Seventeen Days Before Avaman’s Attack…

Atoy Muzazi's fists shook with rage as he looked at the grim hologram above.

It was a display of the aftermath on the planet Ipsum, the site of a Special Officer supply station. Two bodies were slumped on the ground -- the Officers who had been attacked -- while a bearded man orated silently, the hologram muted for this replay. The things this man had declared were scandalous, but Muzazi's mind was focused entirely on those two sad bodies.

"Who are they?" he asked.

Gretchen, who was operating the projector, followed his gaze. "The Officers?" she checked her script. "Uh… Blair Trace and Dule McMaloit, serving Special Officers for three years now. Once the enemy sent this message to Commissioner Caesar, a medical ship was dispatched from the nearest lightpoint -- Trace was dead at the scene, and McMaloit's in critical condition."

To lose one's partner in circumstances like this… Muzazi's heart went out to Dule McMaloit. If he woke up, he would experience that same unbearable despair that he’d once felt.

This emergency meeting had been called in the middle of the night-cycle. The Seven Blades had gathered in this briefing chamber to view the message that Caesar had forwarded to them. As a matter that concerned the status of the Supreme Heir, this was something under their jurisdiction alone. All the same, Muzazi couldn't help but notice that the Heir herself wasn't present. He wasn't sure how appropriate that was.

On the hologram, the speaker's silent speech reached its climax once again, and he revealed the golden-cloaked child -- declaring him the true Supreme Heir. Baltay reached over to the projector, pausing it just as the child stepped into view.

"The more important question, I think," he mused. "Is who is he?"

Edward rubbed his beard. "It could be anyone -- a street urchin snatched from a street corner, maybe, dressed up in that gaudy cloak to add a sense of authority. This is nonsense."

Ionir Yggdrasil creaked in the corner. If that was meant to be some kind of contribution to the conversation, nobody acknowledged it -- and if Ionir took offense to that, he didn't show it. He simply continued to stand silently, right next to the similarly mute Mariana pan Helios. They made quite the pair.

Muzazi sighed, looking down from the hologram. "I have to agree with Mr. Grace. I don't see why these ruffians bringing out some random child is a cause for concern? There's no proof that the boy has any qualifications to become Supreme Heir."

Baltay circled the hologram, inspecting the recorded scene from every angle. "You recognise this man?" he asked, nodding towards the bearded leader.

"I don't, no," Muzazi shook his head. "Should I?"

"That's Hans Allier," Gretchen said, scrolling through her script. "Former cult underpunk musician -- emphasis on cult. He talked a huge number of his fans into a mass suicide, believing they'd go to the afterlife he talked about in his songs. They drank poison, he drank water, and just walked away. This is a guy who knows how to gather support."

Morgan was sitting some distance away, lounging as he listened in to the conversation. "Quite the scumbag, then. What about the other two?"

"Bald guy's a Victor Yun," Gretchen continued, flicking his image up as a secondary hologram. "Big-time bank robber, until he tried hitting the military bank on Nax. The girl goes by the name Nin. High-class assassin for hire."

"Quite the eclectic bunch," Baltay grunted.

"The only thing they have in common," Gretchen concluded. "Is that they were all being held in cryogenic confinement at Graystate Orbital Penitentiary Centre until two months ago. The systems malfunction, unfreeze the three of them, and they break out. No idea where the kid came from.”

"This little gang has made some minor appearances since," Edward picked up, hands clasped behind his back. "But only minor matters: starship theft, robberies. Killing a Special Officer of the Supremacy is beyond the pale."

Baltay looked up, into the cold eyes of the man frozen in time above him.

"It's a statement," he said. "They want to show us they're serious. The Supreme Heir was produced through artificial insemination after decades of the Body negotiating with the Supreme. Aclima has never even met her father. Given her….difficulties, there have been misgivings raised about her position in the past, but we, ah…"

He tapped his hand against his sheathed blade.

