Azum
Galactic Capitol
Gene Tyrant Space
1014 Years Ago…
Azez, the one they were calling the Absolute, walked through the ruined house of the gods. Corpses, both human and otherwise, littered the ground -- some crushed and buried among the rubble of the citadel. Great bonfires formed the horizon, and their smoke choked the skies, forcing night upon the world.
In the distance, a personal ship belonging to one of the Gene Tyrants protruded from the shattered egg of a building that had been their Nerve Senate. Brave Umbrants had given their lives to hijack the vessel, piloting it down into the Gene Tyrant's seat of government and incinerating everything inside.
With that, Lord Director Eve had been slain. With that, the war had been won. With that, these long and tiring thousand revolutions… had come to an end.
It didn't seem to bring Azez too much relief. He looked out over the scorched planet, a frown on his face, his white hair fluttering in the wind. He was a short and slight man, with brown skin and golden Pugnant eyes, a plain shawl wrapped around his person. Just looking at him, you wouldn't think he was one of the leaders of the revolution. He almost looked meek.
He was not meek. The glowing lantern in his hand had proved that time and again throughout this campaign.
“How many dead?” Azez muttered, his gaze distant.
One of his two Cogitant aides stepped forward, shaggy blue hair hanging over bright blue eyes. “With this, the Nobility's been eradicated from the galactic core,” she said. “The Blindman’s Hunt will exterminate the stragglers along the galactic edge. It's all but over.”
The Blindman, yes. One of the Zeilan Morhan. His Aether ability, the spears that brought stillness, had been instrumental in showing that the Gene Tyrants could be killed, were not gods. It was honestly a surprise he'd made it to the end of the war.
“Yes…” Azez blinked, eyes still on the fire. “But how many of ours?”
The woman had no answer. She stepped back and fell silent, looking down at the ground. Her eyes told the whole story, though. Far too much had been traded for this victory. Far too much.
Azez turned his head further, to look at the second of the Cogitants. A strange figure, with a blue-and white cloak wrapped around his body, completely concealing his appearance.. He -- and the Sapphire Star -- were the ones who had made all this possible.
“How about it, Edgar?” Azez asked, a sad smile on his lips. “Is this your ‘peace and joy for all mankind’?”
Edgar said nothing.
Azez went on: “For one person to be happy, another must become unhappy. Even more than that -- some people will lose their joy as a direct result of another gaining it. That's the sort of animals we humans are. It's not in our nature to be satisfied. Fool’s game. You don't agree?”
Again, Edgar did not reply to Azez’s question -- but he did speak. “I hear you're calling yourself the Supreme now,” the Cogitant said, hands clasped behind his back.
Azez blinked, his gaze flicking back to the other Cogitant. “I am?”
The woman shrugged. “It's developed organically among the troops… I'd say it's probably best just to go with it, my Supreme -- um, Azez, sir.”
“Well,” Azez said, scratching his head. “It's better than ‘Lord Director’, I guess. Sure, let's go with that.” He looked back to Edgar. “Is it a problem?”
Edgar's eyes -- glints of blue deep within his hood -- narrowed. “You may not have known the moniker, but I'm certain you're the one who decided how it should be passed on. The one who defeats the current Supreme inherits the position, no? I simply can't comprehend why you'd do something so foolish.”
“Oh, right, right,” Azez nodded.
He turned fully away from the ruins of the battlefield, stepping into the shattered shelter they'd turned into a command centre. “Well…” he said contemplatively, putting his free hand to his chin. “I did put some thought into that, if you must know. Right now, people are thinking I'm the strongest, yeah?”
“...correct.”
“If someone’s strong enough to beat me,” Azez smiled. “Then they’ll be strong enough to protect everyone else. Right?”
He turned to look at me -- and that glance alone was enough to set my heart ablaze.
“What do you think?”
AETHERAL SPACE
ARC 13
PART 1: LOVE
Present Day…
The red curtains began to part. Slowly, luxuriously, splendidly. And then, a moment later…
… two pale hands pulled the curtains fully apart -- and the host stepped out. A man with slicked-back blue hair, a twinkle in his eyes, and a suit so sharp it would give you a paper cut.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
“Coming to you live!” the deep booming words bounced as the host made his way across the set, the triumphant music of Auburn Jury flavouring his step. “It's the voice of the Supremacy… it's the voice of the people… it's Silvereye Azum-Ha with Brett del Boros!”
