Aetheral Space

Luna watched.

The events of the day were already set. Jaime Pierrot was dead. Yulia If-Void was on her uneventful trip home. The Prince had made its move. All the other pieces on the board, dancing, dancing, forever dancing.

Luna had not gone with Yulia back to Abra-Facade. That path was viable, but far from ideal. There was still good work she could do here, in the time allotted to her.

Ruth Blaine, for one. Her survival grew more unlikely the longer the day stretched on. Luna's presence would counterbalance the peril there. The armoured girl was required for a happy ending, after all.

Not yet, though, not yet. For the time being, Luna had to wait. She remained silent, and she remained still, and she hid within the walls of the Seat of Man.

She was used to waiting. She had done it for nearly a century, after all. After the tides of battle had turned against the Arcana Automatics, she and her counterpart had fled into the dark spaces, where no humans would think to follow. She had been half of a pair -- a non-combat model partnered with the Sun, a colossal engine of destruction, each covering the deficiencies of the other. That was the ideal kind of relationship between two beings.

They had remained there -- Moon calculating the future, Sun awaiting her commands -- but the opportune moment for attack never came. Their time had long since passed, but at that point they weren't the sort of entities that could comprehend that. So the wait continued, and continued, and continued. Even when Sun's power reserves ran dry and he became a floating corpse, Moon had continued to wait… and wait… and wait…

…until, like the Sapphire Star before her, she had drifted to Abra-Facade.

It was said that the Sapphire Star had taught the original Abra-Facadian colonists how to peer into the future. Luna's contribution hadn't been nearly so vital, but her predictive processes were highly compatible with the Abra-Facadian discipline of precognition. She had become something of a compass for them, sheltered by the great Hour Clans, leading Abra-Facade through the path of least resistance and most prosperity.

She had even managed to pull together a self, however clumsy, and attain Aether. The tool that had ruined pitiful Etteilla, now wielded by one of her creations. Luna wasn't equipped to comprehend poetry, but she suspected it existed there.

Just a little longer. She had to wait just a little longer.

Until all three mouths of hell had opened.

Dragan swung his arm. It was clumsy, and the blow struck nothing but empty air, but the wave of pressure the movement produced was enough to keep his enemies at bay.

He had to get out of here. While the Prince installed itself inside his mind, he was vulnerable -- and he'd keep getting more vulnerable until it was done. How long until he couldn't even walk straight? He had to make use of what coordination he had left while he could.

Gemini Shotgun!

Throwing his hands forward, he unleashed a haphazard barrage of Shotguns down the length of the hallway, slamming into the walls and floors and producing mighty clouds of dust. At the same time, he swung on his heels, already running for the half-broken window. He couldn't use Gemini World right now, but surely he could find somewhere to jump to and get out of here, he could…

One step.

Dragan Hadrien made it one step before tripping over his own feet. He fell hard, nose slamming into the floor, limbs splayed out like he was already a corpse. A groan of pain and frustration trickled out of his throat.

Now, he thought. I guess now is when I stop being able to walk straight.

No time to feel sorry for himself. If escape was no longer possible, he just had to maintain his defenses until the Prince was done -- even if he had no idea how long that would take. He grit his teeth and rolled over just in time to see a network of bone-spears rushing for his prone form.

He opened his mouth.

Goddamn you!

Those were the words he'd intended to come out of his mouth, but all that emerged was a string of nonsense vowels. Even speech was forbidden to him now, then. As if this entire thing wasn't difficult enough.

Gemini Shotgun!

That, at least, still worked. His rapid-fire attack demolished the spears of bones as they came in. At this range, he literally wouldn't have been able to miss if he'd wanted to. The close-quarters of the fight were both his death knell and his saving grace.

You can still win, he promised himself. You have no choice but to win.

"████, ██ ██ ████?" Nebula Six cried out, the broken ends of bones still protruding from his palms.

Dragan's eyes widened. It wasn't just his speech that he'd lost, but his entire ability to comprehend language? Surely this had to be as bad as it could get, right? There wasn't more after this? It was almost done?

The enemy moved faster than he was ready for. In an instant, Nebula Six had charged in, plucking a broken pipe from the floor and coating it in multiple exoskeletons. The makeshift club slammed into Dragan from the side, sending him smashing through a wall and into the lounge beyond. Cold mist flooded in from the hallway, already coating the furniture with frost.

He strained to pick himself up off the floor, but his body wouldn't obey. Even his thoughts seemed sluggish, slippery to the touch. He needed to think, though. There was something to be wary of.

That Nebula… whatever number he was… he was calling out to his ally. The old woman. Dragan couldn't understand what was being said, but there was a plan. There was a plan, surely -- a trap. Something he'd fallen into or was falling into.

