The first time you see a certain something, you find it incredible. Awe-inspiring.
For Dragan Hadrien, that thing had been the sky.
In Crestpoole, the breather city, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing a pale glow through the clouds.
Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19's balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He'd read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.
He never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was.
But still … stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn't a thing in the world that could hurt them.
And they shone so bright … like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark.
Dragan Hadrien thought that he would quite like to be a star.
----------------------------------------
Dragan fired the pistol again and again as he fell, even as each shot was deflected by a punch from his opponent. At the moment before he would have hit the ground, he momentarily recorded his legs into Gemini World, allowing him to land unharmed. The moment his feet came back into existence, the moment those feet touched the ground, he kicked off -- charging towards Caesar and her bodyguard.
This mountainous region, far from the battlefield, was rocky and rough -- it was all Dragan could do to avoid tripping as he ran. His broken arm flapped uselessly at one side as he fired his pistol with the other. Plasma fired out again and again, some shots being recorded into his Gemini Shotgun before being launched, but not one struck Caesar.
The Commissioner swung her weapon -- a massive, bulky rifle -- in Dragan's direction, firing a shot the moment it was facing him. An invisible attack, with not even a bullet being seen. A single hit would be enough to obliterate him.
Gemini Shotgun.
But if it never hit, there was nothing to worry about, was there?
Dragan came to understand the nature of the attack further as he absorbed it again -- that weapon must compress air and launch it over huge distances, effectively allowing Caesar to reload using the atmosphere itself. A similar principle to Avaman the Announcer's wind-based attacks.
But this woman was not the Announcer. She wasn't a Contender. She wasn't even close.
This person was only confident fighting someone who was kilometers away. Even then, they needed a bodyguard to protect them from retaliation. The Special Officers were the symbol of the Supremacy's meritocracy -- and the merit that had brought this woman to their head was mere cowardice.
It wasn't like Dragan could talk shit about others fighting smart -- but these people were supposed to be warriors, weren't they? They were meant to be strong, at the very least, strong enough to bulldoze through obstacles. At least Dragan admitted he was just a sneaky asshole, but these people…
…for some reason, they really pissed him off.
Dragan snarled as he leapt over a rock, flipping his pistol over in his hand and swinging the grip at the cloaked bodyguard’s head. At the same time, she twisted her body and unleashed a devastating roundhouse kick, smacking the gun out of his grip and smashing into his neck.
As he flew down to the floor, Dragan gasped for breath that would not come. Something inside his throat had broken, something important. He sent it away.
Gemini World.
It didn't matter. None of these injuries mattered. He could just record them away and fix them later. He could fix anything. Anything that didn't kill him was pretty much nothing. Delirious confidence dragged its claws across his mind.
As he landed on the ground, however, Dragan saw something unusual -- purple Aether, lingering around the spot the woman had struck. He glanced at the Aether running around his throat, and in that moment the light intensified…
… and words flooded into his brain.
Uh oh! It looks like you've been affected by Michael Kerberos' ability, Red Light Green Light! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞
Because you've been hit by one of Michael's attacks, you'll now need to follow the rules of the ability… (╯•ᗣ•╰)
Don't worry, though! The rules are simple! Just keep them in mind and you'll be fine, 'kay? ╰(● ⋏ ●)╯
* When Michael declares 'Red Light', you must stop moving! ( •_•)
* If you move during 'Red Light', part of your body will be skewered by the Stake of Judgement! ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )
* Five seconds after 'Red Light', Michael must declare 'Green Light'. At this time, you can move normally again. ٩(＾◡＾)۶
* Don't worry about getting thrown around! So long as you are not the one initiating the movement, it's all good! ⸂⸂⸜(രᴗര๑)⸝⸃⸃
Have fun! (✦ ‿ ✦)
Dragan blinked as he lay on the ground. What… the fuck?
Before he could pick himself back up, he heard the raspy voice of that woman -- Michael Kerberos. "Red Light."
Shit.
Dragan remained on the ground in an undignified heap, sweat trickling down his forehead, focusing all of his Aether on defense. If he couldn't move, he could at least mitigate the damage he was about to take as much as possible. From his face-down position, he couldn't see what Kerberos was doing, but it was a safe bet she'd use this opportunity to attack him.
