"And you're certain security will apprehend him?" asked Lita cautiously, her eyes flicking around the function room.

The room -- usually empty and populated only by dust -- had been done up in record time, stocked with tables and chairs enough for Taldan's finest to make themselves at home. Paper lanterns floated serenely through the air, giving the lighting a unique, shifting quality. Guests milled about and, at tables, snacked away at the -- to be frank -- obscene portions they'd been provided with. The stage at the head of the room was empty for the moment, save for the plinth that Chael would be making his address from.

The table the three were sitting at was a little ways away from the rest -- not so far that you'd consciously notice, but just far away that you'd feel that separation between you and them. This was a table for kingmakers, after all.

Lita Abrianda, known to others as the Sponsor of Plenty, was a short mousy woman with suspicious eyes. Her hair looked as if every encounter with a brush was a fight for its life -- and even done up as it was, tufts of it stuck out from the main mass rebelliously. She clasped her hands together anxiously on the table in front of her, as if to stop them from moving.

The young man sat across from her smiled in what was presumably an attempt to reassure -- but nothing could have reassured Lita in this current situation.

"Well," the young man said. "If you would ask me, my friend -- and, rest assured, I will approach this query as if you were directing it, ah, directly towards my personage -- the best thing to do at this point is to trust -- yes, trust, foremost among virtues -- trust that the measures we have put into place are sufficient. After all, it is true, is it not, that this sense of danger, of caution, that I'm sure you feel -- that is a vital part of our stratagem. Your worry is proof that we are proceeding correctly."

Lita blinked slowly, allowing the verbal tsunami to crash over her. Despite Oora Mit-Variandi's rambling, grandfatherly tone, the Sponsor of Expansion was the youngest among the Sponsors. As he rambled, he rubbed away at his shaved head.

"Not so loud," the third of their number said, his voice cold and calm.

Sant Titanos used the form of a silver horse as the Sponsor of Industry, but he gave off the impression of a vulture more than anything else. It wasn't his appearance -- he was a fairly nondescript old man, the closest thing to a unique characteristic being an ever so slight hunch -- but in his eyes, you could see the gaze of a vulture. It was as if all the world was a rotting carcass that he was observing from far above.

Lita sniffed. "Wasn't War supposed to be here? Why isn't he here?"

If he was nervous about this situation in the least, Sant didn't show it. He simply steepled his fingers and addressed them: "This was my plan, not Wars. It's unsurprising that he'd decide not to participate. Still disappointing, though."

Oora nodded. "Yes, yes, disappointing in the extreme. I know I am not the only one who thinks this, but I do feel as though -- personally, of course, this sentiment comes from me alone -- as though I am the only one willing to say it, to give voice to this opinion. Our fellowship is one that runs on comradery -- in a sense that we are fighting together against our colossal and utterly implacable enemies. While I feel the warmth of friendship from the both of you, my concern is that War -- who I hold the highest regard for otherwise, of course -- does not quite understand this facet of our partnership."

Lita blinked. "Quite."

"I will say this," Sant said, leaning in slightly closer. "The anxieties you are feeling are proof that this trap is properly set. The Citizen must believe that he has a good chance of eliminating us here -- nervousness among us will assure him that this is true. But make no mistake: it is not."

"How so?" Lita asked, leaning forward as if to match him.

His gaze flicked down to the floor, as if he could see right through its depths. "The Fifth Dead patrols the unseen parts of the Dawnhouse. If the Citizen attempts entrance through those methods, he will be found quickly. And should he get in here…"

Sant looked over to the far end of the room, where a man in a tuxedo was leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, and his body language suggested nothing more than quiet laziness -- but there was an unmistakable deadly gleam in his eyes.

"That's him, then?" Lita said, finding herself a little intrigued despite her best efforts. "That's Skipper?"

Sant nodded. "Doesn't look like much, does he?"

"I'd imagine that's what you want in an assassin -- or a bodyguard."

Oora hummed agreeably. "Of course, of course you would, my friends. That is the core of it -- yes, the core of it indeed."

Sant smiled thinly as he watched the room. "The Citizen will likely make his attack as I introduce Chael for his speech. Our friend Skipper will make his move then as well, and eliminate the threat." He turned back to them.

