Aetheral Space

Several Years Ago…

“Yakob,” Cott’s voice came over the communicator. “You in position?”

As he sprinted, Yakob put a finger to their ear. “Just one second.”

This was a nice hallway. Fuzzy carpet and paintings lining the walls. Soft lighting emanating directly from the ceiling. Doors lazer-carved from Apex wood of all things, even if that seemed like a waste. Even the guards were clad in armour of smooth white metal, like sculpted wax. The one at the end of the hallway raised a plasma-bow at the incoming Yakob, a cry of alarm already sounding out.

Serena. Get it done.

Yakob’s gait changed just slightly as Serena took the wheel, dropping to the ground and sliding under a plasma-bolt that would have taken her head off. With a spark of violet Aether, she tore a chunk free from the wall, forming a longsword she used to slice her enemy’s bow in half.

The guard didn’t just give up, of course. Whipping out a baton, he swung it at the side of Serena’s head. She grinned.

Oh, Bruno?

Got it.

The baton bounced off of Bruno’s forcefield, sending the guard staggering backwards, and --

Boss. Your turn.

-- Yakob sealed the deal with a hefty swing of a clay warhammer. The guard collapsed onto the floor, their chestplate shattered. The only sound remaining in the hallway was Yakob’s soft exhale of breath. Again, he put a finger to their ear.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re in position.”

“Good to hear. I’ve got Desire and Sorrow keeping watch on the roof. Tybalt’s got the ground floor covered. All we need to do is make sure nobody interrupts Erica while she’s taking on the Monarca. Nobody gets past you -- understood?”

“Of course,” Yakob nodded, leaning against the wall. “I have to say, though… I’m not thrilled to be playing backup for Erica.”

“Benefits of seniority, I guess.”

“I’d feel better about it if she didn’t have seniority over everyone.”

“It’s not like there’s any glory to be had here anyway, though. We’re just softening the place up for Nebula Four’s debut tomorrow -- ol’ Westmore needs a success to start on. We’re stagehands, you know?”

“Right. Stagehands.”

It was true. If you listened to the Sed management, the operatives they trained were among the finest in the UAP -- surpassed only by the most elite Ultraviolets. Even so, though, the skills they cultivated weren’t ones suited to plain sight. They worked in the background, behind the scenes… like Cott said, stagehands.

Their job was to pave the way for real people to walk upon.

Present Day…

The moments right before an operation were always the most tense. Nothing had happened yet, and that meant anything could happen. It was almost as if everything was happening -- every failure, every screw-up, every disaster, all at once, and you just had to stand there and weather the storm.

Once, Marcus Grace had thought this anxiety was because he was an inexperienced rookie. Now, he understood it was just a symptom of the human soul.

He returned his pistol to its holster, finally accepting it wouldn't get any more polished. They'd gathered their forces for this operation in the penthouse suite of the Miya Mondala Hotel, a flying establishment with an excellent view of the city of Azum-Ha. From here, they could spy their quarry.

Even from this room, he could see it, his Cogitant brain allowing him to sort through the visual mess of the city below with ease. Their enemy had a flying headquarters of their own -- an ancient temple of brick and marble and antiquity, making a constant journey through the city streets. Even if Dragan Hadrien wasn't there in person -- and, being honest, he almost certainly wasn't -- there would be members of the Tree of Might.

They could cut down on his allies. Speaking of which…

Marcus’ gaze drifted to the del Sed siblings, sitting as one by the glass window, looking out at the city with a steely glare. Apparently, they worked as a bounty hunter called the Ventriloquist these days. Apparently, they were willing to help them oppose Hadrien. Apparently, if they met up with Hadrien in person, they'd be able to convince him to abandon the Dawn Contest altogether.

He didn't buy it, and he knew he wasn't the only one. Morgan Nacht was staying close to the pair, hand always near his sword, ready to cut them down if betrayal occurred. The young man had a good sense for these things.

Marcus Grace, Morgan Nacht, and the dubious del Seds. If it were just them doing this, Marcus would have judged the mission a failure right here and now. It was a good thing he'd managed to bring in some help, then.

Beatrice appeared next to him -- or, rather, his daughter made her appearance known. Her ability had always been good for stealth. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, ignoring the glare of annoyance she shot at him.