Two seconds… three seconds… four seconds…
The kick slammed into his side like a sledgehammer, forcing air and blood out of Dragan's lungs as he flew through the air, limbs whipped about by the wind. He landed again a short distance away -- directly on his broken arm. A scream of pain lingered at the back of his throat, and it took all that he had to keep it from escaping.
Five seconds…
"Green Light," Kerberos said sullenly.
Dragan screamed, his cry of pain echoing across the bleak landscape, even as he picked himself up with trembling legs. In retrospect, he should already have recorded his broken arm, but he was wary of the difference it would make to his balance -- not to mention the reduced weight of his body. If he recorded too much, he wouldn't be able to move naturally.
No -- for the time being, the arm stayed.
Dragan whipped his head around, ready to fire off a volley of Gemini Shotgun, when he heard it:
"Red Light."
He froze. Shit. It had barely been two seconds since Kerberos had released Red Light, and she was already using it again? The rules said that she had to say Green Light five seconds after Red Light, but they'd never mentioned a time limit for the reverse. She could just keep stopping his movements again and again, with only the barest interval between uses of her ability.
Not good.
"You were saying I was weak?" Caesar called out, stepping out from her cover, pointing her rifle at him. "I suppose that makes you strong, then?"
Bang.
She pulled the trigger --
Gemini Shotgun.
-- and again, it didn't hit. It seemed he could at least absorb incoming projectiles without it counting as a movement.
Caesar frowned, her eyes flicking over to Kerberos. "He might be able to fire off those shots while he's frozen, too. Don't get careless."
"Aye, aye," Kerberbos grinned, white hair swinging over her eyes. "Green Light."
The instant those words left her lips, Dragan leapt backwards. It was clear now that his approach has been way too rash. He needed to get out of the range of this woman's ability, come up with a new plan of attack, and engage from there.
Gemini Wor --
The first punch struck him in the stomach, sending him heaving forward -- and the second slammed upwards into his jaw. Bloody teeth flew out of his mouth as his head jerked back, the pain of it enough to break his concentration and prevent him from disappearing. Before he could even hit the ground, Kerberos had seized him by the collar and thrown him down onto the rocks below.
Straddling his prone form, the woman pulled her fist back once again, aiming right for his face. Dragan raised his good hand to block the attack --
"Red Light!"
-- and as he did, he felt a spike of pain surge through him. His raised hand was enough to deflect the punch, but as Dragan looked over to the source of his agony he saw that he had by no means escaped damage.
A huge stake, jet black and of flawless geometry, was impaling the elbow of Dragan's broken arm. Blood oozed out from the sides of the wound, trickling down onto the stone below. Dragan gasped in pain as he looked at the object -- at what was surely the Stake of Judgement that Kerberos' ability had mentioned.
Caesar remained where she was, looking down at Dragan dismissively from a distance. "You don't seem to understand what strength is, little boy. It's not about throwing the hardest punch, or using the most powerful ability… it's about competency."
"Green Light."
In the split-second of movement that Dragan was permitted, he lunged upwards at Kerberos, clawing at her face -- but pain and exhaustion made his movements clumsy. She slapped his hand away and planted her own palm against his face, slamming his head back into the dirt.
"Red Light," she grinned.
"So long as you can get the job done," Caesar smirked, reloading her rifle, the barrel wheezing as it sucked in air. "It doesn't matter how you get it done. I've killed many people without ever laying a finger on them. I'm going to kill you without ever laying a finger on you. That is strength. That's what the Supremacy's all about, you little shit."
Shut up! I already know that! I agree with that!
Dragan didn't -- couldn't -- speak aloud, but his thoughts were a maelstrom. Even he didn't fully understand the anger that he was feeling. Nothing that Caesar was saying was new. Nothing that Caesar was saying was a surprise.
So why…?
"Green Light." Instantly, another punch to the face, dazing him in that moment. "Red Light."
As Dragan was forced to stay still once more, Kerberos reached over and tugged at the stake impaling his broken arm. The pain of it, as the object was forced out inch by inch, was beyond anything Dragan could have ever imagined. It took everything he had to stay still.
Don't scream.
Kerberos pulled…
Don't scream!
…and pulled…
DON'T SCREAM!
…and, with one final effort, she tore the weapon free from Dragan's elbow -- sending his entire forearm flying off at the same time. As the limb dissipated into Aether, Dragan felt his vision wavering. The borders between sky and ground were becoming indistinct. Something red was flowing out around him. Was all that blood really his?