"My friends," he said. "We approach checkmate."

----------------------------------------

"Give me one reason I should trust you, Hadrien," said Muzazi, glaring daggers at the Cogitant even as he was released from his restraints.

"I can't," said Hadrien, taking a step back from the deactivated seat.

Muzazi's eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"

"There aren't any," Hadrien shrugged. "I'm untrustworthy no matter which way you look at it. You don't have a choice, though.'

"I could reach out and snap your neck." It was true -- he could. He could feel it again, now, the strength bestowed by his Aether returning to him. A bright white spark ran across his arm, running between it and the arm of the chair.

A wonderful feeling: it was as if he'd been only half a person over the last week, and was only now returning to completion.

The other newcomer -- the man Muzazi had fought against on the night of the niain -- stepped forward. "Quell your anger, Atoy Muzazi," he urged, as grandiose as ever. "You may have your differences with this fellow, but I owe him a debt of thanks. His neck must remain unsnapped."

Muzazi glared at the man for a moment, remembered himself, and sighed as he got up from the chair. "For the moment you will live, Hadrien," he said, through gritted teeth. "But do not think you can catch me by surprise again. Your betrayal is inevitable."

Hadrien nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "Anyway -- we need to get back to the main control room and secure it."

"If my humble personage may be so bold, Mr. Hadrien," their third - Reyansh, if Muzazi remembered correctly - said. "I would advise we leave this place at once. Entrenching ourselves would only give our enemies a target to unleash their counterattack upon."

Despite his misgivings, Muzazi found himself joining in their planning. "I have to agree," he said. "We should make our exit as quickly as possible -- before they can fully understand what has happened."

Hadrien shook his head. "No."

"No?" Muzazi furrowed his brow. He would have expected Dragan Hadrien to relish the prospect of a cowardly retreat above all else.

"No," repeated Hadrien. "I have it on good authority that something extreme is about to happen here on Taldan. If there's a clue about what that is here, I need to find it." He glanced downwards, as if crestfallen. "I suppose if you really feel so strongly about it, you two could make your escape and I'll stay behind to find out what's going on."

Reyansh clenched his fist, holding it in front of him as he vehemently shook his head, his braid whipping dangerously through the air. "No!” he cried. "You saved my life -- I owe you a debt that cannot be easily repaid! You will not stand alone so long as Reyansh Patel breathes."

Muzazi knew what he was doing. Of course Muzazi knew what he was doing. Hadrien was being so transparent about it that it was hardly even a trick. Still, even if he knew…

"I'm not letting you out of my sight, Hadrien," he growled, glaring daggers. "Once this is finished, you are coming back to the Supremacy with me. You'll answer for what you've done."

Hadrien smiled, and Muzazi couldn't help but feel as if he'd just stepped into a viper's nest. "Sure thing."

He wouldn't take those words as gospel, then. If he'd learned anything about Dragan Hadrien, it was that he lied as easily as he breathed. Muzazi sighed and took a step forward out of the room, noting with displeasure that his footwork had become somewhat clumsy over the last week. He'd have to work on that.

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"Did you bring Luminescence?" he asked, peering down the empty hallway, listening to the blaring alarms.

Hadrien's voice was confused. "Who?"

Ah, of course. "My sword. I take it you haven't, if you haven't yet offered it to me."

He'd have to find Luminescence before he left this place, then. He couldn't abandon her any more than he could abandon a part of his own body. For the time being, though, he'd need a substitute.

Muzazi grunted as he knelt down at the side of the hallway, where the piping ran through. With a grunt -- and a spark of white Aether -- he pulled a chunk of the pipework free, and turned it over in his hands. The balance wasn't half-bad, and the way he'd ripped it free had left a jagged edge that could suffice for stabbing. Muzazi focused, and his Aether flowed into the pipe, giving it a pale white glow. It was no Luminescence, but it would serve.

Yes, it would serve.

----------------------------------------

"What do you mean you're not coming?" growled Noel, already behind the driver's seat of the car.

Marie offered an apologetic smile. "It's a simple statement, sweetie. I meant just what I said."

