Aetheral Space

Jamilu Aguta sat cross-legged in the silent-dark room, demon spear resting across his knees, and drank in the past. Impressions scraped from the surface of Victory’s consciousness. Scents, smells… images… flashes of legends of days long past.

He breathed -- and he saw.

A galaxy governed by cruel curiosity. Mankind warped into shapes grotesque and pitiful. Every living thing twisted into servitude from the very moment of its birth. Hell. For those cursed to exist in that era, it was a hell that seemed inescapable.

But then…

Crafted by the hands of man, a sapphire star, granting a light of the mind to the people -- before setting off on its endless voyage. Warriors pouring the light into themselves, becoming legends in their own right. Unleashing the flesh-bound resentment and allowing it to flood across the galaxy.

Zarakhel the Blindman, who tore his own eyes from his skull out of spite towards their abominable craftsmen, blue fury shining out of the empty sockets. With harpoons in hand, he rained down death upon his creators, a single touch of his weapons turning shifting flesh into naught but cold meat.

Bieshu del Mar, the Origin Companion, dancing between the ranks of monsters with scimitar in hand. With arts of the sword that the new power elevated into divinity, he led countless slaves out of captivity and to lands made safe. Among the Zeilan Morhan, the companions of the hero, he was by far the most beloved -- perhaps that was why he found the knives of comrades in his back after the dust settled.

Idra, Saint of the Wound, his chest opened wide by the strike of a tyrant, his words unintelligible to any who had not seen the face of God. Bleeding spear in hand, he led legions of zealots through the darkest battlefields of the war, a terror upon their creators. In days to come, his armies would form the spine of the nascent Final Church.

Roland Nebula, who floated freely in the void, wielding his blade of starlight. With single swings, mighty vessels were burnt to cinders and the cinders burnt to nothing. In time, many nations would come to form around the safety of his presence. Among the titans of the Revolutions, only he and the other would pass of old age…

…yes, the other.

Azez the Absolute, standing resplendent over all, shining Lantern of Truth in hand -- each ray baking tumours into the bodies of his enemies. Foes that had called themselves gods crawled desperately away from him, and heroes flocked to join his banner. Soon enough, that banner became the symbol of an empire. Soon enough, that lantern became the symbol of fell treachery.

Yes, treachery. Treachery. Treachery. Treachery. Treachery!

AZEZ!

With the tyranny exterminated, the tribe of the Absolute turned against their comrades -- burning them, beating them, absorbing their lands under their own flag. Battle at the borders, endless battle -- battle even after death -- fighting and fighting and fighting and killing and killing and killing and ah, the blood, the sweet blood, more, more battle, more fighting, more killing, yesss --

Jamilu opened his eyes, tearing his consciousness away from Victory’s. They had brushed up against each other. How unpleasant.

“What?” sneered the Demon Spear. “Too honest for you? What a cowardly brat.”

Jamilu did not dignify the thing with a response. It was true that the Old Demons of the Dawn -- ancient Aether Armaments created shortly after the Revolutions -- had once been heroes of Inganci. But the endless struggle against the Supremacy had changed them, warped their minds into murderous fiends. They had become addicted to the bloodshed and the suffering. Their laughter now lingered in the dark.

Victory, Wisdom, Resolve, Daring and Mercy.

Just one of them held the potential for slaughter untold, and Jamilu held that malice in his hands. Victory was the strongest of the Demons in direct combat, but the strength of its will was even more frightening. It was a rare warrior who could restrain the old bastard’s consciousness.

Still… it was probably best not to test his own prowess in that regard right now, Jamilu supposed. His mind was distracted. If Victory saw a weakness, it would take advantage of it instantly. The Demon was brash, but it was far from stupid.

Ignoring Victory’s taunts, Jamilu thought instead on the future. Come the morning, the match between Dorothy Eiro and Atoy Muzazi would take place. Both held promise as a UAP-friendly Supreme, but he couldn’t decide who he’d rather see victorious. Which would bring the peace Jamilu yearned for to the galaxy?

The swordsman they called the Full Moon… or the woman called the kindest Special Officer of the Supremacy…

…even if, once, she had been among the deadliest?

The commands rang out throughout the temple of the Tree of Might. Inviolable directives. Absolute orders.

The will of All-Word.

“Metal strips: descend into the temple and restrain every person you find.”

A flock of metal birds, hunting, flying, snapping into place around wrists and ankles and mouths.

“Metal strips holding prisoners: separate the Tree of Might prisoners from those belonging to Shooting Stars Security Solutions.”

