Dir lay there, slumped against the wall. Dead.
Dragan let out a breath that he'd been holding in for quite a while, letting his arms drop down to his sides. For a moment, he watched Dir's body cautiously -- just in case this was some kind of fake-out -- but when the burly security chief moved no more, he allowed himself to drop down to the ground himself, in a sitting position.
Footsteps approached, clicking on the hard floor -- Muzazi walking over. The swordsman looked down at the body as well, just as cautious, before glancing towards Dragan.
"Your first?" he said quietly.
Dragan nodded mutely.
Muzazi nodded, eyes closed. "It gets easier," he said, before turning and walking back out of sight -- to check on Patel, maybe, or get back to that search for his sword.
It gets easier? What a bizarre thing to say. It had been exceedingly easy to kill Dir -- the man had left himself wide open when he'd gone to eliminate Muzazi. Only an idiot could have missed that shot. How could it have been any easier?
Dragan glanced at Dir's still eyes, expecting to see some trace of accusation or fear there, something to force him to look away. There was nothing. The body was just an empty house. It felt nothing. It meant nothing.
Once, Dragan had seen a documentary on the formation of the Dranell Breaches. In the program, there'd been an interview with a retired soldier who'd fought against the initial rebellion on Dranell-1 -- that hellscape -- alongside the man who'd later been promoted to Ascendant-General. The majority of the interview had been about that man, but Dragan remembered something the soldier had said near the end more clearly:
"When you take a life," he'd said. "They become nothing and you become less… less yourself. Like a chunk of you has broken off. Like they took part of you with them. You can feel it -- this, this awful hollow feeling. I can feel it now."
Dragan searched for that hollow feeling, and found nothing. He felt absolutely fine. There was regret, of course -- regret that things had gone far enough that he'd had no choice but to take Dir out -- but guilt? Doubt? None at all.
He supposed you couldn't trust everything you saw on the videographs.
With a grunt, he picked himself up from the floor and turned -- just in time to see Muzazi returning from the hallway, clutching a sheathed sword in his hands. He held it in both hands, grinning widely.
"I found it," he said to himself, almost breathless.
Dragan raised an eyebrow; that kind of attention to an inanimate object couldn't be healthy. He wondered what the story was behind that.
"You satisfied now?" he said, voice droll. "Can we get out of here, or is there a shield you need to find as well?"
"No," Muzazi shook his head seriously. "I do not use a shield in combat. You ask if we can go, Hadrien, but where is it you intend to go to? What is your next course of action?"
Dragan put a hand to his chin. "Well, we grab the rest of my crew first, of course -- then we do what we can to stop the, ah, the kaboom."
Muzazi's gaze turned harsh. "Your crew," he said quietly, as though the very word was a condemnation. "You mean Ruth Blaine and her terrorist chums? Make no mistake, Hadrien -- you are under my power right now. What reason would I have to take you to backup?"
With a seemingly carefree shrug, Dragan hopped onto the edge of the desk behind him, using it as a seat. "Well," he drew the word out. "I guess if you want the planet to blow up, we could do things your way."
Muzazi's resolve didn't break -- not straight away, at least. "You're arrogant, Hadrien. You truly believe I wouldn't be able to stop this plot without your assistance?"
Dragan smiled. This would require his finest bullshit prowess, but he was confident.
"What?" he scoffed. "You think you can stop this plan by yourself?"
"I do."
Still smiling, Dragan leaned forward. "You'll have a hard time doing that without the navigation codes. The Dawnhouse isn't the kind of ship where you can grab a steering wheel and take it somewhere else, you know? It runs on complex systems. A G-93 navigation intelligence that runs based on complex code sequences. The only person here who has those codes is me."
There was no such thing as a G-93 navigation intelligence, and Dragan was pretty sure navigation codes didn't work like that anyway. Still, so long as he sounded confident enough, there was a good chance he could get Muzazi caught up in his pace.
Muzazi's hand rested on his sheathed sword. "And why would you have those codes?"
