Aetheral Space

“It's been a while,” Atoy Muzazi said. “Del Sed.”

He wasn't certain which of the twins was tied up before him, was glaring at him, so he thought it best to be non-specific. No doubt those closer to the duo would have been able to tell through facial expressions and body language, but those had never been Muzazi's strong suit. In such a situation, it was best to err on the side of caution.

Especially since this pair might have designs to kill him.

They looked up at him with dull green eyes, narrowed -- in resentment, or just because the room was dark? Perhaps resentment because the room was dark. The small chamber they were being held in was hardly luxurious.

“It has,” the prisoner replied, their voice gruff. “Last time I saw you was… probably at the Truemeet. I hear you were at Elysian Fields, though.”

Elysian Fields.

Murderer.

“That's right,” Muzazi replied quietly. “Your Esmerelda acquitted himself well, defeating the Supreme in combat. It was… a splendid victory.”

“He died,” Del Sed grunted. “Can you really call that a victory?”

A shiver went down Muzazi's spine. “So long as you die after your opponent does,” he finally said. “You can consider that a victory. No matter the circumstances of their end.”

Del Sed snorted. “True believers,” they muttered. “It's like someone took a whisk to your brain.”

Muzazi cleared his throat, standing up straight as he banished the toxic memory from his mind. “I'm told you came looking for me,” he said. “Do you bear a message? What is it that Dragan Hadrien wants from me?”

Del Sed frowned exaggeratedly -- and when they spoke next, their voice was much lighter. “I told your weird little paper boy,” they scowled. “We're not working for Mr. Dragan. We haven't even spoken to him in two years.”

“Since Elysian Fields?”

“Mm-hmm,” Del Sed nodded.

Muzazi considered it. Indeed, Gregori had passed along this story to him, the story the del Sed twins had insisted upon since they were captured. They and Blaine weren't with Hadrien currently. But was that really testimony he could trust?

“And yet you've come to speak to me,” Muzazi mused. “Why?”

Del Sed’s expression hardened again. “You've seen the news?”

“If you're referring to Ruth Blaine murdering Rae Ruditia, then yes.”

“That's bullshit,” Del Sed snapped. “It is. I don't know what happened, but I know Ruth wouldn't do that. Even if she did kill Ruditia for whatever reason, she wouldn't have gone after the other bodyguards. Someone's setting her up. I need to find her.”

“And yet,” Muzazi repeated. “You've come to speak to me. Why?”

Del Sed smirked. “You're the guy in charge of the Turning of the Heir. You've got resources -- you can track Ruth down for us.”

Muzazi raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”

“Because if you do…” Del Sed closed their eyes -- and then opened them again, their voice brightening up once more. “We’ll help you get Mr. Dragan out of the Dawn Contest.”

“This is it?” Ruth whispered, looking up.

“What?” Wu Ming replied, lounging on a collapsed chunk of concrete. “Not impressed?”

The thing hung from the ceiling of the ruined lobby, a cocoon of string connected by dozens of strands to the building around it. Ruth could have laughed: it looked more like a yarn ball than anything, but… there was definitely something more there. She could feel it. A pressure resonating inside her bones.

“I call it the Cradle -- not like the place, but like what you put a baby in,” Wu Ming said, gesturing towards the massive construct. “You saw me come up with the prototype back on Elysian Fields, but this is a bit more of a stable version. I mean, it worked great already, but it's the difference between a seven-outta-ten and a nine-outta-ten, you know?”

“So what?” Ruth murmured, circling the Cradle -- her footsteps echoing through the abandoned apartment building. “This'll… turn me into a butterfly-person or something? Like it did you?”

“Nah, nah,” Wu Ming waved a hand, before putting his fingers to his lips in consideration. “Well… unless you want to be a butterfly-person? No, no, why would you want that, that's crazy. Anyway, no, it works a little different now.”

“How's that?”

“Well, you've already got some Pugnant in you, right?” Wu Ming asked. “Not full-blooded, but enough to feel some of the benefits without too many of the drawbacks. The Cradle’s gonna adjust things a little, give you even more of those benefits and even less of those drawbacks. Good times.”

Slowly, Ruth nodded, still looking at the massive Cradle. “So it'll make me stronger,” she said.

Ming nodded. “Yup -- and that'll help with your Aether, too. Infusion’s multiplicative, not additive, right? Enhanced strength gets even more enhanced.” He snapped his fingers. “So it goes. You up for it?”

Ruth clenched her fists. If Wu Ming was telling the truth, this would give her an edge -- and in her present circumstances, she needed to take all the edges she could get. But… could she trust this man?

Even if he'd saved her from the Shepherdess, he had been a Contender. Even if he'd betrayed the Supremacy on Elysian Fields, that had just been a whim of his. Even if -- right now -- he reminded her more than a little of Skipper… she knew that was just a trick of the mind.

But strength was strength, and weakness was weakness, and right now Ruth Blaine had way too much of the latter. Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her hands.

“How long will it take?” she asked, resolute.