He had to

He had to figure it

He had to think of

He he he he he he he he

uh oh

"███!"

Pain.

Dragan understood that before anything else. The pain of being run through and having the blades crawl inside you. Half-a-dozen tendrils of bone, bursting out from the floor beneath him, impaling him in just as many places and holding their prize up high. He could see the sun. A second sun, hallucinated by pain. A burn-mark on the brain. Not good.

The attacker, the name escaped him, with the spears that held him in death. One spear emerged through his throat, cutting off his breathing. Others pinpricked his limbs and lungs, banning them from function. The funny mushrooms tried to heal the wounds but the space was taken. Dragan gasped for air like a flopping fish. Undignified heap. Ow. Ow ow ow.

Twitch. Twitch. There was nothing to him but that now. Even the brain just a stopped train, no rail, stretch forever -- ungood. Eyes of blue stare out in nothing, no move, no nothing, no swivel or jeeb.

Old woman with cane-hand cave-hand skitter forth spider, eyes all akilly and goose. Hand raise not his not cane take off cane and separate object and point single finger at dead boy and say:

"████ ███████."

He

He

He

He

I

"Cold Harvest."

The Widow didn't know what had befallen Dragan Hadrien, why his movements had suddenly become so clumsy and amateurish, but she was damned if she was going to let the chance pass her by. The assassin who ignored a tender throat was unworthy of the title. The Widow's blade was ice, but the principle still held true.

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The strategy had been simple. With Hadrien's movement slowing as much as it did, it had been child's play for Nebula Six to seize him with his bone-spears and hold him aloft. From there, the Widow just channeled Cold Harvest through those spears -- guaranteeing a frozen death for whatever they were piercing while sparing her and her ally from the aftereffects. A white mist swirled throughout the room, but not nearly cold enough to kill.

That was how you prepared the battered corpse of a Supreme.

It was almost beautiful: frozen above them, still held in place, an ice sculpture tinted red by its own gore. The limbs twisted the wrong way around, the skin burst open from the sudden pressure, the head replaced by a stump -- the first spurt of blood frozen in a moment that made it look like a firework.

The Widow lowered her cane, letting out a misty breath. She certainly hoped this didn't make her Supreme now. Her legs shook for a moment, the exhaustion of age, but she did not fall to it. This place was still a battlefield -- she couldn't afford to let her guard down.

"Old lady," Nebula Six grunted, his eyes fixed on the carcass up above. "You okay?"

"As well as can be expected," she nodded. "That was the Landgrave of Brainen back there, yes? We should get him to safety."

Beckett del Brainen narrowed his golden eyes. "This asshole was pretending to be the Lesser Chain's Nebula. That traitor Raise'll be lurking around somewhere too. He can't get away."

"One thing at a time," the Widow grunted, turning on her heel. "First we get the Landgrave somewhere safe, and then… yes… then is the time for vengeance."

The look in the Widow's eyes surely told Beckett del Brainen all he needed to know. This was no pacifist he was dealing with -- she shared his desire for bloody retribution. When the time came for Albert Raise's judgement, even Nebula Six might be forced to flinch.

And so, without another word, he stalked past her -- heading back towards the safe room.

"Gemini Railgun."

He didn't get very far.

The thin blast of blue light surged out of the mist, slamming into Beckett and sending him flying backwards. The Widow saw it, as Nebula Six flew past -- the burning hole right in the centre of his chest. Against any normal person, it would have been a lethal wound. Against a Nebula, the coin was still in the air.

The Widow reacted immediately, swinging her arm and sending a hail of icicles flying off into the fog. She heard them thud into the wall… but that was all she heard.

No gasp of pain.

No splash of blood.

No body hitting the ground.

Just the icicles thudding into the wall… and, a second later, a voice.

"Just a head… haha, ah… to think… just a head…"

Hadrien's voice seemed to be coming from all around, like he'd become the room itself, his words bouncing off the walls oppressively. The Widow took a step back, her keen eyes flicking in every direction. She would not let herself be caught by surprise.

Claws of ice cooled themselves into existence over her fingers.

"I don't blame you," Hadrien's voice echoed. "I'm… haha, I'm actually kind of freaked out myself… just a head, huh… really…"

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, waiting for the inevitable strike. "How the hell did you survive that?!"

In the reflection of her ice-claws, she could still see Hadrien's corpse -- the decapitated cadaver frozen above them, the…

…the decapitated cadaver…

Oh.

"You've probably got it," Hadrien said breathlessly. "The thing that was holding me back… the process… well, it finished right on time."

Crunch.