"...we quashed them. But if there's a viable alternative Heir, one that's even slightly plausible? People will start picking sides. It'll get messy."

"So what do we do, oh capitan?" Morgan snarked, raising an eyebrow.

Baltay closed his eyes -- and when he opened them again, his gaze was firm. "We eliminate them -- all of these so-called Kingmakers. We track them down and crush them with enough force that nobody else will think of pulling the same trick."

Muzazi leaned over the table, a worrisome thought on his own mind. "The boy, though," he indicated the child in the golden cloak. "What about him? He's clearly being used by these people. What happens to him?"

Behind Baltay, Edward blinked. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said quietly -- but his eyes told another story.

The dark mood was lifted in an instant as the hologram flickered away and the room returned to normal lighting. Morgan squinted as he rose to his feet, eyes robbed of the darkness they'd just become accustomed to. Baltay slapped his hands together as if cleaning away the unpleasant thoughts that had broiled around in this space.

"At any rate!" he declared. "We'll have tracking automatics dispatched to close in on their current location -- as soon as the Kingmakers make a move, we'll head to intercept. In the meantime…"

Baltay's eyes drifted over to Muzazi -- and a moment later, he realised that all the eyes of the Seven Blades were on him.

"What?" he asked, glancing around cautiously.

"You're a new member, Atoy!" Gretchen grinned. "There are traditions we've got to honour here, y'know!"

"Indeed," Edward nodded.

"But, what about the Kingmakers?" Muzazi pressed, with more than a hint of desperation. "Shouldn't we focus on them? Like Mr. Kojirough said, this is a dire threat!"

"It is, it is," Baltay said reassuringly, stepping over and slapping a hand on Muzazi's shoulder. "But we can't do anything about it yet. We have to keep our minds on what's in front of us, Atoy."

Muzazi furrowed his brow. "And… what is in front of us, sir?"

Baltay grinned. "Your welcome reception, of course. Do you own a suit?"

Oh. Oh dear.

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

Atoy Muzazi adjusted his bowtie. Then, he adjusted it again. And again. Finally, accepting that it would never look good on him, he removed his hands and left it to its imperfection.

Frowning, he looked at himself in the mirror. This was the first time he'd worn a tuxedo, and he'd already decided that it would be the last. The black suit with its white trim made him look somewhat like an uncomfortable penguin. Besides the sheath on his hip, nothing about the person he was looking at felt like him.

"Satisfactory?" queried the automatic that had brought him the clothes, its many thin arms twitching in the air.

"Satisfactory," Muzazi echoed, nodding, and the automatic scurried out of the closet.

Apart from the Seven Blades and the Heir herself, the Child Garden had no crew. All maintenance and custodial matters were handled by a legion of automatic servants, with an auto-brain directing the ships flight path. It gave the ship something of a lonely feeling -- from what he'd heard, even the Shesha had a bigger crew than this.

Muzazi's frown deepened as he stared at himself in the mirror. The suit was one thing, but the very fact they could even entertain the idea of having a party was another thing entirely. Their fellow Special Officers were dying in the field, and in response they'd be sipping drinks and swapping gossip? None of it sat right with him at all.

Neither did this bowtie. He reached up and tore it free with a grunt, tossing the resultant mess of fabric onto the floor. A cleaning automatic hurriedly devoured it.

He sighed. He could throw his tantrums all he liked, but Muzazi knew that he didn't have the authority to actually change anything that was happening yet. The reception would go ahead, and that would be the end of it. All he could do was grit his teeth and endure.

From what Muzazi had been told, all sorts would be showing up for this party. Other prominent Special Officers, members of the Body, Ascendant-General Toll -- and even one of the Contenders, from what he understood. Countless people who no doubt had more important things to do. Muzazi did not relish the idea of being the centrepiece of a gathering like that.

At any rate, he could only stand here and grouch about it for so long: the guests were already in the process of boarding.

He'd seen them earlier, out of the window that took up an entire wall of his living quarters. A plethora of small personal ships, connecting themselves to the Child Garden with long extensions like umbilical cords.

