Aetheral Space

Oh, Beatrice Grace… you are a cunning one.

Fino Onio stepped back into a clear section of the roof, blades of blood whipping through the air around him -- creating a cyclone that would hopefully prevent Beatrice Grace from drawing close again. One hand was held over his open jugular, bone-white Aether coursing through it as he continued to use his Red Rum. It was a tricky operation, and one he rather wouldn't be doing.

Essentially, he was manually forcing his blood to flow as if his jugular were still present, creating a sort of ‘invisible vein’ that prevented him from bleeding out. It was a maneuver that required constant focus -- if he misjudged his ability even in the slightest, he would surely die. Even worse, it limited his options in taking on this opponent.

Moving around too much would break his concentration and risk the collapse of the invisible vein. Not an option.

He couldn't swing Ill Humour properly with just one hand, and moving his hand away from his throat would risk the collapse of the invisible vein. Not an option.

He couldn't activate his Absolutian -- Manchineel -- because that would mean disabling his Red Rum, which would immediately collapse the invisible vein. Not an option.

Not an option, not an option, not an option. It felt like the world had suddenly become made of prison bars. An incarcerated universe.

What options did he have?

Even retreating wasn't reliable right now. He couldn't move quickly in this state, and even if he could keep the blood-cyclone following him while he withdrew, it would be destabilized by the movement. There was a chance that Beatrice would weave through and deal another grievous wound.

This was the closest he'd ever come to death. He could feel it, a cold stranger on the threshold, running its fingers over his wound. He'd long imagined how a moment like this might feel. He'd expected fury. Despair, perhaps.

But right now… his heart was dancing.

Fino Onio let Ill Humour slip away into his Aether, and grasped a katana of blood with his now-free hand. A feral grin spread across his lips. Red eyes stared adoringly at an enemy he could not see.

Ah, Beatrice Grace, he thought, his cheeks bloody. Kiss me again with that silent blade of yours.

Only…

A frown consumed his face once more. In the sky, in the distance -- but quickly approaching -- he could see it. The shape of something that wasn't meant to be here tonight. The light of something that wasn't meant to be here tonight.

The First Branch of the Tree of Might, Xander Rain, surging towards the temple as if gravity held no dominion over him -- strands of weathered brown Aether coursing around his body.

It seemed this fight would be ending faster than expected.

Fino observed the advent of a parchment star.

Bruno stood in the empty throne room, Morgan behind him, glaring across the distance of two years. They were still far apart -- always far apart -- but Bruno felt he could almost see his face. He could almost see the face of Dragan Hadrien.

There was an expression he made. A face Dragan made when he suddenly went from the observer to the observed. A flicker of panic, like he'd just remembered that he existed.

Bruno bet he was making that face now.

“You're listening now, aren't you?” he said, voice low. “I mean it… I know you're listening. You're probably thinking the best thing to do is turn off the broadcast. But you can't do it… can you?”

Silence.

“Because you know,” Bruno continued, hands balled into fists. “You know that whatever I'm about to say… is something you need to hear. Right?”

Silence.

In the distance, a shallow explosion. Not even enough to shake this tranquil place. Bruno took a deep breath, the past flowing into him with the air.

“Two years ago… when we met… I didn't trust you. Hell, I didn't trust anyone, except Serena. You know why. Cott. The Sed. All of it. It was like… I couldn't bring myself to trust anyone else, ever again. It would be like putting the dagger back in all by myself. That's what I thought.”

Morgan Nacht watched with a strange expression, something between pity and concentration. Ordinarily, Bruno wouldn't talk like this in front of someone like him -- one step away from an enemy -- but right now, right here? He didn't have a choice.

His mouth had already started moving, after all.

“I thought you would leave,” Bruno said -- whispering at first, then raising his voice to make sure he could be heard. “I was sure you would leave, like North, like I… had sometimes thought of doing. I wasn't stupid. I knew Skipper's plan, whatever it was, wouldn't end happily. I know what the eyes of a dead man look like. I think you do too.

