The mood on the bridge of the Tartarus was an unusual one. Tense and jubilant in equal asure. Alexandrius Toll, Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, found himself disliking it.
"How long until we can land our troops?" he gruffly asked the tiny girl next to him. "This is idiotic."
The girl in question glanced at her script before looking back up at him derisively. "Don’t be so impatient, you war-horse. The rules are clear. Only thirty minutes after the last Special Officer pod lands can you start bringing down your fodder. There are still twelve pods left to go with people that matter, so please be patient." She winked playfully. "Okay?"
Toll narrowed his eyes at the brat.
Dariah Todd Harlow. Alexandrius found himself disliking this woman more than most Special Officers, and he was not a fan of Special Officers. In front of her boss Caesar, this girl seed a stuttering and blushing ss, but as soon as the Commissioner was gone, her true colors ca out.
The colors of spite and envy, eager to abuse whatever authority she’d been given.
Alexandrius snorted, turning back to the screens before them. To be truthful, there wasn’t much to see. The fog covering the battlefield made imaging mostly useless, and Caesar had denied permission to place caras on the landing Officers.
What a joke. This was not war. War required soldiers, and all the soldiers -- the trained and seasoned soldiers -- were stuck up here with him. The people running around on the ground were not soldiers: they were children, running around with swords and guns.
But they would learn. In good ti, they would learn.
"The person using this fog is quite extraordinary, yes," breathed a voice uncomfortably close to his ear. "Interesting, interesting. Such range, while operating a second ability? I find myself fascinated. Perhaps a live capture is possible?"
Alexandrius turned to look at the man who had spoken. This ti, he did not have to look down, but that was not because the person was the sa height as him. No, definitely not: it was because they were floating.
Mandrus Hark, Section Chief of the Absurd Weapons Lab, was a fairly unfortunate sort of Scurrant. He had the normal number of limbs, the normal amount of eyes, and overall a human shape unmarred by deformity or enhancent. Yes, there was no problem with his shape. The problem was with his size.
All in all, standing on the tips of his toes, Hark would have been the height of a normal human thumb. It would have been only so easy to crush him underfoot. To avoid such an embarrassing assassination, the Section Chief had strapped himself into a hovering pod that floated freely through the air. Right now, that pod bobbed up and down next to Alexandrius Toll, the tiny man leaning forward in his seat.
A shock of spiky black hair, as if he’d been electrocuted once and never bothered to fix it. A pair of goggles, magnifying his eyes so they looked like those of so unsightly insect. A white lab coat wrapped tightly around his fragile body. A bulky speaker attached to his back, with a microphone winding towards his mouth -- so his voice could be heard clearly by those around him.
All in all, Mandrus Hark was sothing of a disgrace to look at.
Those magnified eyes turned down to look at the tiny black band wrapped around his wrist. "Yes, yes," he muttered. "Now that I consider it, it’d be a waste to lose so many potential test subjects. Abilities clashing like this, in the field, in such numbers, is a rare thing. An exceedingly valuable thing. There’s no reason to lose samples so willy-nillily. Caravan dear, perhaps we can introduce a point bonus for live capture?"
"You idiot!" the tiny ribbon chirped back. "You don’t have the authority to make those kinds of rule changes! Go jerk yourself off, asshole!"
Hark clicked his tongue. "Drat."
The Absurd Weapons Lab was another organization that Toll did not entirely approve of. Like the Special Officers Commission, they operated as they liked, without care or consideration for the proper chain of command. They were more like so kind of ascetic retreat than a scientific institute, sequestering themselves off from the world and only coming into contact to pass over finished experints or participate in events like these. Hell, the only reason they were here now was because of the secret weapon being kept down in the hold.
If it was up to Toll, that joke of a Lab would be gutted and put under direct control of the military as a research and developnt division. Unfortunately, not that much outside the military was up to Toll for the ti being. But things could change.
The Supre had woken up, after all, roused from his stupor. Alexandrius had to thank Esralda for that, if nothing else. Toll and the Supre had worked together closely back in the old days, burning their way across the battlefield for a common cause. Now that he was back in his right mind, Toll was sure he could convince the titan to enact the changes that were needed.