Not even the Ascendant-General had come in a warship -- no doubt that could be perceived as a threat to the Supreme Heir. Most likely they had defenses hovering just outside of scanner range, though, ready to swoop in at the first sign of danger. These were not careless people.

Muzazi was pulled out of his thoughts by a tap-tap-tap from the door. From beyond it, Gretchen called out: "You ready there, Atoy? There are people waiting for you, y'know!"

He sighed. This was just another unpleasant task that had to be dealt with. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"I'm ready," he replied, opening the door and stepping out. "Which way to the function room?"

Gretchen, who had changed into a simple red dress, raised an eye at his ruffled collar and absent bow tie. "You, uh, you alright there, Atoy?" she asked. "You're kind of missing…"

"It's fashion," Muzazi interrupted. "Shall we go?"

They walked down the hallways side by side, the sights and sounds of the jungle surrounding them. As they made their way towards the ship's function room, Muzazi found himself glancing down at the small woman beside him. It was a little disconcerting that he seemed to have been given a chaperone, but he supposed he was the guest of honour at this party. It wouldn't do for him to get lost.

"It's been a while since such a crowd's showed up, y'know," Gretchen spoke up chirpily. "The Ascendant-General's a dutiful kinda guy, so he always makes an appearance, but the Clown of the Supremacy too? Are you a big deal or something, Atoy?" She chuckled to herself, as if at some private joke.

The Clown of the Supremacy?

"Wu Ming is here?" Muzazi asked, surprised. He hadn't seen that man since the events on Nocturnus. That seemed so very long ago now…

Gretchen nodded. "Mm-hmm. He didn't even show up for Morgan's reception, so you really are a lucky boy. I'd bet Morgan is really sore about it, huh?"

Muzazi furrowed his brow. "How so?"

"Well," Gretchen looked up at him, the sly smile of gossip on her lips. "Morgan's the Clown's apprentice, y'know? Ming taught the guy how to fight, how to use Aether… there are even rumours -- and you didn't hear this from me -- that Ming got Morgan his spot in the Blades. So he could even be a spy, y'know?"

"I… suppose."

Despite his recent experiences with Jean Lyons and the GID, espionage wasn't especially Muzazi's arena, so he couldn't comment on that… but Morgan Nacht did seem the type.

"Baltay's probably sore, too," she continued, voice low. "He was expecting Paradise Charon to show up, y'know? But he gets the Clown. Funny."

This conversation was quickly growing uncomfortable. Judging from the dark look on Gretchen's face and the bitterness in her voice, she seemed like the one who was 'sore', but Muzazi didn't speak that thought aloud. It would be unacceptably rude, after all, and there was always the possibility he was misinterpreting something.

"Anyway," Gretchen brightened up as they turned the corner. "Function room's right through here. Everyone's already waiting for you, so you just need to give a little speech and -- oh."

The doors to the function room were certainly in front of them -- but standing before them, blocking their path through the hallway, was Mariana pan Helios. Her face was hidden behind that same dark veil, and her black war-robes brushed against the floor.

She certainly hadn't gotten changed for the party. If nothing else, though, her intentions seemed clear -- she'd positioned herself right in the middle of the hallway. She definitely intended to impede their path.

But why?

"Uh, Mariana," Gretchen ventured, looking pale as she glanced away. "Could you move?"

Mariana did not move. Mariana did not speak. It was hard to tell because of the veil, but from the angle of her head she surely must have been staring at them. The rose smell of her pungent perfume filled the hallway.

Gretchen tugged at Muzazi's sleeve. "Probably best if we go another way," she laughed nervously. "We can go back at that junction and just take the long way around."

Muzazi frowned. Was the prospect of squeezing past her own teammate really so frightening? And for that matter, why was Mariana choosing to block their path? The whole situation was bizarre.

