. So begins another long vigil.
What?
Ruristelio paused his flight down the hallway, a rare mont of confusion spoiling his tranquility. He had been occupying this spherical automatic body during a logistics eting with so organic practitioners, but sothing was stopping him from cutting the connection.
Sothing blocking the upload to the Garden completely? Was there so kind of malfunction going on? Ruristelio went to send a ssage to the central network, to query what was happening -- but his consciousness winked out before he could.
He’d never know it, but at that mont his tal body was torn cleanly in two by a sharp blade of invisible force. Repulsors deactivated, the two halves of his body thudded to the ground, internal fluids spilling out of the gaps.
The cloaked figure Ruristelio had never seen calmly walked past his carcass, their gait unbreaking.
The silver stator danced between his fingers and rolled over his knuckles before trickling up onto the top of his thumb and spinning in place. He left it there for five seconds or so before flicking it up into the air -- then he caught it before it struck the ground.
Coin tricks really were amusing. Zeroth had taken a liking to them.
He was aboard the nagerie, in the central complex, sitting in a waiting room. The furniture was eclectic yet comfortable, different styles and materials making up the selection of chairs and tables. On the wall opposite him hung countless paintings, from historical depictions to abstract pieces. Zeroth’s gaze was focused on a print of Death’s Elegy, an epic reproduction of the fall of the Arcana automatics.
Where had they gotten this, he wondered? Sothing donated by a new convertee, or had it passed through the hands of thieves before reaching this place?
A whole society made from the refuse of the past. A fascinating notion, but Zeroth had to wonder how practical it really was. All the sa, he’d do his best to keep it going into the future. Continuity was important when it ca to an organization like this. It charted the way. After all, he too was sothing recycled.
The doors slid open, and Alejandro walked in, a script clutched to his chest. He was slight of fra, his long dark hair tied behind his back, but in his red eyes was the passion of a true believer. The young man had beco sothing like Zeroth’s assistant during his ti on the streets of the nagerie, and so it was only natural that he would accompany him here.
"Grand Inspector Murphy just got here, Mr. Patch," he said hurriedly. "They’re all waiting for you!"
Since he’d escaped this complex the first ti, Zeroth had spent his ti debating others on the city streets. It had been intended as a ans of honing his mind, but sowhere along the line his dialogues had turned into preaching. That preaching had gathered a following -- and that following had brought him back here.
It seed that the more prominent mbers of the Humilist faith were keen on eting this popular new preacher, now that their old leader was dead.
Zeroth rose from the chair, towering over his assistant, and strode towards the doors. If they wished for him to speak, then he would speak -- he would speak until his throat ran dry and Y regretted giving him a tongue. He spared only a final glance at the paintings behind him.
A collection of traditions and values, bound by mutual hope, carried in the minds of those wishing for answers. Yes. That was the shape a faith should take.
The control room dripped with blood.
Andreigh heard it before anything else. He looked up to see what the source of the sound was -- and his head exploded.
Rory ran for the weapons locker, panic pushing his body further than it had ever gone before -- and his head exploded.
Luisa whipped her personal pistol out of its holster, flicking the safety off and pulling the trigger in one smooth motion -- and her head exploded.
Henry did perhaps the best thing he could under the circumstances. He leapt under his desk, hands on his head, making himself as small as possible, hoping that the devil would overlook him… and his head exploded.
The cloaked figure that had invaded this space checked the screens for a mont before continuing on their way.
Skipper smiled thinly to himself as his eyes scanned the script, looking over the ssage he’d received from Elysian Fields. Satisfied, he glanced back up at Asmagius’ automatic body, the chanical lion glaring back at him.
"RED just confird receipt of the Hanged Man and the ArrayKnights," Skipper said. "Have to give you credit, pal -- you’re an automatic of your word."
Artificial eyelids narrowed. "RED? Dangerous allies. With that, then, our business is concluded?"
"My new ship’s waiting for ?"
"That it is. As well-equipped as we could manage given the smaller size of the vessel. Your new ’Slipstream’ ca at great expense. But such was the extent of your blackmail."
