Ionir Yggdrasil
Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir
Supremacy Space
Ionir Yggdrasil, headquarters and founding member of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir, drifted through space.
Ever since the Fell Beast had re-emerged from the body of the New Moon, its own form had expanded greatly. The humanoid body plan had been abandoned utterly in the process -- and now, as it sailed through the stars, it looked like nothing less than a gargantuan pinecone. Hallways and chambers existed within him, sustained by Ionir's biological processes and the few cybernetic enhancements it had allowed.
It would be tempting to wonder whether its wooden skin was really suitable as the hull of a starship -- but to think Ionir Yggdrasil was just made of wood would be the same as thinking it was just a tree. In short, foolishness. It held out against the cold and the dark without fail.
Yes, without fail. As the shuttle docked within it, the Waxing Crescent Moon resumed its flight -- carrying the Supreme Heir and all the other Phases within it.
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"That was a good fight back there," Morgan Nacht said to his commander, as the two of them ascended the long stairs to the main chambers. "How are you feeling?"
As Muzazi walked alongside him up, only the masked half of his face was visible. Muzazi wondered vaguely how he must seem to Morgan, when not a flicker of emotion could be seen. Cold, perhaps? Robotic?
His voice -- calm, measured -- wouldn't do much to dispel that illusion, if so. "A good fight would have ended with less corpses. I did what I could. I made it to the Inner Melee."
"Wasn't that bad, then," Morgan smirked, purple war-robe swishing against the uneven ground beneath him.
The interior of Ionir Yggdrasil was unsettlingly biological, hallways more like veins than anything else, but Morgan Nacht never seemed to stumble or lose his way. Sometimes, in the late hours, Muzazi would see Morgan standing by himself in some distant corridor -- listening to what seemed like nothing. He supposed it made sense. Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrasil had a unique connection. For a time, the two of them had been one, after all.
"At any rate," Muzazi went on. "I should receive word of the Inner Melee location shortly. Once I do, I'd like for you to speak with Ionir and --"
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
"Is it going well, Commander Muzazi?" a harsh voice cut through the air. "Your quest to steal my throne?"
Well… Muzazi thought. This was to be expected.
At the top of the grand staircase, glaring down at him, stood the Supreme Heir -- Aclima. Her black hair was tied back into a ponytail, and her golden eyes glinted in the light. She crossed her arms as Muzazi ascended, the black-and-purple dress she wore a stark contrast to the natural environment around them.
"You misunderstand my intentions, my Heir," Muzazi said gruffly, not quite meeting her gaze. "As a warrior, it's my duty to seek the office of Supreme. I mean no trespass against you."
Aclima raised an eyebrow. She did not smile. The Supreme Heir did not smile often these days -- and when she did, it was insincere, a twist of the dagger.
"In that case," she said, looking up at Muzazi as he reached the top of the stairs. "Why don't you do it yourself? Instead of flying my ship around, using my resources."
"As the leader of the Eight Phases," Muzazi said patiently. "It's my duty to protect you. So long as I remain by your side, I can balance that with my own ambitions."
Aclima sneered. "Protect me so you can defeat me, you mean? You realize that's what it'll come down to, right? If you want to win the Dawn Contest? I'm surprised you don't just kill me in my sleep and get it over with."
Cruel words came easily to the Heir's lips, and yet Atoy Muzazi could not find it in himself to rebuke her. He had forfeited that right on Elysian Fields, two years ago. There was no denying that this was an uncomfortable position he'd put himself in -- serving as the Heir’s bodyguard even as he strove to supplant her.
Even so, though…
"You read hostility where there is none, my Heir," Muzazi replied calmly, ignoring the bait. "If you'll excuse me."
As Muzazi turned to leave, Aclima muttered up to one of the people standing alongside her. "Look. You see that? He's running away."
Aclima wasn't alone, after all -- among the Eight Phases, she never dared to be.
To one side of the Supreme Heir stood the Waning Crescent Moon, Anya Hapgrass, a short woman with frizzy ginger hair and bright blue eyes. She wore suspenders over a shirt that frankly was far too small to require suspenders, and a pair of trousers that went in the absolute opposite direction -- far too baggy for someone of her size. She put a gauntleted hand to her mouth and snickered at Aclima's comment.
To Aclima's other side stood the Third Quarter Moon, Endo Silversaint. The knight stood tall and thin, clad from head to toe in gleaming plate armour, a white fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. Muzazi could not see Silversaint's expression through the fluted helmet he always wore, but a sense of disapproval washed over him all the same -- and when the Silversaint spoke, those suspicions were confirmed.