“Days for the full treatment,” Ming replied instantly. “If I could practice, I could probably get that time down a little -- but it's tough these days, you know?” He wiped a non-existent tear from his eye. “I don't even have DNA anymore, so I can't test it out on myself.”

She looked at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean you don't have DNA anymore?”

He waggled his fingers menacingly. “Oooh. I'm a ghost.”

Looked like she wasn't getting a real answer there. Turning her head away from Wu Ming, she returned her gaze to the Cradle. Days, he'd said. How many days? How many days was she willing to spend?

She already knew that. As many days as it took to kill the Shepherdess.

“Open it up,” she said with certainty.

McCoy snapped her fingers.

“Corpse Construct,” she commanded. “Level 1 Cannon, times two.”

As she'd ordered, two desiccated corpses appeared hovering behind her, suspended by their arms as if crucified against invisible crosses. Orange Aether crawled over their rotten skin, and -- as one -- their bodies began to twist and contort, the sounds of snapping bone and tearing muscle following McCoy as she strode down the hallway of the containment facility. By the time she reached the doors at the end, the bodies had transformed utterly -- their shapes reconfigured into near-cylindrical floating defense cannons, barrels of bone poking their way out from wrenched-open jaws.

In life, McCoy's ability hadn't been nearly so gruesome -- but she didn't let that bother her. It wasn't as if she'd lost anything when she'd died. The woman who'd existed in this body before her, October Jones, was nothing to McCoy.

They shared nothing but a shell of meat and an Aether core.

The secret to stabilizing an Aether Awakening lay in the Aether core itself. Only those highly compatible with their core could reliably persist after death. In cases where the core was something the Awakening had to reach for, to tap into, they were doomed to fade away. No, a stable Awakening needed a core that naturally formed the bedrock of their personality -- a core they would naturally tap into with each thought that passed through their head.

For McCoy, it was resignation. For the thing she had come to see, though? She had no idea.

“Corpse Construct,” McCoy said, a cloud of orange Aether fizzling around her. “Skeleton Key.”

A whole corpse didn't appear this time. Instead, a collection of severed fingers orbited her bandaged body, fingers of all shapes and sizes. For a moment, they floated peacefully -- but then smashed together, compressing and focusing their shapes through sheer force. Blood sprayed out from the chaos, painting the pale floor below.

One second, two seconds, three, and it was done. A small, thin spike of white bone. McCoy plucked it from the air. With a simple wave of the utensil, the massive doors before her smoothly slid open. Spent, the key crumbled.

This containment facility, located below the surface of Azum-Ha, was a remnant from the reign of Renée the Raven. When she'd created the Galactic Intelligence Division and the Absurd Weapons Lab, the organizations had worked much more hand-in-hand -- the GID providing a steady stream of human test subjects to their counterparts. As such, this containment facility was just as much a tomb.

A fitting place to house the Flower of Evil.

The room beyond was massive, dome-shaped, with PALATINE’s prison right in the center. She could just barely see it from here, a shifting mass of darkness that would have stung McCoy's eyes if she still used them. She took a step inside --

-- and immediately, the room's defenses activated.

Liquid automatics disguised as parts of the floor and walls. Rapid-fire turrets suspended from the ceiling, firing bullets laced with Neverwire. Red-hot lasers sweeping through the chamber at randomized angles and intervals. Nerve toxins. Vented air. Sub-zero temperatures.

Once McCoy had conquered the opposition, around three minutes later, she resumed her trek down towards PALATINE -- picking her way through rubble as she went. She kept her awareness firmly on the other Awakening as she approached. At the first sign of movement, at the first sign of hostility, she had to be ready to act -- to abandon this mission, if necessary.

She heard it speak.

“And I do see it, I do, I do. You don't understand what you're talking about. A magister? A magister of one. I did climb upon the mount and hath seen the one and the one upon the mount did inscribe the tablet with ten words and the words were as the mount had written them, as had been ordained -- yes, ordained. Ordained, ordained, ordained, ordained. I do not see it. An invisible eyelid hovering over the knees of ruin. Did you know? It's already there. A hollow inside the human brain. Oh, morose. Inscribe, inscribe, inscribe, inscribe. That is the purpose to life. Did you know? I see, I see, I see, I see. Edgar, your sin, your sin, I see it. I see it in the walls and the sky shattered like glass, like glass, you understand? Oh, don't mind if I do! Now that's the way you do it. Look! The sky! Ia! Ia!”

“A sapphire star ascends!”

McCoy shuddered. There was a difference between stable and coherent. There was no doubt that PALATINE was mad -- a mad god. The only thing consistent about it had to be that unknown, elusive Aether core.

The appearance of the Awakening didn't help that impression. The bulk of its body was composed of countless black thin ribbons, their edges shining red from sourceless light. The ribbons swayed through the air like reeds, ripped through the air like tentacles, twitched through the air like the legs of dying spiders. PALATINE’s size was variable, but right now it would have dwarfed a house.

That was on the small side for it.