The Supre was not unreasonable, after all.
"Heads up," ca Winston Grace’s voice over the Tartarus intercom. "I just got word from Dalcedius R. Paxton. He’s going to do sothing big -- should even out the information gap a little."
Again, Toll found himself snorting. That old wizard had sothing in mind, did he? Well, if nothing else…
…it was sure to be a spectacle.
Seth Harrowing watched the surrounding battle from the cliffside like a hawk, his six-shot revolver held out straight. Ordinarily, a punchpoint firearm like this would have a range limit that would prevent him actually hitting anything from here, but Aether really was a wonder. With his tiny special weapon infused, he might as well have been holding a sniper rifle.
With his free hand, he adjusted the wide-brimd hat on his head, the bells dangling from it tinkling as he did so. The hat cast a very welco shade over his tanned face and curly grey hair. The jagged smile beneath was much more genuine than usual.
"You almost done?" he called out over his shoulder. "Don’t like being this exposed."
The dramatic and archaic voice of Dalcedius R. Paxton sounded out from behind him, unmistakable. "Bother and boil! Do not rush , fool! Trrrue magic requires an elent of danger, the spice of life, the equivalent exchange of changing the world!"
"Whatever you say, my man," Seth muttered, continuing his watch. To tell the truth, he did regret accompanying the wizard a little bit -- but he also knew that whatever ’spell’ the old codger was about to unleash would no doubt turn the tide of the battle heavily in the Supremacy’s favor. So long as he made sure that Paxton was able to complete his ability, Seth would definitely have an easier ti gathering points for himself.
His eyes narrowed as he spotted sothing. There. He’d seen it again, hopping across the battlefield -- an electric-blue spark of Aether, flying high over the trees.
Seth hadn’t been sure what he’d been looking at initially, but after observing the phenonon he understood it. Wherever that blue spark stopped -- usually next to a mber of Regint RED -- it would remanifest as a humanoid figure for a mont, record them and itself, then zip off to another location to drop them off. In short, a transport specialist.
Well, now that he’d seen it, he’d be doing the Supremacy a disservice if he didn’t ss with it a little.
Seth lifted his hand, forming a lens using his thumb and forefinger, and waited for the mont that blue spark passed through that lens. A smirk tugged at one side of his lips as the fatal instant ca, and he spoke the words:
"Forcible Ability Deactivation."
Imdiately, the blue spark turned back into a human figure -- that plumted into the forest below. Even with Aether infusion, a fall like that would definitely hurt. Seth couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. If nothing else, he’d crippled the enemy’s mobility for a ti.
"How about now?" he called back once again.
"All but done, you damnable ignoramus…" Paxton grumbled.
"Fantastic," Seth sighed, stepping back from the edge of the cliff and returning to his impromptu ’companions’.
Dalcedius R. Paxton really was devoted to his wizard gimmick. He wore a purple pointy hat and cloak, the shadows within concealing much of his face save his bright Cogitant eyes. The old man was sitting cross-legged on the ground, a red-hot needle clutched between two fingers, looking at the ’magic circle’ he’d burnt into the grass.
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It was an impressive piece of artwork, if nothing else. He’d spent the last ten minutes setting it up, an intricate network of lines and curves and sigils, converging upon a single point. If Seth didn’t know better, he’d almost believe it was sothing used for magic.
With all the effort Dalcedius had put into the circle, it was almost a sha to heap dead bodies on top of it. Paxton’s apprentice, Mara Het, was red in the face as she tugged another RED corpse into the center of the circle. Unlike her boss, Mara seed to have gone for so kind of stage magician sort of aesthetic, with a black leotard and top-hat. Seth didn’t much mind: if he was stuck with these weirdos for the ti being, he appreciated the eye candy if nothing else.
A veritable pile of bodies had been growing in the center of the circle over the last ten minutes or so, but they’d only killed one enemy so far. Mara’s ability apparently let her duplicate objects, so they were using it to slowly accumulate sacrifices for Dalcedius’ ability.
Seth wasn’t sure that real magic would allow for such cheating, but what did he know?