"You disgrace yourself with such tactics, Sir Muzazi," he said in a quiet voice. Yes, quiet, almost meek… and yet judgment radiated from every syllable. Was he referring to Muzazi's methods as commander of the Eight Phases, or his conduct in the last battle? Impossible to tell, and asking was out of the question.
Muzazi’s frown deepened. He could ignore Aclima's snide tongue, and Anya's laughter meant nothing to him… but somehow he couldn't dismiss Endo Silversaint quite as easily. It was like looking into an old mirror, after all.
Morgan bristled next to him. "Careful now," he said softly -- but Muzazi planted a firm hand on his shoulder and pulled him along. They would not escalate this. They had no right to.
He chose not to respond at all. He just continued to stride down the hallway, Morgan by his side, until the Heir and her companions vanished from sight. Once he was certain they couldn't be heard anymore, Muzazi continued the conversation. Or, at least, he tried to.
“Until we receive --”
“So what are you going to do?” Morgan asked, cutting him off. “When it comes down to it, I mean? If you get to the finals?”
Muzazi swallowed. “Once that point comes,” he said stiffly. “I will recluse myself. Don’t worry. There won’t be any conflict of interest.”
“But…”
“There won’t be any conflict of interest,” Muzazi repeated, more firmly. “Until we receive word of the Inner Melee site, we’ll stand by and operate as usual.”
As they walked, the spiraling wood began to transition into solid metal beneath their feet. The crew quarters, unlike the rest of the vessel, were artificial constructs that didn’t change with Ionir’s whims. Tunnels became true hallways -- and, as they reached the meeting room, the arboreal orifices were replaced with actual doors. They slid open to welcome them.
No meeting had been called, so the room was fairly empty. Only Marcus Grace sat at the long metal table, his arms crossed, his Cogitant gaze distant.
Muzazi nodded to the Waxing Gibbous Moon as they approached. "My condolences," he said softly.
Marcus' gaze flicked up to regard Muzazi with those intense blue eyes. His white jacket was pulled tight around his chest, and his white hair was cut close to his head. Marcus Grace wasn't the sort to give even his appearance leniency.
"I don't need condolences," Marcus replied. "He's not dead."
They'd received troubling news earlier that day, just before the Outer Melee had commenced. News regarding Marcus' son, Winston Grace -- the young man who'd been missing for nearly three months now. He'd gone to clarify the sequence of events in the Elysian Fields Incident for the Committee and had seemingly dropped off the face of the world… until today.
A severed arm, confirmed to belong to the young detective, had been found in the slums of Obden. Marcus could hope as he wanted… but it didn't look good.
"All the same," Muzazi nodded respectfully, ignoring the contradiction within himself. "Our hopes are with you."
Marcus nodded, the movement barely perceptible. "Appreciated," he muttered.
What Muzazi had said was true. When he got right down to it, despite everything else, he did hope Winston was alright, he did hope he was found, he did hope that the arm did not spell his death. But… his words were selfish, as well. It would not do for Marcus Grace to resent him.
He needed all the friends he could get, after all.
The balance of power within the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir was a delicate thing. Two of the founding members -- Morgan Nacht and Ionir Yggdrasil -- were firmly loyal to Muzazi himself. The next two members -- Ash del Duran and Marcus Grace -- could be loyal to either Muzazi or Aclima, depending on the demands of their station and the situation. Needless to say, Anya Hapgrass and Endo Silversaint were firmly Aclima's people. That was why she'd brought them in, after all.
How had things ended up like this? Muzazi took a seat at the table, rubbing his temple with one hand. Ever since Elysian Fields, the relationship between himself and Aclima had grown more and more adversarial -- until now, where he found himself considering her more of an obstacle than someone to protect.
It wasn't even that she was wrong. He was using her resources for the purpose of taking the throne he was supposed to help her to. Silversaint wasn't wrong, either: it was dishonorable to the extreme. But if he were to put his pride above doing what needed to be done, for the benefit of the Supremacy as a whole…
…what answers would he have for the corpses behind his eyelids?
And so it was that he found himself playing politics against the little girl he'd sworn to keep safe. Two Moons on his side, two against, two that could swing either way… and one that wasn't so easily quantified.
The doors slid open once more.
Speak of the devil. Atoy Muzazi looked up as the First Quarter Moon, Gregori Hazzard, walked into the room. The man who shared Marie's name. His face, that blonde hair and those red eyes, bore a certain resemblance to her as well. For that reason -- and another -- he was a… difficult man for Muzazi to interact with.