They were just outside the abandoned hotel they'd been using as a temporary base -- the Citizen had finally got back in contact, letting them know that he needed them to infiltrate the Dawnhouse ASAP. Noel had rushed to the car as fast as her little legs could carry her, but Marie had stopped just outside.

Noel's hands -- old and new -- tightened around the steering wheel. "Why not?" she hissed.

Marie took a step back, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. "I told you already, didn't I, sweetie? We were only working together until I could break ol' Atoy out. I have it on good authority that opportunity has finally knocked -- and whatever your boss is planning sounds like it would be the perfect distraction, yeah? So it's time for me to bid you adieu."

For a moment, it seemed as if Noel would take the news well - a second later, however, she thumped her fist against the steering wheel, cyan Aether sparking around it.

"You can't do this," she said quietly, glaring intensely at the windscreen in front of her.

Marie shrugged, taking another step back onto the platform. "I can and I am, sweetie. Them's the breaks, I'm afraid. What's the problem, anyway? You're perfectly capable."

The first time Noel opened her mouth, only a hollow cracking noise came out of it. Then, the second time: "You said you'd work for me. That I'd be in charge. I'm… you're a liar. You were just using me. I wasn't in charge."

A sigh escaped Marie's lips. She supposed you could only act conniving and in-control for so long before admitting that you had no control at all. She leaned into the car. "Listen."

Noel still didn't look at her. "What?" she muttered.

"Listen," Marie said again. "You're what, like, eight?"

That got Noel's attention -- for the briefest of moments, Marie was exposed to the full strength of her glare. "I'm fourteen."

"Same difference." Coming from someone like Marie, that really meant something. "The point is -- well, imagine your life's a book. You're hardly out of the prologue and you're complaining that you don't know what's going on. Of course you don't: the story hasn't started yet."

Noel snorted. "You get that out of a self-help book?"

"Of course not," she lied -- she'd spent a few hidden years looking through whatever philosophies she could find after she'd started. "I'm telling you this from experience, kid. You're not suited to this sort of thing."

That inspired another glare. "Excuse me?"

"There are people who enjoy the sort of things we do," Marie explained. "Having your life be a constant fight -- I enjoy it. My friend Atoy enjoys it. I imagine your Citizen enjoys it. You want to enjoy it, but you don't. You're just not the right kind of person for it."

"So…" Noel's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "You're saying I don't have what it takes."

"Yes." Marie was merciless. "If those are the words you want me to say -- you don't have what it takes. You never will. You're free to keep going like this, but…" She shrugged. "It'll never make you happy. Waste of time if you ask me."

And with that, Marie turned around and began walking back into the old abandoned district, her only company the ruined promenades and crumbling attractions. A moment later, she heard the car take off, zooming away as fast as it would go.

Run away as fast as you like, she thought. Reality always catches up eventually.

With that little episode resolved, Marie put a finger to the communicator in her ear. "Petrio, you still there?"

The calm, cool voice of Aldan Petrio -- information broker and general know-it-all -- came out clearly. "Yes, Miss Hazzard. I trust the information I've sent over has piqued your interest?"

She nodded, grinning as she walked in the direction of her own transport -- a speedbike she'd sneakily brought over in case she ever needed a quick getaway from the Citizen's crew. "But of course. If there's been an incident at the prison, there'll be no better chance to break Atoy out."

And then they could be free of this rock. She'd gone along with Atoy's vendetta against Dragan Hadrien because it had seemed amusing at the time, but the way things had gone had all but dashed her enthusiasm.

She'd decided: no more honour quests for her!

"By the way," said Aldan over the communicator. "There's something else you might want to be aware of."

"Hm?"

What happened next served as Aldan's reply better than any words ever could. There was a sudden, intense pain in Marie's stomach -- and as her march jerked to a halt, she could see a substantial splash of blood and gut fragments paint the concrete in front of her. Her blood. Her guts.

"I don't appreciate being threatened." Aldan's voice was filled with venom, the most emotion she'd ever heard in it.

She looked down.

There, protruding from her stomach, was the business end of a harpoon. It was painted red by its journey through Marie's body, and as she watched the spikes on its surface jutted out to keep it in place -- she suppressed a scream as the additional blades stabbed into her insides.