Flailing bodies, dragged along the ground. Grown men and women handled like toys. Disciplined like misbehaving children. A humiliation, but not one that could be opposed.

“Metal strips holding injured prisoners: take them to the nearest hospital.”

A procession of floating bodies, carried through the sky single-file, proceeding out of sight. Marcus Grace and his kin were among them, thoroughly unconscious each and all. Fino Onio cast a bloody glare back at the one who had sent him away.

“Metal strips holding dead prisoners: lay them to rest. Preserve their dignity.”

Rows upon rows of corpses, kept as intact as possible, lining the floor of the throne room. Slashed by a blade, shot by a gun… these deaths were common, but dignity following them was not. More than one body was rendered unrecognisable by their messy end.

“Metal strips holding Morgan Nacht: hold him out before me.”

Morgan said nothing as invisible hands lifted him up into the air, dragging him before the figure of Dorothy Eiro. He made no complaint at the rough treatment, nor did he try to escape. An unprecedented opportunity was before him: the chance to watch the All-Word in action.

He couldn't waste the tiniest bit of attention on anything else.

Still… he had to ask. As he was held out in front of Dorothy, he tried to speak, his voice a muffled mess against his metal gag. Dorothy raised her eyebrows, realising the issue.

“Oh. Metal strip covering Morgan Nacht's mouth,” she commanded hurriedly. “Lift yourself away and let him speak. If he tries to use an ability, return to cover his mouth immediately.”

The way she designated the item she was commanding was… interesting. As his mouth was uncovered, Morgan spoke.

“The del Sed twins, below. Did you kill them?”

“I haven't,” Dorothy replied. “There's no reason for me to do that. They're restrained, like everyone else. I'll return them to you once I send you home.”

Send you home. A shudder of irritation ran through Morgan's body. It really was like they were kids. He stuffed the feeling down.

“And when will that be?” Morgan asked.

“In a minute,” Dorothy replied. She wasn't looking at him, but rather behind him -- to where Xander Rain was restrained.

Holding him down had taken much more effort than anyone else. So many metal strips were now wrapped around his body that he almost looked spherical -- wound around his eyes, as well, so as to stop him from using his ability with any accuracy.

To be honest, Morgan hadn't expected him to be that much of a problem… but then again, he had brutalised the Graces. He'd be one to keep an eye on.

“And,” Morgan cleared his throat. “What happens in that minute?”

Dorothy blinked. “I want you to call Atoy Muzazi.”

“No way.”

No matter the situation, Dorothy Eiro was Atoy Muzazi's enemy. Morgan wouldn't betray the commander like that. If he showed up here, Morgan had no doubt the next round of the Dawn Contest would be beginning early once again.

Dorothy cocked her head. “Why not?”

“I'm not letting him come to this battlefield,” Morgan glared. “In a situation like this, with all these hostages? Get real.”

“If I told you I just wanted to talk to him, would that change things?”

“Like I'd believe you.”

“Well,” Dorothy sighed. “I guess you're right. I didn't really wanna do it this way, though.”

Blue Aether flashed -- and in the next instant, Dorothy Eiro plunged her fist towards Morgan's stomach. Immediately, on reflex more than anything else, Morgan channelled all of his infusion into the spot that Eiro was about to strike. He didn't register that the attack was a little too slow. He didn't register that the attack was a little too weak.

What he did register, though, was Dorothy Eiro's free hand suddenly lashing out and seizing his forehead. He certainly registered the hostile Aether infusion that flooded through his skull, fast and strong as a tsunami. And when Dorothy Eiro spoke next, he registered that most of all.

“Morgan Nacht: call Atoy Muzazi here.”

There was still much night to go.

“I'm grateful that you saved my comrades,” Atoy Muzazi murmured, looking out the window at the aftermath of the battle. “And yet… I can't help but wonder why.”

He turned back to Dorothy Eiro, standing opposite him in the empty office.

“Care to explain?” he asked.

She crossed her arms, leaning against a spent water cooler. “What makes you think I acted to save your comrades?”

“They're all alive,” Muzazi frowned. “Whereas the Tree of Might have suffered many casualties. I cannot help but see a bias.”

“Trust me, it was unintentional,” Dorothy shrugged. “Both your men and the Tree of Might were low on my priority list.”

Muzazi's frown deepened. “Why act at all, then?”

Dorothy furrowed her brow as if the answer were obvious. “Because of the temple, of course. You were planning to bring it down, right? Blow it up?”

It went against Muzazi's better judgement to reveal the details of his plan… but then again, the plan had already failed… slowly, he nodded.

“That's right.”