The other reason was that Gregori Hazzard was obviously a spy for the Ascendant-General, Alexandrius Toll. Gregori had previously left the Special Officers Commission to serve the military directly, and then returned once Muzazi had started actively recruiting for the Eight Phases. Muzazi knew, and Gregori knew that Muzazi knew.
That was also why it was unclear what side he would take: it would surely depend on what best served the Ascendant-General's interests, not any loyalty that Gregori himself felt.
One hand was plunged into the pocket of Gregori's baggy white coat as he approached, while the other held up a script. His crimson gaze was dull and disinterested as ever, and the boredom slipped out from his voice as he spoke.
"Boss," he said, the word sounding insincere from his lips. "Figured you might wanna see this."
Before Muzazi could even reply, Gregori had tossed the script over to him. He caught it, because of course he did, but still… rude. His annoyance was quickly forgotten as he saw what was on the screen.
"Name got flagged up," Gregori offered an unnecessary explanation. "List of victors."
Muzazi's eyes widened at that name and that face he hadn't expected to see again -- not after Elysian Fields.
Dragan Hadrien.
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Serendipity
Unified Alliance of Planets Capitol
Seat of Man
He read the message.
Operative is to infiltrate Supremacy territory and observe the conclusion of the Dawn Contest from a close distance. Intelligence regarding Supreme candidates and their activities are to be relayed back to Command regularly. Additional orders may be enacted in the field.
It was rare for orders to be printed on paper these days. Three sentences, in bold ink, typed across the memo held between two hands. The implication was obvious: these were orders to be read only once. After that, they had to vanish from this world.
In the modern world, paper existed to be burnt. Before the elevator reached its destination, Rufus Von Frostburn snapped his fingers -- and the memo was immediately devoured by a tiny spark of flame.
NEBULA FIVE
Rufus Von Frostburn
"The Supernova"
Nebula of Aldrust
Rufus waved away the smoke with a leather-gloved hand. He wasn’t particularly well-dressed for a meeting in the Seat of Man -- the gathering place for the Central Governing Council of the Unified Alliance of Planets. His long red hair hung loose down his shoulders, and his black fur coat was a far cry from the expected business suit, especially since it was open in the middle, exposing his bare chest. The closest thing to a real badge of office was the tiny ‘5’ pin he wore on his lapel.
The Ten Nebula of the Unified Alliance of Planets were ranked by strength -- and since he'd been assigned this role four years ago, Rufus had occupied the office of Nebula Five. He didn't much mind it. He wasn't low enough that people thought he was weak -- or human garbage like Nebula Ten -- and he wasn't high enough to inspire tiring envy. It was a comfy spot. Usually kept him out of trouble.
Usually… but not always. Rufus realized that the second the elevator opened.
Waiting for him in the hallway was Beckett del Brainen. The other man was already glaring at him as he arrived, clad in gnarled white armour, his similarly white hair tied behind his head. Like most people from Brainen, Beckett had Scurrant blood -- the distinct shade of grey came out strongly in his skin, making him look almost like a living statue. The only thing that came close to colour on him were his Pugnant-gold eyes.
Generally speaking, it was impossible for a human to belong to more than one of the subspecies. The Gene Tyrants had programmed their genetics that way. The only known exceptions were crosses between one of the main three and Scurrants. So it was that the people of Brainen obtained their distinctive appearance and strength.
Between them and beyond them, light shone in through the window that made up an entire wall of the curving hallway. The towering spires of Serendipity gleamed in the sunlight, the twinkling dots of traffic zooming through the sky. It was a shame that Beckett's expression was so dark in comparison.
“Hey, asshole,” Beckett said as Rufus stepped out of the elevator. “You’ve got your orders, right? Show me.”
Rufus hesitated. Beckett knew about that?
“Eh?” he blinked. “Was I not supposed to burn it?”
Beckett clearly hadn’t expected Rufus to come back with that -- the hostility on his face actually vanished for a moment as he furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. “What?”
“I, uh,” Rufus said awkwardly. “I thought it was on paper because I was meant to burn it when I was done reading it. So I, uh, I did. In the elevator. Just now. Sorry.”
“What the fuck?”
“Sorry,” Rufus repeated.
Tension crept throughout Rufus’ body. It wasn’t that he was intimidated by Beckett -- the numbers spoke for themselves -- but he was very much aware that the way he messed up would reflect badly on Agnes. His sister and his homeworld hadn’t been part of the Governing Council for very long. He couldn’t risk anything that would jeopardize her position. She was the brains and he was the brawn. They were meant to work together, not sabotage each other.