"We really need this many bodies for this?" he yawned, walking up alongside Dalcedius. "It’s kind of a hassle, you know."
Paxton huffed. "Pax Magicka requires to sacrifice things I value in order to fulfill my request. This unfortunate fellow was not valued by at all, but thankfully we have dear Mara. We can simply duplicate him again and again to beat out quality with quantity. Ingenuity such as this is the heart of magic, my friend!"
"Okay." Seth blinked. He didn’t really care.
If Seth’s lack of interest bothered the old wizard any, he didn’t show it. Paxton simply clapped his hands together, ushering Mara out of the circle, and began chanting.
"Pax Magicka!" he cried -- and in accordance, the charred circle began to glow an eerie red. "Oh, Pax Magicka, hear ! Our enemies converse and conspire through the air, through insidious ans, through defiance of the laws of sound and song! Treachery! I thus beseech you! Accept this bountiful sacrifice of blood and bone, quench thy thirst for carnage and sorrow! Unleash a wave of corrrrection to vanquish their dishonourable ans of communication! Let their silence speak volus, as their volu becos null! Pax Magicka!"
For a mont, nothing happened, and Seth raised an eyebrow of disappointnt. Then, however, there was a resounding flash of light from the circle -- and as it exploded into an indistinct red, the bodies heaped upon it instantly disintegrating, Seth felt a wave of force blast past him.
Through the rushing wind and roaring Aether, the only other sound that could be heard was the old wizard’s cackling.
Dragan groaned as he picked himself up off the ground, holding his arm gingerly. Judging by the pain radiating through the limb and his inability to move it, it was definitely broken. Gritting his teeth, he went to record the arm into Gemini World --
-- only to find that he couldn’t. He couldn’t activate Gemini World at all.
Oh, shit.
What had he gotten hit by? So kind of ability that disabled his own? It was the only thing he could think of. Even if he’d sohow gotten distracted and released his own ability unintentionally, that wouldn’t prevent him from activating his ability afterwards.
No: sothing fucky was about.
Experintally, Dragan lifted a hand and fired off a Gemini Shotgun at a nearby tree. As expected, the loose chunk of debris appeared and slamd into the trunk at blinding speeds, shattering it and sending the tree right down to the ground. Steam still rising from his palm, Dragan nodded to himself. No problems there.
He put a finger to the communicator in his ear, patching himself through to Klaus. "Bad news," he sighed. "Sothing’s happened to my ability. I can’t ferry people around right now."
There was no response -- save for the slightest buzz of static in his ear.
"Hello?" Dragan asked uncertainly.
Still nothing. He tried the backup channel, and found it was exactly the sa. Silence.
Shit. It looked like communications were down as well, then.
They’d discussed this eventuality beforehand, of course: in the event that they weren’t able to send out orders directly anymore, Dragan was to continue transporting people at his own discretion. They hadn’t considered the possibility that his Gemini World would be disabled as well, though… shit, shit, shit.
"Shit," Dragan said, unsurprisingly.
"You really shouldn’t speak so loudly, you know."
Dragan suddenly whirled around, pulling his plasma pistol from its holster and pointing it directly in front of him. All of that was reflex at this point. Once his consciousness caught up and he actively registered who he was seeing, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed.
He’d never t this person before, but they weren’t exactly the sort of person a citizen of the Supremacy wouldn’t know.
That white uniform, that tricorn hat, that cutlass…
Commissioner Marcela Caesar strode across the forest floor, the sticks and leaves beneath her feet remaining intact and unaffected. Her sword was already drawn, the tip of it nearly scraping against the ground as it shone in the sunlight. The older woman had a thin smile on her face as she advanced.
"Dragan Hadrien, right?" she said casually. "Hello…"
Her smile dropped.
"...and goodbye."
The force, like that of a speeding car, struck Dragan in the chest a second later.
"You know…" Skipper said, wiping a drop of blood from his cheek. "If you’d asked about this in advance, I’d probably have advised against it… yeah? Well, life’s learning, I guess -- maybe not for you guys, but still."
He was surrounded by corpses.