He stepped forward, ignoring Gretchen's squeak of alarm, and extended his hand. "I don't believe we've spoken yet, Miss pan Helios. I'm sure you know this, but my name is Atoy Muzazi."

Slowly, Mariana cocked her head, as if the words Muzazi had spoken were somehow confusing. The handshake Muzazi offered went unreciprocated. His frown deepened.

"May I ask why you're blocking our way?" he continued.

There was no answer.

"May we pass?" he narrowed his eyes, finally becoming just a little bit aggravated at the silence.

There was no answer -- but, a moment later, Mariana stepped out of the way. Her movement was exceedingly graceful and utterly silent, black robes swaying like a banner in the air. Even as she moved, though, the direction of her head did not change -- and so she looked off instead into empty space.

Muzazi wasn't sure what exactly to make of that, but he wasn't one to forget his manners. "Thank you," he nodded respectfully, before stepping past her. As expected, there was no answer.

Gretchen glanced nervously back at the stationary Mariana as they reached the doors. "Jeez, I should really tell Baltay she's wandering around out here…" she muttered, before turning to the doors as well. "Anyway. Anyway! We're finally here. Ready to make your speech?"

Muzazi grimly nodded. He'd never been one for oration, but he'd give it his best shot.

The doors slid open.

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

Muzazi took a bitter gulp of his drink, scratching his uncomfortable clothes as he sat at a table in the back of the function room. What a disaster that had been. Some of the most prominent individuals in the Supremacy right in front of him, and all he'd been able to manage were a few terse words about doing his duty.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

He ran a hand back through his hair, made moist by sweat. If nothing else, he supposed, he'd been honest. He was a terse sort of man. Anything too extravagant would have been giving off a misleading impression.

All the same, he couldn't help but feel the crawl of embarrassment as he ran his eyes over the milling guests. Prominent Special Officers like Dariah Todd Harlow, the Commissioner's aide, along with members of the Body and military both. He’d humiliated himself in front of them.

Then, of course, there was the biggest guest of all -- literally. Ascendant-General Toll, the commander of the Supremacy's military -- second only in rank to the Supreme himself. He was as Pugnant as Pugnant gets, his hair a bright red and his eyes a resplendent gold -- he even had the slit pupils which were so rare these days. His hair had been cut short with military precision -- the lone survivor being the bushy red moustache that hung over his lip.

He towered over every other guest, equal in height to the inhuman Ionir Yggdrasil, his white military suit and flowing cape making him seem like a marching parade all by himself. Muzazi had heard stories about the Ascendant-General using a shotgun as a pistol -- and looking at the beast of a man, he could believe it.

He seemed to have made himself scarce at some point, though, and the other guests had quickly lost interest in Muzazi. They were fussing quite a bit over the Heir in her frilly white dress, though, paying their respects with opportunistic eyes. It was all Edward Grace, at her side, could do just to keep them in an orderly line.

It was quickly becoming clear to Muzazi that this reception wasn't for him, exactly -- it was just an excuse for them all to come together.

Soft piano music swam throughout the room, providing an impromptu soundtrack to the murmurs of conversation. The party goers had split off into their little groups, speaking quietly to each other, automatic servers ferrying food and drink to and fro. Like the hallways, the walls of the function room were displaying a false environment -- a hedge maze, stretching off in every direction, right into the horizon.

Muzazi glanced to the side -- just in time to see a man he didn't recognize approach his table.

"Not much of a speechmaker, are you, Maizer Muzazi?" the man said.

He was pale, with high cheekbones and a pair of red eyes that looked more than a little bloodshot. His blue suit hung limply off his thin frame, and he'd brought his own drink -- although it seemed he'd taken a whole bottle rather than a glass. He fell into the chair next to Muzazi without waiting for permission, taking a swig of his drink.

"I suppose not," Muzazi said, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "And you are…?"

"Eion Stenhouse," the man grinned, offering a long-fingered hand. "Body Special Envoy."

Muzazi accepted the handshake, noting that the other man seemed to put no strength at all into the motion. "A pleasure. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the Special Envoy."