“Serena didn't know. She knew what that looked like, too, I mean, but… she didn't know that I'd thought about leaving. She's surprised right now. She's not saying anything, because… because she thinks I need to talk, but… she didn't know. She's only finding out now. Two years later. Some brother I am.”

He chuckled. There was no humour in it… just a crumbling weariness.

“Two years,” he repeated, as if the words were alien upon his tongue. “Two years… it's funny. When I think about it, I've missed you for longer than I knew you. Don’t you think that's funny?”

Nothing, save for a distant scream crawling from down below.

“Back then… you'd have said something stupid. You always had to get a word in, even if it made you look like an asshole. I loved you for that.”

Bruno looked down at his hand. His gloved, ruined, ravaged hand. He sighed.

“These days… well, I don't know what you'd say these days. I don't know what you'd do. You won't let me find out, will you? That's why you're running away, isn't it?”

He looked up.

“Isn't it, Dragan?”

Dragan Hadrien sat frozen upon his throne.

The chamber was empty. There were no listening devices in here. Even North was away. Right now, there was nothing in this room save for himself, Bruno's voice, and his own thoughts. But those thoughts were a tempest.

Turn it off. Don't let yourself get distracted. You're nowhere close to the end yet. Don't drag them down with you. They'd hold you back. You don't need them. They're better off without you. You made a promise. You don't owe anyone anything. You need to keep going. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Don't let them change you. Don't let them take your hand. You can't, you can't, you can't. You're not allowed.

“Make this stick for me.”

The only one allowed to decide what happens to you is you. Don’t think for a second that you can escape that.

Dragan Hadrien wanted to do so many things at that moment. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stop listening. He wanted to speak.

He wanted to go home… and then he realised dimly that he had no idea where that was anymore.

Forget about it.

So, in the end, he did nothing at all. He sat there… and he stayed there… and he didn't listen -- but he heard.

Morgan Nacht had left the room at some point, but Bruno barely even registered it. Right now, the entirety of his attention was focused on the ghost that was not before him. The absence of Dragan -- and the absence that loomed behind him, too.

“It's because of Skipper, isn't it?” Bruno asked the emptiness.

It did not answer.

“The only thing I can think of… is Skipper,” Bruno slowly said. “You were the last one to see him alive. You were the last one to talk to him. At least, during that battle, at some point… while I wasn’t there with you… something happened, didn’t it? Something changed you. But… I do think it was Skipper in the end. I think he asked you to do something. Didn’t he?”

Cold.

“He asked you to do something,” Bruno affirmed to the air. “And that’s why you’re here now… doing this. Because you feel like you have to. But… are you happy, Dragan?”

Silent.

“When I was with you… when we were all together… I was happy. I don’t know if I understand what that feels like, but this awful feeling in my chest -- this thing I’ve been feeling for the last two years -- it went away. For a little while, at least. Those times were like my medicine… you were like my medicine.”

Empty.

“You feel it too… don’t you? That awful feeling?”

The chamber did not answer him. The temple did not answer him. The world… the entire blackened sodden universe… it did not answer him. A sad smile crossed Bruno’s lips. A smile that had never expected anything else.

“When you want it to stop… I guess I’ll be waiting.”

He turned, took a deep breath, and began striding out of the chamber.

“There’s nothing else you’ve left me, is there?”

The smile was gone.

When Dragan emerged from the command room, white cloak pulled taut around his form, Tyr Masterman was waiting for him. The Third Branch nodded respectfully to him -- only to suddenly pause, a bemused expression rippling over his moustachios.

“Zero Branch,” he said. “Are you alright?”

Dragan looked at the older man.

“Of course I am,” he replied. “Everything is going according to plan. What reason would I have to hesitate?”

The old man was clearly growing senile. There was no reason to be concerned for Dragan. After all, his face was cold and expressionless. His face was cold and expressionless right now. As ever, his face was cold and expressionless.

The only one who decided what happened to him was him. He’d make this stick. There was nothing else to worry about.

“Well…” Tyr said. “...you’re crying.”

Slowly, deadly slowly, Dragan Hadrien turned his head to face the Third Branch. A plastic smile spread across his lips. Something that had been crawling up was stuffed back down.