“Where's your cousin?” he asked.

“Here!” cried a voice from the doors as they slid open. “Here, Uncle Marcus!”

Amelia Grace, a lanky girl with messy black hair, ducked through the opening doors and approached. As per usual, Marcus' gut twisted when he saw her. Bright blue contacts and filed-down fangs. He understood that Annette had been desperate for Dad's approval… but still, his sister truly was a piece of work.

He gave her a one-armed hug -- even though she was barely out of her teens, she was almost as tall as him. “Thanks for making it.”

She nodded, hair whipping up and down like an overenthusiastic puppy. “No problem, sir. Family has to help out family. By the way, has there been any more news about…?”

Winston.

Grimly, Marcus shook his head. “Nothing yet. If we can pull this mission off, though, if we can make Atoy Muzazi Supreme -- that's gonna change. There'll be nobody in the Supremacy we can't find.”

“Right,” Amelia nodded quietly, looking down at the floor as she realized just how many strangers were in this room.

“We’ll do it,” Beatrice said simply and coldly, pulling her cloth mask up over her mouth. “If it comes down to it, I can use my ability to sneak up on Hadrien and…”

“No,” Marcus replied sternly. “Don't get cocky, and don't get reckless. Understand?”

She looked up at him, blue eyes glittering. “...mm.”

“‘Mm’ isn't a word.”

“Understood,” Beatrice relented.

He'd have to keep an eye on her all the same, Marcus knew. Despite the way she'd always gotten exasperated at him, she had been closer to Winston than anyone. If it came down to it, she would be cocky, and she would be reckless.

Still, he had a good feeling. Since this Dawn Contest had started, Dragan Hadrien had been running rampant, using the element of surprise again and again to cut through the rules and keep them on the back foot. Now, though?

Now it was their turn to surprise him.

“They'll probably begin their attack from the roof,” Dragan Hadrien said, hologram slouched over on the half-rubble throne. “You'll want it covered. Understand?”

Fino nodded dutifully, even as he bowed on one knee before the Zero Branch. Despite his personal feelings, he understood what an honour it was to be given this task. He would not fail to perform it, nor to appreciate it.

It was one more rung on the ladder to eliminating Ruth Blaine -- to avenging Violence by enacting it.

“If I may be so bold, sir,” he spoke, crimson eyes looking up at the Tree of Might’s leader. “Why do you not dispatch them yourself? Your strength has been witnessed. Their might is insubstantial compared to your own.”

Hadrien narrowed his eyes, just slightly. Had Fino overstepped? No. Hadrien closed them again.

“Even though I won't be needing to fight the Crown,” Hadrien finally replied. “All of the other remaining contestants are dangerous enemies. The worst thing you can do is to tire yourself out in a dangerous fight, then have to face someone else right after. At that point, all you've got is the fumes.”

And yet… Fino thought. That's exactly what a warrior would do -- should do.

“I feel there's more to it, Zero Branch,” Fino said back, a sliver of impertinence in his tone. “You know the attack is coming, so the right of ambush is yours. Yet you're simply allowing it to happen, watching from afar. Why do you not shed blood?”

For a good, long moment, the distant Dragan Hadrien just glared down at Fino. Then, however, he sighed.

“There's someone among the attackers who you're absolutely forbidden from killing… do you remember?”

“I do,” Fino nodded.

“That person… has a certain idea about me.”

Fino furrowed his brow. “What idea is that?”

“None of your business,” Hadrien snapped. “But it's probably correct. So… no matter what… I cannot let them come in contact with me…”

His hologram flickered out of existence, his voice following a moment after, leaving time for only some stray discarded words.

“...not until all of this is over…”

Bruno lay back on the windowsill, looking out at the cityscape of Azum-Ha. His mouth was a flat line, and his gaze was hard iron. Before the hour was out, he'd be down in the temple of the Tree of Might. Before the hour was out, he'd be fighting for his life.

Before the hour was out… maybe, just maybe… he'd be face to face with Dragan Hadrien.

Because he had a certain idea about him.

Since all of this had started -- hell, ever since Elysian Fields -- Dragan had gone to absurd lengths just to avoid his former crew mates. At first, Bruno hadn't understood why. Had he simply discarded them? Had the Shooting Star abandoned everything that wasn't immediately useful to it?