"It's a big nothing of a job," Stenhouse laughed, clicking his long fingers against his glass. "Mostly ferrying messages back and forth between the two branches. Working things out logistics-wise between the Body and the Military. Not much to write home about, but it's enough to get me into sources of free booze like this. "

"I see." Muzazi wasn't sure what, if anything, he was supposed to say in response to that.

"How about you, though?" Stenhouse leaned back in his chair, planting his feet on the table before them. "Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. That's something, huh? You’re nervous?"

"All I can do is my best," Muzazi replied stoically. "Whether I fail or succeed is down to myself alone. Nervousness doesn't come into it."

"Well," Stenhouse took another swig -- giving Muzazi the distinct feeling his answer hadn't been listened to. "So long as you don't defect, you'll be doing better than ol' Lusifer Westmore. You can take some solace there, huh?"

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that name."

"Morgan Nacht's predecessor," Stenhouse went to indicate the man himself -- only to stop when he realised he wasn't present. "No surprise you don't know him, he wasn't here long. He ditched the Supremacy for the UAP, then I hear he ditched the UAP for something else. Rush was pissed."

Muzazi raised an eyebrow. "You knew Nigen Rush?"

"Sure!" Stenhouse threw his arms back as he lounged. "I've been part of these circles for a good long while, Maizer Muzazi. I'm familiar with all the big faces. A good friend to have, don't you think?"

"What sort of person was he?" Muzazi asked.

The hallucinations he'd experienced -- which thankfully seemed to have now subsided -- had given Nigen Rush some negative associations in his mind, but for a long time Muzazi had idolised the man. His strength, his humility, his skill with the sword… but he'd become aware recently that appearances could be deceiving. He couldn't help but feel doubt, even about the things he'd once treasured most.

Had the person he'd looked up to really existed?

Stenhouse frowned, but kept talking all the same. "What kind of person? Well, he was an idealistic sorta guy. Guys like that, generally, are either naive or crazy. Funny thing, though: most of those guys, you get situations where they're willing to bend their ideals -- or, or they break, you get me?"

"Not him?" Muzazi asked.

"Nope," the word popped out playfully from between Stenhouse's lips. "This guy's ideals didn't bend or break. They just smashed right through everything else. Incorruptible, I'd say. It was terrifying."

"Terrifying?" Muzazi furrowed his brow. "I can’t see how that would be terrifying.”

Stenhouse chuckled, raising his hands up and down his own body. "Look at me, pal," he said, voice low. "I am the corrupt. There wasn't a moment that guy was looking at me where he didn't want to cut my head off."

"I… see." While Muzazi couldn't pretend that this Eion Stenhouse was a pleasant person to speak to, he didn't know if he would go that far.

There was a lull in the conversations of the crowd, and Muzazi turned his head to look to the source. It was immediately obvious: Mariana pan Helios seemed to have come back from the hallway. The veiled woman was walking across the room, her footsteps so light that it seemed as though she was gliding. She cut right through the crowd itself, interrupting conversations and knocking drinks out of hands. A swarm of cleaning automatics scurried after her, clearing up the collateral damage.

"Oh," Stenhouse followed Muzazi's gaze. "Now there's a tragedy."

Muzazi kept his eyes fixed on Mariana as she took up a guard position at the far wall. Baltay detached himself from a conversation with a Minister and stepped over to her, whispering something in her ear. In response, she simply clasped her pale hands.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, everyone's heard the rumours," Stenhouse grinned, leaning over the back of his chair. "She used to be real close with ol' Nigen Rush. Real real close, if you catch my drift. Real real real --"

"Yes," Muzazi snapped, finally losing a bit of his patience. "I understand the implication."

If Stenhouse took offence at Muzazi's anger, he did not show it. He just kept right on talking. "Well, back in the day, Nigen Rush and Baltay Kojirough had their little duels all the time. Nothing serious, just testing their own skills or whatever. Until one day, Nigen Rush ends up dead. And if you believe the gossip," Stenhouse snickered. "She was on Baltay's side when it happened."