The Slipstream, huh…? To be perfectly honest, Skipper had forgotten what number ship they were on now. Maybe they should move onto weird letters instead. The Slipstream AE had a nice ring to it.
"Well, thanks anyway," Skipper offered a thumbs-up. "I appreciate it. Don’t be too sore, yeah?"
The voice of the tal lion was calm and rcilessly precise. "You threatened our very way of life, Esralda. The existence of Paradisas. I will be as ’sore’ as I like."
Skipper’s smile dropped at the ntion of his old na, and he shrugged. "It is what it is. Like you said, our business is done, then. Thanks for the helping hand."
He turned to leave Asmagius’ personal quarters, the holographic banners lining the walls waving in an imaginary wind. Just as he reached the door, however, he heard a voice from behind him.
His own voice.
It was a recording, from when he’d eliminated the Sponsor of War after the events on Taldan. Specifically, it was the conversation he’d had with the old fart right before ending his life.
"Lem tell you, my bovine buddy," his old voice sighed. "I want to change the shape of this world. That’s my dream. When I’m done -- and that’s a when, not an if, yeah? -- there won’t be room for people like you at the top anymore. If I make that dream co true with your help, I won’t be changing the shape of this world, will I? I’ll just be throwing a fresh coat of paint over it. Not really what I’m looking for. Sorry."
"Is this how you intend to change the shape of this world, Skipper?" Asmagius asked quietly. "Through manipulation and blackmail? Is that what you ant back then?"
Skipper faced away, his shoulders raised high, but his voice was dead and distant.
"That?" he muttered, listening to the past. "That stuff was just lip service. You can forget about it."
How pitiful.
With that, he walked out of the room. Asmagius was tempted to call out after him in righteous anger, but sohow he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. After all…
…sothing about the man seed so terribly sad.
The doors to Dragan’s quarters slid open, and Skipper strode in, hands on his hips. A wide grin was plastered on his face as usual, and it only widened as he ran his eyes over Dragan’s packed case.
"Everything ready?" he asked. "Man, you take your ti, huh? Ruth and the twins are already waiting on the Slipstream AE."
Dragan raised an eyebrow, rattling the suitcase to make sure it wouldn’t just burst open and vomit his possessions all over the floor. "AE?"
"We got to the end of numbers, so I figured it was ti to move onto weird letters."
The door slid shut behind Skipper.
Dragan scoffed, lifting his suitcase off the bed and slinging it over his back. Seed structural integrity was fine. "I’m pretty sure we had plenty of numbers left. Like… trillions. And what’s a weird letter?"
Skipper frowned. "A letter that’s weird. You need more explanation?"
"But AE is two letters. It’s not a weird letter, it’s just two normal ones. I don’t get it."
"You’re a Cogitant and you don’t get it?"
"Yeah. I’m a Cogitant and I don’t get it. You should be concerned about your brave new concept."
"Well, it’s like… AE but you say them together. Ae. Like that. You get it?"
Dragan blinked. "Sure. I get it."
"You don’t sound like you get it. You sound like you’re telling what I wanna hear, yeah? Co on, man. We gotta make sure we’re on the sa page here."
"Weren’t we in a hurry?"
"Oh, right, yeah," Skipper said quickly, turning back towards the door. "Now that you ntion it, we are kind of in a hurry. Let’s walk and talk -- I’ll explain the weird letter system to you on the way."
"Actually…" Dragan swallowed, his voice serious. "There’s sothing else I wanted to talk to you about. Sothing important."
The smile dropped from Skipper’s face, and he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Like I said… walk and talk, yeah?"
Skipper stepped over to the door, and it slid open -- but not at his command. Soone was already standing on the other side. Soone clad in a black cloak -- a black cloak that slipped off their fra and pooled onto the floor. It revealed itself.
An opaque visor sculpted into the vaguest human face. A black cape, the inside purple, whipping in a strange wind. A suit of dark armour, making the body seem like a hole in space.
