Atoy Muzazi reached out with trembling hands, taking Luminescence from Gretchen. He held it delicately, as though it were a piece of glass, as though the first moment of carelessness would shatter it once again. The light reflected on its perfect blade seemed so ephemeral, after all. It was as if it had never even been broken.

"But…" he breathed. "How?"

Gretchen Hail grinned up at him. "That stuff you did back on Panacea wasn't exactly quiet, y'know! Commissioner Caesar sent out a squad to investigate things -- and they managed to find the shards of this here beauty. From there, it was just a matter of reforging it -- and I'm pretty good at that. Kind of a welcome gift, right?"

Muzazi nodded. His eyes were wet, curious warmth running down from them and across his cheeks. "Yes," he said, voice shaking. "I… truly appreciate this. Thank you."

After everything he'd lost, everything he'd accepted losing, to have something he'd thought long gone return to him… the relief was indescribable. Assuming the old stance, he returned Luminescence to its empty sheath. He'd been wearing it out of habit, but now it paid off -- the feeling of that familiar weight at his side was the ultimate assurance.

It was like it had never been gone.

Muzazi wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "Thank you," he repeated. "Thank you all. You've gone to great lengths for me. I must thank Commission Caesar, as well, for her diligence."

"I'll take care of that," Gretchen said quickly, hands on her hips. "You don't need to run around thanking everyone for returning your own property, right? Just enjoy it."

"Even so, I…"

Baltay strolled around, patting Muzazi heavily on the back. "We look after each other here," he said reassuringly, smiling. "As one of the Seven Blades, it's best to accept you'll need to rely on your team sometimes, Atoy. You'll get countless chances to return the favour, I'm sure. Gretchen here is a real taskmaster, after all."

Gretchen pouted, her cheeks puffing out like a squirrel. "Hey!"

Muzazi chuckled, the lightened atmosphere raising his own spirits too. After the bout with Morgan Nacht, he'd been concerned about how things would turn out with the Seven Blades, but for the moment that unpleasant man seemed to be an outlier. These two, on the other hand, were keen on proving themselves friends.

"I don't know how I could ever repay this," Muzazi laughed, gripping his sheathed sword tightly.

"Don't worry," Baltay blinked. "You will."

----------------------------------------

These tunnel environments were beginning to grow stale, Baltay reflected, as he made the walk back to his quarters. The monitors were displaying the inside of an active volcano, lava frothing all around him, blackened rock forming the floor beneath. It was all very realistic, if you ignored the lack of heat.

It wouldn't do for the Supreme Heir to grow up with such limited surroundings: he'd put in a request for new videographs this evening. Baltay reached the door to his quarters -- but he hesitated as he reached for the access panel, hand hanging in the air.

"Morgan," he called out. "Is there a reason you're following me?"

Morgan Nacht stepped out of Baltay's shadow, a sly smile on his face. Those golden eyes, half-lidded, glanced over at him. "What gave me away?"

"Nothing," Baltay replied. "The Clown of the Supremacy has taught you well. I just foresaw that you'd finally speak up if the door opened."

"Ah," Morgan clicked his tongue. "Well, it's hard to get something past a man who can see the future."

Baltay turned, arms crossed. "Well? What is it I can do for you?"

Morgan's fingers drummed against his sheathed sword. "Atoy Muzazi," he said seriously. "Who is he?"

"He's the newest member of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. He's previously served as an independent Special Officer for the Supremacy. I'm certain you got a copy of his files, too."

"You know that's not what I mean," Morgan glared, pacing. "Why is he here? And why so soon? When Westmore left for the UAP, it was months before I was brought in to replace him. And yet Atoy Muzazi is summoned here within a couple of days. It's odd, wouldn't you say?"

Baltay sighed. "This is an important stage in the Heir's development. We can't be short-staffed right now. Anyway, you felt it for yourself, didn't you? He's skilled. I have to admit -- I was a little annoyed, the way you took that fight from me."

Morgan stopped, turning fully in Baltay's direction for the first time. "Didn’t have a choice."

"How so?"

"I was worried. I thought you might kill him -- the same way you killed his predecessor." Morgan did not blink.

