"So," muttered Bart, shuffling awkwardly with his plasmabow. "Who do you think these guys are?"

Madsen looked over at him. "Who?"

"The guys we're guarding, idiot. They've gotta be a big deal, right?"

They were on guard duty just outside the room containing the … prisoners? Bart wasn't sure of the right word. These people weren't allowed to leave, but they weren't exactly being held for anything either. Had the complex become some kind of hotel without anyone letting him know, then?

Madsen put a hand to his chin, no doubt doing his best to look like he knew how to think. "It's gotta be the Citizen and his guys, right? We must've bagged 'em."

That wasn't the answer Bart had expected.

"If it was the Citizen, it'd be all over the news," Bart snapped. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Madsen waved his hand. "Nah, nah. I know exactly what I'm talking about. That guy with the metal arm? He's definitely the Citizen. I've got this thing - if I look into someone's eyes, I can tell their, uh, their true character."

"And that told you he was the Citizen?" Bart sighed.

"Yup. It was obvious. We caught him, and now we're waiting to make the big announcement, you know? 'Cause stock season's coming up."

"The hell is stock season?"

Madsen smirked, as though he'd just won the intellectual battle. "That's when all the stocks get good, duh. You gotta know about these things if you're in the biz."

Bart suppressed a groan - he knew his bonus could be docked for attitude problems, and he didn't trust Madsen not to snitch if it came down to it. "Well," he said. "What about the others with him? The Cogitant guy and the Pugnant girl? They're not the Citizen, so who are they?"

Madsen snapped his fingers. "His moles."

"His moles in what? We've got them in custody too."

"I, uh," Madsen opened his mouth as if he were going to inflict another opinion on Bart, before faltering. "I don't have to explain these things to you."

Quietly shaking his head, Bart returned to his silent guard duty. Just a few more years of this, and he could make enough money to get off this damn rock - or get high enough on the corporate ladder that they'd pay him to go somewhere else.

The main bulk of Shooting Star Security Solutions' management was off-planet, but they recruited extensively from the local population to ingratiate themselves to the public. Bart knew that Chief Dir had been a retired Toptown show-brawler before they'd poached him. Presumably, S4 had been hoping that'd net them some positive publicity, but they'd be disappointed if so - Dir kept his past as private as possible.

The door slid open and the green-coated man - who obviously wasn't the Citizen - strolled out, arms pumping in an exaggerated motion.

"Howdy," he said, grinning.

"Another bathroom break, sir?" Bart sighed. Really, when he'd signed up for S4, these weren't the kind of duties he'd expected. He knew beggars couldn't be choosers, but he'd expected a job with a little more action.

The man winced awkwardly - and then he pointed his palms flat towards Bart and Madsen. "Not exactly, pal," he said apologetically. "My apologies, yeah? Heartbeat shotgun."

Bart's eyes widened as he realized violence was imminent, and he raised his bow to point it towards the man - only for the damn thing to get caught on his boot. As he struggled to pull it free, he pointed at the man, barking a wordless order to get down or surrender or something to that effect.

The man didn't get down. The man didn't surrender. He only smiled - and, as a sound like twin gunshots rang out, he winked.

And everything went black.

-

"Poor guys," sighed Ruth through her Skeletal mask, tapping one of the guards on the floor with her foot. "They're not dead, are they?"

Skipper shook his head as he cracked the joints in his organic fingers. "Nah. I'm a nice guy, Ruth. I wouldn't do a thing like that."

Dragan was treating the guard nearest to him much less sympathetically. In barely a minute, he'd already stripped the man's bulky body armour and taken it for himself, along with his plasmabow. Even he had to admit that he must have looked a little ridiculous - the armour was too big for him, giving him the appearance of a frightened turtle as the top half of his head popped out of the neckhole.

He ran his hands over the bow, trying to figure out how it worked. It really wasn't that complicated - in terms of general principles, it was basically a rifle shaped like a bow. You pulled the trigger, thing went flying. In this case, the thing in question was a glass arrow rather than a globule of plasma, but still.

"Well, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, turning a stolen helmet around in his hands before tossing it over his shoulder. "Which way next? We wanna get to some kind of landing pad."

