Aetheral Space

It crawled.

The creature had been blown into the wind when Paradise Charon's body had been destroyed by the Tower -- and so, it had only barely survived. While the Special Officers assigned to security for the Arena had brought down the rampaging Arcana Automatic, the creature had rested on the floor, indistinguishable from the rest of the soot that littered the battlefield. Only when it was confident that no eyes were upon it did it move.

Any arachnophobe would surely have been horrified to see the creature. It crawled across the ground, a mixture between a tarantula and a centipede, with an ominous stinger swaying at the end of a tail like that of a scorpion. Winding its way through the debris, it made its way out of the arena.

This route was preprogrammed, burnt into the creature's very blood. It could no more ignore the impulse to go this way than it could choose to stop breathing. It crawled through the tunnels of the Arena of the Absolute, maneuvered through a nearly-invisible crack in the wall, and finally rested…

…in the palm of the King of Darkstar, Niain.

The Scurrant smiled benevolently down at his creation, in this dark maintenance room in the shadows of glory. Judging from the rust and dust, nobody had used this room in years. It was only in such places that infestations like this could occur.

Handling the creature with care, Niain lifted it up, placing it against the back of his neck -- and, as another automatic impulse, the creature stabbed its stinger down into the base of Niain's spine.

Any discomfort was momentary. For a brief instant, Niain's eyes flicked around rapidly, as if he were dreaming with them open. Then, his smile softened, and he tore the creature from his flesh. Holding it in his hand again, he considered things.

He had just recovered the memories from his shadow-self -- the one that had been embedded into this creature and dispatched to monitor Paradise Charon. Dragan Hadrien had enacted a mental battle with the Contender, and so that shadow-self had been able to infiltrate their collective mindscape. What a fortuitous coincidence. Niain could scarcely believe his luck.

He now knew for certain the location of his ultimate target.

The knowledge he'd gleamed from the encounter would surely come in handy, but now the time for patience had returned. He had no way to act on this information until the UAP traitor had finished their part in all this. Until then… best to wait and watch.

Angra Mainyu.

There was a flash of black Aether, and the insect vanished from Niain's hand -- shredded out of existence. Best to recover the material. He disliked waste. He did not, however, hate it. He endeavored never to hate, nor to love. Strong sentiment like that created frustration and doubt in the heart.

With that in mind, the strongest emotion Niain would normally permit himself in this situation was the smallest sliver of pleasure. That was how he strove to conduct himself. However…

…he'd seen her.

Up there, in one of the observation booths, looking down at the Dawn Contest like she had so many times before. The timeless woman, come to interfere with him again. The Shepherdess.

The one person in this world that Niain truly despised.

She sat.

Legs crossed, chin resting on her palm, she sat in her observation booth on high and observed, as she had so many times before.

The Shepherdess’ eyes narrowed as she watched the Special Officers finally bring the Tower down, nano-automatics spilling out of its chassis before a final sandstorm wiped them from existence. After Dragan Hadrien had killed Paradise Charon, he'd simply retreated using his Gemini World. It had fallen to the on-site security to deal with his leftovers -- and even with eight Special Officers, it had taken nearly an hour to finish the automatic.

She remembered when the Arcana Automatics had first appeared, shortly after the revolution. They'd become stronger since then, but even at that time their survivability had been frustrating. No doubt, when he’d attacked Halcyon, Dragan Hadrien had decided it was more convenient to utilize the Tower than destroy it.

That disagreed with her.

She found herself very much disliking the Hadrien boy. He had strength, to be sure, and the will to properly use it -- but she didn't care for the direction that will seemed to be pointed in. He flaunted the principles of the Supremacy at every turn, dancing around them and manipulating them however he pleased. He wasn't technically breaking any rules… but there were the rules of the Dawn Contest, and there were the rules of the Shepherdess.

It seems likely that Hadrien will make it to the end of the Dawn Contest. It’s possible that he'll win, too, if his opponent or the Heir aren't up to the task. Even if someone else does take the throne, though…

She glanced at the red-haired girl waiting by the door.

I've already found my candidate. Even if she needs a little persuasion to come out of her shell.

The Shepherdess stabbed her finger down on the script in her lap, hitting the ‘Publish’ button.

He hid.

Back flat against the wall of the alley, the young man watched the distant sky above -- using the esoteric bulky binoculars he held in one hand. These things had been designed to lock onto and track the particular light signature produced by an individual's Aether. Recently developed by the Absurd Weapons Lab, and very difficult to get a hold of.