Baltay froze for a moment. Then, he swung his head around to face Morgan, brow furrowed to its utmost. "Is that some kind of sick joke?" he snapped.

A shadow fell over Morgan's face, and his coldly analytical eyes stared right at Baltay. "You got yourself sealed into that mine on purpose, didn't you? That was meant to be your alibi -- but Gustavo was already missing by the time that happened. It doesn't prove a thing."

"Morgan," Baltay said seriously, standing up straight. "Are you being serious right now? I need to know. Do you really think I killed Gustavo?"

Morgan frowned. "I might."

"On what basis?" Baltay demanded. "Why me, specifically?"

"Well," Morgan took a deep breath -- and Baltay noticed for the first time that he was keeping a safe distance. "The wound was clearly delivered by a sword to the back -- so it was someone he trusted, someone he would let his guard down around. One of us. Ionir was using a halberd that day, so it wasn't him. Gretchen was with Ionir the whole time. Mariana always gave Gustavo the creeps -- there's no way he'd turn his back on her. Edward was up in the Child Garden. I know I didn't do it. Which leaves… oh. Just you, huh?"

"You say I have no alibi," Baltay said. "But the same is true for you. You landed with Gustavo. You were the last to see him alive. You were on good terms. Can you prove that you didn't stab him in the back?"

"If I were going to commit a murder, I think I'd have a little more panache than that."

Baltay glanced around the hallway, and -- satisfied by what he saw -- took a step forward, putting his hand on Morgan's arm. He'd already seen that Morgan wouldn't attack in response. Leaning in, Baltay lowered his voice.

"Morgan. You need to understand that I did not do this. I could not do this."

Morgan shook his arm free. "Like I said, I'm not going to just take your word for --"

"No. I mean I could not do it. Literally." He gestured down to his sheathed blade. "May I draw it?"

Morgan blinked. "...if you take three steps back, sure."

Baltay acquiesced, his sandals tapping against the floor as he stepped back thrice. The false volcano around them continued to shade their faces an eerie red, lines of orange scrolling down like videograph static. Slowly, as if wary not to frighten an animal, he drew Leviathan.

Even among the crimson confines, Leviathan's ghastly shade of green stood out. It was an unusual sword, the blade mottled and uneven like a piece of metal driftwood. Baltay held it out carefully, sleeves pulled up over his hands as impromptu protection.

"I've always wondered…" Morgan quietly muttered, looking down at the grim blade. "You always take care not to touch your sword's blade. Why is that?"

"That's what I want to show you. You see Leviathan's blade, the metal here? Strange, isn't it?"

Morgan rolled his eyes -- subtly, just slightly, but not nearly enough to escape Baltay's Cogitant gaze. "Leviathan…" he chuckled wryly.

"You disapprove of naming one's sword?"

"I just distrust those who confuse people and things."

It made sense. Now that Baltay thought about it, he'd never heard Morgan call his own weapon anything but 'my sword'. Gretchen would surely have a fit if she found out: she gave a name to every scrap of metal that crossed her vision.

A bore of a philosophy, but not one strictly relevant right now. Baltay cast the thought aside, shaking Leviathan in his grip. The metal rattled, the noise sounding almost moist.

"All the same," Baltay said bitterly. "The metal? You see it?"

"Yes."

"You know what it is?"

Morgan put an exasperated hand to his hip, leaning against the wall. The monitor fuzzed where his elbow made contact. "You know I don't," he sighed. "Just explain it if that's what you want to do."

"This material," Baltay pressed on. "Is called muzhang -- from the planet of the same name. It's highly toxic. Forget being struck by it -- even just touching it, without proper protection, can have debilitating effects. Death, in some cases."

Morgan's eyes scanned the poisonous blade, from left to right, right to left, as if some secret detail would present itself to him. After a few seconds, seemingly satisfied that it wouldn't, he glanced back up.

"A poisoned sword," he mused. "Hardly honourable, is it, sir?"

Baltay slowly sheathed his blade, toxic metal hissing as it returned to its nest.

He explained quickly: "I believe that not using every tool I have at my disposal would be more dishonourable than anything -- fighting like that, I might as well be saying that my opponents can't handle me. I use everything I can, and I expect the same from those who oppose me. Anything else would be a disgrace for all involved."

