Scout groaned as he was pulled back to consciousness. His head was killing him.
What had happened? It took him a second to recall -- to recall the burning debris pouring down from the sky. Scout had created a giant shield from the Hanged Man’s body to defend the pyramid against the fiery rain, but it seemed that in doing so he’d compromised the safety of the cockpit a little. He must have gotten shaken around and struck on the head. The headache seemed to support that story, if nothing else.
Damnit. How long had he been out?
Scout willed it, and monitors formed around the interior of the cockpit, showing him his surroundings. It was worse than he’d thought. Everything was fire and smoke, the sky choked a bloody red, the battlefield covered with veritable hills of skinless corpses. The fact they were flayed wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, of course, but there were so many…
Scout pulled a hand free from the liquid metal and put it to his ear -- to the communicator there. “Pa?” he called.
No response. Were the comms down?
Gritting his teeth, Scout squeezed his eyes shut -- and willed the Hanged Man to change its shape once more. While he’d been unconscious, it seemed like the Arcana Automatic had degenerated to a vague pile of liquid metal, but at his direction it reconstituted itself into a humanoid form. Shallow holes -- speakers -- opened themselves up along its body, pointing in every direction.
Within the cockpit, Scout formed a microphone from the wall, and pulled it close to his mouth.
“Pa!”
His cry, amplified by the speakers, echoed out across the surface of Elysian Fields, ringing through the ears of every single person who heard it. For a moment, there was no response. Silence. A hollow quiet.
And then…
… a dragon swooped down over the horizon.
----------------------------------------
Human dripped from the ceiling.
Some of the Special Officers aboard the Tartarus had followed the same line of reasoning as the Ascendant-General -- that the intruders, whoever they were, would be targeting the man who was directing operations on the ground, Winston Grace. Perhaps they'd hoped that acting to save him would earn them some kind of glory, some sort of accolades. If anything was earned, it was kind words upon their graves.
Human dripped from the ceiling.
Blood and muscle, flesh and bone. When Lily Aubrisher had smashed this unfortunate fellow up into the ceiling of the briefing room, he had lost his consistency as a human being. Now he had more in common with porridge than man.
He wasn't the only one who had met a terrible fate.
If you looked around the wreckage of the briefing room, you could see them. One, two, three, four, five… you would get tired of counting the corpses. Among them was one of the Honest Men, Houston Phillips, his mighty battle-ax still clutched in his hand as he lay embedded in the wall. Smoke gently rose from his form.
Winston Grace himself stood in the corner of the room, pale from blood loss, clutching the bleeding stump of his pinkie finger. A victorious grin was plastered on his sweaty face, and his chest was heaving with exertion. He was the one who had cut off the finger, after all.
Beatrice dropped from the ceiling, knives clutched in her hands, face covered in blood. She was just as exhausted. If it hadn't been for her brother's quick thinking, they would all have been killed, after all.
Her ability, Pariah, allowed her to make small projectiles completely undetectable until they made contact. Even Aether could not sense the attack -- and if it couldn't sense it, it could not protect against it. Even with such an ability, however, Lily Aubrisher's speed and power was enough that she was a deadly opponent.
They'd had to think outside of the box.
Winston had figured it out. Aubrisher deflected enemy attacks with her automatic retaliation -- an ability that sensed movement through her electricity and struck back at it. No matter the principles by which it operated, that was a sense. Winston's ability, Dupin's Alchemy, allowed him to disable specific senses of himself or others.
So…
His severed pinkie remained embedded between Aubrisher's shoulders, buried up to the first joint.
… all they'd had to do was use Pariah on a different kind of projectile.
From there, it had been a job for the remaining Honest Man, Gregori Hazzard. The blonde man stood across from his enemy, stoic as ever, cap pulled down over his face. All around him, the landscape was warped, geometry stretched and sculpted into countless spikes. It was like the world was made of sea urchins.
And there, finally, was…
Lily Aubrisher. Unconscious. Skewered. Defeated. Held aloft by a needle that had once been a coffee mug, running right through her torso.
Winston let out a heavy breath. "Well…" he wiped the sweat from his brow. "I was sure that my plan was going to work the whole time, but it's good to have it confirmed. That ability you used was pretty interesting, Mr. Hazzard, but I was wondering how exactly it worked. Spatial manipulation, or…? Oh, sorry your buddy died, by the way -- hey!"
That last part was directed at his sister, who'd seized him by the arm and was staring -- horrified -- at the mess he'd made of treating his missing finger.
"Medbay," she snapped. "Now."
