Intergalactic Museum of History
Tenhait
Supremacy Space
One month earlier…
Machinery whirred. Gas hissed. Displays beeped. The void became the cold became the prelude to warmth. All around him were voices, chattering to each other. Barked instructions and hasty self-congratulations. Some things never changed.
The man called Mereloco opened his eyes.
I hope you wake in a kinder world than this.
His brow creased in annoyance. Words spoken to him just moments ago now seemed like an old memory. More than just old, he supposed. Most likely they were history, ancient now. But his reflexes were still in top condition, and so his brown eyes scanned the room.
He was lying down in the stasis pod, countless thick tubes attached to his upper torso, their functions powered down into uselessness now that the capsule had been opened. Yes, someone had woken him up. A group. He could see them -- the silhouettes of men and women around his pod, four in all, scientists of some kind from their bearing and uniforms. Cowards who focused on one form of strength to the expense of all others. The ones who had awoken him, no doubt.
This room was dark, dim. The backroom of some establishment. A place to throw away forgotten things that no longer held interest. He disliked it.
His eyes moved to the nearest of the scientists, a bald man. The researcher stopped talking to his colleagues, stopped demanding adjustments and readings, as he realized that Mereloco was fully awake. He did not blink. He had that sense.
"G-Good morning," he said haltingly.
"Unchained," Mereloco replied.
Four human beings became four bloody pancakes in an instant, crushed by unkind gravity. With all the noise now gone, Mereloco leisurely stretched himself up into a sitting position, tubes and wires snapping as he pulled them taut. Preservation liquid dripped from his naked form as he cracked his joints, reacquainting himself with the world.
Mereloco was not a large man -- he just about came to five foot five -- but he was surely a strong one. His body was tense with muscle, the power in his form made obvious by his utter relaxation as he moved through the world. Long dark hair hung in greasy clumps around his head -- he brushed it lazily out of his eye with his thumb.
Even after he'd cleared out the noise, he wasn't alone in this dark room.
Lingering by the door was a woman with short blonde hair, in a blazer and long skirt. Her hair was immaculately arranged in a strange swirling pattern, and her clothing bore not a single thread out of place. It was like looking at a human doll. Such organization did not come naturally. He disliked it.
"You," Mereloco said, his voice firm and deep, the only trace of emotion being the slightest trace of annoyance. "Woman. For how long did I sleep?"
If the woman was perturbed by the death of her underlings, she didn't show it. Her red lips curled into a practiced, polite smile.
"It's been two-hundred years since you were placed into stasis."
Mereloco accepted it immediately. "I see," he said -- and then he raised a calloused hand ready to receive a throat. "Come here. I'll kill you."
The woman took in a deep breath through her nose. "Before you do that, we have a proposal --"
Unchained.
Purple Aether ran across Mereloco's skin, and red Aether crawled across the woman's hair. As gravity pressed down upon her with brutal force, she remained standing -- even if her legs did tremble beneath her. At any rate, she did not become a smear of red as Mereloco had intended. He released his ability.
"Speak," he said, satisfied. "Who are you?"
The woman regained herself, her breath deep and ragged as she recovered from Mereloco's assault. "Alicia Jane Marsden…" she said, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief. "I'm an acquisitions specialist for Halcyon Interstellar."
"Halcyon…?" The name ringed familiar. Mereloco's brow creased into displeasure once again. "The Great Chain. Is this a matter of vengeance, then, woman?"
Alicia shook her head. "Not at all. Times have changed, as I'm sure you'd expect. Halcyon is now an independent corporation -- one that is very close friends with the Supremacy. We've revived you to make you an offer."
Mereloco did not speak, but merely raised an eyebrow.
"How would you like…" she said. "...to become Supreme?"
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Piolo
Former Prison Colony
Supremacy Space
The streets of the shantytown ran red with blood.
The blood ran past sliced corpses and piles of viscera. The blood ran past shattered automatics and ruined weapons. The blood ran past crumbling houses and blown-apart buildings. The blood ran past everything, the only constant in this city of scrap.
When the Supremacy had decided this place would be the site of an Outer Melee, they had forcibly evacuated the residents to facilitate it. Most of those people would never return to their homes again. Those who did would wish otherwise, as the stink of blood crawled up their nostrils and invaded their dreams.
Yes… this hellish scene would surely live on in the mind of that man, too.