"Wow," Morgan said, mock-awe evident on his face. "Your justification almost sounds rehearsed. Why tell me this?"

Baltay grit his teeth. Nacht seemed intent to aggravate him with every word he spoke in this conversation, barreling through every effort Baltay made to reach out with all the grace of a rabid paleo-beast. Did the younger man really think that would net him any results?

But Baltay couldn't lose his temper -- not under these circumstances.

"Because," Baltay stressed the word. "Muzhang, the material Leviathan is made of, leaves traces in the human body when it cuts. You saw the results from Gustavo's autopsy, didn't you? There were no such traces. I couldn't have killed him."

The expression on Morgan's face didn't shift. "There's no guarantee you didn't use another sword."

Baltay scoffed. "Another sword? Where would I have hidden it?" He threw his arms out, flimsy war-robes hanging off of him. "Look at me!"

"You could have recorded it, manifested it to kill Gustavo, then recorded it again." Morgan slowly crossed his arms. "Maybe you tossed it off a cliff somewhere."

Baltay clicked his tongue, running a tired hand over his face. This entire conversation was utterly exhausting.

"Look at me, Morgan," he said, moving his hand back down. "It took me years of training in Abra-Facade to perfect my precognition, and when it comes to Aether that takes up nearly all of my capacity. I can't record like that, especially with a weapon I'm unfamiliar with. You understand?"

He was telling the truth, and his eyes confirmed it. Morgan slowly rose from his leaning position, his arms uncrossing, the first traces of uncertainty entering his expression.

"Do you believe me now, that I didn't do this?" Baltay sighed long-sufferingly. "That I didn't murder my friend?"

Morgan said nothing. He just raised his crooked finger up, pressed it against his chin, and thought. Long seconds passed.

Baltay took a step forward. "It's obvious you're looking into this, Morgan. I am, too -- believe me, I am. I'm doing everything I can, but we need to work together on this. We need to help each other. Don't you agree?"

Cogitant-blue eyes drilled into Pugnant-gold ones, demanding an answer, but none came. Morgan just turned and walked away, disappearing from sight at the junction. His footsteps faded away into nothing.

Shit.

Baltay sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night, wiping the accumulated sweat from his forehead. Before at last turning and entering his quarters, he spared a final glance down the hallway. A rueful smile crossed his lips.

Wu Ming's apprentice was good at shadowing, but not so adept at telling when he was being shadowed.

Mariana pan Helios stood at the end of the hallway, long war-robes brushing against the floor. The pale woman had been standing there the whole time. Morgan had even walked right past her, and yet he hadn't noticed. The dark veil hanging over her face betrayed nothing of her intentions as she stared directly at Baltay.

Baltay, for his part, said nothing to her. He knew that there was no point.

----------------------------------------

Eighteen Days Before Avaman's Attack…

"Dodge each strike!" Edward Grace barked, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the small Supreme Heir. "Remember -- you are a leaf in the wind! Let the current show you where to go!"

Muzazi slashed at the Heir with the blunt end of Luminescence, his sword so fast it was more an illusion of light. The Heir dodged the first strike by mere inches with a squeak of peril, but the other two smacked her, sending her sprawling down onto the ground.

"Ow, ow…" the Heir groaned, rubbing the arm she'd fallen on.

"Get up!" Edward snarled, stamping his foot on the floor with a resounding boom. "He'll attack while you're down!"

Muzazi raised an eyebrow. I will?

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Today, for Muzazi's first training session with the Supreme Heir, the arena was somehow even emptier than before. Apart from he and Aclima, who were sparring in the arena proper, the only other person in here was Edward, watching them sternly from the arena's edge.

His gaze had the intensity of an owl.

"Sir," Muzazi called out to him as the Heir picked herself up. "Isn't this a little harsh? It's been nearly an hour now of this."

"If training isn't harsh," Edward declared. "Then it isn't training -- it's just play. Aclima! Are you here to play?"

As the Heir rose to her feet, she shook her head, black ponytail flopping this way and that. "No, sir," she said quietly. Everything she did seemed to be quiet.

"Then why are you here?"

"To train and grow stronger, sir, to get the chance to become Supreme," the Heir responded, the rehearsal evident in her tone. She turned to Muzazi. "Please don't worry, Mr. Muzazi. Come at me again."

