Aetheral Space

944 Years Ago…

The palace was silent that night.

Ruri’s ship landed in silence, and she marched through the hallways in silence. Her face was stone, and the red robe she wore flowed after her like a puddle of blood. The few servants she encountered in the chiselled-stone hallways mostly just nodded and bowed to her, if they even dared do that. Her face wasn’t just stone. It was the sort of stone that would crush the foolish.

Doctor Chalk found her before she reached the Supreme's chambers. The nubs of abortive wings twitched from his shoulder blades as he matched her stride, his eyes covered by a dark visor. Under that thing, she wondered if he dared meet her gaze. As fellow members of the Zeilan Morhan, there was a familial respect between them… but still, she had a reputation among their number.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice dry.

True to his own reputation, Chalk did not mince his words. “He will die tonight, honoured one.”

Ruri paused, right before the grand doors that led to the Supreme's personal chambers. A great pressure seemed to be building in her skull. Why was she so surprised? This day had been inevitable, hadn't it? Since the moment her Aether had first rushed through her, and she'd felt the hands of time ticking backwards, she'd known this day would come.

“Is he lucid?” she continued her questioning, forcing the words out.

“Unclear,” Chalk replied. “But I doubt it.”

She looked at him, fury trapped behind eyes of pink glass.

“If he is alive,” she snapped. “Then he is lucid. He wouldn't be Supreme if he was the sort of man who could be doubted.”

“Of course, noble one.”

Enough words. Enough waiting. This was an occasion that had to be observed. With trembling hands -- no, hands made still through discipline -- she opened the great doors before her. Wood scraped against history as the light of the chamber beyond poured outwards.

Ruri's heart dropped out of her chest.

“Kill them,” the Supreme hissed, staring up at the ceiling from his bed. “Kill them all… the bastards… traitors and villains… kill them in the streets… kill them in their houses… kill them… kill them… don't let a single one survive…”

Ruri stepped inside, doing her best not to listen to the Supreme's venomous monologue. Doing her best… not to look at him.

They weren't alone in this room. As Chalk returned to his Supreme's side, Ruri saw that others had come to honour the final hours of their saviour. The hulking Granba the Maker sat cross-legged on the floor -- quite an accomplishment for a man with four legs. Four eyes, four arms and four legs… his creator had surely had a passion for the quadruple. He gave her a nod as she passed.

The Blindman leaned against the far wall, clad in rags, a harpoon clutched in each free hand. He too stared up towards the ceiling -- although he did so with empty sockets. Was he seeing the same thing as the Supreme? Hard to tell. Edgar's brother had never been the most forthcoming with his soul.

There were others, too -- many others, members of the Zeilan Morhan and warriors besides, all here to pay their respects to the founder of the Supremacy. A crowd lingering in silence, on the edges of the room. The atmosphere of a funeral had already fallen here.

Ruri hesitated as she noticed the absence in the room. With a glance towards Granba, she asked: “Where is the Heir?”

The Maker's voice was a distinguished rumble, the Scurrant scratching his blue chin with a blue finger as he spoke. “Piala is with the defenders on Abzu-Tiamat. She would not make it in time.”

Ruri's frown deepened into a scowl. “All the same, she should be here. Her father is… her father will soon be…”

The words would not come to her, but Granba nodded all the same. “It is as it is.”

For a moment, she stood there, lost -- but quickly regained herself. If Piala truly did not care for the end of her father, then that was but a reflection of her lacking character. Ruri had never approved of the brat anyway.

Another step brought her before the man who had conquered the gods themselves, and the man who had slaughtered them. The bearer of the Lantern of Truth. The Absolute. The Supreme.

Azez.

At first, she could only bear to look at the right side of his face. Time had done its work there, lines and wrinkles painted where they didn't belong. Grey hair hung in wisps, and a milky tired pupil wavered in and out of lucidity, rattling breath oozing from half-parted lips.

And the left side…

A mass of greedy tumours had devoured the left side of Azez’s face. Eye and mouth and nose alike had been lost to the cancerous flood, until it looked like Azez was wearing a red lumpy mask. Or perhaps his final crown of blood.

It hadn't been this bad the last time Ruri had seen him… but it had still broken her heart to look at it. This was the reward Azez the Absolute had been given. Not a glorious death in combat or sacrifice, but the last contempt of the dead Gene Tyrants. A trap Azez had fallen into while they were charting the depths of their capitol… for decades, Chalk had managed to hold the affliction back, prevent it from impacting his prowess or his mind…

…but the time had come. For everyone except Ruri, the time always came.

“Kill them,” Azez whispered, twitching madly against his pillows. “Kill them all. On the borders… in the dark… ah, I can't stand it, kill them, someone kill them now, please, I beg of you…” The pupil focused, just for a moment. “Ruri… is that you…?”