Even if he’d burnt the orders, though, he still remembered them -- every word. He wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t manage that.
Beckett groaned, as if trying to will the entire previous conversation out of history by sheer force of annoyance. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said -- and on cue, five claws of bone extended out from the tips of his fingers, blood dripping from them menacingly. “How come a dumbass like you is being given this assignment?”
NEBULA SIX
Beckett del Brainen
“Underframe”
Nebula of Brainen
Ah, he really needed to give a good impression, he knew… but Rufus von Frostburn couldn’t just let that go. Despite his best efforts, a smug fanged grin spread across his lips.
“What?” he chuckled. “You jealous?”
The reaction was immediate and predictable. Beckett’s eyes widened, his nostrils flared, and a red flush of anger began to trickle over his grey skin. He stepped forward to get right into Rufus’ face -- but before he could do anything, he was interrupted.
“Come on, now, boys,” drawled the young woman standing between them. “No fighting.”
The woman wore a ten-gallon hat over her dirty blond hair, and thick aviator sunglasses over her dark blue eyes. Denim shorts and a blue-and-yellow pilot jacket made her seem like she was more suited to a costume party than anything else, but Rufus supposed he wasn’t one to talk. Besides, even if she was relatively new, the mercenaries the Maraze State hired as their Nebula representative were always formidable.
Yep… what a scary lady. Rufus had only noticed she was there once she’d spoken -- after she’d already planted the barrel of a revolver against each of their temples.
NEBULA EIGHT
May Miracle
“The Nowhere Woman”
Nebula of the Maraze State
“Try it, bitch,” Beckett snarled, eyes flicking over to regard the woman holding him at gunpoint. “See how far that thing makes it through my skull.”
May’s mouth twisted into a lupine smirk. “Well… I am a gamblin’ girl,” she said. “But I’m afraid we’ve got a prior engagement, hon.” She slipped her revolvers back into the holsters at her hips. “We’re waiting for you boys in the assembly hall.”
“Meeting hall?” Rufus frowned. “I didn’t know the Governing Council had been called together.”
Beckett rolled his eyes as he cracked his neck. “You’d have heard about it if the most powerful people in the UAP were gathering together, dumbass. Think about it for a minute. It’s just us Nebula today.”
Rufus’ frown deepened. “Why?”
That roll of the eyes transitioned smoothly into a piercing glare. “To make sure you don’t fuck things up.”
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The meeting hall in the Seat of Man was quite the sight to behold. A white round table, with ten seats all around it, the UAP flag shining down onto its surface as a projection from above. Really, though, that wasn't the impressive part.
All around the table, outside of the reach of that spotlight, was the void of space -- stars and systems swirling around the meeting room like the galaxy in miniature. Rufus had once asked his sister about the purpose of these holograms. According to her, it was so the Council could see the world their decisions would affect at all times.
He didn't really get it.
Usually, the Central Governing Council themselves would be the ones using this space -- but it seemed the Nebula had decided to make use of it for an impromptu meeting of their own. As the three of them -- Rufus, Beckett and May -- entered the room, the man who'd taken his seat at the relative head of the table looked up at them.
"I see you managed to find them, Miss Miracle," he said, voice stern and clipped. "I trust that was before they did anything foolish?"
The man looked like… the man looked like… there was no nice way to say it. The man looked like a clown. Chalk-white skin, bright green hair, a garish red jumpsuit. Hell, even his nose was engorged and crimson. The only thing he was missing was a smile -- Rufus had never seen anything but a deep scowl on the older man's sallow face.
NEBULA THREE
Tom Foolery
"Master of the Killing Arts"
Nebula of Paradoxia
The human body was a machine. Few excelled at breaking it quite like Tom Foolery. Nebula Three nodded at May as she took her seat on the other side of the table. Then, those perpetually-disapproving grey pupils flicked over to target Rufus and Beckett.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" he asked.
Neither of them were quite brave enough to argue, and quickly took their seats as well. Beckett grumbled a little, but that was the extent of his complaining. A rare occasion when Nebula Six willingly elected to shut his mouth.
Tom noticed it as well. "It seems our young Master Beckett has been chastened, Miss Miracle. Your doing?"
May nodded.
"It seems your prediction was correct, then, Luna," Tom grunted. "But that is to be expected."
Sitting next to May was a young girl -- maybe ten or eleven -- clad in black robes so thick she almost looked spherical. A metal mask covered her face, dotted with dozens of tiny red sensors, as if the child was looking out at the world through countless staring eyes.