Muzazi had been surprised at the sort of person the Heir was. He'd expected someone like what he understood of her father -- a force of nature that barrelled through any obstacle -- but instead she was meek and unsure. Not to mention the fact that had no doubt prompted this intensive training: she couldn't use Aether. Her Core eluded the Seven Blades.

Without the ability to infuse and enhance her body, Muzazi personally found it quite impressive that she'd been able to dodge one of his attacks at all, but Edward clearly didn't feel the same. The crook of his brow only grew deeper as he watched Muzazi and the Heir exchange blows, again and again and again -- and the Heir fall to the ground, again and again and again.

"Will you dodge for the rest of your life, girl?" he barked, losing his patience. "Take a swing at him!"

The Heir obeyed, swinging her short training sword at Muzazi's head. Her timing and angle of attack was perfect, but -- even with her Pugnant strength -- the difference in their speed was simply insurmountable. Muzazi sighed and caught the weapon in his hand, silver Aether weakly sparking as he held it in place.

"This is fruitless," he declared. "I'd --"

"No, no!" the girl insisted, tugging on the sword. "No, I can do it! Let go!"

Muzazi wrenched the sword out of her grasp, sending her sprawling to the floor once again, before tossing it over his shoulder. With a flourish, he sheathed Luminescence, its bright light vanishing as it was hidden from view. It felt good to have his sword back -- like he'd regained a lost limb.

"I'd recommend," Muzazi continued. "That you focus on seeking out your Aether Core. Searching inwardly, not outwards. No matter how well you can swing a sword, it doesn't matter if your soul goes undiscovered. Meditation. Understand?"

Still sprawled out on the floor, the Heir slowly nodded, before pulling herself into a meditation pose. She closed her eyes, hands on her knees. If nothing else, she seemed eager to learn. In Muzazi's experience, that was half the job done.

Off in the corner, Edward stepped forward, unamused. "Careful now, boy…" he began.

"This is my training session, is it not?" Muzazi snapped, whirling around on the older man. "If you must remain here as a supervisor, then by all means do so, but do not interrupt again!"

Edward paused, raising his eyebrows in surprise at Muzazi's admonishment. The slightest wry smile crawled across his lips.

"Interesting," he chuckled. "It seems this generation's Special Officers are made of sterner stuff than I thought."

This generation? Muzazi found himself frowning. He was around the same age as the majority of the Seven Blades -- save Ionir Yggdrasil, whose lifespan was unknowable. "You don't approve of your colleagues?" he asked.

"Oh, there are exceptions," Edward grumbled, forcing his old bones down into a meditation pose as well. "There are always exceptions -- but most of the Special Officers I see today? Garbage. Obsessed with personal glory, disrespectful of their predecessors… my own family has raised Special Officers for generations, and do you know what we've fallen to? A hysteric for a daughter, a disobedient son, and a horde of absurd grandchildren."

"I… see."

To be honest, Muzazi hadn't asked for or particularly wanted such detail, but he supposed to say otherwise would be rude. A thought occurred, all the same -- he'd met another Grace, hadn't he? The detective Winston Grace, back on Nocturnus. Was he one of the absurd grandchildren that Edward was referring to, or was it just a coincidence?

Given the older man's demeanour -- and the lingering annoyance in his Cogitant-blue gaze -- it was probably best not to pry further.

Come to think of it, though… most of the Seven Blades, from what Muzazi could tell, were either Cogitant or Pugnant. He himself was the only definite Crownless among them -- save for Ionir Yggdrasil, who was a tree. Mariana pan Helios might have been Umbrant or Crownless, but to be frank it was impossible to tell with that veil hanging over her face.

He felt like something of an oddity here.

"Um," the Heir said from below, still sitting on the floor. "Mr. Muzazi? Is it okay if I ask a question?"

She clearly wasn't focused on the meditation, but Muzazi could only scold the Supreme Heir so much. "Of course. What is it?"

"You're very strong. That's because… you have something you fight for, right? A reason to get stronger?"

"I suppose it is. Motivation is important for a warrior -- perhaps the most important thing." He drummed his fingers across Luminescence's hilt. "Why do you ask?"