He'd been reckless. He'd fucked up. He'd gotten cocky. He was pissed. He couldn't die here. He couldn't lose in such a stupid way. He wasn't that pathetic. His brain felt like it was melting inside his head.
"Green Light."
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Dragan moaned.
"Red Light."
Another punch smashed into his face -- and as Dragan heard a loud crunch, his right eye became a crazy mess of colour and light. There was something warm on his cheek. He felt like he was going to be sick.
As his head lay back, as he vaguely felt blow after blow pummeling him, finishing him -- he could see the sun high above. Its light was filtered and warped by the Lotus and the flames, but it was still undeniable. Singular. Something far above all of this.
"Looks like this is the end for you, huh?" said the Archivist, sitting cross-legged inside that star, leafing through his book. "Bad move on your part. I'd have advised against it if you’d asked me, but hey -- you didn't ask me, did you? So I guess this is what you wanted."
“Fuck you,” Dragan muttered. “I’m getting beaten to death. How could that be something I wanted?”
“Well, maybe you’re a masochist,” the Archivist shrugged. “But I guess that wouldn’t fit either. You’re way too much of a coward.”
Dragan glared. “I just went after the Commissioner of the Special Officers by myself. I might be an idiot, but I’m not a coward, idiot.”
The Archivist laughed -- a single harsh bark -- and tossed his book away. When he looked back down at Dragan, his entire demeanor had changed. Those mocking bright eyes had become dark and bitter, and the youthful aura he’d previously exuded had vanished -- if anything, he seemed older than Dragan.
“Do you think physical pain is the only thing cowards fear?”
Dragan swallowed. “I did everything I could.”
The landscape shifted, shuddered, shattered -- and suddenly, all around Dragan Hadrien, was the void of space. An imaginary chill crawled over his bones as he felt the dark press inwards all around him. In that abyss, he could see only three things -- himself, the Archivist, and a star station hanging resplendent. He knew it: the Cradle. The place where they’d first met the Oliphant Clan, and the place he’d last met…
“You did not,” the Archivist sneered. “Whenever you are faced with discomfort, you run away from it. When you met Asmodeus Fix again on the Cradle, you distanced yourself from him, didn’t you? Why?”
Dragan blinked. “Because I hate him.”
“No you don’t,” the Archivist spat. “You risked everyone’s lives to clear his name. Why?”
“I-I…”
“Your feelings towards him were complicated -- and you are distressed by looking at yourself. You didn’t want to put yourself into a position where you had to examine your own feelings. So you pushed him away with a quick retort and went on your merry way. It’s the same with everything else.”
The world broke and came together once again. This time, they stood atop the ruined Heart Building, back on Caelus Breck, watching as the Dragan Hadrien of the past pointed his gun at the back of Atoy Muzazi. Ruth Blaine lay on the floor right beneath the swordsman. Time was frozen, scraps of debris and dust hanging still in the air, sweat paused mid-trickle down the old Dragan’s temple.
“Back then,” the Archivist said, all-encompassing, no longer visible. “Why did you save Ruth Blaine?”
“I’d gotten to know her,” Dragan replied haltingly. “I didn’t want her to die.”
“Liar. You’d known her for barely a couple of days, and for most of that time she’d been one of your captors. Yet, when the time came, you raised your gun and shot your rescuer in the back. Why?”
Dragan watched as, in the sluggish world, that blue bolt fired out of the gun and slammed into the space between Muzazi’s shoulders. The Special Officer collapsed to the ground, his body spasming wildly -- and the Dragan of the past looked on with uncomprehending eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d done anything yet. Poor bastard.
The Archivist took over from his train of thought. “You don’t know, do you? You took an action without knowing why, and then justified it to yourself retroactively. It’s all because you’re unwilling to inspect yourself. And that’s why you don’t understand your anger.”
“That’s…”
“It’s the truth,” the Archivist snapped. “Do I need to spell it out for you? Why you shot Atoy Muzazi, and why the Commissioner infuriates you so much? Hmph. Very well.”
The world died, and the world came back to life.
They were still in the Heart Building, but further down below, and further back in time. Ruth and Dragan were standing in the hallway, the sun trickling in through the wall-length window, the orange sunset illuminating their faces. Ruth was saying something. The promise she’d made, back then. They’d just been arguing about the way the world worked, about how everyone -- deep down -- was just awful.