Without another word, she pulled him away -- and Gregori Hazzard was left in the room with his defeated opponent. She had been powerful -- they'd destroyed her heart and she'd just kept going, powered solely by her ability. It had taken all three of them to pull off this maneuver, and even then it had been close.
Gregori adjusted his cap. "Good grief…" he muttered. He really hadn't wanted to use the Unfolded World here, but he'd been ordered to take care of this woman by the Ascendant-General. He wasn't in a position where he could hold anything ba --
Lily Aubrisher twitched.
Gregori raised an eyebrow. Still alive? That was unexpected. He hadn't expected being stabbed to finish her off, but the Unfolded World should have rearranged her internal organs into bold new shapes when the wound was opened. She really was something.
Oh well.
"Paper Moon…" As Gregori approached, he folded his right arm up into a razor-sharp blade, ready to slice Aubrisher's head off. From there, he'd dismember her body as much as possible. That was the best way to avoid an Aether awakening, after all.
Gregori raised his blade up high --
"Hold a moment, young man!" cried a voice.
-- and paused.
He glanced to the source of the sound -- and spotted it instantly. There, emerging from the darkness, was a tiny man in a tiny floating vessel, barely the size of Gregori's thumb. This was Harz -- the Section Chief of the Absurd Weapons Lab. Gregori had seen him on the bridge, even if Harz hadn't seen him.
"I'm executing the intruder…" Gregori said quietly, his eyes dull. "Is there a problem?"
Harz zoomed over in his little hovercraft, miniscule arms waving in the air. "Of course there is, of course there is!" he shouted, clearly agitated. "Are you mad, man?! Are you sick in the head?! This is a unique specimen! Like nothing I've ever seen before!"
He finally got close enough that Gregori could see his face -- his grinning, unsightly face. Enlarged eyes beamed at him from behind goggles.
"Now," Harz breathed. "If you were willing to hand her over to my custody, I'd be happy to --"
"Whatever."
Without another word, Gregori unfolded his arm and began to stalk away, plunging his hands deep into his pockets. He did not spare the Section Chief or the intruder another glance as he left the room, the shadows of the unlit ship falling over his face. In his mind, the situation was now resolved.
None of this matters anyway… he thought. Does it, Marie?
----------------------------------------
As one, Ruth Blaine and Morgan Nacht charged towards their opponents, the marks and pain of their extended battle barely wearing them down. Even as the storm of pitchforks raged around them, the resolve in their eyes went unblemished.
Morgan reached his hand out and -- without a word exchanged -- Ruth seized him by the wrist, whirled around, and hurled him up towards the sky. This was not a strategy they'd discussed. Since they'd decided to join forces, they'd barely spoken to each other at all.
This was nothing but mutual flow from mutual warriors.
A. C.
As Morgan flew up, black Fog burst forth from his body and coated his sword. He did not look at it: his gaze was still fixed high above, towards his target. While his pitchforks raged down below -- impaling unfortunate Regiment soldiers and Special Officers on the edges of the battle -- the Baron Lunalette de Fleur kept himself in the sky, far out of reach of his enemies.
There.
Morgan broke free from a cloud of dark weaponry and -- kicking off the handle of one of the pitchforks -- launched himself further towards the Baron. Lunalette himself was perched atop a trident higher than any other, looking down at the battlefield with contemptuous amusement -- but Morgan knew already that the Baron had spotted him. This was not a man who lost track of his adversaries.
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Indeed, as Morgan swung his sword at Lunalette's neck, the man disappeared -- and reappeared directly behind Morgan. This, too, was anticipated. De Fleur wasn't the kind of man whose pride would allow him a simple retreat. He'd need to strike back immediately at the one who'd dared attack him.
The Baron stabbed his trident towards the space between Morgan's shoulder blades, but he had no fear. No plan had been discussed, but he knew one existed. It was invisible, hanging in the air, and inevitable.
Morgan Nacht and Ruth Blaine understood the kinds of killers they were.
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Direwolf Set!
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The jump was so fast that it almost seemed like teleportation. One second, the Baron was thrusting his pitchfork towards Morgan -- and the next, he was in the hands of a beast. There was the sharpest, slightest intake of breath: the first thing close to fear they'd managed to pull from their enemy.
It took only a second for the Baron to teleport, but Ruth's attack was faster than a second. Her fullmetal fist smashed into Lunalette's face, shattering his nose instantly, blood splattering in every direction. Red flew everywhere as the Baron quickly translocated himself to another pitchfork…
…but his opponents had been more than ready for such a maneuver.
F! A!
Morgan projected a platform of solid Fog beneath himself as he ran across air, his shrouded sword at his side. They'd observed Lunalette during this fight, after all, and knew how he moved. If he thought he could get a counterattack in, he'd send himself to another pitchfork in the immediate vicinity --
-- but if he was caught by surprise, he'd run as far as possible.