Around ten Special Officers had tried ambushing him as he was leaving the battlefield, and they’d quickly begun to regret it. Heartbeat Shotgun had blasted them apart. Heartbeat Bayonet has sliced them to ribbons. Heartbeat Landmine had deflected any attacks that managed to get close to him. He hadn’t even needed to use Heartbeat Freedom yet.
"Bastard…" spluttered the last survivor of the group, a Special Officer with a purple mohawk and Umbrant-black eyes. "Kill you… I’ll kill you…"
Maybe a little optimistic. His legs had already been chopped off, after all, and his chest caved in. He lay there, ruined at Skipper’s feet, and could do nothing but watch as the man pointed that finger down towards his head.
The Officer took in a sharp breath, holding up his hand beseechingly. "P-Please…don’t…" he wheezed. Soone had changed their tune quick.
"Nah. See ya."
Heartbeat Shotgun.
The blast pulped the Officer’s head in an instant, ending his pain. Skipper sighed as he went to continue walking, plunging his blood soaked hands into his pockets. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of battle: the explosions, the gunshots, the screams.
More than anything, it was loud. That was a good sign.
"It’s ridiculous, really," Skipper sighed as he continued his stroll towards the arena he’d decided on. "I’m literally just walking here, and I get guys like these trying to kill . If I was firing off shots or sothing I’d get it, but at this point they’re basically just asking to kill them. Don’t you agree… Atoy Muzazi?"
He turned his head as he stopped his walk once more, looking back at the mouth of the forest. There, frad by carnage on either side -- like crimson gates -- stood the Special Officer, Atoy Muzazi.
He’d seen better days. His uniform was in tatters, his skin was covered by cuts and bruises, and blood was running down his face. Seed he’d been in his share of brawls on the way here.
All the more reason for him to think better of this.
"Look around, my guy," Skipper nodded to the bodies. "Maybe use your common sense here, yeah?"
Muzazi’s expression did not twitch. "If I’d used my common sense, I wouldn’t even be here."
"That’s what I just said."
Slowly, Muzazi began to lower his body to the ground, hands held out on either side. "I’m not the sort of man who runs away from a fight. I don’t think you are either."
"Well…" Skipper sighed, running a hand back through his hair. "You’ve got there. Tell you what, I’m a busy guy, but I’ll give you two minutes of my ti. This is a good last-minute test, anyway. Sound good?"
Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Arrogance. Do you really think --"
"Heartbeat Freedom."
A heartbeat stretched on for an eternity. A breath beca an odyssey. Temperatures flared. The world beca brighter, blinding, for a mont. The wind around them grew furious, broiling like the beginnings of a hurricane, forcing Muzazi to hold his arms up protectively -- so he could barely even see it.
A pillar of erald Aether, like a tower leading to heaven, had erupted around Skipper -- utterly engulfing him. Long, jagged green spikes snapped around the central mass like thunderbolts, each boom nearly deafening. By the ti Muzazi could even register what he was seeing, the light was already beginning to clear.
Skipper’s -- Zachariah Esralda’s -- eyes glinted a bright green through the fog, his silhouette warped and changed -- and as the smoke cleared, Muzazi saw how exactly. Two massive feathered wings, bright green and clear like glass, had appeared hovering over Esralda’s shoulders, moving independently of one another as they shone and flexed through the air. Erald Aether crackled around them furiously, each bolt just as severe as those he’d seen during the transformation.
Esralda looked at him with those cold green eyes. "This…" he said. "...is Heartbeat Freedom." His very words echoed and reverberated through the ambient Aether.
Muzazi could sense it instinctively. He could sense that whatever power he’d seen from this man previously didn’t even compare to what was standing in front of him. This was a monster.
"I like your attitude, kid," Esrelda intoned, looking down at him. "So I’m going to do my best not to kill you. Whether you survive intact or not… well, I can’t promise anything there."
Esralda took a single step forward -- and at the sa ti, the trees imdiately surrounding him exploded into splinters.
Yes, Muzazi understood it instinctively.
I’m dead.
Zachariah Esralda had said he’d give Muzazi two minutes of his ti.
It didn’t even take ten seconds.
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