As her body sent all the pain signals it could muster -- she didn't have the concentration to turn them off -- Marie turned her head back to look for the source of the weapon. It wasn't much of a mystery.

The harpoon had pierced right through her back -- and it was connected to a chain that led right to the source. A harpoon gun, held by that idiot Den-S. He grinned at her as their eyes met -- he seemed much less cowardly after stabbing someone in the back.

"You get what you deserve," he breathed, giddy from the illusion of victory. "Yeah, yeah, you get what you fucking deserve!"

As if on cue, more spikes of pain speared into Marie's body -- additional harpoons firing out of the shadows, striking into her arms and legs. The attackers who'd sent them, holding harpoon guns just like Den-S', stepped out of the shadows, chains tinkling as they brushed against the ground.

"You really are an unusual person," Aldan's calm voice came over the communicator. "I'm certain that first shot severed your spinal cord, yet you're still standing. I've heard of individuals with healing Aether before -- the Supremacy's Supreme has several abilities for that purpose -- but this is something else, isn't it?"

Marie ignored the question, instead forcing words out through the pain. "Whatever happened to the corporate ant?" she hissed. "Going with the best bet for survival?"

"My philosophy hasn't changed in the least, Miss Hazzard," Aldan's voice was casual, as if ordering something in a restaurant. "You simply made the mistake of assuming you were, as you put it, 'the best bet for survival'."

The already excruciating pain throughout Marie's body intensified -- and as she looked around at her attackers, she understood why. They'd activated some kind of secondary function of the harpoon guns, and now the chains connecting the guns and the harpoons were being pulled taut. Marie was being forced into five directions at once, and she could feel her muscles tearing under the strain, her bones dislocating in an attempt to accommodate the pressure…

"Goodbye, Miss Hazzard," Aldan concluded. "My analysis suggests this will be enough to deal with you. I have other matters to attend to." The communicator clicked off.

The sound of tearing meat filled the square, as copious amounts of blood began to pour liberally from the opening gashes in Marie's body. The pull of the harpoons were strong, and they were lodged in well -- they'd take her body parts with them rather than being freed by the pulling.

Den-S and his cohorts smirked as Marie -- who'd effortlessly humiliated them not so long ago -- screamed, the noise transitioning into some unidentifiable rasping screech that went on and on and on.

The smirks died when they realized what that noise actually was: laughter.

"You think…?" muttered Marie, pulling her limbs back -- bringing the thugs towards her by the chains with the movement, their feet scraping against the ground. "You think this is anything? This is nothing," she giggled, hair hanging over her face as her head flopped forwards. "You're nothing. All of you. I can't even feel this anymore, you know?"

It was true. The closest thing she felt to pain right now was the slightest tickling, her body letting her know she was under attack. With an arm that shouldn't have been able to move, she reached back and grabbed the harpoon that was protruding from her back, gripping it with such strength that the metal bent beneath her fingers.

"Five pieces?" she went on, blood spilling from her mouth along with the words. "You think you can kill me by splitting me into five pieces? Huh? Are you stupid? That's so funny, haha, that's messed up. Hey, hey, do you want me to show you something? Since you're all about to die, do you want me to show you something?"

She looked up, hair falling away from her face, and the thugs facing her turned pale instantly.

The face of Marie Hazzard was an utter nightmare. Blood coated the bottom half of her face, as if framing the mouth of razor-sharp teeth that grinned madly at them. The eyes above were blood-red, too, her pupils jet-black slits that grew thinner even as they regarded her targets.

"If you want a real chance at killing me," the demon said. "You should take a page out of Nigen Rush's book, and try cutting me into a thousand pieces!"

Some of the thugs went to let go of their harpoon guns and run, but it was far too late for survival instincts. These people had died the second they'd agreed to this plan -- Marie was just making it official.

She whirled her body around, her wounds healing as she moved -- and the two idiots who hadn't let go of their harpoon guns went flying, clinging onto their weapons for dear life. Their screams were swallowed by the sheer speed of their movement.

One let go, the other didn't, but they met the same fate: smears against walls.

Chains jangling around her, Marie took a step to the remaining three thugs -- staring into Den-S' panicked eyes. She smirked; not so confident when he remembered his place, was he?

What happened next didn't take even ten seconds.