A pitchfork floating low in the forest, nearly invisible amidst the branches and shadows, the flames and smoke. Lunalette reappeared there, panting for breath, nursing his wound -- just in time to see Morgan swinging his sword towards him.
If it had hit, it would have been a killshot, but the Baron Lunalette de Fleur was by no means weak. In the second before the blow would have struck him, Lunalette snatched a trident out of the air and blocked with it, Morgan's sword shuddering against the weapon's handle.
"Weak," the Baron hissed. "And predictable. If this is all the new crop of Special Officers is capable of, it's no wonder we're in such --"
C! A!
To tell the truth, Cut and Amplify were somewhat redundant abilities. Cut increased an object's sharpness, and Amplify intensified an object's most prominent properties. With a bladed weapon, they pretty much did the same thing.
If he Amplified the Cut ability itself, though… well, that was another story entirely.
Morgan's sword, honed to divinity, sliced right through Lunalette's pitchfork and slashed down through his shoulder, opening up a bloody wound. The only thing that saved the Baron from death right then and there was his retreat -- two pitchforks swooped in and hooked themselves under Lunalette's armpits, pulling him away.
He didn't get far.
Burning trees exploded out of the ground as Ruth Blaine tore her way through the forest, reaching Lunalette before he could even finish running away. As she swiped at him with her claws, he seized his pitchforks and blocked again -- with everything he had. Under constant attack like this, it seemed he was having issues organizing his teleportation.
If these pitchforks couldn't stand up against Morgan's sword, they certainly couldn't withstand Ruth's claws. Both snapped easily and went flying apart --
-- but that bought enough time for Lunalette to plant his hands together.
-- but that bought enough time for more pitchforks to swarm in.
-- but that bought enough time for the Baron to grin wickedly.
-- and, most of all, it bought enough time for him to speak two words.
"Damnation Ira!"
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Lunalette hadn't especially wanted to use this.
It was a wasteful technique, excessively destructive and hard to manage. Even if it wasn't those things, though, he'd have still hesitated -- the pitchforks he used Ira on took far longer to regenerate than usual. Several minutes, rather than the seconds he was used to.
In this case, though, he'd been pushed to the brink. It was Ira or death.
As one, the pitchforks he'd summoned exploded, each one detonating like a mighty grenade. Teleporting high into the sky, Lunalette only had to look down to watch as the blasts tore through the forest and the earth, great piles of debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.
Morgan Nacht and Ruth Blaine had been caught right in the middle. Even if they'd survived, there was no way they'd been unharmed. Even so, he wouldn't be taking any chances.
With the additional Aether batteries he'd gathered during the course of this battle, right now Lunalette had control over around two-hundred and nine pitchforks. That didn't include the ones he'd just used as bombs, of course, but it would suffice for this technique. Spreading his arms wide, Lunalette summoned his weaponry -- and they manifested around him like an inverted globe, the tip of each blade pointing directly towards him.
Lunalette braced himself, just for a moment, and spoke the name of the technique that would kill them.
…lasciate ogne speranza…
"Damnation Superbia."
…voi ch'intrate…
A great snap sounded out over the forest as countless threads of cruel red Aether lashed out from the Baron’s chest, connecting to the pitchforks arrayed around him.
There was a grim woosh as the weapons were pulled in, each and every one striking Lunalette with their blades. A gasp of pain escaped his mouth as slowly, slowly, the weapons crawled into him, like they were being devoured by his body, all the way to the handle until they vanished completely.
The black material the weapons were composed of began to spread across his body, forming a dark shell all the way to his fingernails. The vivid red of his pupils faded, leaving his eyes a pale blank. His hair too was bleached white, flowing behind him resplendent and free.
As the Baron floated slowly to the ground, a dark cloud hung around him -- the vaporized remains of his garments, burnt away by the sheer power he was exuding. It was fine. With the red veins shining through his stone skin, trading his musculature, he barely looked like a human at all -- much less an undressed one.
These people did not stand a chance. That had been obvious from the start. Lunalette had the experience of an entire lineage behind him.
Indeed, the Baron was a Scurrant -- but not one of the circus freaks you would see among the common folk. No, his kind was one that had been specially designed for pedigree. Genetic memory allowed him to recall, however faintly, the experiences of his ancestors. Skill and discipline they had honed throughout their lifetimes were all at his disposal. These fools were not facing an individual: they were facing the history of the Supremacy itself.
