Yuren, dead. Jones, dead. Haller, dead. King, dead. Redd, dead. Turoc, dead. Mallory, dead. Culver, dead. Drin, dead. Moss, dead. Peterson, dead.
Marco, dead.
Each of them men that had followed Klaus El into battle. Each of them giving their life for their cause. Each of them sins to be atoned for…
…sooner, rather than later.
The corpses littered the briefing room, stabbed and shot and smashed, Klaus standing between the circle of the dead. His white sensory fog was flooding through the pyramid and the surrounding area, letting him know beyond a doubt that nobody was coming to save him. A barrier of green fog encircled him, slowly swirling like a nascent tornado. That was the only thing that had kept him alive this far.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
The Hellhound switched to another caliber, firing off a new volley of rounds at Klaus -- but these bullets met the same fate as the previous ones. Before they could reach their target, they rusted away and disintegrated into nothing, undone by the smoke barrier surrounding him. A gaseous substance of his own design, that decayed anything metal in a matter of seconds.
As soon as it became clear that this assault was fruitless as well, the Hellhound ceased firing -- and instead circled the trapped Klaus, visor shining menacingly.
"You can't escape," he growled in his artificial voice, the sound echoing through the building. "Make it easy on yourself."
As the Hellhound walked on all fours, the flexible tail protruding from his metal backside swayed through the air threateningly. It was made from a polymorphic alloy, and so changed shape even as Klaus watched it. A simple blade, then a chainsaw, then a machine gun. The Hellhound was weighing up his options.
Klaus barked out a single laugh. "Easy on me?" he said. "Don't joke with me, dog. I've no doubt you've been sent after me on someone else's initiative. You'll have to work for your supper."
The Hellhound stopped walking, steel paws perched atop the briefing table. It cocked its angular head one way, then the other, as if straining to see or hear something -- but Klaus knew that was not the case. This was not a thing that needed ears or eyes. Its perceptions were far more accurate.
"What a pain…" the Hellhound muttered --
-- and then, without another word, it pounced.
It wasn't that much of a surprise. Of all the Contenders, the Hellhound had the most information on it available to the public -- and so Klaus understood the specs of that cybernetic body. The Hellhound's 'skin' was made from an experimental material designed for starships, extremely sturdy and durable. More than that, though, it was adaptable. Once it had identified a consistent source of damage, it would alter its own structure to better defend against it. The Hellhound was taking advantage of that, believing it would be enough to keep him intact as he moved through the barrier.
Unfortunately, he was right.
In the split second before he'd have been torn about, Klaus directed his smoke towards the floor beneath him. The metal opened up in a fraction of a second, sending him falling down into the tunnels below. As he plummeted down into the darkness, he felt one of the Hellhound's claws just barely brush against his hair, cutting a huge chunk loose.
There we go, he grinned, pulled onwards by smoke. Chase me, you son of a bitch.
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The Hunt.
Unlike the other show-offs in the Contenders, the Hellhound held very little interest in Aether. It was useful to bolster defense and offense, of course, but his own body already had a huge head start in those areas. All it did was make him more deadly, more precise. Quite often he didn't need to use it at all.
Why would he need some bullshit magic, when he'd already claimed the perfection of a metal sheen?
The only exception to that preference was the Hellhound's Aether ability -- if it could even be called an Aether ability. Some people the Hellhound talked to insisted it was an Aether tick instead, whatever that was. These people tossed around terms and words like he should be expected to give a shit about them.
To put it simply, the Hellhound's grey Aether was sticky.
When he struck an opponent with an Aether-infused attack, his own Aether clung to theirs, intertwined with it in such a way that it couldn't easily be removed. As long as that Aether was present, the Hellhound could track its position down to the centimeter. If he concentrated, he could even sense exactly what you were doing -- your body movements, what you were saying, your breathing, your heartbeat -- all of it an open book.
And the best part? As far as the Hellhound had tested, it had no range limit. You could leave the damn galaxy and he'd still know where you were and what you were doing.
So, when someone ran away from him like this…
…he just couldn't help but hunt them down.