Rufus couldn't help but shudder. He'd known Luna was here before even seeing her. The kid had a disturbing habit of whispering people's words a split second before they actually said them. That pre-echo had given her away.
NEBULA NINE
Luna
"The All-Seeing"
Nebula of Abra-Facade
"So," Rufus spoke up in the hallowed chamber for the first time, looking around at the other people in the room. "What's the occasion? How come I've got all the Nebula lined up in front of me?"
"Not all," Tom corrected him. "Neither Nebula One or Ten are present. Four and Seven are unoccupied slots."
"Well, yeah," Rufus acknowledged. "But Ten doesn't count, he's human garbage."
"Indeed. At any rate, the reason we're meeting -- as I'm sure you do know, Master Rufus, is because of the orders you've received."
Rufus furrowed his brow. "I don't get it. These are meant to be secret. How come you all know about them?"
Tom didn't reply. Instead, the answer came from next to him.
"You're not the only one who received them," said a quiet voice.
The man who spoke was dark-skinned, his black-haired dreadlocks hanging low down his back. He was thin and lithe, arms crossed in front of him, crimson eyes regarding Rufus calmly. The sheer black armour he wore was surely ceremonial -- the fact that his muscular midriff was completely exposed was proof enough of that.
Above his head floated a red halo, transparent, formed from a substance resembling smooth red crystal. His Principality. The collective Aether ability of the Inganci people.
This was one of the few among the Ten Nebula that Rufus could consider a genuine friend. Jamilu Aguta.
NEBULA TWO
"Bearer of the Demon Spear"
Jamilu Aguta
Nebula of Inganci
Rufus regarded the long golden spear on Jamilu’s lap warily. The thing almost seemed to hum with barely constrained malice. He knew full well that Jamilu could control it… but it didn't make him any less tense, standing so close to one of the Old Demons of the Dawn.
"What do you mean I'm not the only one?" Rufus asked, looking down at the table at the other man.
"I'm to accompany you," Jamilu replied simply. "Our mission is the same. The briefing read: 'Additional orders may be enacted in the field.' I need to be certain you understand the implication."
Rufus shrugged, looking around uneasily. "It means, uh… it means what it says, right? If something comes up, they might give us more orders?"
Jamilu shook his head. "It's not if something comes up, Rufus. It has already been decided that something will come up."
"Huh?"
"We are not going to the Supremacy to observe who the next Supreme will be," he explained patiently. "We are going to decide it."
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Granrue
Supremacy
Farming World
"So," whispered Ellis, leaning up to the taller Alice as the two of them descended the landing ramp. "Who's this Dragan Hadrien guy, anyway?"
Alice glanced down at him. The hangar they'd landed in was a public one -- but fairly empty, so she spoke freely. "Oh, you wouldn't know, would you?" she said. "Before the bosslady set up Restorossi and Road, she used to be part of another crew -- along with the Ventriloquist and this Hadrien guy. They got split up, I guess, and Hadrien's been missing ever since. A couple of times the Ventriloquist's roped us into some kinda snipe hunt to do with this, but…" She blinked. "Wait. You were there for that, asshole, you should know this!"
“Oh,” Ellis muttered disinterestedly. “I was?”
Ruth ignored the argument quickly brewing behind her. She had something much more interesting to look at. There, waiting for her at the entrance to the hangar, stood two of her best friends in the world: Serena and Bruno del Sed.
It wasn’t like they’d always been there for each other these last two years… but still, it was damn good to see them.
Bruno’s mouth spread into a thin smile -- and Serena spread it even further into a wild grin. Before Ruth could so much as say hello, the girl was already charging towards her for a hug. Roman glanced towards Rex, who just nodded: this wasn’t something the mercenary had to worry about.
Even with Aether, the force of Sererna’s embrace almost bowled Ruth over. She laughed as she gripped the other woman by the shoulders, managing to push her away just the slightest bit. Enough to breathe, if nothing else.
“Easy, easy,” Ruth chuckled -- before her smile faded. “So. What’s this plan you’ve got to find Dragan?”
Serena’s smile didn’t so much as slacken. “We looked into it, Miss Ruth. We still have time before the Inner Melees -- six more Outer ones to go. Until the Inner Melee starts, the locations are kept under heavy guard. But if they’re under guard…”
Finally, the smile restrained itself back down to Bruno’s self-assured smirk. Ruth found herself reminded of the moments that had come right before one of Skipper’s ‘foolproof’ plans. A shudder went down her spine.
Bruno finished his sister’s sentence. “...then all we have to do is steal it.”