Aetheral Space

Fino Onio swung Ill Humour with all the grace of a musical baton, the roaring chainsaw deflecting the spears of bone with a shower of sparks each time.

Now this was more like it. No more skulking in the shadows, no more scheming in the dark. They were facing the enemy head-on, exchanging blows, throwing their lives against each other. This was conflict. This was Supremacy.

He understood the measure of the Supreme. He'd understood all along. That man obviously didn't care one bit for the beliefs of the Tree of Might. He just played at them to keep the Tree in his garden, and Xander Rain was idiotic enough to believe it.

That was fine, though. Fino would play the loyal pup until he was First Branch. Then, his own rebellion could begin.

With a wave of his arm, Fino sent a tidal blade of blood crashing through the remains of the panic room, where it clashed -- again, again, again -- with a cleaver of bone that his opponent had grown.

Nebula Six. Beckett del Brainen, 'Underframe', a title passed down through the warriors of his homeland. Fino was familiar. His ability -- also called Underframe -- allowed him to directly manipulate his own skeleton, growing swords and shields and whatever other tools he needed right out of his bones.

Blood versus bone. There was something primal about that, befitting.

Beckett del Brainen lunged forth, discarding his cleaver and leaping off of it in the same instant. Fino waved his arm decisively, scattering a swarm of explosive blood-bubbles between him and his enemy, forming a rudimentary barrier. So long as he kept his distance from his foe, Fino had the advantage. He already knew that Nebula Six wasn't foolish enough to --

Nebula Six charged right through the bubbles.

Like floating grenades, they detonated, scattering bloody shrapnel and crimson flames in every direction. With a flick of his fingers, Fino diverted the blood-crystals before they could bombard him, but Nebula Six did not fall to the shrapnel as he should have. He just continued to charge.

Ah.

It wasn't foolhardiness that had driven him forward, Fino saw now -- he'd been confident that he could survive the explosions. Nebula Six's entire body was coated in armour of pristine white bone, his head encased in a structure shaped like the skull of a barracuda. No petty attacks would get through that, not with the silver Aether that Fino could see infusing it.

Nebula Six charged through everything -- the rubble, the flames, the blood -- reducing everything in his path to dust as he came for his enemy.

Well, a Branch of the Tree of Might wasn't one to shy away from an unstoppable force. Fino threw his arms out wide, gathering the blood he'd produced into eight almighty blades, like the legs of a bloody spider. It was time to end this facade of fairness.

These blades were his ultimate ability, the premier method of killing at his disposal. Not even a corpse would be permitted to remain. The blood-bite would erase even the afterimage of consciousness.

Red Rum Ultima: Gore Parade!

In the moment before he fired off the attack, Fino Onio thought just one thing.

… was it getting cold in here or was it just

Crack.

Fino Onio, Second Branch of the Tree of Might, dropped dead to the floor.

His blood followed a second later. The crawling roots he'd spread across the floor, the sharpened tendrils he'd been lashing out with, even the crystals that were now embedded into nearly every surface -- as one, they popped, becoming a river of red that flowed freely over the battlefield. His ability, Red Rum, had been deactivated with his death.

Skidding to a halt, Beckett del Brainen narrowed his eyes as he beheld the one who'd assassinated the bastard.

He didn't recognise her. She was an old woman, with a severe look in her eyes and a wooden cane clutched between her two hands. That cane might have made her seem feeble to anyone else -- but Beckett wasn't fooled. He'd just seen this granny dart in behind Fino Onio and snap his neck like it was easy, after all.

"Who're you?" he growled, voice echoing throughout his helmet of bone.

"It doesn't matter," the old woman replied, thumping her cane against the floor. "Can you fight?"

"Obviously."

"With me, then."

Without another word, the old woman turned on her heel and ran out of the panic room through one of the holes the initial attack had opened. Without another word, Beckett followed after her, out into the corridors. With the blood bastard dealt with, the panic room was probably the best place to leave his old man.

At any rate, they didn't get very far.