He was in the center of town, where the rivers of blood met and became a red pool. There he remained, perched atop a pile of corpses like some carrion bird, looking down into himself. The hellish red sunlight shone down, silhouetting him -- robbing him of structure, turning him into the shadow he surely saw himself as. His reachers looked more like horns, stretching upwards sinisterly.
His eyes were dull, full of despair… and his Aether crackled red in response.
Two years ago, nobody had known this man's name. He was a nobody with no past and no place to be. Now, the entire criminal underworld shuddered at his mention. This was the founder of the Crimson Carnival, that infamous band of assassins. This was the greatest killer in Supremacy space.
This was the man they called the King of Killers, Nael Manron.
Nael looked up, the look in his blood-red eyes as dark as ever. Up above, in the sky, they'd begun to launch fireworks to celebrate the end of the Outer Melee. To celebrate his victory, he supposed. He did not smile at the thought.
What a joke. What a mess.
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Rurian
Leisure Planet
Supremacy Space
Once, Rurian had been another farming world, before a certain high-ranking Supremacy official had taken a liking to the small planet and decided to make it his vacation home. The farms were gone, replaced with resplendent green fields. The villages were gone, replaced by golf courses. Even the insects that had once run rampant on Rurian were kept far away from civilization by subtly transmitted frequencies.
The sun shone yellow and the grass glowed green. It would have been peaceful, if not for all the shouting.
"God…damnit!" Brutus Murr roared, straining against his capture.
The massive Pugnant had been wrapped from head to toe in thick ropes of grass, the vegetation beneath him having constricted around his form. He wrestled an arm free, but another tendril of grass -- still obeying the command it had been given -- lashed out and seized the limb, holding it tight.
There was no escape, no matter how much rage he poured into it.
"Ground," his tormenter said politely. "Bury everyone the grass is currently holding up to their waists, please. Ignore this order if their heads are facing downwards already, or if it would be otherwise life-threatening."
He sank into the dirt like quicksand. Goddamnit. Goddamnit! Goddamnit!
Brutus knew this young woman, as did the countless other contestants trapped around him, shouting their complaints and threats.
Dorothy Eiro. Along with Atoy Muzazi and the Aether abomination PALATINE, she was said to be one of the three Special Officers closest in strength to the former Contenders. You wouldn't know it by looking at her.
Her black hair was tied into pigtails, and her freckled face beamed at the hordes restrained in front of her. Rather than armour or at least some kind of uniform, she wore a simple white-and-blue blouse, with a similarly coloured bow decorating her collar. She honestly looked like she'd wandered in from a farm of some sort.
"Well," she said sweetly, slapping her hands together in satisfaction. "That should just about do it. Thank you for a wonderful time, everyone!"
She sauntered off, humming a merry tune to herself, and -- one by one -- the Caravan wristbands attached to each contestant determined they were no longer capable of fighting. Automatic surrender eliminated them from the Outer Melee. Brutus could do little more than hurl frustrated expletives with the rest of them at the shrinking figure of the girl they called the kindest Special Officer.
One victor, ninety-nine losers… and not a single death.
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Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Hell's Gate
Desert World
Supremacy Space
"Listen," Luc hissed. "This is gonna work."
He was huddling in the massive skeleton of a serpent with his new ally, taking shelter from the raging sandstorm outside. Red sand shredded everything that dared to poke its head out -- Luc had been a little slow getting into cover, and the arm that had been exposed for just a moment was now bare and bloody.
The Scurrant he'd grouped up with -- Grulgo or something -- was a chubby, round fellow with green bristles dangling from his engorged cheeks. He looked at Luc doubtfully. "Sounds like bullshit," he warbled. "Grulgosh don't like bullshit. No sir."
"It ain't bullshit," Luc urged, Cogitant-blue eyes shining as he leaned in closer. "See? See? Look at my eyes, man, trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I've -- I've friggin' analyzed the situation, man, I've analyzed it, I know what's going on. It ain't bullshit. You see -- you see how we're hiding here, man? Bro?"
"Yeah…" Grulgo nodded.
"Everyone else -- everyone else is gonna be doing the same things, you know, when you think about it?" Luc continued in hushed tones, gesturing wildly with his hands. "It's -- it's common sense, you get me, it's strategy, tactics, tactics, my guy. Shelter is the number one thing you gotta have here. Otherwise the sand gets you."