This was not an Aether ability, like the Principalities of the UAP, but something baked into Lunalette's very being. From the moment he'd first taken breath, he'd been superior to these people.
"Well, then," Lunalette muttered to himself, feet finally touching the floor. "Shall we get started?"
Those two, however injured, would still be in the smoke brought up by that explosion. Lunalette took a single step -- and bounded off the ground, a mighty geyser of dirt and stone being kicked up by his movement.
It took about a second for him to find his targets. Morgan had created another shield of fog, and Lunalette tore it open with the barest of efforts. Within, he could see the two of them, already leaping to respond to his attack. To his eyes right now, they seemed so incredibly slow.
Ruth Blaine's claws, infused to their limits, were repelled off of Lunalette's new skin with a shower of sparks. He planted a kick right between her legs and sent her flying up towards the sky, armour shattering around her.
One down.
Morgan Nacht thrust not his sword towards Lunalette, but his empty hand -- palm pointed right at the Baron's face. It was obvious what he intended to do. He was going to unleash more of that black fog into Lunalette's mouth and attack him from the inside. Moving at the last second, the Baron ducked under Morgan's arm and planted a mighty punch right into his chest, feeling the satisfying give of ribcage before his knuckles.
Two down.
A sigh of happiness passed through Lunalette’s lips, breath leaving his mouth in the form of steam. How wonderful it felt to re-establish the proper order of things.
Damnation Superbia was the most powerful ability the Baron possessed, just below Vanagloria. Unlike Avaritia, which fused his different pitchforks together to boost their strength, Superbia combined the power of Lunalette’s weaponry with his own body directly, granting him speed and strength far beyond an ordinary Aether-user. He lost a little in versatility, but he’d never needed that against such feeble opponents anyway.
As Nacht flew off into the treeline, Lunalette cast his victorious gaze upwards again. The dot that was Blaine was descending once more, falling end over end, reduced to her more inferior armour. She’d barely been able to withstand Superbia’s blow at her peak, so another hit from it now would surely suffice to seal the deal.
Grinning with bright white teeth, Lunalette lowered his body and pulled one fist back. Ready to punch a hole through that unsightly head of hers the second it came into range. He vaguely wondered how far he could send it flying: perhaps he’d get a high score?
Ah, he thought. Victory is --
-- and then a giant metal foot smashed into him from behind, sending him flying over the horizon.
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Scout breathed a sigh of relief as he reached out with the hand of the Hanged Man, snatching Ruth Blaine out of the air before she could hit the ground. She was a mess -- her armour ruined, falling apart, her eyelids fluttering as she passed in and out of consciousness.
Clearly, she was in no fit state to fight: Scout absorbed her body into the palm of the Hanged Man and began transferring her over to the cockpit. Here, at least, she’d be safe from the crossfire.
With that done, Scout’s eyes flicked towards the man he’d kicked -- the man who was now floating a distance away in the air, holding onto a single pitchfork to keep him aloft. Scout swallowed as he regarded the enemy, felt the power radiating from him, and saw what exactly he’d done.
A long, jagged crack ran through the enemy’s stone body where he’d been struck, and an unearthly red light shone from within. That furious light, though, was nothing compared to the hateful gleam in the man’s eyes. If looks could kill, Scout would have been reduced to a blast shadow immediately.
“How dare you?” the man hissed. “How dare you?”
Seemed like he was pretty pissed -- but he still hadn’t seen the extent of it. Scout hadn’t come here alone. Behind this man, behind this Special Officer, something else was approaching.
Something from straight out of a nightmare.
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The ability Roy Oliphant-Dawkins had woken up with today was a grim one indeed.
The power to strip and manipulate the skin of the dead. Since the battle had begun, Roy had been acting as a scavenger, gathering material from the countless corpses the fighting had produced. Both allies and enemies now formed the construct of skin that Roy was riding, reins of epidermis clutched in his huge hands. He winced as he felt the uncomfortable texture against his palms.
With the skin Roy had gathered, he’d crafted a patchwork beast, long and spindly, with four huge wings propelling it through the air. Tendrils drooped down from along its midsection like the legs of a centipede, and the ‘head’ of the draconic beast tore itself open in imitation of jaws. It didn’t actually possess the kind of crushing force needed to bite down on something, but suffocation would be inevitable for anything swallowed. A death of thrashing and flailing as human skin pushed itself down your throat.
Yeah… this ability was pretty fucked up.
He’d decided to call it Puffblanket. That had been the name of his teddy bear as a child. Cute and cool.
Two against one, buddy, he thought, looking at the floating figure. Still… feels like this is gonna take a while.
And with another mighty flap of the dragon’s wings, Roy lunged towards the man of stone.