No.

Bruno didn't know if it were a hope, or a delusion, or something true -- but he had an idea. An idea that, if Dragan Hadrien found himself in the same room as his old friends…

…he'd have no choice but to listen to them.

You seem aggravated, ATOY MUZAZI, Ionir intoned from the corner, his long shadow stretching over the room -- and over Muzazi, standing before an impromptu command table. A holographic representation of the Tree of Might's temple floated in front of him, cast by a script, and his eyes were focused intently on it.

“Not aggravated,” Muzazi murmured, face illuminated only by the hologram. “Tense.”

Are they that different?

“They are,” Muzazi nodded. “Aggravation comes from failure… while tension comes from anticipation of success.”

Then you believe you will succeed?

“I must,” Muzazi replied. “They must. Dragan Hadrien has wrapped his grip tightly around this Dawn Contest. If we don't pry his fingers free, we'll be at the mercy of all the tricks he's prepared.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Fell Beast. “And I can guarantee he's prepared many tricks.”

Is that why you've chosen to trust BrunodelSed and SerenadelSed?

“It's not a matter of trusting them,” Muzazi grunted, returning his gaze to the floating temple. “At the first sign of betrayal, Morgan will strike them down. Half of the reason they're in this operation is to serve as a human shield for those who are loyal to me. But… if I want to defeat Hadrien, I'll need to come at him with tricks of my own.”

That is unlike you.

“Exactly,” Muzazi murmured. “Being unlike myself is the only way I can catch Hadrien off guard.”

If the person who succeeds has become someone unlike you, then what is the point?

Muzazi didn't answer that straight away. He just hunched over the table, sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. So tired. When was the last time he'd rested of his own volition?

“Right now,” he finally said. “The victory is all that matters. Once I sit the throne, I can return to being me… and discard any other filth I've accumulated along the way.”

Murderer.

He'd lost his chance to take any other path two years ago.

Muzazi tapped the screen of the script and spoke, his voice echoing through a distant penthouse:

“Temple is in place. Begin the operation.”

The attack came from above.

As one, they leapt off the roof of the hotel, guidance packs strapped to their backs. Morgan Nacht. Marcus Grace, his daughter Beatrice, his niece Amelia. Bruno and Serena del Sed. The repulsors in their packs allowed them to weave through traffic as they fell towards the temple, leaving white trails of haze hanging in the air behind them.

The Tree of Might was prepared for them. A volley of projectiles flew up from the roof of the temple: plasma-shots, punchpoint bullets, Aether attacks. Enough to shred most living things to non-existence.

But not enough here.

Twin shields sprouted into existence -- invisible ones created by Bruno del Sed, and barriers of black Fog forged by Morgan Nacht. The projectiles battered against the shields like they were an umbrella -- and, with the moment afforded to her, Amelia Grace took aim. A blinding blue greatbow appeared in her hands, and she pointed it down towards the ground.

“Delusional Arrowhead,” she mouthed, voice swallowed by the wind.

She unleashed her own rainfall -- a storm of blue arrows striking down at the foot soldiers of the Tree of Might. Where they struck, cries erupted -- mingling anger and terror, pure emotion pulled out and intensified by Amelia's ability. The defense of the Tree of Might faltered, pragmatism poisoned by runaway passions.

In the midst of the chaos on the roof, glaring up at the incoming intruders, stood Fino. The Branch of the Tree of Might raised his chainsaw Aether Armament -- Ill Humour -- and, as if on cue, vivid red blood began to belch forth from its vents. With a twitch of Fino's finger, the blood crystallized into spears and hovered over his shoulders, aimed right at the descending attackers.

But…

The attack came from below, too.

The temple shook as rockets struck its underside, launched by three personnel carriers that had suddenly pulled out of traffic. Bright red vehicles, their logo emblazoned on their sides. Atoy Muzazi hadn't had much time to put this operation together, but some mercenaries were always willing to work on short notice -- as long as enough money was involved.

The Phases and their allies landed on the roof.

Shooting Star Security Solutions latched onto the underbelly with mighty cables.

No more stagehands, Bruno thought, grasping blades of will as he landed. Tonight, we're taking the spotlight.