And, of course, high above McCoy, right in the center of the eldritch mass, was the true ‘body’.

It was a confusion between a fetus and a piece of chewing gum, floating in the air, surrounded by the black ribbons and -- like the petals of a grand flower -- six severed dog heads, revolving around the tiny form. It opened an eye-mouth and red nectar poured forth without end. It opened a mouth-eye and continued to speak, to whisper, to impart.

McCoy knew this thing was mad, of course, but she also knew from reputation it told nothing but the truth.

“Edgar, Edgar, your sin, your sin, I see it flourishing -- BULGING, EDGAR, YOU LITTLE -- ah~ -- REPROBATE! When you get angry, it's paramount to count numbers. They'll impart you. Paint over your face. I'd recommend it, ten-outta-ten. You won't even remember that you're dying. In this review? Are you serious? Now that's just not something I can stand up for. Civil justice is as well and good and all, but mm… that's a little lewd, don't you think? Is that acceptable? I don't want to bash your head in, but I think you should go back to the drawing board and rethink this one. I don't wanna be mean, but you might wanna have some second thoughts here. Okay? A cosmic judiciary. Have you seen the face of the Absolute? Driven mad by corpses and ghosts? You have to laugh. Do you? You were born with free will, after all. Your sin is swelling underneath your skin. Screaming will do you no good now! Your bare feet on Panacea. What do you think?”

“Now that's what a star looks like.”

McCoy took a step forward --

WHAT

DO

YOU

WANT

.

The voice of PALATINE, previously boisterous and rambling, turned sharp and cold. McCoy could feel the entirety of its attention upon her, like she were an ant beneath a magnifying glass. The first thing she said would be paramount. She understood that. Her words would determine whether this was a conversation or a crime scene.

She did not open her mouth -- her body didn’t work like that. But she spoke all the same. “I came here to speak to you.”

For a good while, there was silence, save for the quiet hissing of the waving ribbons and the angry bubbling of the fetal angel. Then…

IS

THAT

YOU

WESTMORE

?

“Yes,” McCoy responded without hesitation. “It’s me.”

WE

USED

TO

TALK

.

“That we did,” McCoy continued, circling the containment fence. “I'd hope we can keep that tradition going.”

As she spoke, she inspected the fence before her. It was a tri-functional containment barrier, keeping PALATINE housed through an electromagnetic field, an experimental energy shield, and some kind of applied Aether ability. The structure of the defenses changed from second to second, presumably to stop PALATINE from bypassing the containment with its Ignorance.

The thing squirmed in the air, bubbles rising and popping from its gnarled-red skin.

TALK

ABOUT

WHAT

?

If McCoy still had the required facial muscles, she would have smirked. This was going better than she'd expe --

mccoys right arm went flying off

Immediately, McCoy's awareness snapped back down to inspect her body -- where, without a doubt, her right arm was still attached. Had that been a hallucination? Some kind of illusion? Besides Ignorance, she'd heard that PALATINE had developed many other half-formed subconscious abilities.

More words crawled into her head, nearly indistinguishable from her own inner monologue.

oh baby baby baby you arent that guy.

you arent lusifer westmore.

why lie hm?

why lie to me baby baby baby?

unwrap those bandages and show me whats going on under there

hahahaha

McCoy cringed. Just like its personality, PALATINE’s level of intelligence was variable, too. It seemed she'd caught it on a day where it'd be difficult to fool.

“I have a proposition for you,” she pushed on.

WHY

?

McCoy cocked her head. “Why? What do you mean ‘why’?”

WHY

WOULD

I

OBEY

?

Slowly, McCoy nodded. “If you go along with my request, you'll have a chance to run wild. Perhaps a chance for permanent freedom. You'll be able to leave this place behind. Does that sound appealing to you?”

oh baby baby baby

ill tell you what sounds appealing to me unwrap those bandages and show me meat red squelching meat full of blood and pus and fat and wet and dry

“Do you remember when you were alive?” McCoy called out, interrupting the sleazy monologue.

No answer.

She repeated herself: “Do you remember when you were alive?”

DO

NOT

PRESUME

.

McCoy looked down. She was high over the ground now, impaled through the chest by one of those black ribbons, dried and crystallized blood spilling out of her wound and clattering on the floor. If she'd been human, that would have been her death just now.

Instead, she just looked up.

I

AM

ALIVE

.

“As am I,” McCoy grunted. “But there was a life before this one, too -- a journey this corpse walked. It was a fool. It dived into the darkness of this world and thought it could clear it all away. It thought it would find the sun there, down in the bowels of the universe. Can you imagine?”

WHAT

DO

YOU

PROPOSE

?

Slowly, as to not arouse retribution, McCoy raised her hand -- the hand holding a new thin, white Skeleton Key.

“I want to break the shape of this world,” McCoy hissed. “I want to shatter it into a thousand pieces and do it right this time. And I want you to help me.”

PALATINE considered.

PALATINE giggled, moaned, wailed, groaned, skittered, guffawed, screamed, whimpered, sang and delighted.

PALATINE decided.