With a final sweeping bow, Brett deposited himself in his chair -- right behind a dark wooden desk. For a second, his face turned stern, as if he were a general about to deliver a wartime address. Then, however, it melted into an easy grin -- and he planted his feet up on the desk.
“What a week, huh?” he said as the applause drained away. “What a week. End of the Inner Melees. Start of the Dawn Contest. Now, I know I've got a bit of a reputation for being cavalier with these sorts of things…”
He threw his hands up, as various clips flickered into existence on holographic screens all around him. The infamous videograph of him dressed up as Kadmon shortly after Elysian Fields took centre stage, and the crowd chuckled awkwardly at his muted drunken antics.
“Come on!” Brett threw his hands up. “You guys thought it was funny! At least I think you did -- I hope I wasn’t that wasted.”
Prompted on, the laughter increased in fervour -- and the screens vanished.
“But, you know…” he said. “You know, sometimes you gotta step back -- you do, you gotta step back and acknowledge.”
Brett turned to the camera, a serious expression on his face, and behind him the faces of the Dawn Contestants began to flick past, one by one. Atoy Muzazi, Dorothy Eiro, Tealin Jade, Nael Manron, Chicken Punk… Dragan Hadrien. They went on and on.
“This is history,” Brett intoned, eyes boring into his audience. “This defines the century. Say what you will about Kadmon, he was a quiet guy. The next guy -- or girl? Maybe not so much. We've got with us Minister Yanrin Klein from the Body, Minister of Crestpoole.”
The image switched to an elderly statesman sitting in his own office, an unkempt and wild moustache blemishing his otherwise hairless face. “Thank you, Mr. del Boros,” he said, his voice the kind of croak that could only be produced by abuse of something or other. “A pleasure to be on the show tonight.”
Brett leaned back in his chair, grin already settling on his face. “So, Minister -- these Dawn Contestants. Fuck, marry, kill?”
Klein blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Well,” Brett smirked. “I know ol’ Dorothy Eiro’s the Supremacy’s sweetheart, but I’m sure you have your own opinions. You more into cavemen? I hear Halcyon’s gone and thawed one out.” His eyes flicked to the camera again. “Don’t get too excited though, ladies, I hear he can barely reach the top shelf!”
The crowd erupted into laughter. It really wasn’t even very funny, but this was what Brett del Boros did. He said things he wasn’t supposed to, to people he wasn’t supposed to, and he got away with it. That was his appeal: the audacity of him.
That was why people watched. That was why people laughed. That was why Silvereye Azum-Ha still kept him front and centre, even after the countless controversies he had brought in through word and deed.
Minister Yanrin Klein didn’t seem to get it. His face was a bright red as he leaned in towards the microphone.
“I was under the impression this was a news videograph,” he spat. “Clearly, I was --”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“No, no no no,” Brett interrupted, flapping a hand. “No, you’re absolutely right, I’m joshing ya, I’m joshing ya, I’m sorry. Bit of misplaced humour.”
Klein straightened his tie, somehow injecting annoyance into every individual muscle movement. “Quite right,” he grunted. No doubt his PR team was forcing him to participate in this interview -- shitholes like Crestpoole needed all the press they could get.
Right here, right now, he was actually at Brett’s mercy.
“So, you folks at home? Don’t know if you caught me say it before, but Minister Klein governs over a little place called Crestpoole. Never heard of it? Not surprised. Doesn’t export much, unless you count lung cancer.”
Klein’s face twisted in anger once more, but Brett raised a hand and cut him off. “Sorry, sorry, again with the comedy… my doctor tells me it’s a syndrome, I tell him he’s fired. What I just said was true until a little while ago -- Crestpoole actually exports Dawn Contestants right now. I’m speaking of course about little Dragan Hadrien, the one they’re calling the Star. Well, Shooting Star now, if I’m up to date. These things do mutate.”
The video began to play behind him -- footage from the very last Inner Melee.
“If you’ve got Sfeer, you’ve seen it -- him versus that leftover on Bone Heaven. Hell, if you’ve got eyes you’ve seen it. This station’s pushing him in people’s faces even more than me! And Minister Klein’s come to tell us all a little more about everyone’s new fixation. Minister, please, take it away.”