Dragan unfolded his Archive, pulled out the mental map he'd built up through countless deductions over the last week. When new people arrived - with unfamiliar footstep patterns - they always initially appeared from the same direction.

"This way," he said, walking down the left end of the corridor. "So long as we keep going in this direction, we'll end up where the new people come from."

Ruth nodded, zipping over to his side in a flash of red Aether using her Skeletal armour's enhanced speed. Skipper followed from behind, walking backwards as he pointed his palms outwards - ready to fire at any moment.

"We need to play this safe," he said quietly. "But not too safe. From what I've, ah, observed, the alarm should go off in about sixty -"

The alarm went off.

"Ah."

Dragan looked at him, despair in his eyes. "I fucking hate you, you know that?"

-

"And you are?" said Noel, her drones surrounding the new arrival in a circle. She transmitted commands through her Aether, making sure her puppets would fire if this woman made any sudden movements.

Even so, the red-eyed woman didn't seem especially concerned. Her eyes flicked around the legion of drones like they were just mildly interesting distractions, looked at Noel like she was just some friend she hadn't seen in a while.

"I told you, didn't I?" she said, hand still irreverently on her hip. "My name's Marie."

"First and last, sweetheart," said Simeon coldly, his arrow pointed right at her throat. He was an idiot who did what he wanted far too much of the time, but Noel couldn't deny the killer instinct he possessed.

The woman - Marie - rolled her eyes, obviously taking in the room's layout as she did. She was prepared for a fight, Noel realized. Every movement she'd made since entering the room had doubled as combat reconnaissance should the situation turn sour.

"Marie Hazzard," she said. "I'm a Special Officer from the Supremacy. Nice to meet ya."

Simeon's neutral expression deepened into a scowl. "You're the sniper from last week," he said quietly, his finger tightening on the bowstring.

Marie curtsied, lifting the edges of her jacket up. "Sure am! Nice to meet you."

Simeon fired his arrow. The pink streak of light surged out from his bow, crossed the room in a fraction of a second, and completed its journey right between Marie's eyes.

Well, maybe a few millimetres off.

Marie raised an eyebrow as she inspected the wriggling 'arrow' in her hand. Just before the projectile had speared her head, she had reached out with a lightning-quick movement and snatched the thing out of the air between two fingers. As the Aether in the arrow died down and the hair flopped back down to it's normal state, Marie looked back up at them.

"That's not very nice," she said softly. Her eyes were full of a reptile cunning.

Noel let out a shuddering breath.

I don't want to mess with her. The thought popped into Noel's head, fully-formed, like her blood was screaming it out at her. This was more than simple fear of the strength she'd just displayed: it was the natural fear that came from beholding an apex predator.

"Simeon, stand down," Noel said quietly, almost choking the words out.

Simeon shot her a disgusted look. "What?" he said. It was as if she'd asked him something completely preposterous - did his grudge against the Supremacy really run that deep?

"Our commander ordered you to cease hostilities," intoned Reyansh from his pillar. Even as he addressed Simeon, his eyes were fixed on Marie - and Noel could see that he was gripping his knife so tight his knuckles had turned a ghastly white from the strain.

Simeon looked from Reyansh to Noel, some protest clearly on the edge of his lips, before finally relenting and allowing his bow to dissipate.

"Fine," he grunted. "But this is a bad idea."

Noel turned back to Marie, trying to hide the tension on her face and in her voice. She couldn't afford to appear weak here. "You said you have a proposition," she said. "Let's hear it."

Marie grinned as she dropped the long pink hair, cleaning the fingers that had touched it against the edge of her jacket. Noel frowned as she saw the red stain that was left on the fabric - this woman was clearly deadly quick, but it seemed her actual defense wasn't too impressive.

"I'm glad you're a reasonable girl," Marie said, stuffing her now-clean hand into her pocket. "And such a little cutie too."

Noel growled. She was getting really sick of people playing this card with her. She let her cyan Aether flare around her, like a wolf baring it's teeth.

"Okay, okay!" Marie chuckled, raising her free hand. "Sorry, sorry. I was just messing with you a little there. You guys remember my partner, right? Atoy Muzazi? Black hair, wields a sword, kind of cute in a dumb way?"