Dragan Hadrien had never t this man, but he knew him by reputation. A chill ran down his spine.
"There you are," said Avaman the Announcer, the First Contender of the Supremacy. "Whirlwind Greatsword."
Skipper did not hesitate. "Heartbeat Landmine!" he scread, throwing his hands out.
The two attacks t -- and the room exploded.
It was like a bomb had gone off. Skipper fired off a Shotgun from his back to keep himself fixed in place, but Dragan was not so fortunate. He was thrown back by the impact of sound and wind colliding, his suitcase slamming into his face as it opened. Clothes whipped through the room, like debris sent flying by a tornado.
Skipper slowly slid back across the floor as the wind buffeted against him, his glaring eyes fixed on the Contender before him.
"Gonna have to do… better than that…" he said through gritted teeth, the sustained Landmine serving as a rudintary shield against the gust.
Even among the maelstrom, Avaman remained completely still, his expressionless mask staring right at Skipper.
"Oh, I intend to…" His voice was distorted by sothing inside the mask, but was sohow still… eerily familiar. "Whirlwind Crossbow."
He raised his hand into the shape of a finger-gun, but it wasn’t pointing at Skipper. No, it was pointing behind and to the left of him, right at --
Dragan!
The kid was slumped against the wall, clearly knocked unconscious by the first attack, completely helpless. He’d be blown to pieces just from the crossfire, nevermind a direct hit!
Bang.
A bolt of wind burst out of Avaman’s finger, surfing across the room and right towards Dragan’s head. Skipper had no choice. He canceled his Heartbeat Landmine and pointed his finger towards Dragan as well -- blasting the projectile out of the air with a Heartbeat Shotgun of his own.
He’d known it was a mistake the mont he did it.
The second bolt slamd into his stomach with the force of a car, forcing the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, blood spilling over his lips, his Aether flaring defensively around him. Avaman had fired two projectiles at the sa ti -- one at Dragan, and another to circle around and strike Skipper when he moved to intercept.
He went to take a breath, to regain so strength -- but the breath never ca. He opened his mouth, but nothing happened. No rejuvenating oxygen entered his body. His vision began to waver.
Air.
The ability was clear enough. Avaman the Announcer controlled air. He could fire it off as a projectile, slam it into things as a lee attack… or keep it out of the lungs of his enemies, so as to quickly drain them of strength.
"Whirlwind Hangman," Avaman sneered. He still hadn’t moved from his original position. "I thought you’d be better than this."
His gloved hand lashed out and seized Skipper by the collar, pulling him close. His vision was growing dark, his body rebelling against the lack of oxygen. That inhuman visage was only inches away.
He would have given him a witty retort, if he had the air to make one. Instead, all Skipper could manage was a little bit of spite. Aether coursing around his skull, he slamd forward and headbutted Avaman right in the mask.
It cracked like glass, shards of it falling to the floor -- and through the gaps, Skipper could see shaggy black hair and…
…and…
…and right there, his mind ground to a halt.
Through the broken mask, he could see his own face, decades younger -- a face glaring down at him with utter vile contempt.
"Did you think you were the only one they brought back?" his own voice spat.
Everything went black.
Everything went white.
Dragan groaned as he was jerked awake, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light as they fluttered open.
"What…?" he mumbled. "Huh…?"
He was shook again, and as he looked at the source of the motion he saw Ruth, her hand gripping his shoulder. Her brow was knitted into utmost concern, and behind her he could see Bruno investigating the scene of the ruined room.
"Dragan," she said seriously, looking into his eyes. "What happened?"
The overstuffed door of mory was flung right open. Everything ca back to him in a flood. Skipper. Avaman. The attack. He sat up, eyes wide, heart dropping.
"They took him," he whispered. "They took him."
"What?" Ruth said -- but the horror spreading over her face suggested she understood perfectly well.
No ti for panic. No ti for terror. Dragan cast those things from his mind, as far as he could throw them.
The only one that decides what happens to is .
"We need to get to the ship," he ordered.
End of Arc 9
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