"At the last second, I was able to record just my head and fire it away with Gemini Shotgun… I mean… oh wow… that is kind of crazy, right? I'd never have been able to risk that before… not without assurance…"

Crunch.

The Widow swung around in the direction of the incoming footsteps.

"And I mean… I know I keep saying it, but… to think, just a head… I was able to come back from just a head…? That's… that's just crazy…"

Crunch.

Dragan Hadrien stepped into view.

It was just as he'd said. He'd regenerated an entirely new body from just the stump of his neck -- a new body with which he was now walking steadily forward, naked as the day as he was born. He tore a UAP flag from the wall as he passed, wrapping it around himself to preserve his modesty -- but the look in his eyes didn't seem vulnerable at all.

Those were the eyes of someone who knew themselves invincible.

"Just from a head…?" the Widow breathed, mist rising from her mouth.

"That's what I'm saying," Hadrien replied, coming to a halt. "I know I look calm, but I'm actually kind of freaking out right now."

Three meters between them, and the wreckage of a couch. That obstacle would delay any attack, even if only slightly. She'd have to keep it in mind.

"Pierrot," the Widow said coldly. "Why did you kill him?"

"He had something I wanted. The only way to take it was to kill him. It's as simple as that."

The Widow narrowed her eyes. "I take it whatever you took was the reason for your… clumsiness, then. Something mental? An Aether modification or something of that nature? It took some time to settle… but now you have full access to it, yes?"

Hadrien stared at her with eyes blazing blue.

"Pierrot never told you about it," he mused, smiling slightly. "But you're smart. I suppose it only makes sense that you were able to figure the general shape out through context clues."

The smile dropped.

"It thinks we should kill you now."

It was the strangest thing.

In that moment, as the Widow stood across from the Supreme, in that cold and misty space… she swore she could hear bells.

She could hear them as she lunged forward.

She could hear them as she thrust her claws.

She could hear them as --

Blue.

-- as she fell.

As she fell back on the floor, the victim of a single clean shot, the bells continued to echo in her mind. Church bells. Chapel bells. Bells from a day long since frozen over. A chuckle tried to rise to her lips, but she had no more breath to give it.

How strange.

Why am I thinking about that now?

She never found out.

Dragan Hadrien looked somberly down at the Widow's body.

Ideally, he hadn't wanted things to go like this. She had been Skipper's teacher, after all -- even if not beloved, she'd still been a part of his life. In Dragan's head, he'd played around the idea of recruiting the Widow to his side, of leaving this place with the two of them as allies… but that had been nothing but a daydream. The Prince had lent him enough context to make that obvious.

It was the strangest thing.

He'd expected having the Prince inside his mind would feel like having Pan inside his mind… but no, not at all. Rather than having another guest inside his house, it felt like the house itself had been expanded with new corridors and wings. His thoughts seemed to flow so much more quickly, so much smoother, like the resistance had been removed.

He looked down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist, pondering how it now felt subtly but unmistakably different.

It would take some experimentation to get used to the Prince's presence -- and he had to make sure not to fall into the same trap as Jaime Pierrot. He wasn't the Prince's master, but it's accomplice. They were using each other, and that was the extent of it.

The only one who decides what happens to me is me.

Dragan Hadrien turned on his heel, took a single step, and stopped. He looked down.

"Oh," he said. "You're still alive?"

Nebula Six, Beckett del Brainen, was all but dead. His face was pressed against the floor, his hair pooled around his head, and he'd left a generous trail of blood behind him… and yet he'd managed to crawl across the floor and grab hold of Dragan's leg. "I won't let you get away"? Was it that sort of thing?

Dragan shook the weak grip free and pointed his index finger down at the prone figure. If he proceeded to the safe room and resuscitated the Landgrave, there was the possibility of using Nebula Six at a later date… but no. It wasn't worth the risk. He might draw his own conclusions from what the Widow had been saying.

Images clicked together in Dragan's mind. The move he'd used to finish off the Kaiser, distributing a single shot throughout an area nigh-simultaneously. If he applied the same principle…

He opened his mouth and spoke the words.

"Gemini Coilgun."

It was more a beam than a blast, the aurora of blue light scorching forth from Dragan's finger and devouring the space presented to it. When the light finally faded, naught remained of the target save a severed arm and a clean hole burnt straight through the floor.

And the floor below that.

And the floor below that.

And the floor below that.

Dragan lowered his hand and turned away. The residual heat from the Gemini Coilgun had done its work -- his former bloody corpse dropped down from above, splatting into a pile of viscera right in Dragan's path. He didn't mind: Dragan walked right through his own gore, trailing red footprints behind him.

There was still work to be done today, after all.

The first hell had opened its mouth.