Ruri nodded eagerly -- more eagerly than she'd intended, stepping forward, clasping his cold hand between hers. “It is,” she breathed. “It is, it's me, my Supreme. Who is it? Who do you want us to kill?”

“Kill…?” Azez groaned. “Oh… oh…”

Sensing his distress, Ruri pushed through: “The enemies on the borders, yes? The False Alliance? They'll die, yes, I'll swear it to you, but you can't go yet. The Supremacy still needs you. You're our beacon. We won't know what to do without you.”

I won't know what to do without you.

With heartbreaking weakness, Azez reached up and grabbed Ruri's arm, feebly gripping it. Once, this man had single handedly slain her Gene Tyrant creator and saved her from the life of a reflection. Now, he could barely even hold on when she let him. But still… the shadow of purpose lurked in his trembling eye.

“Ruri…” he gasped. “Ruri… yes…?”

She nodded again. “Y-Yes. It's me. What do you need?”

His breath heaved with the exertion of focus as he tried to lift his head from his pillows. “Ruri. You must… you must… tell them… you have to…”

She waited for him to finish, but it was too much. With a gasp of pain, he collapsed back onto the bed, bloody sweat pouring down his face. His lips, though… his lips kept moving soundlessly.

“What is it, my Supreme?” Ruri begged, bringing her ear closer -- desperate for the last wisdom. “What is it you need from me?”

He closed his eye. For a moment, a horrible nightmare of a moment, Ruri thought that was it. But no… he spoke. A whisper of a whisper reached Ruri's ear.

“Ruri… t-this Supremacy… my… will you…”

…make it last for me?

“I will,” Ruri promised, cutting through it all. “Until the end of time.”

There were no more words after that.

The days afterwards felt like seconds. The grand funeral for the first Supreme, the emergence of his successor onto the scene, Piala’s night of one-hundred duels against one-hundred challengers… all of it like a book that Ruri wasn’t quite paying enough attention to. She just watched, pink eyes dull, as the hands of time skewered someone else she loved.

She watched the coffin sink deep into the depths of Azum-Ha, watched the mockery walk the Supreme Tomb, watched the people weep and gnash their teeth…

…and then, when she went home, she looked in the mirror and -- as she did every day -- saw the face of the monsters who had stolen her friend away.

She tore that face off five times that night.

Will you make it last for me?

Will you make it last for me?

Will you make it last for me?

I will, Azez, Ruri promised again -- as she would for a thousand years -- her fingernails caked in blood. I will.

AETHERAL SPACE

ARC 13

PART 4: FEAR

Make this stick for me, kid.

Skipper’s wish tugged Dragan’s consciousness back into clarity, and his vision focused. Inwardly, he cursed himself. That had been sloppy. Exhaustion could wait its turn after victory. He adjusted his position as he slouched on his throne.

“So, Mr. Guest,” he said, not missing a beat. “Do we have a deal?”

The hologram floated in the centre of the throne room, looking up the steps at Dragan. With his bowler hat, pinstripe suit and pencil-thin moustache, Mr. Guest looked more like a salesman than a fighter, but from his research Dragan knew better than to underestimate the Ostiary of the Lesser Chain. Even without his record, someone who’d advanced this far in the Dawn Contest wasn’t to be taken lightly.

Still… the great thing about mercenaries was they had a common motivation: money.

“Well,” said Mr. Guest, smiling from the hologram. “If I were to be presented with such a sum, how could I refuse?”

Dragan leaned back in his throne, looking at the spectre floating in the middle of the chamber. His gaze was pale and resolute. All deception had already been searched for and found absent.

“Half the payment now,” Dragan clarified. “The other half after you issue the surrender. Please don't think of cheating me.”

Guest smiled thinly. “Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. I still have simply wicked memories of Manron’s assassins. You'll have your victory.”

The Crimson Carnival, huh? Dragan suppressed a roll of his eyes. Ever since Manron had vanished from the hospital, that band of maniacs had started tearing themselves apart for the succession of leadership. Soon, the organisation would splinter entirely, and become completely useless.

In truth, Dragan had already cut them loose… but there was no reason people needed to know that. The budget that had previously gone to them would now serve to pay off this very reasonable opponent.

He nodded. “A pleasure doing business with you then, Mr. Guest. My associate North will arrange the transfer for you.”

Guest plucked his hat from his head and bowed respectfully, brushing dust from his suit as he rose back up. “I'll be right back to the Lesser Chain as soon as I have my payment. Don't worry -- you won't have to worry about a sore loser after your coronation.”

Dragan raised an eyebrow. “You seem to have some faith in me. What about PALATINE?”