And then she’d said…
"I'll show you.”
"Hm?" the Dragan Hadrien of the past stood with his palm flat on a door, not looking at her. "Show me what?"
"That people can be good. That they're not what you think of them."
The old Dragan squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth in barely suppressed rage. For a long time, he was silent.
And then he’d said…
"Fine. Do what you want."
"Deep down," the Archivist said quietly. "You wanted to be proven wrong, didn't you? You wanted the world to be brighter than it was. You wanted the stories people tell about themselves to be true."
Undone, and redone. Again and again, everything he'd seen. The death and destruction. The suffering and unfairness. The world crushed underfoot. There had been bright spots -- his friends, the times they'd had -- but overall… overall…
…when he looked back at that day, he knew now that he'd been right.
"You wanted to be proven wrong, didn't you, Dragan?" the Archivist said softly, not unkindly. "You wanted Ruth Blaine to show you a different world than the one you believed in."
Slow tears ran down Dragan's cheeks -- and just as slowly, he nodded.
That's right, he thought. That's why I hate the Commissioner. It's not that I'm surprised. I'm… I'm disappointed… because it's just as I expected.
"You are a person who does not look at yourself, so you couldn't comprehend," the Archivist declared. "You did not shoot Atoy Muzazi for mere sentiment. You did not join Skipper's crew for mere convenience. No sane man would do such things.
Dragan shot Atoy Muzazi.
"You acted because, deep down inside yourself, there is a sliver of belief. A conviction you yourself would not acknowledge, drowned by your pessimism, just waiting for the opportunity to show itself."
Dragan shot the thing beyond Atoy Muzazi.
"Say it," the Archivist urged. "Admit it to yourself. Otherwise, nothing will change."
Dragan shot the world, the galaxy, the entire fucking universe.
"Say it!"
Skipper had said it… again, and again, and again, hadn't he? His mantra. His soul. "I want to change the shape of this world."
Dragan snapped his eye open.
I… I want to change it too!
"Red Light."
Kerberos' fist came down once more, a finishing blow -- and Dragan caught it in mid-air.
The instant Dragan moved, a new Stake of Judgement ran itself through his stomach, but he ignored it. It didn't matter. All that mattered was winning.
"You're right…" he whispered, face bloody and beaten.
Caesar, still standing behind cover, raised a hand. Let him speak, that gesture seemed to say. Let him give me the satisfaction.
Kerberos obeyed without question.
"Strength…" Dragan went on, wheezing. "Power… ha… it's all bullshit, isn't it? Even competence… even that doesn't really matter. Whichever person is still standing by the end… no matter how it happens, even if they're weak, they're strong." He chuckled a wet, warped chuckle. "It's so fucking funny, right? That's how all of this works! It's all chance! It's all just people killing other people for no fucking reason!"
Blue Aether sparked, surged, and shone -- the synchronized energy nearly enveloping Dragan. Kerberos, still straddling him, squinted from the sudden light. Dragan's remaining eye shone incandescently, like a star pulled down to earth.
Caesar -- having clearly realized this wasn't any kind of surrender -- called over the rush of screaming Aether: "Michael! Kill him now!"
Kerberos did not hesitate. In one smooth motion, she whipped her hand into her cloak, pulled out a cleaver-shaped sword, and swung it down towards Dragan's head. The speed and force would be more than enough to slice through his skull.
Clang.
Ah… Dragan thought, wild satisfaction coursing through him, eyes nearly rolled up into the back of his head. Right now… I feel like I could kill anyone…
He had caught the blade of the cleaver with his broken teeth, red foam pouring out over his lips as he held on with all his strength. The blade sliced through his cheeks, opening them bloody, but he paid that no mind. It didn't matter.
With a cold and clear calm, Dragan raised his palm and pointed it directly at Kerberos' face. Her eyes widened in alarm -- she clearly knew what was about to happen -- but everything was so slow, so slow. It was far too late for them to do anything. They should have just killed him straight away.
In the moment Kerberos went to pull away, long and jagged cracks began to spread out from the wounds on Dragan's cheeks, his face disintegrating as he burned his Aether. Everything seemed to come so naturally, even as his body fell apart. He needed to keep the air bullet, but he had another projectile to fire.
Gemini Railgun.