"She fought alongside him?"

"Nah, nah," Stenhouse shook his head. "But she was Baltay's cheerleader, not Nigen's… if you believe the talk. So now she's got a nice mixture of guilt and grief -- perfect recipe for a nutcase. Like I said, real tragedy."

As Muzazi looked at Mariana, standing so still, and listened to Stenhouse's cruel words, hot anger flooded through his veins.

He himself had been adrift in the sea of grief not so long ago. He had no right to judge how someone else traversed it -- and neither did anyone else.

Muzazi cast his glare towards Stenhouse. "I don't think there's anything perfect about that, worm," he said, standing up. "And it's clear that I was right: this isn't a place I'm suited for. I belong on the battlefield, not some ballroom!"

Stenhouse's face changed.

All the gluttony and lust and contempt drained from it, leaving a slack expression. The closest thing to emotion was the slightest trace of mocking pity -- the face one made when looking at a child who had said something very very stupid. A shiver went down Muzazi's spine.

This was not a person he was looking at. This was the face of statecraft.

"Oh, Maizer Muzazi…" Eion Stenhouse said quietly, his voice a blank slate. "You don't think you're on the battlefield?"

The babbling of the party went on uninterrupted. Muzazi stared for a few long moments into Stenhouse's empty eyes, and then -- without really thinking about it -- found himself forced to walk away.

He didn't belong here.

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

Muzazi left the noise and light of the party behind him, wandering off through the hallways of the Child Garden. He passed through virtual volcanoes and forests, deserts and springs, without any particular goal in mind. His thoughts were in just as much turmoil as his body, mind leaping about as he searched for some kind of destination.

Blair Trace. Dule McMaloit. One rotting in a coffin, the other comatose in a hospital bed. Perhaps McMaloit had already woken up. Perhaps he was weeping, gnashing his teeth, cursing his own powerlessness. And what of the ones who should have been avenging him?

Laughing, drinking, eating, dancing, entertaining. Lowering themselves to games of words and insinuation, dishonesty and secrets. Muzazi couldn't help but feel that the tuxedo he was wearing was some disgusting parasite, clinging to his skin.

Eventually, intentionally or not he could not say, Muzazi found himself at the arena. The room was even emptier than usual, the stands bare, the arena itself a stark patch of land. The lights, of course, were already on.

After all, emptier didn't mean empty.

Alexandrius Toll, Ascendant-General of the Supremacy, smoked a cigarette as he looked down at the empty arena. It was as if he was spectating an imaginary battle, his golden eyes observing thoughtfully as opposing wills clashed. He nodded to Muzazi as he entered.

"So you're the man," he said, taking a weary drag. "Atoy Muzazi. You're not quite what I expected."

Even in his daze, Muzazi bowed respectfully. "And what did you expect, sir?"

"A talker," the Ascendant-General sniffed. "Can't stand talkers. You're doing well in that regard, Officer. What are you doing here?"

The stereotype surrounding Pugnants was generally one of boisterousness and simplicity, but Toll gave quite the opposite impression. His voice was soft, almost quiet, and the look in his eyes suggested some great thoughtfulness that eluded conventional understanding. Even so, every word he spoke was a command. Toll, a guest, had just asked what business a person living in the Child Garden had wandering its halls -- and Muzazi had found it perfectly natural. In fact, he found himself instinctively straightening up.

"The party didn't agree with me, I'm afraid," Muzazi said, ascending the stairs to join Toll. "Too many… talkers. I think I agree with you about them."

Toll chuckled, one hand planted on the railing. He looked as if he could crush it with just the simplest application of force. "Job isn't what you expected, is it?"

Lying did not even occur to Atoy Muzazi. He shook his head. "No, sir."

"And what did you expect, Officer Muzazi?" Toll tossed his spent cigarette onto the floor, and a cleaning automatic snatched it up.

