Aetheral Space

The Thinker's Comet hurtled through the night sky, trailing bloody stardust behind it.

The current headquarters of the Absurd Weapons Lab had quite the history. Once, this hardy rock had been one of the secret bases of the Kingdom Moon Cult, a mobile mustering point from which they could launch their pale crusades. Once Kadmon the Indolent had finally defeated the so-called Soul Tyrant and freed his flock from their delirium, however, the fallen church had been given to the scientists of the AWL.

They'd made some improvements.

For one, the Thinker's Comet now possessed an on-board lightpoint, making it one of the few vessels in the Supremacy -- along with the Sheshanaga and the Axel Alexander -- that could independently jump from system to system. The Comet was constantly on the move, piloted by an auto-brain that the Paradisas would welcome, weaving through space and notice. The interior of the base had changed over the years, too, laboratories growing through the classical architecture of the cathedral like a fungus of sterility.

The archaic infested by the innovative.

Needless to say, the Comet had ways of monitoring each and all of the AWL’s other bases throughout the galaxy -- and so it was that the control room was in something of a panic when Section Chief Blackmane entered. His paws thumped softly against the metal floor as he crossed it, his red eyes drifting steadily across the floating screens before him.

To an outside observer, the scene in the control room would have been a touch absurd. It was not a man who had entered the room, not even a Scurrant of considerable alteration, but instead a massive lion. His fur was jet-black and his mane just as dark, flowing like the beard of a sage, but this was unmistakably a beast -- not a man.

Such absurdity was common here, though. The name should have been proof enough of that.

He looked at the holographic screens before him. The images were clear, captured by nano-automatics embedded in the walls and floor of Hel. Dragan Hadrien was raiding them. It wasn't particularly surprising, though, given his track record and the obstacle that had been put before him.

Still… Blackmane’s nose twitched as he drank in the air, tasting the stink of nervousness. A deep growl soon put an end to the concerned mutterings of his subordinates. Activating Speak No Evil, Blackmane vibrated the air to produce sound -- the sound of a deep, rich voice to match his regal appearance.

“How does he fare?”

Retson, a Scurrant with a long cylindrical head of carapace, stood up from his console. He seemed to shrink back from Blackmane even as he approached, but that was only natural. After all, Blackmane's head alone was nearly the size of the man’s entire body.

“SLAYER has been eliminated, sir,” the Scurrant buzzed. “Physical destruction. ASSAILANT is proving more formidable.”

“As we knew. The Tree of Might is staying back?”

Retson nodded, cylinder-skull flopping up and down with the motion. “It seems Hadrien is intent on defeating the Awakenings alone, Section Chief.”

“Splendid. At least the boy has wisdom.”

Blackmane squinted as he activated See No Evil, peering into the screens and inspecting Dragan Hadrien more thoroughly than any mortal eyes could manage. What an interesting body the boy had acquired. Symbiosis achieved, but more than that -- a core component in and of itself? No wonder their investigations on Panacea had…

He unsheathed a claw and tapped it against the floor, cutting off his own train of thought. It wouldn't do to lose himself in intrigue right now. This was too critical a time. All time, especially these days, was critical.

“There are other assets in the area, sir,” Retson ventured, clasping his hands. “We can dispatch them to reinforce ASSAILANT… should you request it, of course.”

Blackmane's tail swayed in the air as he considered the proposal, but…

“No,” he finally said. “Let the boy find what he may. We've already scraped all the knowledge we can from PALATINE’s battles in this Dawn Contest. If the boy slays the beast, then it's free disposal of hazardous materials. If the beast kills the boy… well, we've lost nothing of worth.” He cast his crimson gaze over the room, emotions unreadable through his feline visage. “Observe what happens next and record the results. Perhaps we'll have a repeat of Bone Heaven.”

The prospect of another research opportunity like the Kaiser's defeat seemed to pull his people back into their purposes. As his orders were put into practice, Blackmane turned and stalked out of the room, his massive body moving with languid grace.

It was true. The Absurd Weapons Lab had lost nothing of worth so far. Corpse-soldiers and bisected Awakenings and such… they were leftover cruelties from directors who could see no further from their own scalpels. The Absurd Weapons Lab would be well rid of the fruits of their vile labour.

Blackmane looked further ahead, down the stone hallway. It served his vindictive heart well to see this dusty place overrun by scientific endeavour.

The Thinker's Comet had been his childhood home. He'd been born as one of the most unfortunate kinds of throwbacks -- one fated not to live. A ‘super-Cogitant’, with all the strengths of his more viable cousins turned up to the utmost. The only problem had been his withering body, unable to take so much as a stray breeze without excruciating pain.