“Well, there you go,” Dorothy waved her hand. “Something that big blows up in the middle of the city, a lot of innocent people are gonna get hurt. I couldn't just let that happen.”

Muzazi looked deep into her dark eyes -- and saw nothing but the truth there. Dorothy Eiro meant every word she said, it seemed. She was living up to her reputation.

“And yet,” he said slowly. “We now found ourselves in a room together. I can't help but wonder if you wish to take advantage of the situation.”

“I don't want to fight you yet,” Dorothy shook her head. “The match is tomorrow, and it's going to be happening in the arena. Don't worry -- I'm not like Nael Manron or that Mereloco. I understand the kind of collateral damage that comes from a battle in the city.”

“So why is it we're meeting, then?”

“Easy,” Dorothy looked at him once more -- her gaze unbreakable. “I wanted to ask you to surrender again.”

Muzazi's reply was immediate: “No.”

“Can you at least think about it?” Dorothy sighed. “If you're worried about my motives, I've just laid them out for you -- I want to keep the innocents safe. If you're worried about my competency, I just took out two of the Tree of Might's Branches like it was nothing, not to mention the guys you brought along. What else do you need from me?”

What else… what else… what else… the question echoed through Muzazi's battered body. A rueful smirk twisted his lips. That really wasn't the right question, was it? He was lying again.

Murderer.

Now, he told the truth. “It's not a question of competency,” he said quietly.

Dorothy frowned. “What, then?”

Slowly, carefully, as if worried that some god would see him, Muzazi looked down at his hand. It was trembling. “I made a promise to someone. Someone… who's since passed away. I told them I would be Supreme. I told them I would make that happen.”

“Ah,” Dorothy slowly nodded.

He looked at her, face aggrieved, and dared to hope for just a moment. “Couldn't…” he swallowed. “Couldn't you surrender…? Is that not possible at all…?”

Dorothy looked down towards the floor. “I'm afraid not… sorry. I have promises too.”

“To who…? If you don't mind me asking…”

The kindest Special Officer sighed. “I don't know their names.”

“What?”

“When I became a Special Officer,” Dorothy said, looking up at him -- silhouetted by the lights of passing cars outside. “I didn't care much for people. I didn't care much for anything. I just did whatever I was told… I went where I was told and I -- I killed who I was told. So many… my sword was always red. I threw it away years ago, but I look down there… and I can see it… and it's still red.”

“I understand,” Muzazi said honestly -- and his eyes flicked down to the hand that had once held dread Luminescence. “What changed…?”

For a long while, it looked like Dorothy wouldn't answer him… but then her mouth started moving again.

“There was someone I was told to kill,” she said quietly, her gaze distant. “A teacher of sorts. I don't even know why they wanted him dead, he was dying already… but they told me to do it, so I did it.”

Dorothy swallowed, and Muzazi saw that her eyes held the beginnings of tears.

“But he said something to me, the teacher, before I killed him,” she murmured. “Those words… they wouldn't mean anything to you, I don't think, but I couldn't stop thinking about them. Before long, they were all I could think about. They drilled right through me.”

She looked up at him.

“I realised that, when I looked in the mirror, I didn't recognise the person looking back at me. I didn't know them -- and I didn't want to know them. So… I made promises, too. To every person I'd killed.”

Her gaze became stone.

“I would fix my heart, and then I would fix the world too. So… I absolutely can't surrender to you. There's just no way.”

Cold wind whistled at the windows, interrupted by the blaring of angry traffic. Behind Dorothy, Muzazi could see the temple of the Tree of Might -- burning, grievously damaged -- being inspected by authorities for transportation. The night was old and getting older…

…and Atoy Muzazi was tired of being right.

“So,” he said, throat dry. “There exists no recourse for either of us?”

Dorothy smiled sadly. “I don't think so, no.”

“I see,” he murmured. “Then all that awaits us is the morning.”

Dorothy nodded. “Yep. I guess we've got no choice but to fight.”

Those were the last words they needed to exchange on that night. Dorothy left from the roof, using her ability to have a floor tile carry her away. As Muzazi walked through the dark empty rooms of the building, proceeding to the ground floor exit, he couldn't help but think.

Think, and dread.

Dorothy Eiro had said that they had no choice but to fight. Perhaps that was true. No doubt that was what awaited them in the Arena of the Absolute.

But the terror in her eyes… the sorrow in her voice… Atoy Muzazi knew them well from his own mirror.

The word she'd been looking for wasn't ‘fight’ at all.

Atoy Muzazi passed through the doors, and silence took dominion.