"If you don't mind me asking… if it's okay… why do you fight?" The girl opened her eyes, and the sheer uncertainty in them took Muzazi aback. She looked more than a little miserable.

Once upon a time, how would he have answered? For the Supremacy? For the glory of the Supreme? It wasn't as if Muzazi was disillusioned, but he felt as though his motivations were more… real now, as if they had more depth to them. He opened his mouth, briefly wondering himself what words would come out of it.

"I believe," he said quietly. "Strength is to be used to defend those without it. If you find yourself with strength, it's your duty to amass more, so that you can protect more and more. I suppose… a sword is for blocking blows, more than anything else."

The Heir blinked.

"Oh," she said, barely audible. Her eyes were wide, and her hands fidgeted in her lap.

"At any rate, back to your meditation," Muzazi commanded, the Heir quickly obeying. "Think of your motivations, the emotions that drive you. Immerse yourself in them, follow the trails they give you. That is the way to find your Aether Core."

As the Supreme Heir resumed her meditation, eyes almost comically squeezed shut, Muzazi strolled back over to Edward Grace. The older man opened his eyes as Muzazi approached. The slight smile he'd adopted earlier had completely vanished. Perhaps it had been an optical illusion?

"You don't approve?" Muzazi asked, leaning against the wall next to him.

Edward opened one eye, looking Muzazi right in his. Even sitting down, he was a giant of a man. "A sword existing just for protection? Dangerously idealistic -- and not the sort of ideal I'd like to take root."

Muzazi frowned. "Well, what would you say a sword is for, then?"

"Me?" Edward closed his eyes again. "A sword is for cutting down the obstacles in your path. Whatever shape they might take."

----------------------------------------

Ipsum, Many Lightyears Away…

It was a strange sensation, to look out at a world and know you were one of the only living things there.

Dule squinted as he scanned the black-and-white horizon of Ipsum, the landscape consisting of little more than bleached rocks and dark sky. The rebreather on his mouth puffed and huffed as it absorbed the toxic atmosphere, draining out whatever oxygen it could find in the mixture and expelling the rest. His arm was in a mechanical cast, painkillers and stimulants regularly injected to aid in his recovery.

Well… now that Dule thought about it, he wasn't exactly alone, was he? He glanced over his shoulder, at the small building embedded directly into the mountain. It was a bright white, so as to blend into its surroundings, so you could only really recognise it by the precise geometry that contrasted with the rocks around it. Cylinders had been placed regularly around the installation, providing heat -- if Dule walked too far away from base, he would literally freeze on the spot. It was a sobering thought.

The doors to the installation slid open, and Blair walked out, hands caked in dust. She limply shook her long green hair out of her eyes as she approached. Dule smirked to himself: she always looked so lazy, no matter how hard she worked.

"Brooding?" she asked, stepping alongside him.

"Not got much else I can do," Dule replied, indicating his mangled arm. "Not like this, anyway."

"Mm," Blair nodded. "How's it feeling?"

"Starting to get better," Dule said, running his good hand back over his dreadlocks. "Should be able to get this cast off in a day or two."

"Oh?" Blair raised a cheeky eyebrow. "I'm looking forward to that."

"Not the time. How's it looking in there?" Dule nodded back to the square building.

Blair's sly smile dropped. "Not good," she sighed, adjusting the straps of her overalls. "Doesn't look like any other Special Officers have dropped by in years, so everything's in complete disrepair. I'm walking through a sea of dust just to get anywhere. Refuel for the ship is going to take a while, I'm afraid."

Dule clicked his tongue.

Ipsum was something of a rest stop for Special Officers, right on the edge of Supremacy space. Missions often took them out into the borderlands, and those missions often ended up being messy. Places like this, where Officers could recover themselves, were invaluable.

Still, though… it had been three years now since Dule and Blair had passed the tests and become Special Officers together. This wasn't their first rodeo, but that last mission had been a bloodbath. Dule shuddered at just the thought of it. The other Officer they'd been working with, Baron Lunalette de Fleur, was as much of a monster as people said.

"How about the communicator?" Dule asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "That working?"

Blair nodded. "Looks like it. You going to report back to Caesar?"

