Atoy Muzazi looked at himself in the mirror. He was breathing normally, but sohow it still felt like he was suffocating.
Despite the na, a warzone was not the place for war-robes. He’d changed into a standard officer’s coat, bright white, with an armoured vest beneath it. The red tie didn’t serve much of a tactical purpose, but it would have been more hassle to get rid of it, so it stayed. A holstered plasma pistol lay heavy at his side -- given his fighting style, he didn’t expect to use it, but better safe than sorry.
He was about to step into a at grinder. He couldn’t take any chances.
"Hey, Buddy Muzazi!" called out a squeaky voice from his wrist.
Muzazi looked down at the squealing Caravan. A black ribbon had been bound around his arm twice, and the bow had morphed into the cartoonish impression of a face, lips of fabric chattering exaggeratedly as they spoke. This was Caravan, the referee of this war, who’d be keeping track of the points won by murder. Apparently, he was the ability of a Special Officer who worked with the Absurd Weapons Lab, but Muzazi didn’t know the specifics. Every Special Officer had been provided with a Caravan to keep track of their score and provide updates on the battle.
"Yes?" Muzazi said.
"Ten minutes until go-ti, little man!" the ribbon chitterred. "Make sure you’re ready, bro! Don’t wanna get caught out! I’m rooting for ya!"
He had no doubt that Caravan had been programd to provide such encouragent, but Muzazi nodded all the sa. Right now, he needed all the support he could get.
At any rate, he’d run out of ti for trepidation. Muzazi put on his officer’s cap and turned to the couch on the other side of the room. There, Aclima sat between Morgan and Ash -- Morgan was in the eighth wave of landings, so he still had ti for fear. They’d managed to get Ash permission to sit the operation out due to ’health issues’, so he’d be guarding Aclima for the duration.
"Once Morgan leaves," Muzazi said seriously to Ash. "Consider this room your fortress. Do not leave it for any reason. We know it’s safe here. We can’t discount the possibility that traps were placed on other parts of the ship."
"Of course, Commander Muzazi," Ash saluted.
The room drifted into silence, save for the ticking of a distant clock. It would take him so minutes to get to his designated landing pod, so…
Muzazi straightened his tie, face grim. "Wish luck," he said quietly, before turning to leave.
"W-Wait!"
He turned his head, and a sigh passed through his lips. Aclima had stood from the couch, seized her too-big sword, and moved to the middle of the room. Resolve shone in her eyes as she looked at him. Morgan and Ash, for their part, pointedly averted their gazes.
"Take with you," she said, voice shaking.
Muzazi shook his head. "No."
She squeezed the hilt of her sword. "Why not?"
"It’s too dangerous." Muzazi stated the obvious. "It will be a warzone down there. You would be killed. It’s my job to protect you -- and the way to protect you is to keep you here."
Aclima frowned. "How am I going to get stronger if I’m kept away from danger?"
"By training," Muzazi insisted. "As we have been doing. My Heir… one does not beco fireproof by throwing themself into flas. If you were to go down there, you would not survive. It isn’t guaranteed that I’ll survive."
Aclima took a step forward. "The training isn’t working!" she cried desperately. "I’m still weak! I’m always going to be weak! He doesn’t even know who I am!"
Muzazi’s scowl deepened. So that was what this was truly about. He kneeled down, getting to eye level with his young charge.
"I will not lie," he said seriously. "Right now… the Supre does not acknowledge you, no. But foolhardiness is not the way to win the respect of a man like that. Discipline and hard work will lead to strength, Aclima. All effort is rewarded in the end. The day will co when he chooses to know you. I can guarantee it."
She looked down at the ground, tears streaking down her face. "But it’s a war…" she spluttered. "What if he doesn’t…?"
"He is the strongest," Muzazi said simply. "He will co back. Even if so danger should present itself to him… I will be there. I will protect your father, Aclima. I promise you that."
He couldn’t imagine a world where the Supre would need his protection, but he ant the promise all the sa. As he saw Aclima slowly nod, he rose to his feet, sealing that vow within his heart.
"I’ll be back soon enough," he said firmly -- before he turned and left.
That anxiety in his chest, that cold hand around his heart, did not fade. Not one bit. Not as he walked down the halls, not as he entered the hangar, and not as he approached the landing pod that very well could be his coffin.
It was big and bulky, the inside pitch-black, without so much as a porthole to provide light once the door was sealed. It took him a mont to place what exactly the shape of the structure reminded him of.
This is a bullet, he thought. I’m to be fired out of a gun.
Through the sliver of light that circumstance allowed, he could see that the other four Special Officers had already arrived -- and, using Gallery Maxim, had already beco paintings. They lined the inside walls of the pods, painted faces that he was not familiar with.
The Supre was nowhere to be seen yet… but he would surely appear.
Paravi Pala was waiting outside the pod for Muzazi, an easel and a blank canvas set up next to them. They swayed on their feet sleepily as Muzazi approached, a wet paintbrush dancing between their fingers. It looked like they’d just gotten out of bed, yet that sa serene smile never left their lips.
"Ready?" they asked.
"Of course," Muzazi nodded.
The hangar exploded into applause. The personnel here -- technicians and guards, pilots and stray Special Officers -- were giving him a standing ovation. It was only natural. This was a very brave -- and very foolish -- thing he was doing.
Paravi patted Muzazi insubstantially on the arm. "Don’t worry," they said quietly. "Everything will be okay."
He nodded mutely, looking around the room. There were familiar faces there, people from the second wave, no doubt. It took him a second to spot her in the crowd, even with her towering height. She was good at concealing herself.
Paradise Charon, clapping just as hard as anyone else, but with a glare that could cut down mountains. Muzazi suppressed the urge to gulp.