She didn't know about that last part, but it was hard for Noel to forget that idiot swordsman. She'd been about to execute her master plan when he'd wandered in and thrown everything into chaos.

"I might," she said, testing the waters.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Marie sighed. "It's a closed question, sweetheart. The answer's yes or the answer's no. Which is it?"

"Fine. Yes."

"Well," Marie drew the word out. "It looks like ol' Atoy has gone and gotten himself apprehended by the authorities. Which obviously, uh, isn't good. It's bad, in fact."

Reyansh's eyes widened in surprise, and he pushed himself away from the pillar, staggering into the center of the room.

"That warrior was apprehended?!" he cried, showing an absurd level of concern for someone he'd known for five minutes max. Noel wondered if that was some kind of Pugnant deficiency.

Marie nodded - and immediately, Reyansh swung around to face Noel.

"We must initiate a rescue," he said, spreading his arms wide beseechingly. "I'm sure that warrior can be of assistance to us!"

Oh dear Y. This was just like the time he'd discovered zero-grav wrestling. She'd had to suffer through weeks of proposals about how they could learn from such ingenious warriors, about how they should recruit some of those types to join their 'splendid crusade'.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Marie interrupted her. Angry heat rose to her forehead. This was her group, dammit - she couldn't be treated like this.

"This guy gets it!" Marie said happily, pointing at Reyansh.

Noel stepped between Marie and Reyansh, arms folded, one drone hovering over each of her shoulders. She jabbed a retaliatory finger towards Marie.

"Why exactly should I give a shit that your idiot friend is behind bars?" Noel snapped. "You and your buddy have nothing to do with us. Now get out."

Marie's expression didn't shift in the slightest - save for the tiniest curve of her smug smile. "But we could have something to do with you. I want to help you kids out."

Simeon continued glaring at Marie, fingers still curved around a bow that was no longer there. "What do you mean?" he said, voice low.

Marie snapped her fingers. "Glad you asked, friend! For my friend Atoy to launch his daring escape, he's gonna need security to be distracted, right? Otherwise he'll be filled full of holes by the guards and that will be that."

Noel took another step forward. "I've already told you," she growled. "We're not busting your friend out, no matter how many times you ask!"

Noel's approach was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder - Marie's hand, placed there so quickly that Noel hadn't even seen the movement.

"You're not listening, kid," she said, the slightest traces of anger slipping into her perky voice.

Noel froze. The touch on her shoulder was light, but she could feel unmistakable, horrifying strength in those fingers. Enough to crush Noel's shoulder with very little effort - enough to dig through flesh and crunch through bone, splitting her open like a spent fish.

Her eyes flicked over to the hand on her shoulder - it was the hand Marie had caught the arrow with, the one that had been injured. Only now there wasn't a scratch on it.

Noel blinked. Interesting.

"What," Noel started to say, her voice cracking. "What do you mean, then?"

Marie smiled. "I'm gonna tag along with you and your buddies, kid. Help you with your great mission or whatever - help you set up the biggest fireworks this planet's ever seen. Help you make them so bright that security will have no choice to rush to 'em. And then I'll go get my boy."

"That's…"

The red-eyed woman leaned in closer, so close that Noel could feel her breath. She opened her mouth to say something, to utter some protest, but the words caught in her throat. Both fight and flight were impossible here. The only natural response was to freeze.

Those red eyes locked onto Noel's blue ones, a wide toothy smile on Marie's face.

"Wouldn't it be nice," she whispered. "To have someone who worked for you, instead of the Citizen?"

Noel gulped. She had questions: how much Marie knew of their operation, what exactly she intended to help them with, just what she was doing in the UAP in the first place. She opened her mouth to ask those things, she really did, but all that came out was a weak:

"Deal."

-

"I've come up with many plans over the years," Skipper said. "If I might be so bold, I'd say that most of them were, uh, pretty good. Great, in fact!"

"Yeah," said Ruth, ducking a little lower behind cover to avoid the plasma arrow aimed for her head.

"But in this case," Skipper went on. "In this case, it feels like I might have miscalculated, uh, just a little bit, yeah? A decimal place somewhere got smooshed. It happens."

"Yeah," Ruth batted another arrow out of the air with her claws. "It happens. I get you."