Dragan allowed his smug smile to spread into an even smugger grin, just wide enough to be infuriating. "You know me, Atoy," he said, acting as if he were trying to suppress a triumphant chuckle. "I don't go into a place without a plan to get out of it -- whether it's this prison or a planet. Besides, I figured I might need leverage if things turned complicated later. Guess I was right to, yeah?"
He'd won -- he could see it on Muzazi's face, in his eyes. The rage there was that of one who'd been defeated. He'd played into Muzazi's preconceptions of him -- while grabbing top-secret navigation codes from the very seat of government was impossible for the real Dragan, the one Muzazi had built up in his head was capable of anything so long as it was duplicitous.
He'd probably believe that he shot the Citizen if he said he'd done it in the back.
Dragan tilted his head slightly, still smiling. "Well? Do you still think I'm under your power?"
Muzazi's face was full of barely constrained fury -- his teeth clenched so hard it looked as if they'd shatter, his hand gripping his sheathed sword so hard the knuckles were a ghastly white… for a moment, Dragan worried that he'd pushed the swordsman too far -- but then he relented, looking away.
"Devil," he snarled, glaring intently at the wall. "You are a demon, Dragan Hadrien."
A demon who'd gotten what he wanted. Dragan could live with that.
----------------------------------------
This place really was like a maze.
Ruth kicked the latest security officer through the set of doors in front of her -- then leapt to the side to avoid the torrent of plasma-arrows that erupted from the now-open doorway. She'd expected another squad to be waiting in ambush for her there, so that was good to have confirmed.
She'd put on her full Skeletal Set, including the mask, so everything she could see was tinged bloody red -- and she knew that, if she looked in a mirror, she'd see her hair blazing just as crimson. A stealthy escape was therefore impossible -- and not her style anyway.
Her claws, both the ones on her hands and the ones on her feet, were buried deep in the wall she'd leapt to, keeping her attached there like some kind of insect. Even stuck so tightly to the concrete wall, Ruth knew that she'd be able to tear herself free and leap to another surface the second it became necessary. She could feel the strength she needed inside the armour, like feeling the warmth of a drink just by holding the cup.
Absentmindedly, she pulled one hand free and grabbed a plasma-arrow just before it could strike her on the back of the head. She always had to be careful with the Skeletal Set -- unlike the Noblesse Set, it gave no protection to the back of her skull apart from her normal Aether.
She tossed the arrow back without looking, and heard the modulated yelp of a security officer -- followed by the sizzling of burning plasma. Bullseye, just as she'd expected.
This was her element, this. Not moping around a bedroom feeling sorry for herself. Not worrying about the decisions she'd made. Not agonizing about the motivations of those around her.
This -- just her, and the fight -- was all she needed. Just pumping blood and the wind against her skin and the aching of her muscles. Sometimes she wished the fight could go on forever.
She leapt out of the wall, tearing out chunks of concrete in the process, and zoomed through the double doors. The room beyond was some kind of mess hall, and the squad of security officers that had assembled to ambush her shouted out in alarm as she was suddenly among them.
Around ten enemies. Difficult, but doable. Exciting.
She swept the legs of the guard nearest her -- and as he fell, she grabbed him by the foot and swung him like a club into the two officers nearest him. She infused his armour with her Aether -- creating a red aurora -- and was rewarded for her investment with her targets being sent flying by the increased speed and power of her attack.
The rest of the officers were still behind her. She couldn't waste a second, or they'd shoot her in the back.
Ruth whirled around, cutting off the flow of her Aether to the guard she'd grabbed's armour as she held him up as a human shield. A dozen plasma-arrows shattered as they impacted against his chest, and Ruth cut off his screams with a swift snapping of his neck.
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These plasma bows were fancy pieces of hardware, but they meant that their users were slow to reload. Ruth leapt into the crowd, claws drawn, as they fumbled for their arrows -- and did what she did best. She was like a whirlwind of death, the blades over her fingers slicing through armour and flesh as if they were both butter.