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It wasn't far to Klaus' ultimate destination, but would he make it? It wasn't as if the Hellhound was going to let him go. Now that he'd been hit by that mech-fetishist's Aether, he could see it crawling around him -- a strand of grey mingled in with his yellow.
The tunnels that ran between the walls of the pyramid had no doubt been used once upon a time to spy on its inhabitants. Intrigue and skullduggery had been the Gene Tyrants' primary hobbies, after all. Funnily enough, these tunnels by and large were more roomy than the hallways they fit between. He supposed the Tyrants had wanted to snoop in comfort.
He made his way through the complex as quickly as possible, moving with such effortless speed that he seemed to be skipping gracefully through the tunnels. In one hand, he held his cane -- flipped around, so that it could be used as a weapon. He'd need it, after all.
Bang.
There. Mid-jump, Klaus whirled back, swinging his cane to deflect a slash from the Hellhound's axe-tail. A gaseous mixture was coiled around Klaus' weapon, and the second it collided with the Hellhound's tail, producing sparks --
-- the gas-sheath exploded, blowing both of them back.
Klaus felt a crack deep inside him as he landed, but he had no time to worry about it. So long as he could move, it was fine. Without even stopping to catch his breath, Klaus leapt off into his escape again, making the most of the seconds he'd bought.
It might have been optimistic to call them seconds, though, for the Hellhound instantly charged forth again -- tail shifting shape into a structure like the spokes of a wheel. As the mechanical beast lunged towards Klaus once more, he mirrored it, thrusting his cane at its snout as quickly as he could…
…but it was still far too slow.
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It would be a mistake to think the Hellhound could only create weapons with his tail. Blades and guns were simple to make, and so very convenient to use, but he had more than those when it came to tricks. The Hellhound's external memory contained schematics for hundreds of possible designs, and he could access them at a moment's notice.
The structure he had created was something called a retaliation engine -- an experimental unit based on technology pilfered from Abra-Facade, the birthplace of precognition. With a simple scan of the area, it could accurately predict future phenomena based on the available information, with a rate of failure so infinitesimally low it might as well be non-existent. One was present in the chambers of the Three Ministers, able to strike back against security threats before a finger could so much as touch the trigger of a gun.
In that instant, it predicted Klaus’ method of attack, the specific path his strike would take… and preempted it.
Its work done, the retaliation engine morphed into a simple sickle and lashed out, effortlessly severing Klaus’ arm before he could even fully extend it. The limb flew off, cane still clung tight in its fixed hand… and the tip of the implement tapped against the Hellhound’s head, producing another shower of sparks.
This explosion too was intense, but the Hellhound's armour had already adapted to it. While the flames did little more than lick at his metal skull, Klaus El was not so lucky. He was launched backwards by his own attack, smashing through the wall and landing on the platform beyond.
It took only a moment for the Hellhound to pursue him.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Artificial sensors scanned the area in an instant. A wide and rectangular elevator platform, with a shaft that ran far deep down into the earth. According to the intelligence they'd been given, the source of the barrier surrounding the planet was underground. Was this the path to it?
The Hellhound's interest bristled. He'd intended to leave the matter of the wish the Supreme had offered to others, but if the one-thousand points was right in front of him… he'd be a fool not to take them.
Either way, though, he still had to dispatch this vermin first.
Klaus El lay on the ground, clutching his bleeding stump, a thick barrier of green smoke coiling around him. It seemed different than the one he'd used earlier -- a more powerful compound, perhaps? Best to be cautious. That green feather glinted on his lapel, too, but it didn't seem to be any kind of weapon or threat.
"It's over," the Hellhound declared. "Take down your shield and I'll make it easy for you. Make me work for it and I'll make it hard for you. Your choice."
As expected, Klaus El did not do the smart thing. He just chuckled through the pain, even as he lay on the floor in a broken heap, even as crimson blood spilled out from his injury. Slowly, the effort clearly excruciating, he began to speak.
"Have you ever heard…" he said. "...of Der Freischütz?"
Not as expected. The Hellhound cocked his head. "What?"
"With a lot of old stories…" Klaus said. "...we don't even remember where they came from anymore. Even in the time of the Gene Tyrants… fuckin' bastards… fire had already swallowed most of the past. But scraps stick around. Even if we don't… don't know where they came from… they stick around."