"Now," Skipper raised one arm to gesticulate - only to quickly withdraw it as a hail of arrows hurtled towards the exposed limb. "Does that mean that this was a bad plan? No, of course not! There were circumstances outside my control. Anyone else would have made the same mistake. We were thwarted by, uh, the whims of fate here. Couldn't be helped."

Dragan buried his face in his hands as he rocked back and forth behind the transport crate that had become his sanctuary. "I can't believe we're going to die like this," he moaned.

"We're not gonna die," Ruth said, as plasma ate through her cover.

"In such a stupid way."

"Now, now," Skipper cut in with a raised arm - which, again, retreated just as it became a target. "No need to get ourselves down, kiddo. Don't worry yourself. I've got a plan, you know?"

Dragan's scream of despair was muffled, but audible all the same.

The plan really had been going so well, Skipper thought. They’d managed to maneuver themselves though the security complex while only crossing paths with smaller patrols - which resulted in a bit of violence, true, but nothing they couldn't handle - but their exit had been … well, it hadn't gone as well as he would have liked.

It seemed - and he wasn't blaming anyone - that Dragan had messed up his deductions slightly. He'd taken into account where new arrivals came from, but not when they'd arrived. As a result, they'd run into an incoming squad of Taldan's best and brightest right as they were making their great escape.

"Mr. Hadrien!" cried Skipper over Dragan's anguished wailing. "Pull yourself together, man! You're a vital part of, uh, my big plan!"

Dragan glanced up at the arrows flying overhead before frantically shaking his head. "Nah. Nuh-uh. This was a bad idea."

"Don't worry, this is a safe plan," Skipper grinned.

"I don't believe you."

"You wound me, Mr. Hadrien," said Skipper, putting a hand to his heart. "But I-"

"What's the fucking plan?!" Ruth screamed as she batted countless projectiles away with her claws.

Right. They were in a bad situation here. Wasn't the time for the Skipper Comedy Hour, no matter how tempting it may be.

Using a subtle Heartbeat Shotgun for propulsion, Skipper launched himself across the hallway and right next to Dragan's position. Then, he extended out his metal hand.

"Need your handkerchief, kiddo," he said, beckoning.

Ruth dived behind the crate as well, looking sadly at her charred claws. Skipper winced; they'd take a good while to return to their recorded state, judging from the damage.

Dragan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Skipper - Ruth's eyes following the object with great interest.

"You carry a handkerchief around?" she scoffed. "You're such a pansy."

Dragan glared at her as Skipper snatched the handkerchief away. "It's for wiping blood off, idiot," he snapped. "Seems I get a lot of it on me when I'm around you dumbasses."

Ruth furrowed her brow. "Just use your hands to wipe it off. Duh."

The disgust on Dragan's face was something to witness. It was as if he'd just been offered a glass of vomit. "You're an animal," he said simply, before turning back to Skipper. "And what the hell do you want my handkerchief for?'

He got his answer pretty quick. Skipper had securely tied the handkerchief around his metal index finger, and now the air pressure from the countless shots being fired were causing that handkerchief to whip in a chaotic wind.

In short, it had become the very image of a white flag.

"Oh, no," Dragan said, almost pleading for this not to be the real plan.

Skipper stuck his finger over the cover.

"We surrender!"

-

"In all fairness," said Skipper, hands cuffed. "We were really bored."

Dir punched him in the face, and the idiot went staggering backwards exaggeratedly. Looking up at his attacker, Skipper rubbed his cheek with his shoulder, his expression a hurt one.

"Buffoon," snapped Dir, cracking his knuckles.

After their frankly embarrassing attempt at a 'great escape', Dragan, Skipper and Ruth had been hauled back to Dir's office in shackles. The fact that they seemingly weren't even being taken seriously enough to go straight to a cell was even more humiliating, Dragan thought. It was like errant school children being sent to the headmaster, not criminals being apprehended.

"Shouldn't have kept us locked up," Ruth said, glaring at Dir all the while. She'd had some fallings out with Skipper recently, but seeing him hurt enraged her all the same. "You guys were asking for it."

Dir looked like he was going to say something to that, only to throw his hand up and mutter something incoherent - but very clearly frustrated. He marched back around his desk and planted himself in his chair, hands clasped tightly in front of him. A black script that Dragan hasn't seen before was the only other thing on the desk, but Dir's eyes remained locked on them.