The Minister opened his mouth, and lies spilled out of his life.
Lies about the opportunities on Crestpoole that had created such a great warrior, about the youth programs he’d created that nurtured such talent, about the grand achievement of the Minister that was Dragan Hadrien. Often, a news show like this operated on twisted truths, but sheer lies were a fine substitute on occasion. Even so, nobody cheered -- even as they drank falsehood in, they did not cheer for it.
These were boring lies, after all.
Once the Minister had vanished from their screens, firmly banished away, Brett turned back to the camera -- that cheesy grin back on his face.
“Well, folks, that sure was a fascinating --” A yawn. “-- sorry, fascinating look into the world one of our Contestants came from. But I say -- why not hear it from the horse’s mouth? Stick around for our Dawn Contest coverage -- reporter Rae Ruditia is going to be interviewing each and every one of the Dawn Contestants we’ve got this time. Well, every one we can get our hands on. Not sure the Flower of Evil talks.”
A wave of light chuckles -- tipped with unease.
“But for now, this is Silvereye Azum-Ha… and I’m Brett del Boros. Keep on keeping on.”
Lights. Music. Applause.
Curtains.
Dark.
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“Chicken Punk!” cried Chicken Punk, his arms crossed as he sat in the thick leather chair.
Reporter Rae Ruditia nodded patiently, holding her microphone forward for Chicken Punk to speak into. She was a young woman with bright pink eyes that seemed to regard the world with uncomfortable intensity. Her blonde hair -- beneath a blue cap -- was tied back into a playful ponytail, and her lips seemed perpetually curved into a slight smile. Despite the nonsense this interview had quickly deteriorated into, she didn’t seem put off in the slightest.
“Wow, I see!” she said, her voice upbeat and peppy in a way that reminded Ruth of a somehow more optimistic Serena. “That sure is interesting, Mr. Punk. Thank you for telling us your story! I know I’ll be thinking different before I eat eggs again. Is there anything else you want to tell our viewers?”
Chicken Punk turned his head to follow the floating camera and stabbed a finger out at it.
“Listen well, kids!” he declared, his own voice just as intense as ever. “Bubble? Just pop it! Booze? Nuh-uh! Your body is a temple! Don’t make your parents sad!” He flexed. “Chicken Punk!”
Rae giggled. “So true! And cut. Thanks so much for meeting with me, Chicken Punk.”
Chicken Punk sat back in his chair, removing his goggles and wiping the sweat from his brow. Underneath his bulky eyewear, he was surprisingly normal-looking -- a middle-aged man with brown eyes and a half-formed goatee.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, his voice husky -- presumably from the strain of being Chicken Punk all day. “Hey -- when’s this gonna be on VG? I like to record all my media appearances. You know, for review and stuff?”
Rae smiled. “I’ll make sure my people get the times to you! Please don’t worry, though -- that was an excellent performance!”
As the two -- interviewer and interviewee -- chatted, Ruth watched from the door, arms crossed. She wasn't especially amused. The Dawn Contest wasn't something she'd paid too much mind to previously, but she'd quite liked Chicken Punk. He'd seemed like a cool guy.
Just another liar.
Rex sidled up to her -- the two of them were dressed in smart suits, the universal dress code of the professional bodyguard. Ruth had to admit: Rex had outdone himself this time. With just a little advance notice, he'd managed to find them a gig right at the heart of Azum-Ha, right at the heart of the Dawn Contest.
And it was more than just that.
“Just grin and bear it,” Rex muttered, eyes fixed straight ahead. “You heard them. Rae Ruditia is going to be interviewing every Dawn Contestant she can get her hands on. Silvereye’s going to do the work tracking down Hadrien for us.”
Indeed, tracking down Dragan wasn't just a matter of knowing he'd be in Azum-Ha’s Dawn Contest. Accommodation and preparation for the tournament were left to the discretion of the Contestants themselves. Being able to marshall those resources was considered a show of skill all by itself, even before the fighting began.
Dragan could be anywhere on this mess of a planet.
Ruth nodded. “I get you. It's a good idea, don't get me wrong… but something doesn't feel right.”
Rex raised an eyebrow. “How's that?”