Klaus could talk nonsense all he liked. The Hellhound's sensors were in the process of scanning that shield he'd created, determining its composition, and formulating a countermeasure. Then the old fuck would pay for wasting so much time.
The old man’s words were a wheeze. "Once upon a time…" he forced out. "A sharpshooter made a deal with a devil…." He took his remaining hand away from his injury, and -- shaking -- forced it into the pocket of his coat. "The devil gave him seven bullets, and said -- he said… he said that the first six bullets, when fired, would hit anything the sharpshooter wished… without fail…"
Omnipresent white fog swirled around them, surrounding them just as it did everything around the pyramid. The product of Klaus El's Aether. The Hellhound didn't quite understand why, but he found himself taking a step back.
Klaus fished his hand, now closed, out of his pocket and held it out in front of him. Head bowed, he finished his story.
"But the seventh bullet…" he whispered. "...the seventh bullet would belong to the devil alone, and do his work."
He opened his hand -- and there, resting in his palm, was a tiny metal bullet.
Run.
Over the years, the Hellhound had discarded as much of his organic body as he could, replacing coarse skin with smooth metal and wet flesh with dry wire. In that process, he'd thought he'd also discarded his animal instincts -- the primitive reflexes a human body was burdened with. He thought he'd scooped them all out and replaced them with software far superior.
In this case, at this moment, he was wrong. The self-preservation of meat urged him to run, and he was powerless to resist. He leapt back, ready to flee through the tunnels…
…but far too late.
Klaus' yellow Aether began to run over his hand, slowly but surely advancing towards the bullet held in the middle of his palm.
"I'll be going first, Zack…" he muttered. "I'll meet with you in hell, and we'll change the shape of that world too."
The Aether made contact --
-- and then there was fire.
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Skipper's strength came from his heartbeat. Each ba-dum of the organ, once properly amplified, was strong enough to blast through flesh and pulverize bone. But even Heartbeat Shotgun was only capable of so much.
The quiet sound of a heartbeat could only become so loud, and -- no matter how hard that heart pounded -- it could only beat so fast. Against a man who was like god, he might as well have been holding a normal shotgun in his hand. Something more was required.
Heartbeat Freedom.
All across the battlefield, Skipper could hear it. The sounds of battle, the sounds of death, coming through loud and clear. Each of the feathers that formed Skipper's wings had a counterpart out there in the world, handed out before this war had even started.
Yes. A counterpart -- for each feather came in pairs. One to release sound… and another to record it.
"I'll be going first, Zack. I'll meet with you in hell, and we'll change the shape of that world too."
Skipper's eyes snapped open just before his unconscious body could hit the ground -- and in that same instant, he blasted an almighty Heartbeat Shotgun downwards. His fall was broken instantly, but more than that -- he was sent up again, wings taut against his back, eyes firm as he flew up towards the Supreme.
Dying screams, roaring flames, falling stars… the cacophony that had rampaged through Elysian Fields was channeled through his feathers and became his power. This battle was his ammunition.
He could see him, up there, the Supreme -- still beastly, feral, rabid, showing the true face of the Supremacy with its bloody fangs and soulless eyes. A tyrant in search of an assassin. Skipper would gladly play the part.
Everyone's will, everyone's suffering -- all of it was sculpted into a godslaying blade.
Heartbeat Bayonet.
At the last second, Skipper saw those black eyes widen -- and the Supreme raised his arms to defend himself. The blow struck in that same instant, a demonic screech engulfing the world as the sounds of an entire war coalesced into a single ghastly note.
But a demon could only do so much against a god.
Blood sprayed through the air as deep gouges appeared in the Supreme's forearms, gouged there by pure sound, but the limbs themselves remained attached -- the block was successful. Without even gasping in pain, the Supreme twisted his body in the air, raising his leg up high -- as high as it could go, given the limits of a human skeleton.
The fur on his body receded, his eyes returned to normal, and he roared: "Excel Surge! Quantum King!"