His family had turned to the Kingdom Moon Cult in an attempt to cure him. It had not worked. They had bathed under its evil light, let it reach into them and twist them, and all it had done was trade their desperation for mindless adoration. When the Moon had been vanquished, and it's former followers had torn each other apart, Blackmane had come to know that no holy light would descend to cure man's ills.

If gods existed, they were ambivalent. So it was up to man alone to ensure his survival.

As he trotted down the curving hallway, he passed test chamber after test chamber -- each filled with experiments just as unseemly as those of his predecessors. Only, there was purpose behind the excesses he permitted. For the last century, the Absurd Weapons Lab had been devoted to nothing more than pungent curiosity.

Blackmane had brought with him a new mission: to ensure the survival of humanity.

It was no simple task. The people of the galaxy either didn't know or didn't acknowledge it, but they were coming closer to apocalypse with each passing second. Aether would be the instrument of human annihilation. The power to destroy, given freely to any who conceived of the correct sequence of thoughts and emotions, with no possible way of keeping it out of the hands of the unworthy.

As knowledge of Aether advanced, it became easier and easier to develop powerful abilities, cheats and workarounds slowly becoming common practice. In time, there might come an age where every Aether-user fought on the level of a Supreme. That would not be an age that humanity could survive.

It wouldn't even necessarily be humanity that would bring about its own end. The common theory was that Aether had originally been restricted to humans because humans had been the ones to discover it, but that no longer held true. If the restraints on Aether-usage had ever existed, they had surely slackened. Leftover abominations from the Gene Tyrants could use Aether. Animals, in rare cases, could use Aether. There were even reports that automatics could use Aether, if you believed the rumours of the UAP’s Moon.

Blackmane paused, looking out a window at the aurora of the dark.

Disarray. Division. Chaos. No matter what seed the destruction of mankind bloomed from, this warring galaxy would be its fertile soil. If proper preparations were not made, mankind would not survive. The Absurd Weapons Lab would muster whatever nightmares it had in order to avoid that outcome.

Let the bacterium concern themselves with Dawn Contests and Supremes. Blackmane had been born into a body fated to die. Blackmane had been born into a world fated to die. There was only one recourse.

He would have fate brought before him, and maul it to death -- all for the survival of mankind.

As the Aether Awakening dissipated into nothing, Dragan let out a satisfied breath. The spike of infused Panacea crumbled from his wrist, leaving a hole that quickly closed. Ignoring the applause from the members of the Tree of Might above, he turned to his constant companion.

So, he silently said to Pan. You think we can do that to PALATINE?

The orange-haired girl, bangs hanging over her eyes, sat cross-legged atop a nearby chunk of rubble. She put a finger to her lips, considering the question.

“If the stinger touches, then sure thing, dead boy,” she finally said. “But will it touches?”

She had a point.

PALATINE’s primary ability, Ignorance, meant that making physical contact with it wasn't a sure thing by any means. He'd have to get tricky -- trickier than usual, in order to fool a being with Y-knows how many extra ways of perceiving the world. Would these caverns be an ideal battlefield, then, or would a more open space be better suited?

For that matter, how long did they have until PALATINE came for them itself? Now that Mr. Guest had been ‘defeated’, it was only a matter of time until the Flower of Evil began its hunt. If it was accompanied by Emerald Eyes, they'd be limited in the amount of cheating they could employ, nevermind how much the Tree of Might would tolerate.

He couldn't just avoid this round either. There was also the matter of perception to worry about. To true believers like the Tree of Might, failure to show strength was the same as showing weakness. If Dragan didn't make another big display of power very soon, he'd risk insubordination. At this crucial stage in the competition, that was something he couldn't afford.

A single bead of sweat trickled unseen down his temple.

“You're feeling sick, dead boy,” Pan murmured, concerned. “Stressed and dried. Not good.”

Dragan ran a hand through his hair. If the stress does any damage, you can just fix it, right?

Pan frowned. “Only damage to body.”

That's the only kind of damage that matters right now.

Vaguely, Dragan wondered what the Tree of Might would think if they knew what he was doing right now -- talking to a girl who lived inside his mind. Would they think him mad, and turn against him? Or maybe talking to hallucinations was a sign you'd grown so strong you'd conquered your own sanity, or some shit.

“Not hallucination, dead boy,” Pan corrected, wagging an admonishing finger.. “Real. Remember?”

Of course I remember, Dragan replied. How could I forget?

Absently, he rubbed his temple -- the spot a bullet had torn through, more than two years ago now.

Pan worried. “Does it still hurt, dead boy?”

No. You're good at what you do. It's like nothing even happened. You really saved me… and you keep saving me, don't you?

Dragan looked at her -- at where she was now standing, beside him.

Why?

Pan cocked her head. “What that means?”

Why are you doing this for me?

“I'm nice, dead boy!”