She looked down at her hand. “It feels like… I -- we -- built something. Something with a -- something with a purpose. A life, I don't know? I'm not good at this. But it's like we're taking what we built, and we're twisting it to another purpose altogether.” She sighed. “Dunno why, but it feels like shit.”
“I get what you're saying. You feel like you're compromising it, right? Using the business for your own personal goals.”
“Alice and Ellis… they don't have any stake in this. Me and Bruno and Serena.. we're just dragging them along with us. I'm dragging you along, too. It's not fair.”
“Well,” Rex tapped his finger against the temple of his mask. “If I didn't wanna be here, I wouldn't be. Don't flatter yourself: you're not that persuasive. It's all the same to them, too -- they're getting paid. It's still business.”
“Oh?” Ruth raised a rueful eyebrow. “You're saying you'd switch sides if a higher bidder came around?”
“It'd have to be astronomical.”
Despite the tension of the moment, this place, this entire planet… Ruth found herself smirking. They were here, weren't they? They were making progress.
The smile faded.
“I wonder…” she began -- but her voice trailed off.
Rex turned his head towards her. “Yeah?”
She blinked, and her eyes were wet. “I wonder what Skipper would think of me…” she whispered. “...if he could see me now.”
“Well, I didn't know the guy, but…”
“I think he'd be disappointed…” Ruth answered her own question. “Skipper was a hero. He wanted to change the world. I don't know what Dragan is up to, but I bet… I bet he's got some big ambition as well. Me, though? All I'm worried about is my business, my friends, my life… it's the worst. I'm tiny, aren't I?”
Rex swallowed, clasping his hands. “I don't think there's anything wrong with that,” he said carefully. “Compared to the galaxy -- hell, just to this planet -- everyone's tiny. A person who thinks they're comparable to that… or that, I don't know, anything they do on their own is comparable to that… well, they seem deluded to me.”
He looked at her.
“I think you've got the right idea, Ruth,” Rex said. “It's sensible.”
Sensible… Ruth nodded to herself. In the end, that was all she'd amounted to, huh?
“The opening ceremony tomorrow night,” she said, low, under her breath, reminding herself. “All the Dawn Contestants will be there. That's our chance.”
Rex nodded back.
“Right behind you,” he said.
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Brett del Boros wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as he walked down the hallway. It had been a tiring night. More than that, it had been an annoying one.
The lighting too bright, getting in his eyes.
The idiot Minister's microphone had too much gain, stinging his ears with every cough and cretinous breath.
The applause cue for the audience coming in a second too late, creating an awkward -- and unfunny -- silence.
He'd have had the lighting technician fired if she wasn't such a good lay. The cue operator had no such protections -- he'd be out on the streets by the end of the day. It wouldn't be easy getting work in this industry with Brett del Boros’ black mark.
Still… that Minister, making Brett's court look like some kind of amateur-hour DIY videograph station. Brett had already made it clear he didn't want bores like that on his show. He dealt with the interesting and eclectic, and so did his viewers. Some government stooge with a stick up his ass was not what the people wanted -- and with the Dawn Contest in full swing, there was no doubt there'd be a veritable line of them coming in.
He screwed up the handkerchief in his hand. Forget sitting on the set like this, he should have been the one out in the world, interviewing the Dawn Contestants. Who on earth was that Rae Ruditia newbie sleeping with to snag that gig?
Brett muttered curses to himself as he marched down the corridor, stewing in his own boiling fury…
He reached the door.
…and as he turned the handle and opened it, his blood turned dead cold.
Shadows clung to the dressing room. Like a spiderweb drenched in ink, insubstantial yet undeniable, coating the walls and ceiling. They shifted, just slightly, like they were alive and responding to his presence. They very well might have been.
You never knew what nightmares might come from this person, after all. The seemingly young man that Darkstar called their King.
He sat in Brett's chair, right before his mirror, as if he owned the place. As if he owned the entire world. Those pitch-black eyes, barely visible beneath pitch-black hair, turned to regard him.
Lips spread into an unkind smile.
“Brett del Boros,” the King said with subdued cheer. “My man.”
A long time ago, Brett had met this person. In the years since, he'd tried to rationalise it as a nightmare -- a Bubble-induced delusion, derived from his own dancing psyche. But no.
He was real. The deal had been real.
And the bill was due.