Grulgo nodded again. Good, good, he was starting to understand. That was good. Great, even.
"So…" Luc leaned in closer, compulsively and uselessly slicking his black hair back with one hand. "I got -- I say, as soon as this sandstorm lifts, as soon as we, you know, can get running around and get -- get mobility, we start destroying all the cover, you know? Smash it to fuckin' pieces. That way -- that way -- when the sandstorm hits again, what happens?"
Grulgo didn't answer, so Luc did it for him.
"Nowhere to hide!" he declared. "They get shredded -- they get frickin' shredded -- and you and me, you and me, my man? We're riding pretty. Fuckin' trillionaires. Fuckin' oligarchs, my guy." He sniffed. "By the way, you, uh… you got any Bubble?"
Grulgo blinked, the heavy cogs in his mind slowly turning until they finally clicked into place and he understood: this guy was a genius!
The two of them were so busy celebrating their ill-conceived scheme that they didn't notice.
They didn't notice the tall figure in the black cloak emerging from the sandstorm behind them.
They didn't notice it raise a gnarled hand covered in unsightly black veins towards them.
They didn't notice it whisper, rasp, hiss at them -- each syllable dripping with hatred and spite.
"Forest of Sin."
What happened after that, sadly, they very much did notice.
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Mordun the Greater
Ultracity
Supremacy Space
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
With each step the First Branch of the Tree of Might took, his followers -- lined up in a human corridor -- thumped their staffs in unison. With their strikes slamming against the traditional wooden floor of the starship, it produced a sound not unlike a drum. A drum to lead strength to glory, they might say.
If the boy was bothered at all by the grandiose reception, he did not show it.
The new First Branch, the only child of the title’s former holder, marched down the main hall of the starship, his face set into resolve beyond his years, his brown eyes framed by shaggy brown hair. Xander Rain, fourteen years old -- and, as of one hour ago, a winner of the Outer Melees.
This was not just their leader the Tree of Might was celebrating. This was victory.
As he reached the head of the room, ascending a small flight of stairs, Xander raised his ceremonial glaive up high -- and the pace of the drumming increased. From somewhere in the back of the room the trill of a heart-flute began to sound, bouncing across the walls and uniting each and every participant. This was a traditional Supremacy celebration. Something the rest of the galaxy, in their moral weakness and decay, had long since forgotten.
Bang.
With a spark of beige Aether, Xander slammed his glaive down onto the ground, the noise overpowering the rest of the drumming.
"Supreme!" Xander cried.
Bang.
"Supreme!" the crowd roared.
Bang.
"Supreme!" they all screamed together.
The final slam of the glaive pierced the floor.
Cheering enough to deafen a god. The rest of this Dawn Contest would be but a formality. Xander Rain -- and the rest of the Tree of Might -- already knew who their next Supreme would be. They had known for a long time now.
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Pqwrrty-Mlssn
Jungle World
Supremacy Space
The Scurrant sat calm, contemplative, his four arms arranged in an intricate meditation pose, the eyes that coated his muscles staring out at the world around him. His blue skin shone bright in the rising sun, and the petals of the great lotus he sat in fluttered in the gentle breeze.
Yes… the Scurrant sat serene in a garden of carnage.
All around him were corpses, locked in their final poses of terror, their forms mangled and twisted. It would have been unsightly -- perhaps even horrifying -- if not for the plants. Countless flowers, bright and beautiful, had sprouted from each and every orifice of each and every corpse, coating the cadavers and creating a beautiful paradise around the Scurrant.
He reached down with one massive, gentle hand and plucked a blue flower from the eye-socket of the nearest body. It twitched in agony.
"K-Kill me…" it moaned, voice muffled by the stems that were forcing themselves up and out of its throat.
The Scurrant smiled kindly, raising the body's chin with a finger. "But you have so much to live for."
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Ro No No Wo To Yo
Urban World
Supremacy Space
It had been a long and hard battle, fought through the deserted city streets, the waters of the canal rising to wash away the blood as it fell.
With a final hardy punch, the last opponent was sent flying off a skyscraper, his arms and legs flailing as he soared through the sky. His flight did not last long, though. Soon enough, a sickening crunch and a pile of meat was all that remained of him.