Muzazi squeezed his hands. "Something of… substance, I expected. Assisting in the development of the Supremacy's next era, taking things that were wrong and making them right… not all of this politicking."

Toll's eyes seemed to twinkle gold in the dim light as he regarded Muzazi. "That dance is inescapable at this level of government, I'm afraid. The Body has itself wrapped around this place like a vine. We have to play their games."

"But why?" Muzazi ran an exhausted hand down his face. "I thought the Supremacy was about strength -- strength of character, if nothing else. But these people advance through secret alliances and blackmail and bribery and spies. So much talk of spies, who's spying for who, who should be friends with who… it's exhausting."

With the delicacy of a man who'd long ago learnt the measure of his strength, Toll took another tiny cigarette out and put it to his lips. There was the slightest spark of orange Aether, and when it cleared the cigarette was lit. "What I'm about to say," Toll spoke softly. "May seem slightly treasonous, Atoy Muzazi."

Muzazi swallowed. "Then perhaps it's best if you don't say it."

"Probably. But the fact of the matter is that, although I count the Supreme as a dear comrade, I cannot deny what he has become. Slothful. Indolent. The Body wields so much influence now because he has allowed them to snatch it up. He's happy to let them run his nation for him."

"He is the strongest," Muzazi said carefully, wondering whether this was some sort of test. "That is his right."

"Of course it is," Toll replied automatically. "But the results are as you see. The Body breaking free from their traditional role as facilitators and assuming governance. It's not just them -- the Special Officer's Commission, too, creating a generation of parasites, leeching off the Supremacy's goodwill. The things some of you get up to? If you were soldiers of mine, I'd have you shot."

Muzazi blinked. Given the rest of the evening, he hadn't expected the Ascendant-General to be so candid in his views. "What is the solution?" he probed. "In your mind, I mean?"

Toll sniffed again. "We're drunk on the ideas of mythology and personal glory. Nigen Rush. Baltay Kojirough. Names like these establish themselves, and so others try to imitate them. People wanting to benefit from the Supremacy, when it should be the other way around."

"The other way around?" Muzazi raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Toll said.

His demeanour had shifted as he talked, slouched relaxation turning into a rigid focus, as if he was now giving a speech to the assembled troops.

"The Supremacy should not be this crowd of competing interests," he growled. "That is the UAP's domain. We should be one nation, singular, concentrated on a single cause -- the evolution of the state, with a strong mastermind to lead the charge. Discipline of the masses -- military discipline. That is the only way for the Supremacy to survive into the new era."

Muzazi blinked at the deluge of information. "I… see. "

To be honest, that sentiment didn't sit well with him at all. At no point in his speech had Ascendant-General Toll mention what would be done with such power, what purpose the 'evolution of the state' would accomplish. It sounded like the pursuit of power for power's sake.

Toll was still talking, but he'd reverted to his casual tone: "As things stand now, alas, the bureaucrats are too deeply entrenched.” His face shifted. “If we had an Heir properly educated, though, one made sympathetic to the military cause, things could be different… what do you think of that?"

Muzazi looked up, and those golden eyes looked down at him. Ah. So yet another person wanted him to do their dirty work. The distaste must have shown up on his expression, as the slightest trace of shame swam across the Ascendant-General's face.

"I may hate the dance, Officer," he said, almost apologetically. "But that doesn't mean I can avoid it."

Muzazi looked away. "My apologies. I have matters to attend to."

"Of course. As you were."

Atoy Muzazi quickly abandoned the arena as well, finding himself walking the many hallways of the Child Garden once again. He knew he'd have to return to the party sooner or later. He'd be missed. If he wanted to rise through the ranks, it wouldn't do to be seen as an antisocial malcontent.

He clenched his fists in anger as that thought occurred: even he was part of this shadow game now, seeking advantage in deceit and subterfuge. It was like this place had infected him. The days when he'd had nothing to worry about but where to swing his sword seemed so pleasant now, off in the shining past.

