Two Minutes After Avaman's Assault…

The sound of clicking heels echoed through the cavernous hallways of the Shesha.

Paradise Charon frowned to herself as she walked to her destination. The Shesha was the crowning achievement of Supremacist technology, and it was also a pioneer in the art of wasting space. These corridors were so tall and wide that huge parts of them were bathed in shadow, the effort of lighting them fully being unfeasible -- and so the seat of power for the most advanced nation in the galaxy felt perpetually abandoned.

Ridiculous.

Once she was in charge, there would be some changes. The entirety of the Shesha would be modified -- keeping the unholy amount of firepower and automatics, but cutting down on the excess. It would be her -- it would be the Supremacy's spearhead, not its totem. When it came to weaponry, pragmatism was the most important thing. Spectacle was best left at the door.

She'd be a hypocrite if she denounced excess entirely, of course. Her own appearance was proof of that.

Today, she'd chosen to extend her hair and dye it a mysterious black, long enough to brush against the floor as she walked. A white dress shirt with a ruffled collar was embraced by a black corset and a long pleated skirt. Red face paint ran across her features in a fishnet pattern, and eerie white contacts rested over her pupils.

When she was young, she'd been deprived of the trappings of civilization. The closest they'd had to the concept of fashion was putting a pretty flower in your hair. Now that she was free of all that, she was determined to enjoy this world to the fullest.

No matter what devils she had to deal with.

She reached her destination. A bulky elevator located in the middle of a junction, guarded by two truly gargantuan automatics. Each was twelve-feet tall, their entire bodies decorated with firearms and weaponry. They were made by Halcyon Automatics -- the same corporation that had built the Hellhound's current body. Needless to say, the best that money could buy.

They did not move in the slightest as Paradise strolled by them and into the elevator. She'd gotten herself access to this part of the Shesha long ago, once she'd realized what it held. Now it as good as belonged to her.

The doors to the elevator slid shut, but it took a second for it to begin descending. If Paradise hadn't had access, that was the moment she would have been incinerated. She expected she'd be able to hold up against the flames for a good long while, given her strength, but eventually even she would succumb. The message was clear, all the same: no intruders could be allowed down here.

She waited patiently as the elevator descended and descended and descended, right into the heart of the ship. In stark contrast to the vast space of the rest of the vessel, the elevator was tiny, and Paradise could barely avoid scraping her head against the ceiling. She'd taken this trip many times, though. She knew exactly how long it would take -- one minute and twenty-one seconds, with the lift conducting various biometric tests as it descended. She doubted there was any other screening process in the galaxy as thorough as this.

Yes, the Shesha was a wonder of technology. A single ship, capable of taking on an entire planet's military all by itself. Enough automatics to launch an independent invasion. Efficient enough that, if needed, it could be operated by a crew of just one person.

The common myth went that there were only five people aboard the Shesha at any given time -- the Supreme and his four Contenders -- but that wasn't quite true. Since the day the Supreme had ascended to the throne, the Shesha had played host to another person entirely.

Yes… the Prisoner.

Once the elevator doors opened, Paradise had to pass through six more quarantine seals to get to the containment chamber. Crews of workers marched to and fro, conducting repairs on vital equipment. This facility was one of the few things the Supreme seemed to actually care about: long ago, he'd left a constant order for the cage to be kept in top condition.

"Anything I should know?" Paradise asked as the warden stepped up alongside her, scurrying to match her pace.

The warden, a weaselly-looking man with a thin mustache, shook his head. "Nothing I can say. The Prisoner hasn't spoken for several months now -- not since the last time you visited."

"How sweet," Paradise pursed her lips. "Has he been fed since then?"

The warden shook his head again.

"Any sign of starvation?" Paradise asked a question she already knew the answer to --

-- and once more, the warden shook his head.

The two of them came to the final door, a massive steel gate secured with additional bars and locks, and red alarms began to blare as it slowly opened. The scraping was such that the warden and other nearby workers had to slap their hands over their ears. Paradise didn't, of course.

"Please keep in mind!" the warden called out over the screeching metal. "You must not disclose any confidential information --"

"I'll do as I like," Paradise said stoically, stepping through the gap between the doors.

The heat of the containment chamber was immense -- but that only made sense. It was built directly into the engine itself. Paradise looked up to behold the cage's one and only occupant.

"Hello again, Paradise," the Prisoner said.

The Prisoner was a strange one to look at. His dark hair was perpetually arranged in some strange cross between a bowl-cut and a mullet, two long strands hanging down and framing his face like the antenna of an insect. His irises were the same dead black, those calm eyes looking down at Paradise like twin abyss'. His skin was a stark snow-white, and that was not from lack of sunlight -- he'd been the same since he first arrived, nearly seventy years ago. He was wearing the same clothes as when he'd first gotten here, too, a black straightjacket with the arms and legs tightly bound.