"Probably better to do it sooner or later," Dule grumbled. "Though I can't imagine she'll be happy, what with the stunt de Fleur pulled. It'll be a pain…"

"Everyone knows what the Baron is," Blair said reassuringly. "You won't be blamed."

"We'll see. You coming?"

Blair just winked, tapping her rebreather. "Think I'll appreciate the fresh air."

"Of course you will," Dule smirked ruefully, turning back to the rest station. It was like he'd said: best to bite the bullet before Caesar had time for her anger to really boil over.

It was only a short walk back to the station. The sliding doors were caked with gunk, so Dule had to force it open with his good hand, leaving an angry red mark on his palm. He wiped the hand clean on his jacket as he stepped inside.

Yep, just as Blair had said. The only piece of equipment that seemed in working order was the hologram communicator, a blue light blinking on its side. Dule leaned over the flickering monitor, reaching down and typing in the address for --

Bang.

Dule whipped around, eyes wide, alarm spiking in his chest. After what had happened in the last few days, there was no way he'd mistake that sound. A gunshot.

He wasted no time. Green Aether sparking around him, he leapt out of the rest station, through the open door, and onto the cold surface of Ipsum. A thin blade of Surprise and Resolve drained from his mind and into his hand.

Even with that Resolve, though, what he saw drove him to an utter halt.

Blair was being held aloft in the air, weakly twitching -- impaled through the stomach by a long shard of jagged metal. It was floating, unburdened by gravity, Blair's blood running down its surface. He could hear her, just barely, gasping for breath that would not come.

On the other side of her streaming blood stood three people.

As Dule looked at the first man, he saw fragments of grey Aether weakening around him, like some effect had just stopped. He was a thin, gangly person, with a shaved head and mismatched eyes. Those eyes were fixed on Blair up above.

Next to him was a young girl with curly blonde hair, clad in a loose black straitjacket, its long sleeves hanging down at her sides. All of the interlopers were wearing rebreathers, but hers was more extravagant -- a dark gas mask, with a protrusion like the proboscis of an insect.

Behind the two of them stood the one who seemed to be their leader. He was an older man with thick, untamed hair and a scraggly beard, wearing an unkempt white robe. His brown eyes drooped heavily, giving him a passionless affect -- and, sure enough, Dule could see nothing behind that gaze.

The man with the shaved head was the only one still looking up at Blair. He was the one who had done it, the muscle, the immediate threat. Dule decided this in an instant.

He'd get rid of that one first.

"Two?" the gas mask girl cocked her head, voice muffled, right before Dule leapt off the ground.

Dule reached into himself, pulled free the Hatred he'd built up for this man, and wielded it as a sphere of energy in his hand. It was hot, deathly hot, enough to burn through skin and muscle both. He'd drive it right through this bastard's heart and kill him.

The shaved man leisurely extended his hand -- in it, he limply held a hatchet. A grin speckled with missing teeth spread across his face.

"Fusion Tool," he drawled, bitter grey Aether crawling over his weapon. "Detritus."

There was a flash of light, nearly blinding Dule -- and when it cleared, the man was still there, but the hatchet was gone. No, no, that wasn't quite accurate. It took Dule a fatal moment to work out what he was seeing.

Wielder and weapon had become one. A monstrosity.

The shaved man's skin had become cold iron, grey and dull, creaking as he moved, and the blade of the hatchet was protruding from the top of his head like a metal mohawk. That demented grin was still on his face, but now what looked like barbed wire was wrapped firmly around his teeth, lacerating his gums and causing blood to spill down his lips. Most strikingly of all, his wide eyes had turned a pitch black -- beyond the extent of an Umbrant, lacking even pupils.

Dule hesitated. He had no choice but to hesitate, for he had already been defeated.

A shard of metal had appeared, impaling his good arm, while two smaller fragments had taken care of his legs. There had been no flight path, no attack that Dule could have reacted to… just one second they hadn't been there, and the next they were. White hot pain attacked him from every direction as he collapsed to his knees.

"Don't kill him," said the group's leader, his voice morose yet somehow commanding. "It's better if there's a witness. Can you hear me, man?"

That last bit was addressed at Dule. The wounded Special Officer looked up, right into those droopy, empty eyes.

"Who are you?" he demanded, fatigue clogging his throat. "Who the hell are you people?"