As he passed a junction, Muzazi happened to glance off to the side -- where he saw them.

The walls of this hallway were displaying an ancient castle, and the false shadows of the walls hid the two people conversing from view for a moment. It took Muzazi's eyes only a moment to adjust and recognise the faces. Morgan Nacht, in a dark purple tuxedo -- and the Clown of the Supremacy himself.

Wu Ming, the Fourth Contender, wearing a gaudy pink suit with a collar of what looked like long white feathers. His hair was tied back in a ponytail, and a set of circular sunglasses rested atop his nose, the spectacles almost comically small for his eyes. He was saying something to Morgan, so quietly that it was barely audible.

Muzazi hadn't seen Ming since Nocturnus, when the Contender had saved him from Darkstar's berserker. He seemed no worse for wear from his battle against the Abyssal Knight.

Wu Ming stopped speaking to his protégé as Muzazi came into view, instead standing up straight and grinning. He offered Muzazi a friendly wave.

"Hey, pal! Ten-outta-tent!" he called out. "Mind if we talk to you for a --"

Muzazi kept walking.

More secrets. More lies. Not even the castle they schemed in was real.

This whole place was suffocating.

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

Muzazi splashed water from the sink into his face, getting some small measure of relief from the cool water on his skin. A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he hunched over the sink top, stray drops of water falling from his fringe.

He was alone in the bathroom -- just him, his thoughts, and his reflection. Muzazi stared at himself in the mirror. He looked unwell. He felt unwell.

Was something wrong with him? Surely a merely uncomfortable situation shouldn't have him like this. He could feel an almost physical nausea, welling up in his throat, like someone had spun him around a thousand times and let him loose.

His hand drifted down to Luminescence's scabbard, where he clutched the hilt for support. If nothing else, he had --

"Move," whispered Nigen Rush, right in his ear.

Muzazi whirled around and swung his sword -- just in time to deflect the golden arrow that had been aimed for his back. The projectile ricocheted off Luminescence and struck the opposite wall, where it lodged deep. The sound of singing metal filled the small room.

His eyes flicked around, searching for an adversary that was not present. Was the Child Garden under attack? Blade drawn, he cautiously made his way to the centre of the room.

The nausea was gone. This was his element.

"Above." Nigen Rush's voice was faint, barely audible -- but accurate.

Muzazi leaped out of the way as a second arrow speared down from the ceiling, burying itself in the floor and shattering the tile. This time, he saw where it had originated: there was an air vent on the ceiling -- with just the tiniest gap, just large enough for one of these arrows to slip through.

The situation was clear, then. This assault was aimed at him specifically. The arrows were an Aether ability -- fired from another part of the Child Garden, they travelled through the vents until they reached this bathroom and completed the attack.

Muzazi went to evacuate the room -- but as he turned his head, he saw another golden glint within the vent. A third arrow was coming. He couldn't look away.

With a flare of silver Aether, he applied thrusters to the bottom of the broken tile -- and it slammed up into the ceiling, serving as a makeshift lid against the vent. As Muzazi pulled the first arrow -- vital evidence -- free from the wall, he heard the discordant sounds of scraping stone and screeching metal from the other side of the barrier. Was the third arrow spinning like some kind of drill, trying to break through the tile?

At any rate, he'd bought himself the time he needed. Muzazi charged out of the bathroom -- and right into the party beyond it. The noise from behind him suddenly cut off, his unseen adversary seemingly unwilling to continue their attack.

His hand closed, and when he looked down he saw that the arrow he had been gripping was gone. Dissipated into Aether while his eyes were elsewhere, no doubt. He scanned the faces of the party goers before him, who kept on eating and drinking and chatting, but saw no traces of guilt. He thought of calling out, but did not: ill-considered words were wounds here.

Oh, Maizer Muzazi… you don't think you're on the battlefield?

The obvious conclusion could no longer be denied.

He was not among friends.