I know, but… the whole time I was crawling across the planet, I was thinking. I had all sorts of deals I was going to make. Things I would offer you, bargains I would cut -- in exchange for your help. But you agreed like it was nothing, and you saved me again.

He blinked, a sudden nervous energy sliding down his spine.

You don't get anything out of it, he said. Do you? What do you get out of it?

Pan looked up at Dragan, and her bangs parted like curtains. Glittering orange eyes stared into cold blue ones. For a second, she remained silent -- a rare moment of consideration before speech for her. Eventually, though, she did answer.

“You saved me, dead boy,” she said quietly. “What friend would be me if I didn't save you again?”

Dragan snorted. You've saved me way more than once at this point.

Pan slowly shook her head. “No, dead boy. Not even once. Look at your face.”

Dragan frowned. I…

For a moment, it looked like he'd say something more -- like the mask of ice he was wearing would shatter, and a person would emerge. But then, the moment passed, and pale calm returned to his features. His expression became one of someone who knew what they were doing, a cage fitted over the soul.

Dragan smiled softly. You won't ever stop bullying me, will you?

Pan shook her head again, looking up at him still, desperately sad. “No, dead boy,” she murmured. “No, I won't.”

Dragan whirled around, facing his followers -- who'd gathered along the rim of the crater his battle had produced, attendants of an impromptu coliseum. He spread his arms wide, and -- nostrils flaring -- roared someone else's words:

“Begin preparations! The PALATINE comes to face me! Let us craft for it a suitable reception!”

Pan, behind him, looked down and faded from sight.

All for nothing.

Those words, that certainty, assaulted Muzazi again and again as he walked aimless through the streets.

He had fought this long, this hard… all for nothing.

He had brought himself to the verge of death… all for nothing.

He had murdered someone who shared the same dream as him… all for nothing.

Murderer.

Murderer

Murderer.

Muzazi's script buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Most likely it was Morgan again, eager to keep pitching the proxy law strategy to him. He would not hear of it. Tarnished as he'd been throughout this long and pointless journey, there were limits to the mud he'd plunge his hands into.

Right now, as he crossed a tunnel-bridge through an expressway, one face among thousands, he couldn't stop thinking of Dorothy Eiro. Her last moments. When she'd died, her life a candle snuffed out in an instant, had she held hope in her heart? Had she felt that, even if she was gone, Muzazi would carry out her dream?

If so, he'd betrayed her too.

Murderer.

Murderer.

Murderer.

The Del Sed twins had vanished from the hotel overnight. That was no surprise. Them lending their assistance had been dependent on him having the resources required to repay them. They hadn't been working together for long at all, but Muzazi's stomach was still sinking into a pit at the thought of their absence.

After all, they'd just be the first. The Phases, his supporters… they'd all drift away now that he was useless to them. He'd staked everything on this, he'd promised them, and he'd failed them.

He'd promised Marie… and he'd failed her. Marie, who he'd led to Panacea on his hunt for Hadrien. Marie, who had been forced into a fight to the death due to his own foolishness.

Marie, who he'd as good as killed.

Murderer.

Murderer.

Murderer.

As his thoughts drifted further into despair, his feet drifted further off the street. He found himself ducking into a bar, water dripping from his soaked form as he took a seat at a bar-stool. He hadn't even realised it was raining outside. He really was out of it.

What a mess.

Soft lounge music went unheard, and the rustic wooden architecture went unseen. As the cleaning automatics scurried around beneath him, a serving automatic took his order. A glass of Raranik Red. Nothing crazy -- just something to ease the pain. He'd almost lost himself at the Truemeet, after his failures on Panacea, but this was different. He was stronger now.

A snort of contempt crushed his nose.

Stronger now? Really? If you're so strong, why aren't you victorious? Why are you sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, pathetic and impotent?

He had no answer for himself -- save raising a glass to his lips and taking a bitter sip.

You threw everything away. Your dignity, your honour… Aclima despises you and she's right to do so. You tried to steal her birthright. You turned her own bodyguards against her. You've killed people. You killed Dorothy, just like you killed Marie, just like you…

Wretch. Failure. Murderer.

Muzazi was so absorbed in his own self-flagellation that he didn't notice the other person sitting down next to him. He only registered their presence when they spoke up, their bright voice cutting through the waves of self-loathing.

“Hi,” said Winston Grace.

Slowly, Muzazi turned his head to look at him. The detective had seen better days -- he looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in quite some time. He certainly smelt like he hadn't bathed in a good while. One sleeve of his shirt had been tied into a knot -- he'd lost an arm.

Yet, his wide eyes remained unchanged. They sparkled with the reflection of crystal mystery. A question was to be answered, and so the great detective had appeared. Muzazi's heart felt like it would drop right out of his body.

He blinked.

“Hello,” he replied.