They’d discussed this beforehand, him and his Blades. Given that Paradise had almost certainly had a hand in him being selected for the first wave, it was also likely that at least one of the other Special Officers in his group belonged to her. They’d do their best to eliminate Muzazi, and make it look as though he had fallen in battle. In a battle like the one that was about to erupt, who could say where a fatal blow had co from?
He looked at her for only a second, so as to not advertise his wariness -- but as he did, he saw sothing else. His eyes widened, and his mouth thinned into a straight line of tension. Goosebumps rippled over his skin.
There, behind the clapping crowd -- barely visible -- stood a woman. A woman smiling softly, with a shepherdess’s bonnet tied over her blonde hair. Blue eyes stared directly at Muzazi -- with such intensity that he felt like he was under the gaze of a microscope.
The world is about to change, Commissioner Caesar had said.
Before Muzazi even had ti to think about that, a paintbrush moved -- and, for a short ti, he ceased to exist.
Sensors within Regint RED’s pyramid detect an object entering the atmosphere. The auto-brain controlling the sensors confirms two seconds later that the object was fired from the Tartarus, still hanging in orbit. The very instant that is confird, the alarm goes off.
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Dragan Hadrien, eating in a common area, turns to Ruth Blaine next to him as he leaps out of his seat. He shouts. "Which way to --"
There is a boom -- not an explosion, but a sound produced by the speed of the incoming pod.
Those still awake run to their positions. Those getting what rest they could leap out of bed, pulling on their gear. The sound of human voices shouting overpowers even the alarm. The sound of human feet stomping overpowers even the shouting.
One of the commanders, red balaclava pulled over his face, shouts: "Battle stations! To your squads! Battle statio --"
Sothing astounding happens, just outside the complex. In the span of a few seconds, a titan is sculpted from liquid tal, rising to its feet and glaring off into the horizon. The level of detail to its form is extraordinary -- like a sculptors masterpiece. It replicates the appearance of its pilot down to individual strands of hair.
The Hanged Man clings to the spire atop the pyramid like so kind of superhero, forming a spear out of spare material from its armpit and getting ready to hurl it. Perched on its shoulder is Roy Oliphant-Hawkins, a deep scowl on his lips. He has been taking catnaps through the night, rerolling his Save The Day ability until he gets a power he can work with here. What he has is not perfect, but it’ll do.
"Rember," he grunts, leaning into the Hanged Man’s massive ear. "You take care of mid and long-range combat. Anything that gets close, I’ll --"
In the heart of the pyramid, in the war room, Klaus El leans over the holographic table. Above his representation of the battlefield, he can see the landing pod rapidly descending, its form sharpening as the sensors get a better look at it. It’s coming down so distance outside the projected battlefield, in the forests that surround the area.
That isn’t ideal -- there are caverns and tunnels out there that the enemy could use to cross the distance. No doubt they know that, and that’s why they chose that landing site. The probe they sent down must have sent back so scans before it was destroyed.
Well, all of that only matters if they can land. Klaus pulls his communicator to his mouth and barks in a voice poisoned by the battlefield.
"Fi --"
The turrets attached to the outside of the pyramid open fire as one -- a veritable volley of plasmafire hurtling through the air into the landing pods projected path. This is beyond the firepower they used to take down the original probe. If these shots hit, there won’t even be ashes left -- but they can take no chances.
After all, they are dealing with Aether-users. There’s no telling what absurdity lies in wait. Against the bizarre, there is no blind strategy save overkill.
If only overkill was enough.
The image on the table sharpens once again, and Klaus’ eyes widen. The Hanged Man, perched atop the pyramid, sees it next. Scout Oliphant-Hawkins doesn’t quite understand why, but he reflexively reshapes one arm into a massive shield, holding it up in front of himself and his father. Bruno del Sed finishes climbing up the ladder to the turrets, holding his hands over his ears to block out the noise. He too catches a glimpse. Skipper, walking away through the woods, turns back and looks at the descending doom. A second later, he continues walking.
Dragan Hadrien and Ruth Blaine, running through the corridors of the pyramid to their designated positions, do not see it. This is very unlucky.
There is a man standing on top of the landing pod, with his arms spread wide. He is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, but his titanic body is more than enough to withstand any attack. His toes have dug into the steel beneath him as if it was tissue paper, keeping him in place as he hurtles down to the surface of Elysian Fields.
Like the kill-strike of a thunderstorm, golden Aether cracks around him.
Man, the Supre thought. What a spread…
The whole thing was laid out before him as he fell. The mountains, the forests, the pyramid -- a three-course al ready and waiting. He could even see the little dots buzzing below, the soldiers preparing to defend their hideout. They looked weak to him, but that didn’t an much. The Supre had always been bad at gauging the exact strength of those weaker than him.
He had bigger fish to fry, anyway.
A deluge of plasmafire was hurtling towards him -- not enough to kill him, of course, but more than enough to annihilate any pod that tried to land. If they had access to this kind of firepower, there’d be no way for the invasion to actually get started. The Supre hadn’t co all the way out here just to watch dots get shot out of the sky.
In the gulf of ti between one second and the next, the Supre counted the turrets visible to him.
Sixteen on this side of the pyramid. Safe to assu there are another sixteen on the other side. From this position, I can’t take them all out in one go… but I should be able to create a good opening.
He raised up one hand, golden Aether concentrating right into the center of his palm. It kinda felt like cheating, but he’d use his Aether ability just this once before eting up with Zachariah. Just enough to give the other guys a fighting chance.
The Supre smiled as the Aether reached its divine apex. The words he spoke should have been inaudible, but they were louder than the world.
"Excel Surge…" he said -- and then…
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