More than a hundred chains of pure Neverwire suspended him above a pit that terminated in the fiery abyss of the engine core. At the first sign of danger, he could be dropped in, annihilating him. If that bothered him any, he didn't show it.

He didn't even sweat.

"It's good to see you too," Paradise called up, her loud voice carried even further by the acoustics of the massive room. "How have you been?"

The Prisoner did not answer the question. "Baltay Kojirough has been taken to Greyhound Asylum. That's quite a loss for you, isn't it?"

Paradise frowned. This was the way most of her conversations with the Prisoner went.

There was something about his voice -- that high, soft voice that came from his lips and somehow permeated the entire chamber. It radiated utter benevolence and sincerity, and yet as he spoke… your brain would whisper to you. That's a demon, it would say. That's a demon you're listening to.

Not to mention the fact he'd just mentioned Baltay Kojirough. She knew absolutely that this man had no means of receiving information about the outside world, and yet he never seemed to run out of topics of conversation.

"He's replaceable," Paradise said casually. "Although I'll admit losing control of the Heir is a blow. I'll have to take steps to thank Atoy Muzazi for that little inconvenience."

The closest thing Paradise Charon had to a character flaw was her faith in the competence of others. Too often had that trust been betrayed. She'd thought Baltay would be an exception to that, but clearly not.

"I'd recommend you deal with Atoy Muzazi as soon as possible," the Prisoner said softly, chains tinkling slightly from his minimal movement. "Whether you kill him or bring him over to your side… it doesn't even matter if you're successful or not. What's important is the fact that you respond. If there's a response, then the situation becomes a struggle between two parties. If there isn't, then it's an undeniable surrender. That is the one thing you must avoid at all costs."

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

This was the reason Paradise had worked so hard to have access to the Prisoner. Without fail, every bit of counsel he'd given her had allowed her even greater prestige and glory. He had that kind of sinister wisdom to him.

Of course, she had no doubt that this advice had some ulterior purpose… some trap to bring ruin to her in the end. The Prisoner was that kind of person -- but so long as Paradise approached these situations carefully and with the foresight born of experience, such traps could never be sprung. She was not the sort of person who fell victim to these things.

She crossed her arms, pacing across the walkway. "That's easy enough for you to say, old man."

The Prisoner frowned. "Old man…? You're hurting my feelings…"

"Even if you haven't aged in seventy years, it doesn't change the fact that time has passed. You can tell me to 'respond' to the situation all you like, but that's easier said than done. You've been living it up here at Hotel Shesha, so perhaps you've forgotten: a response needs an actual strategy."

The Prisoner's calm smile returned. "You'll have your opportunity for that soon. Avaman has gone to fetch something important to both him and the Supreme."

"He told you this?"

"No. He should be getting his hands on it soon, though. A very interesting situation will then develop. Sorry… I don't know precisely what it will be, so I can't tell you. But you'll have your opportunity there. To kill him, or to make him your friend… well, I can't make your decisions for you. I have faith that you'll do the right thing."

Paradise tapped her foot against the grating below, considering the Prisoner's words. "...this… situation, then? It'll happen soon?"

"Before the day is out."

She stopped her pacing, looking right up at the hanging Prisoner once again.

"You realize, of course," she said. "That I wouldn't have to wait for opportunities like this if you just did as I ask. Fight the Supreme for me. He'd accept in an instant, and I could finish him off while he's distracted."

"I'm much too weak to manage something like that… it sounds scary… besides… do you really think a Supreme would be weak enough to be defeated by a tactic like that? I don't know…"

Paradise's eyelid twitched. "You really just do whatever you want, don't you?"

The Prisoner cocked his head innocently. "I don't know what you mean, though? I'm locked up here… I really can't do anything that I want… it's sad."

Well, he could say whatever he wanted. Paradise had the information she'd wanted. She didn't look back at him as she marched out of the containment chamber, or as the doors slowly sealed themselves shut behind her…

…but she was sure that, if she did look, she would see that man smiling.

He was a bastard, after all.

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Two Hours After Avaman's Assault…

Skipper made no sound when he woke up. The pace of his breathing did not shift, nor did his eyes open. Both of those things were outside of his conscious control -- they weren't skills that could be learned.

They had to be drilled into you, body and soul.

He listened. The hum of an engine, high-model, moving fast -- but not as fast as it could be. When he'd first woken up, it had been going at full power, the vessel zooming in a straight line, but now they seemed to be maneuvering their way through some kind of obstacle. A debris field, maybe.