They'd barely made it out into the hallway when the old woman threw a hand out to stop him, her eyes widened into saucers of utmost horror. Beckett followed her gaze -- and when he did, he understood that she wasn't overreacting. Oh, she wasn't overreacting at all.

The Supreme stood before them, silhouetted against the window, his body surrounded by a tempest of churning blue Aether. It was made barely visible by the light of the mind, but he was grasping the hand of a grey statue, currents of Aether running out of it and into him. As Beckett watched, the statue began to flake away, specks of dust flying off of it like a swarm of retreating flies.

Dragan Hadrien glanced at them with eyes a brighter blue than ever.

"Too late," he said.

In the end, Jaime just couldn't do it.

How many futures had he stolen away? How many faces had he watched crumble into nothingness? During his career, during his lifetime, he had poured a great deal of evil into the universe, all for the sake of goodness' eventual retaliation. It had all been part of the plan.

Peace and joy for all mankind.

If the plan never came to fruition, if the flowers of evil he'd planted never bloomed into that peace and that joy, then everything would have been for nothing. There would be no forgiveness for him, then, in any version of any afterlife. Even more so if he was the one to make it all pointless with the pull of a trigger.

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Dragan Hadrien had spoken of his plan, of what he would do, and the Prince had offered no counterargument. Perhaps that even meant that Pierrot himself agreed. He didn't know… he didn't even understand where the Prince ended and he began anymore.

'Anymore'. Ha. What a fool he was to even think that. Right from the start, he hadn't understood anything.

And so, all he could do was reach out and take Dragan Hadrien's hand.

As the Prince detached from him, splitting like an iceberg out into the ocean, an image drifted into Pierrot's mind. The end of the journey he'd walked for a long while. He didn't know if it was intentional on the Prince's part -- one final repayment for service -- but he doubted it. It didn't have the kindness for such a gesture. It wasn't the sort of thing that made gestures at all.

But… in that last moment, he could see it. He could see it. Peace and joy for all mankind. The end of the Prince's grand stratagem. The shape the world would take.

Oh God, Pierrot thought. Oh God.

Too late to do anything about it. Far too late. Too late by the time he'd been born.

Jaime Pierrot closed his eyes, and his face crumbled into nothingness.

ACT II

"Shining Stars"

"You're too late," repeated Dragan Hadrien, rising to his feet, the statue collapsing into dust beside him. "As you can see, I've already --"

The Widow threw her hands out -- and a torrent of white wind flowed into the hallway, coating everything in layers of frost in an instant. Even the air itself froze, producing a thick mist that obscured everything. A massive glacier protruded from the window, hurtling out of the building, blocking the escape route there.

"Damn, lady," Nebula Six breathed behind her.

She ignored him. In a situation like this, there was no such thing as overboard. Her mind quickly put the pieces together.

Pierrot was dead, that much was obvious. He'd been scattered into dust. The Supreme almost certainly wasn't dead -- there was no body, plus he had that Gemini World ability. So, if she was him, her next move would be to --

"Down!" she barked, dropping down the ground -- and pulling Nebula Six down with her.

It was almost too late. The kick that Dragan Hadrien unleashed as he emerged from his Gemini World was truly devastating, shining with blue-and-orange Aether. A torrent of air pressure blasted through the hallway -- if that blow had made contact, the Widow had no doubt she'd have been shorn in half by the force.

"Underframe!" Beckett del Brainen roared -- and needles like the spines of a hedgehog burst out from all across his armour, zooming upwards to skewer the Supreme in the air.

It didn't work, of course.

Another flash of blue Aether -- and a second later, Dragan Hadrien had put some distance between himself and his two opponents, next to the hole in the wall that led to the safe room.

Got you.

The Widow understood it now.

When Hadrien had used Gemini World the first time, it had been right before that torrent of cold had washed over him. When he'd reappeared, it had been directly next to his enemies, where the cold had been kept away from to keep them alive. Now, he'd manifested himself on the other side of the hallway entirely, avoiding the frozen part of the building.