On the other hand, the last man standing -- perched on the edge of that same skyscraper -- was quite the sight to see. His eyes were hidden by huge black sunglasses, and his hair was forced upwards into a chaotic red mohawk. Sparkling white teeth were spread out in a boisterous grin, despite the blood that coated his black shirt and his running pants.
His ragged red cape billowing in the wind, the victor put his fists on his hips and declared his identity to the world.
"Yeah! Chicken Punk!"
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Deith
Arctic World
Supremacy Space
The Cogitant spoke two words, and his enemy fell, a hole neatly opened up in their back.
He didn't stop to consider the labour he'd just completed, though. He just started to walk, stepping over the corpse as if it wasn't there. He ignored the dead. He ignored the cold. He ignored the blizzard whipping at his skin.
After all, Dragan Hadrien's work was not yet done.
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Toor Anir
Farming World
Supremacy Space
Mereloco, sitting on a pile of rubble, stretched out luxuriously. He was wearing naught but a pair of frayed jeans -- the sole concession he'd been willing to make for his 'sponsors' -- as he bit into a stray tomato. He frowned. It tasted bad. He disliked it.
Tomatoes were meant to be this village's specialty, weren't they? And yet they tasted like this. Disappointing. It had been better in Mereloco’s time. Hadn’t it? Perhaps it was just the way it had been banged around before reaching his hand. It didn't matter.
He tossed it aside.
How long had this Outer Melee been going on for? Half an hour, just about, and it was pretty much finished anyway. Was it about time to wrap things up? But he still had things to consider. Events to process. This was a good place to get away from chattering voices -- they were too high up to be heard, for one.
Halcyon. Did he trust them? No. He had no reason to trust them. They wished to use him as a pawn in a game he did not care to play. But they were convenient, for now. He'd play along with their petty ambitions until it became disadvantageous.
Blood dripped down from above.
Mereloco sighed, long and hard, and looked up. There -- in the sky above, all around -- floated the unfortunate. The rest of the contestants, their bodies robbed of gravity by his Unchained, could do little more than float upwards and cry for mercy. Powerlessness presented. Some had possessed Aether abilities that had allowed them some mobility in zero gravity, but he'd eliminated them first. It had been the logical thing to do.
A stoic expression on his face, Mereloco raised his closed fist up.
The more things change, the more they stay the same, he considered. Your throne is still within my reach… Damon.
Mereloco opened his fist and watched, morose…
…as it began to rain.
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Ionir Yggdrassil
Seed-Shuttle 3
Supremacy Space
Present Day…
Atoy Muzazi let out a heavy breath, igniting and banishing a Radiant from his palm again and again.
Once, before vital missions, he would have found himself reaching for Luminescence's sheath for reassurance. Perhaps this was the same impulse, translated to a new self. The confirmation that he had a weapon, that he could fight back against whatever the world sent his way.
Blood on the grass…
If only that were true.
"Commander," Morgan called up from the seats that lined the small round shuttle -- more like a mass of branches winding into a circular bench. "Ionir says we'll arrive planetside in five minutes. We're cutting it pretty close to the Inner, you know."
"We'll make it," Muzazi said firmly.
He watched, staring as the landscape of Ocean Hate grew closer through the viewport. The name of the planet seemed accurate enough: below them was a great red sea, like blood, spreading out as far as the eye could see. The only exceptions to the crashing crimson waves were a few cities floating on artificial landmasses and -- far off in the distance -- the warped, centipede-like carcass of the Devil. The dark wreckage was such that it stretched all across the horizon.
One of the Arcana Automatics. It was said that when it was finally brought down here, it had poisoned the sea forever in a final act of spite. On the other hand, the substance used to contaminate the water had turned out to be potent fertilizer, so Muzazi supposed all things were turned to man's ends eventually.
The Radiant flicked on. The Radiant flicked off. Enough. It was time to be disgraceful.
Muzazi turned his head to look back at those assembled in the shuttle.
Morgan Nacht watched, waiting eagerly for orders.
Ash del Duran sat still, his arms crossed, his eyes gently shut.
Marcus Grace polished his prize pistol, his breathing steady.
And Gregori Hazzard regarded Muzazi with a single open eye, the crimson pupil like a drop of accusatory blood.
“Be ready,” Muzazi said, his voice tasting like bile on his tongue. “And remember… the plan.”
The shuttle shuddered as it began to land.