Skipper went to blast himself away, but he'd put too much of himself into that Bayonet, and the second it took him to muster his Shotgun was a second he couldn't spare. At first, Skipper had believed the Supreme would pull the trees towards himself again, catching Skipper in the crossfire -- but he couldn't be more wrong. No, the Supreme chose instead to pull himself -- to the ground below Skipper.
The leg drop struck Skipper so fast it took a second for the pain to catch up. The Supreme smashed into him like a meteorite, both of them slamming into the ground a second later, forming a veritable crater. Skipper's mechanical arms creaked in protest -- even with the protection of Aether, the delicate mechanisms inside were taking a beating. Within his chest, he knew he’d broken every rib he had.
The Supreme kept one foot on Skipper's chest -- torturously holding him in place -- as he rose to his feet. The huge man raised his eyebrows as he held his arms up, inspecting the injuries Skipper had managed to inflict. They were by no means severe -- cuts not even close to the bone -- but the Supreme seemed impressed all the same.
"Been a while since I saw my own blood," he said appreciatively. "That's some damn ability you've got there, Zachariah. Excel Surge: El Dorado -- Seal of Fortune."
A field of gold Aether spread out around the two of them -- and as the light intensified, Skipper could feel his broken bones snapping back into place and sealing themselves together. Even the tiny cuts on his face closed -- disappearing as if they'd never even existed.
Even as his body was healed, though, Skipper glared hatefully up at his foe. This was a game. This was all a game to him.
The Supreme flexed his own healed arms. "There we go. Back to starting positions, right? Don't wanna wrap things up too quick. Plus, while we're at it… Excel Surge: Analysis. Let's see what you've cooked up here, Zachariah."
It took everything Skipper had not to grin right then and there, not to laugh, not to mock. Because -- in all the rubble and destruction -- the Supreme hadn't noticed. He hadn't seen yet.
Skipper had tricked the eyes of the man who was like god.
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Analysis, said some kid's voice in a cold monotone. Heartbeat Freedom.
Ability operates using two-hundred and sixteen pairs of feathers, each of which can operate both as a microphone and speaker. Sounds absorbed through these feathers can be stored to enhance the user's other abilities -- Heartbeat Shotgun, Heartbeat Bayonet and Heartbeat Landmine.
The feathers themselves also possess extra utility. By combining them into wings, the user can achieve flight beyond the typical application of their Heartbeat Shotgun. In addition, the feathers can be individually controlled and used as a medium for Heartbeat Shotgun, allowing attacks from a number of ranges and angles.
These feathers are exceedingly flexible in terms of use. It is quite possible that they could be fitted together into constructs of different forms, or attached to other objects. As an Aether ability, I am not equipped to speculate further.
Neat trick, the Supreme grinned down at his opponent, the information flowing into his mind in an instant. So I was right -- you've supercharged yourself, huh? And the other stuff you can do with these feathers sounds pretty… wait.
The Supreme blinked, looking down at the man beneath his feet. With the dust kicked up by the landing, he hadn't seen at first -- but the green wings Skipper had been using to fly around had vanished. Where the hell had they gone?
There was a glint of green in the corner of the Supreme's vision, and he twisted his head around to follow it. There, perched on his shoulders, he found what he'd been looking for.
Oh. The wings were on him.
Bang.
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As the Supreme went zooming off towards the mountain, propelled by his new wings, Skipper pulled himself up off the ground. His injuries had been healed, but the exhaustion of the battle remained, and it wasn't going to get any easier from here. He plunged a metal hand into his pocket and pulled out a cylindrical trigger.
This wasn't the detonator for the bomb in the Lotus' power core, but the trigger for another measure Skipper had arranged in advance. In the earth beneath them, countless soldiers slept, just waiting for the signal to begin moving. This was that signal.
The Paradisas had given him three-hundred Executioner automatics from their ranks, networked together to adapt to threats. Fifty of them had been placed around the main battlefield, instructed to go after and fight the Special Officers. They'd been destroyed one and all, as expected… but the knowledge they'd gained had all been transmitted -- here, to the remaining two-hundred and fifty, the ones Skipper had placed underground. Now, these guys knew how to take down an Aether-user.
He clicked the trigger -- and as the earth erupted around him, Skipper finally allowed himself that grin.
He hadn't emptied his bag of tricks yet. Not by a long shot.