This cold was produced and maintained by the Widow's Aether -- it would interfere with Hadrien's Gemini World. The space in which he could remanifest was already limited. The Widow would make it even more so.

She gave the Supreme no time to catch his breath. Throwing her hands forward, she blasted forth a barrage of thin icicles. Hadrien dashed to the side, flipping and ducking to avoid the projectiles, but that was fine too. Where they hit the wall, they shattered, sending a new wave of cold through the space around them. These attacks were just another way of expanding the Widow's territory.

She wasn't alone in her efforts. Just by looking, Nebula Six has figured out what she intended to do -- and he was already moving to assist. Gasping in pain, he snapped two of the spines off of his gauntlets and plunged them into the floor -- and two seconds later, great trees of boneroot burst out to cover both ends of the hallway, cutting off the Supreme's escape routes.

Hadrien vanished again --

Here it comes.

-- and the Widow readied herself.

Given what she'd observed of Hadrien's abilities so far, she had a reasonable idea where he would now reappear. She'd left a 'safe zone' of about a meter around her and Nebula Six -- sparing them from the lethal chill she was projecting. That was the only uninfused area left on the battlefield. Wherever Hadrien appeared, he would do it within a meter of them.

A flash of blue, out of the corner of the Widow's eye -- and immediately she swung around, the reflexes honed over a career of murder guiding her.

Her hands moved before her eyes could catch up. One wrapped itself around Hadrien's neck, holding him up and gripping him tight -- while the other grasped his forearm and tore his aim off-course. The Gemini Railgun he'd been aiming at her scorched through the window instead, zooming off into the city.

How long could she keep this hold? It didn't matter. She had her hands on the Supreme. He couldn't avoid her next attack.

The Widow took a deep breath, bracing herself for the cold she was about to unleash -- and then she saw it.

Three things at once.

Dragan Hadrien's triumphant smirk.

The arm that he was missing, elbow terminating in a fizz of blue Aether.

And, in the reflection of her ice, the disembodied arm that had manifested behind her, aiming right for her back.

He tricked me.

Dragan Hadrien's lips moved, and even though she was gripping his neck so tightly no words could escape… she didn't doubt for a second what he was saying.

"Gemini Railgun."

Bang.

The Widow let the breath out… turned her head to the side… and, in utter bemusement, looked at the afterimage the shot had left. It had flown right past her and slammed into the wall.

He missed?

I missed?

As Dragan quickly retreated -- hopping in and out of Gemini World -- he looked down at his arm in bemusement. That should have been a killshot. He'd lined up the attack perfectly, creating an opening and keeping the Widow's back exposed. She hadn't dodged, and he hadn't just missed -- he'd missed pathetically, the shot sailing right through the air.

Ice from one side. Bones from the other. Dragan launched himself up into the air to avoid both attacks at once, grabbing hold of a hanging pipe and launching off a volley of Gemini Shotguns.

These didn't fare much better than the Railgun.

They caused a great deal of destruction through their sheer volume, sure, but that didn't change the fact that they had basically just gone wild. Shattered chunks of bone rained down, soon replaced by new attack-limbs. Flames billowed for a moment, but they too were quickly snapped out of existence by the sheer cold.

Shit!

The bone-blades sliced apart the pipe Dragan was hanging off, sending him hurtling down to the ground. Bracing himself as he plummeted, he spoke the magic words inside his mind:

Gemini World!

…

But nothing happened.

Oh, Dragan realized, in the moment before his mistake caught up with him. This is you, isn't it?

This was the Prince.

Taking the thing wasn't as simple as a handshake after all. The Prince was beside his mind right now, for sure, but it was still in the process of integrating with it -- like software installing itself on a computer. Mental bandwidth was being consumed by that task, more and more, reducing his capabilities elsewhere. Aiming his attacks, dodging his enemies… they'd all get more and more difficult until he made one mistake too many.

Well, he thought grimly, as the last obstacles came for him. I'd better not make any mistakes, then.