"You realize," he said, voice dangerously quiet. "How much worse you've made your situation?"

Dragan rolled his eyes. "We were already being kept prisoner. Don't pretend otherwise."

For the first time, Dragan saw a smile come to Dir's lips - but it was an incredulous one, not born from any kind of levity. "Prisoner?" he said, clasped hands squeezing each other even tighter. "Yes. I'll say it: you were being held prisoner. You were being held prisoner in a comfortable room, with all the necessary amenities."

The two security officers who'd hauled them here pulled Skipper up from the floor, pushed him forward to rejoin the group. He looked up, eyes dancing with amusement.

"A prison's a prison, buddy," he said, showing no trace of injury. "Doesn't matter how nice the wallpaper is."

Dir's eyebrows knitted themselves together into a sharp 'V' of danger. Dragan saw another sucker punch in Skipper's near future, the way this was going.

Well, it was time for Dragan to make himself useful: damage control. "We'd like to apologize," he said, with as much sincerity as possible.

"You'd like to apologize?" Dir scoffed. "For assaulting my officers, for damaging my property?"

"It's company property, buddy," Skipper said quietly. "Don't pretend you've got any stake in it."

Dir's glare intensified to the level that it could burn through steel, a vein on his forehead bulging to bursting point. "Be that as it may," he growled. "I do have authority over where prisoners are held. We have a much less accommodating cell down below that I think will make you-"

The black script on the desk beeped, and Dir’s mouth immediately snapped shut. His eyes, wide as saucers, flicked to stare at it as if it were a primed bomb.

"Um," he said quietly. A shiver ran down Dragan's spine as he saw the unflappable man's face - it had visibly paled several shades. His pupils were dilated. The physical symptoms of terror were unmistakable.

His hand whipped over to the script, grabbed it, and the security chief scanned the words on the screen. He grunted. Then, his eyes flicked over to the guards.

"Leave us," he said quietly.

The guards glanced at each other - even with their faces concealed, the confusion was obvious. "Um, sir?" one said.

"Leave us."

Dir's voice permitted no argument and the officers didn't try for any, quickly retreating from the room without so much as a glance backwards.

Dragan glanced towards Skipper. If he wanted to take Dir hostage or something to give the escape another try, there wouldn't be a better time. Skipper's abilities meant that he could put a gun to Dir's head with just a pinkie finger - literally.

Slowly, Skipper shook his head. He wanted to see what was going on here. "Something's got you spooked there, buddy," he called out. "You wanna fill us in?"

Dir didn't reply. Instead, face grim, he just tapped two buttons on his desk.

The first caused a great metal shutter to fall over the windows, eliminating any natural light and leaving only the dim artificial glow of the panels on the walls. Behind him, Dragan heard a thunk as the door locked itself.

The second activated a hologram projector.

The thing that appeared before them was like something out of a fantasy videograph - some old superstition brought back to life. A great flaming bull, skin formed from charred wood and glowing coal, smoke pouring from its empty eye-sockets. It was almost like a skeleton with flesh of fire.

It was clearly a hologram, but Dragan couldn't help but feel phantom heat on his skin - smell the phantom stink of smoke. The bull angled its head slightly, as if regarding them.

"Dragan Hadrien of the Supremacy," it said, with a voice that sent shivers down Dragan's spine. It was monstrously deep - but clearly artificially so. The slight electronic buzz confirmed it. "Ruth Blaine of the Supremacy."

Ruth growled at that method of address, but a glance from the bull quietened her somewhat. Dragan wasn't sure whether it was the speaker's appearance or the mind behind the voice, but this … thing … had an unmistakable talent for demanding attention.

The bull's head turned towards Skipper.

"And the man called Skipper," it said slowly, flames wavering in time with it's speech. "Origin … unknown. Such an auspicious meeting."

"Haven't had the pleasure, friend," Skipper said, voice alive with grim humour. "Don't suppose this is about the steak I had last night?"

"Oh, no, no," the bull chuckled condescendingly. "Greetings, my friends. My associates call me the Sponsor of War…"

It leaned forward, until it's ghastly burning visage filled their vision.

"...and I have much to discuss with you."