Guest returned his hat to his head with a chuckle. “I'm something of a betting man, Mr. Hadrien. A profitable outcome like this is one of my preferred departures from this Dawn Contest. I've watched you well, and I've watched that beast, and if you ask me?”

He grinned.

“The only sure-fire bet is a bet on a cheater.”

The hologram flicked out of existence. North, snorting, emerged from his invisibility beside the throne, arms crossed.

“Man, you really think he'll stick to the deal?” North grinned. “I mean, he's a greedy son-of-a-bitch, right? Like knows like.”

“It's fine,” Dragan closed his eyes, settling back in his throne. “I didn't sense any deception from him, and besides…” He cracked one eye open. “If he tries anything, we'll just kill him, right?”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy. Has Xander been back in touch?”

North nodded. “The squirt says he and his guys have found the place you were looking for. Wasn't easy -- Absurd Weapons are real good at hiding their little, uh, hidey holes. They're ready to attack whenever you say, boss.”

Opening both eyes again, Dragan rose from the throne, cracking his neck.

Watching what had happened at the arena had been an eye-opener. As things stood, the Aether Awakening PALATINE was a danger that Dragan could no longer ignore. Taking that thing on without proper preparation held an unacceptable risk of defeat.

Hopefully, the place they'd been holding the beast would hold some clues to overcoming it.

“Now,” Dragan stepped forward, smiling calmly. “We attack now.”

Crack.

Wu Ming looked up from his magazine, head turning one-hundred and eighty degrees to face the Cradle high above. A woollen grin spread across teeth made of thread. Looked like it was time.

“Happy birthday!” he called up to the pulsating cocoon. “How you feeling? You missed a hell of a thing at the arena, real negative number rating sorta thing, let me tell ya. Can you hear me?”

His answer was an explosion. Steaming water and shining blood burst out from the Cradle as it completed its purpose, scraps of thread and silk raining down with it. A burning fog washed over the abandoned building, smouldering against stone and wood.

Wu Ming whistled. “That bad, huh?”

Thump.

Ruth Blaine dropped to the ground like a brick, landing on one knee, long red hair cascading around her. She opened a mouth full of fangs, and burning steam poured forth. Densely muscled limbs twitched, joints cracking audibly. She widened her eyes, and the now-vertical pupils there turned thin as blades.

Sparks flew from her prosthetic leg -- it had only just barely managed to survive the transformation. They'd need to wrangle up a replacement for it.

Slowly, Ruth looked down at her hand -- the fingernails of which now tapered off into deadly points.

“I thought I'd be taller,” she muttered.

Wu Ming waved a hand. “If we messed with your proportions too much, you'd be stumbling all over the place like a drunk. Ha! So, how do you feel? Feel strong?”

She clenched her fist, feeling the power in it. “...yeah. I think so.”

“Well?” Wu Ming smiled, kicking his couch over to her. “Don't just think so, try it out! Pretend that couch is the Shepherdess or something.”

Fist still ready, Ruth looked down at the couch…

Bang.

…and with a flash of red Aether, pulverised it in a single blow.

Wu Ming clapped his hands. “Very nice, very nice. No furniture shall stand against you. Now that you're up and about, though, how about we --”

Bang.

The fist came down on the wreckage of the couch again, this time splintering the floor as it smashed right through.

Wu Ming raised an eyebrow, his pupils twinkling.

Bang.

The walls shuddered.

Bang.

The floor shattered.

Bang.

The roof caved in.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Oh, yes, Wu Ming thought, grinning even as the rubble rained over them. Yes, I think we can work with this.

Atoy Muzazi woke to pain. It was a familiar feeling by this point.

As he opened his eyes, he knew straight away what had happened. He was covered in bandages. A breathing mask was planted against his mouth. The sterile walls and beeping machines bespoke a hospital.

As he looked around the room, he knew straight away what had happened. Morgan sat in a chair next to the bed, quietly sleeping, his face pulled down by exhaustion and stress. He too had his injuries.

As he opened his mouth, he knew straight away what had happened. The pain he was feeling… the acid eating through his heart… the tears crawling behind his eyes… they all said one thing. It was obvious.

But still, he asked.

“What happened?”

Morgan's eyes slowly opened, slowly focused in on Muzazi, slowly looked down… and all of it again served only as confirmation. Doom nestled in Muzazi's brain.

“...you lost…” Morgan murmured.

For a good, long moment, Muzazi just stared at his second-in-command. The words he’d just heard had to be dissected in his brain. There had to be hidden meaning there. Something other than despair secreted between the syllables.

Grasping ribbons.

Splattering blood.

A flash of purple, coming to save his battered carcass.

Only when he was certain that his hunt had no quarry did Muzazi speak again.

“I see.”

And Atoy Muzazi began to cry.