The bearded man squatted down next to him, getting to eye level. "We're kingmakers, man. You understand me?"

He was close. If nothing else, Dule could take him out -- but the second that thought crossed his mind, another shard of metal had appeared in his shoulder, and the pain dislodged his intentions. The bearded man glanced at the metal monster, a crease of annoyance on his brow.

"I said don't kill him. You listenin' to me?"

The metal man's tongue screeched as it moved in his mouth. "He was about to go for you, boss!" he whined.

"I coulda handled it. Now shut your trap." The morose man turned his eyes back to Dule. "Now… look at you. Dule… Havestrom. Special Officer. Been one for about three years now, after joining with the lady up there. You grew up together, huh? Heartwarming stuff.”

Dule shook with pain and rage. “You know me?” he croaked.

“Aw, I know everyone, pal. It’s kinda my thing. But, hey -- brother -- I need you to listen carefully. I've got a message I want you to take back to your guys. You dig?"

Before Dule could open his mouth to spit in the man's face, the girl with the curly hair pointed up. "Alive," she said, almost disinterestedly.

The leader threw himself up to his feet furiously, his face dark. "Oh, for the love of --" He never finished. He was interrupted by a voice that Dule thought had already left this world.

"Mr. Puzzles!" Blair suddenly screamed, writhing on the length of metal, her blood spilling down on the gathering below.

As the liquid rained, sparks of blue Aether accompanied it, and the blood transformed -- turning as blue as the light, and strangely gelatinous. Pooling between the gathered parties, it quickly coalesced.

This, if nothing else, seemed to give their attackers pause.

Mr. Puzzles was absolutely unsuited for this environment. He was huge, the size of a house, composed entirely of blue slime -- with a black tophat perched atop his head. A cartoonish smiley face swivelled from position to position on Mr. Puzzles' face as it took its surroundings in -- or, to be more accurate, it identified its enemies.

"Mr. Puzzles!" it called out in its booming, dopey voice. "Get hit by the fist, you have to do a puzzles! Leeet's… PUZZLES!"

It moved with horrifying speed, turning all the way around and slamming its fist down towards the enemy leader like a hammer. Dule had seen Mr. Puzzles in combat many times, but he had never once seen a person survive a direct attack from it. Once struck, a person was meant to be forced to play a puzzle or have their Aether temporarily sealed, but the fact they were reduced to paste beforehand meant that Dule had never actually witnessed it.

But, that only applied if the fist could make contact.

The girl with the gas mask pointed at the incoming attack, her finger a deadly straight line, and spoke: "No."

There was a sound like warping water -- and the massive fist stopped inches from the leader's skull. It shook in place for a second or two, as if straining to break through something, but they never got the chance to see if Mr. Puzzles would have overcome it. Countless metal shards appeared inside his blue body, and he disintegrated into Aether.

Dule whipped his head up to look at Blair. "Don't!" he screamed -- but too late.

She was gone.

A final metal shard had appeared, going right through her eye socket, impaling her brain. A scream of anguish tore itself out of Dule's throat, echoing across the surface of Ipsum, perhaps the loudest sound the planet had ever heard. He looked at the floating corpse for long, excruciating moments -- before the metal shards vanished and Blair flopped uselessly to the ground in front of him.

"You got the right idea, man," the leader said from behind him. "Staying on your knees and all that. I dig it."

Dule turned his head back to the older man, angry tears running down his face. "Kill you…" he spat. "I'll kill you…"

"Careful, man," the leader snorted. "You know who you're talking to?"

"You're nothing."

Self-preservation was the last thing on Dule's mind, but combat was a non-starter. The best he could do was throw out insults, bruise this man's ego if nothing else. It didn't seem to be working; a sly smile spread across the man's face at his words.

"I wasn't talking about me, son," he chuckled.

He lifted up the cape of his robes, and a person stepped out who clearly couldn't have fit into such a limited space. It was a child in a golden cloak, a boy maybe seven or eight years old, with a bald head and a blank stare. His pale face looked down emotionlessly at Dule as the Special Officer collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from his injuries.

"After all…" the man continued. "You're looking at your real Supreme Heir."

Pain won the day, and Dule's vision swam black.