The hand that Kerberos had severed reappeared right in front of her, and then vanished again, and then appeared once more. Recorded and manifested and recorded again and again and again, speed and power increasing each time, all in the span of a second. A shot stronger than anything Dragan had ever mustered before launched forth --
-- and with a payload of bone and nail, flesh and blood, Michael Kerberos' head was utterly vaporized. After blasting through her skull, the shot continued to fly -- passing through the clouds and leaving a hole like a donut in them. Dragan did not watch any further than that. He didn't have the time to.
Gemini World.
Dragan disappeared -- and reappeared a second later, free of Kerberos, screaming and snarling as he charged at Caesar with all his remaining limbs. The hole in his stomach had been recorded into Aether, and in his hand he held the cleaver-sword he’d just pulled from Kerberos’ dead body. He’d stopped burning his Aether, but fearsome light still coursed around his body and weapon.
For the first time since they’d met, Commissioner Caesar pulled her sword from its scabbard, swinging it at the incoming Dragan -- but he entered Gemini World again, becoming a bolt of blue Aether. The lightning circled Caesar like a tornado, reappearing only for brief sword-strikes that Caesar was able to deflect.
Gemini World.
Dragan reappeared directly behind Caesar and -- still shouting incoherently -- unleashed a flurry of frenzied blows. Caesar met each strike with her own sword, the two weapons clanging as they collided again and again and again, Caesar slowly pouring more and more Aether into her attacks as she overcame Dragan.
In terms of swordsmanship, there was no contest. Caesar had spent years honing her blade, and Dragan had done his best to avoid it. There was no way his blade could get through her defenses.
As her sword shone with ivory Aether, Caesar dealt her coup de grace -- a mighty swing that sent Dragan's cleaver flying out of his hands and up into the air. Caesar, grinning victoriously, thrust her blade towards Dragan once again --
Gemini Shotgun.
-- and stopped as a sudden impact slammed into her body. Her blade froze in the air. Her eyes widened as far as they would go. A low, pained groan poured from her throat.
Smoke rose from her back, and Caesar slowly turned her head to look behind her. There, floating in the air, was Dragan's disembodied hand. Steam rose from the palm.
Her sword slipped out of her grip and clattered to the ground.
"I needed you to use all your Aether for attack," Dragan whispered, his voice hoarse. "The moment you knocked my sword away, I recorded the hand that had been holding it…" He raised his arm, revealing the border of blue Aether that now terminated it. "...and sent it behind you. So long as it's connected by Aether, it can still operate as normal…"
"You…"
Caesar's face was twisted in anger, but they both knew that it was already over. Her back had been utterly exposed, without any Aether infused at all, and the air bullet had blasted right through. To be frank, it was a miracle she was still standing.
"I beat you…" Dragan grinned a bloody, drunken grin. "Guess that means I'm strong, huh…? And… and you're…"
"Bastard!" Caesar screamed, charging right at him, fury overcoming biology for just a short time. Her hands were bared like claws, her eyes blurred in their sockets, spittle flying from her mouth.
She lunged at Dragan, and he just stepped out of the way. His hand returning to his arm, he reached up, caught the cleaver as it came back down --
-- and buried it into the back of her skull.
There was little ceremony to it. Caesar dropped to the ground like a machine that has been deactivated, blood and brain matter trickling through the gap he'd made in her head. A second later, Dragan fell too, collapsing onto the rocks.
His vision began to blur once more, and…
…no.
He couldn't drop out now. He still had things to do. Unconsciousness was not permitted here. Slowly, lying there, he began the process of recording the parts of his body that had been injured. Both inside and outside, just to keep him moving for a while longer.
By the time he was done, he was a horror, cross-sections of his bones and organs visible through the gaps in his Aether. As he picked himself up off the ground, Dragan's head -- with the damaged parts of his face sent away -- looked more like a skull than anything else.
But it was fine. He could record anything. He'd already overcome these kinds of obstacles.
As he finally stood up, the green feather on his jacket began to slowly pulse with light. His gaze dull, Dragan looked down at it.
"Hey, Dragan," Skipper's voice came from the feather, distorted and distant. "You good? You free?"
"Yeah," Dragan replied. "I'm free."
His voice sounded like that of a corpse, but if Skipper noticed he didn't comment on it.
"I need you to do something for me, kiddo," Skipper said. "You up for it?"
Dragan did not blink.
"Anything," he said.