Needless to say, his methods hadn't been quite legal.

There.

He ducked down just a little more out of sight as he spotted it, just in case. Sparks of blue in the sky high above -- not frequent enough to be called a trail, but just consistent enough to indicate an inclination. After leaving the Arena of the Absolute, Dragan Hadrien was heading west, then. Interesting.

The young man had considered three-hundred and thirty-seven locations where Hadrien might have had his true headquarters -- the Tree of Might's temple was obviously a decoy -- but this new piece of intelligence had just sheared that number down to a third. The day had been well spent.

Even if he still needed to stay hidden for the time being… knowing where Dragan Hadrien was meant the young man knew where not to be. He didn't want a repeat of last time, after all.

The slightest playful smirk curling his lips, Winston Grace stuffed the binoculars into his pockets and retreated into the streets, head down and hood up.

He ate.

Even if this body of his didn't need sustenance anymore, taste wasn't something Wu Ming was yet ready to abandon. Even when he'd been alive -- well, when he'd been alive the first time -- food had always been more about taste than nutrition. He had several abilities he'd developed just based around cooking, after all. Well, two of them were also capable of setting enemies on fire, but that was a given when it came to Aether.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the massive videograph on the wall. He'd tidy things up before they got back, but for now he was enjoying the videotheater experience. Even if the content was a little sad.

He wasn't sad that Paradise Charon was dead, per se -- they'd worked together many years, sure, but she'd also been very annoying. It was more the fact that he'd missed out on what was sure to be a fun fight. It'd been one that had been percolating for a while, too -- deep down, Paradise Charon had always desired a chance to kill him.

Now that chance would never come. Too bad, so sad.

Still… maybe it was for the best. Paradise Charon had given off the same vibe as the Abyssal Knight -- the feeling that she'd been infested. Wu Ming didn't like fighting against puppets. It was far too close to masturbation for his tastes.

Right now, what he really wanted… was to fight against the puppet master.

He knelt.

“That was magnificent, Lord Hadrien,” said Xander Rain respectfully, his eyes turned down towards the ground. “I could not comprehend the form of your attack, yet the enemy stood no chance. Even a Contender pales before your might.”

They'd made their true headquarters in an ancient factory beneath the surface of the planet, where genetic monstrosities had once been forged en masse. Now, for the duration of the Dawn Contest, it would be the temporary home of the Tree of Might. While the temple floated with a skeleton crew, drawing the attention of their enemies, they would make their true plans here -- in the shadows.

And yet, they'd still saw fit to craft a throne for Dragan Hadrien, even if it was made of scrap metal. He guessed it wouldn't feel like home otherwise.

“Rise,” Dragan said from that very throne, waving a hand. “Your words are too kind.”

“Perhaps so,” the woman called Violence, the Second Branch, said standing with her arms crossed, a short distance behind Rain. “If the Tower hadn't been brought into the fight, mayhaps it wouldn't have been a victory. We are fortunate that was not the case.”

There'd be rebellion there before long. Dragan glanced at her.

Generally, he could get a sense from someone's intentions from a combination of their facial expressions and voice -- but that wasn't so easy with Violence. Her Scurrant form meant that she didn't have a face to read -- just the sight of her brain, visible along with the rest of her organs through her transparent skin.

“Ah, but Vio,” the Third Branch wagged a spindly finger. “Do not forget the final sword a warrior wields. Hm? Yes. Their wits. Through cleverness and cunning did our Lord achieve victory. It is not something to be scoffed at.”

The Third Branch of the Tree of Might, Tyr Masterman, was the very picture of an old dandy. A tartan scarf was wrapped tight around his neck, balanced atop a fluffy white longcoat. His similarly white hair was curled within an inch of its life -- and that included the three mustachios, vertically stacked, that covered his mouth. Dragan wasn’t sure if that was a Scurrant trait or just the wonders of post-modernist hairdressing.

“Scoff at our Zero Branch? I would never,” Violence scoffed. “I merely spoke carelessly. Forgive me, Lord. The sight of your battle made my blood flow overhot.”

She stepped before the throne and -- just as Xander had -- dropped to one knee.

Dragan waved his hand again. He was sure this was becoming quite a regal gesture. “You are forgiven, Second Branch. Battle makes barbarians of us all, but barbarians sometimes speak the most honest truth, do they not? Next time I fight, you will all witness my strength unbridled by tactic or deceit.”

An appreciative ‘oooh’ waved through the gathered membership, but Violence just looked up from her kneeling position.