Skipper was suspended against some kind of slab, his arms and legs firmly restrained. He reached for his Aether and found it absent. There was Neverwire somewhere in this, then. Maybe baked into the restraints themselves. With just his mundane body, he didn't have the strength to break free.

He couldn't hear the breathing of that man, but he knew that he was not alone. There was no way they'd risk leaving him --

"You're awake, aren't you, Zachariah?"

-- alone.

Skipper opened his eyes. He'd expected it to take a second for his vision to adjust, but the inside of the ship was dark enough that that wasn't a problem. He took in his surroundings quickly: a small ship, barely bigger than a fighter, all black metal and jagged edges. The kind of ship a videograph villain would ride around in. Skipper couldn't imagine what kind of person would actually choose to reside in a place like this.

Well, he didn't have to imagine. That person was looking right at him -- and they had his face.

Avaman the Announcer, First Contender of the Supremacy, looked him up and down. He was still wearing that dark purple cloak, the black bodysuit beneath like a hole in space, but he'd left his mask on the dash. There was nothing impeding Skipper's view of his own younger features.

Yes, so much younger. The wrinkles were gone, and the traces of grey Skipper had found in his own hair were nowhere to be found in the doppelganger’s. Those same green eyes burned back at him, shining with a darker sort of determination than the kind Skipper was used to. That face was twisted into a sort of contempt that Skipper had never seen before, too.

The same face, but a different mind entirely.

"Look at you," Avaman muttered in Skipper's own voice, just slightly higher. "It was so easy. Weak. What's so special about you?"

Banter came automatically to Skipper's lips. "I'd say my dashing good looks, but you seem to have me beat in that --"

Slap.

His head jerked to the side, cutting him off, as if he'd been struck by an invisible hand. He tasted the metal tang of blood on his tongue, and spat it gracelessly onto the floor. So that was how this was going to go.

"Pathetic," Avaman wrinkled his nose. "I could have easily avoided such an attack."

Skipper shrugged as much as he was able. "Well, get this Neverwire off me, pal, and I might be able to show off a little…"

"I'm no fool, Esmeralda. I'll give you no opportunity to play your little tricks. Do you know how long I've been looking for you? The lengths I've gone to?"

Skipper grinned. "Those lengths can't have been that long, if you only just caught me now."

"Silence."

"If you wanted silence," Skipper yawned. "You should have gagged me. So, if we're talking about ourselves -- where'd you come from? You meant to be my secret love child or something?" Obviously, Skipper didn't think that, but it was probably best to get the story from Avaman's own mouth.

Avaman glared. "I have no obligation to tell you anything, traitor."

"Oh… but you do want to, don't you?" Skipper grinned. "Be honest. More than anything, you want to rub this in my face. Show me just how fucked I am, yeah?"

The stoic look of Avaman's face lingered heroically for a moment -- but eventually, his lips did curl into a smirk.

"You were the one that quickened the Supreme's heart," he whispered. "Your attack brought him back to life, if only for a short time. His subjects thought that you would make a fine gift for him, win them favour. One group sought to bring you back, but that took so very long -- and the fruits of their effort were stolen. The other group sought simply to replicate… and they made me. An… exact replica."

"Ooh," Skipper whistled. "Cloning, huh? That's kind of a taboo, yeah?"

"Sometimes foolish rules must be broken for the sake of greatness."

"That's what you are, then?" Skipper laughed. "Greatness? You've kind of got an ego, huh?"

Avaman lunged forward, lightning fast, and seized Skipper by the throat with one gloved hand. Their faces were inches from each other, Avaman's snarling while Skipper's remained defiantly calm. Hot breath buffeted over Skipper's skin like the respiration of a wild beast.

"I could snap your neck, you know," Avaman hissed. "Easily."

"Do it, then."

For a good long second, Avaman actually seemed to consider following through. His fingers curled around Skipper's throat, tightened just slightly -- and then he relinquished his grip. "No," he shook his head. "When I deliver you to g… to the Supreme, I will be praised above all others. I wouldn't put my own petty satisfaction above that."

"Aw," Skipper chuckled. "And daddy will finally love you? It's a longshot, kid."

"Say what you want, old man," Avaman sneered, returning to his seat and turning back to the controls. "Your mockery will soon be paid back in… oh. What's this now?"

Skipper gulped. "What?"

Avaman glanced over his shoulder -- and grinned. It was the kind of grin that Skipper had never expected to see on his own face, no matter how young. It was a wide, ugly thing, open mouth like a void of malice.

Behind him, through the window, Skipper could see the distant light of a starship approaching. He couldn't see the vessel from here, but he already knew.

Oh, he thought. Oh, you idiots. What are you doing?

"It seems your friends have come to rescue you, Esmeralda," Avaman laughed. "What do you think? Shall we kill them?"

And like a master with his piano, his hands danced over the controls.