“Tears of joy, my friend,” Dragan said. “The operation has gone well. We grow closer to our goal with each passing second. My heart dances with celebration. Yours should too. Is it so strange for me to show my exultation?”

He went to pass Tyr, but the man spoke up one last time.

“It’s as you say,” the Third Branch nodded. “The operation has gone well. Only…”

Dragan stopped. “Only?”

“The boy… First Branch Rain… he’s been spotted heading through the city. It seems he’s on his way to the temple. I assume he means to fight, as well. Was this on your command?”

Dragan looked back at the old man. His face was cold and expressionless. Tyr paled at what he saw, taking a fearful step back.

“I see,” Dragan said pleasantly. “Yes… that was on my command.”

There was nothing else left for him.

The Graces -- Marcus, Beatrice and Amelia -- lay splayed out on the roof, a massive crater forming their bed. Marcus had used his body to shield the two younger members of his family, and his sliced-open back was bleeding heavily. The bullets he’d fired at their attacker continued to travel through the air, agonisingly slow, crawling through space like flying snails.

Xander Rain slapped them out of the air with a swing of his halberd.

The Fourth Branch, Fino Onio, nodded to the First as he strode across the rooftop. “I didn’t know you were meant to be here,” the Scurrant said.

“After seeing the Tree of Might fight so valiantly,” Xander replied. “I couldn’t just sit and wait at home. You should continue treating that injury.”

Ordinarily, Fino would have been insulted enough by this to seek recompense, but it seemed his near-death experience had brought with it the shadow of humility. He just nodded again, hand hovering over his open jugular. They’d have to get that properly repaired before long, but for now Red Rum would suffice. If Fino lost consciousness, Xander supposed he could take over, too. Manipulating the flow of something as predictable as blood wasn’t a big deal for him.

Blood, wind, bullets… there was a flow to all of them. A path they took and a speed they took it at. The nameless ability to manipulate both of those factors gave Xander power over a great many things. He let the air hold his halberd for him as he stepped forward, looking down at the defeated Graces.

“Three?” he mused, frowning. “Is this all they sent, Fino?”

The Fourth Branch shook his head. “There are two more below-decks. Morgan Nacht and a bounty hunter called the Ventriloquist. One of Hadrien’s old friends. Some mercenaries too.”

“Lord Hadrien.”

“Forgive me,” Fino said in monotone. “The blood loss.”

Xander sighed. “I’ll go down to pursue the pair of them in a second, I guess -- after I finish off these ones. Losing access to the Grace family will be a good blow against Atoy Muzazi. Don’t you think?”

Fino stared at him. “I would think the swing of a sword is the only blow we should be concerned with.”

“Hm.” Xander snatched his halberd out of the air, holding it high over the unconscious Graces. “Farewell. Die and become the foundation of this nation. Reaper’s Due, take their --”

“Metal strips. Bind the mouth, hands, and feet of the First Branch of the Tree of Might, Xander Rain.”

Xander’s eyes widened in alarm. Before he could do anything with that alarm, however, he found a thick strip of metal flying through the air and snapping into place against his mouth, gagging him. A second later, another strip bound his wrists. Another second after that, his legs were bound tight. It was a wonder he didn’t fall over.

The voice sounded out again.

“Metal strips. Do the same to Fino Onio, Fourth Branch of the Tree of Might, but leave him one hand free to treat his injury with his Aether ability.”

Fino went to jump back, but the strips were too fast. Within mere moments, he was bound as well, falling backwards onto the surface of the roof.

Xander knew this. It had been part of the research they’d done before going into this Dawn Contest. He looked up, eyes still furious.

All-Word.

The temple was passing beneath a great bridge, and atop that bridge he could see a figure. A young woman who looked like she belonged nowhere near a battlefield, her blue polka-dot dress and red slippers a stark contrast to the cool gleam in her eye. Her arms were crossed and her feet planted apart as she regarded them from up on high.

Of course her arms were crossed. This woman had no need for her hands. She could defeat nearly anyone with just the sound of her voice.

Dorothy Eiro. One of the three Special Officers closest to the level of the former Contenders.

She smiled. “Let’s stop all this fighting, okay?”