“You say this, Lord,” she replied, voice low. “But your next match will be a victory by default, will it not?”

Masterman frowned. “Hva? What is this?”

His head snapped back to look at the Fifth Branch, their resident ‘technical expert’.

If Tyr Masterman’s facial hair made him a strange sight, then the Fifth Branch -- A-Man-Da -- didn’t seem suited for the Tree of Might at all. Rather than bearing the figure of a strong warrior, she was a tiny green-haired woman with gleaming blue eyes and pointed ears. She wore a dark-blue jumper dress over a frilly white blouse, and sat cross-legged atop a floating red pillow. To be frank, even given her rank, she looked like she’d shatter into glass when faced with a stiff breeze.

It didn’t seem to bother her much. She just tapped away at the script balanced on her lap, her eyes steadily scanning the words.

“The Crown,” she replied, voice breathy. “Although they were injured grievously in the King of Killer's attack, they survived the night. However… their condition is dire. There’s a 9% chance they regain consciousness. Even if they do, there's only a 2% chance they make it to the next match -- and please understand I'm rounding up there.”

Dragan nodded, his expression grave.

“It saddens me that I won't be able to face the Crown in combat, but we must keep our heads fixed on the direction of victory. The Crown, skilled as they might have been, were unable to defeat the King of Killers that I commanded. Would you admonish a king for refusing to duel one who had lost to their court jester?”

Surprisingly, Violence nodded in agreement.

“Just so,” she said. “Strength through victory.”

“Strength through victory,” Dragan echoed.

“And as the wisdom of the Zero Branch has now been presented to us…” she continued. “I wonder if we might discuss one of these ‘court jesters’ of which you speak.”

Ah. She'd gotten him.

Dragan had been surprised by the Tree of Might, to be perfectly honest. Given their reputation and the image they tried to portray, he'd expected a group of honorable muscleheads, easily led and manipulated. But any organization developed its own politics.

Violence knew what kind of game Dragan was playing, and -- to a certain extent -- she was willing to play too.

“You intrigue me, Second Branch,” Dragan said, leaning back. “Elaborate.”

Violence continued to kneel, but when she spoke the anger in her voice was obvious. “We have been slandered.”

“How so?”

“That woman who came to speak with the First Branch before your match against him. Rae Ruditia. She has taken the truth we showed her and poisoned it with lies.”

For the first time in a while, Xander Rain spoke up, taking a step towards the throne. “Words are words, my Lord,” he said quietly. “I don't think it's anything to worry about…”

“Words are wounds, First Branch,” Violence snapped. “Or have you forgotten the words of your father?”

For a second, Dragan thought she might have gone too far -- and even Violence herself seemed to stiffen up. When no response came from Xander, however -- save for a saddened glance away -- the Scurrant continued her proposal.

“Words are wounds,” she repeated, quoting the previous First Branch. “A wound against the Tree of Might must be avenged. True retribution is not equal but overpowering. All of these things are known to be true -- and in this case, these precepts follow naturally after each another.”

Dragan raised an eyebrow. “You want to kill this woman?”

“I want to teach her the error of her ways. In her article, she writes ‘given the lackluster impression their current membership presents, it’s obvious that the organization’s glory days are long behind it’. I want to show her what one of those glory days really looks like.”

So yes, she wanted to kill this woman. Dragan was just about to refuse when -- unexpectedly -- North spoke up from his position beside the throne.

“You ask me?” he said, even though nobody was asking him. “You gotta respond to this, boss. You’re the Zero Branch. Someone making the Tree look bad is someone making you look bad -- and if you’re gonna be Supreme, you can’t have that, man. You gotta act. Violence’s proposal sounds as good as anything else to me. Strength through victory, y’know?”

Dragan narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at North. What was the Umbrant playing at?

He answered without words -- without spoken words, at least. A tiny hologram, visible only to Dragan from this angle, floating right in front of his eyeball. Miniscule words, traced in blue.

Ruth’s Group, they said.

Dragan’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “My advisor makes a good point, Second Branch. In accordance with the traditional ways of the Tree, you may pursue vindication for this slander. Go alone, and go in strength.”

Violence’s bow deepened. “Of course, my Lord.”

Now, there was little he had to worry about. If this Rae Ruditia was being guarded by Ruth and the others, then the problem would soon solve itself. As the Second Branch of the Tree of Might, Violence was strong, to be sure…

…but not so strong that he could see Ruth Blaine losing.