A slam from the door -- another security officer kicked it in, charging in with a heavy plasma cannon. He fired, a stream of plasma shooting towards Ruth like a fire hose.
No time to think. Her body knew what to do -- she just had to trust it. Trust that her hands knew what to grab, that her feet knew where to stand.
As the plasma surged towards her, her hand lashed out and ripped away a helmet from one of the fallen officers. Red Aether crackled around the helmet as she infused it -- and then she held it out in front of her, neckhole pointing outwards, like some kind of artsy bucket.
The plasma splashed into the piece of armour, and she could hear it sizzling inside as smoke poured out of the helmet's seams -- but she trusted her Aether would be enough to let it hold. She was strong, after all.
Ruth span, and -- like a gardener watering their crops -- splashed the plasma she'd intercepted at the guard who'd fired it. He went down, thrashing as he clawed at his burning armour, and she finally ended the fight with a swift kick to his head.
She took a breath. She was starting to work up a sweat.
Tap. Footstep on floor, uncomfortably close. Instantly, Ruth whirled round, thrust her claws forward --
-- and stopped them, barely inches from Bruno's face.
"Nice to see you too," he said, voice flat.
He was wearing the armour of a security officer, with the helmet tucked under his arm. In his other hand, he held a folded-up plasmabow.
Ruth stepped back, stretching as she took the opportunity to catch her breath. "See you've got some goodies."
Bruno looked down at the bow. "Yeah. These things work better folded-up as melee weapons, if you ask me. Trying to use them the right way is just a pain in the ass." He nodded at the bodies littering the floor. "See you've been busy."
The exhilaration Ruth had felt during combat was already fading away, replaced by that persistent anxiety, eating away at her like acid. She'd been running around so happily in this pointless fight, while who knew what was happening to Dragan and Skipper? It seemed Bruno and Serena had managed to get away from their captors without issue, but that had been no thanks to her as well.
"They tried to get me in my room," Bruno said, answering the unasked question. "But I'm not stupid -- I know an execution when I see one being set up. Hid in the corner and grabbed the guy when he came in."
Bruno's dull expression was replaced by Serena's wide grin. "His neck went crack," she said excitedly. "It was awful!"
"Right," Ruth said -- there wasn't really anything else to say. "What about Dragan and Skipper? Do you know where they are?"
Serena's grin faded. Bruno shook his head. "No clue. Once I had this armour, I could sneak around pretty easy, but they weren't in the cells the records said they should be. Those rooms were empty."
Ruth's blood ran cold for a moment. That couldn't mean…?
No. Skipper was strong and Dragan was smart. The S4 wouldn't be able to take them out with such a simple trick.
"We need to find them," Ruth said quietly.
"How?" She couldn't sense either approval or disapproval in Bruno's tone -- it was completely neutral. A soldier awaiting orders.
Ruth took a deep breath. Time to do some thinking.
----------------------------------------
Enough defending. That wasn't Skipper's style.
He charged forward across the function room floor, kicking off the remains of a table as he made a beeline towards Chael. The Citizen, standing still, simply stared at his incoming assailant.
Made sense. The Citizen could fire off as many attacks as he liked without even lifting a finger. There was no need for him to move.
But that was what Skipper was counting on.
The blades came, firing out from Chael's torso -- a dozen spikes, long and thin like needles. Any one of them was sharp enough to pierce Skipper's body -- and fast enough to send him flying backwards. But that was only if they hit him.
Heartbeat Landmine.
The pulse of sound that burst out of Skipper's body -- he could feel it rumble in his bones -- redirected the spikes, sending the majority of them shooting off to the left and right. Only one remained close enough for what Skipper had in mind. Emerald Aether infusing his prosthetic hand -- increasing its durability as much as it could be improved -- Skipper reached out and grabbed the blade out of the air.
No time to think. No time to think about how, even with the infusion, the blade was steadily slicing through his metal palm. Skipper brought his body low to the ground and hurled the spike towards Chael's face like a spear.
His target was obvious -- the small gap in the helmet through which the Citizen's red pinpricks eyes could be seen. Before the blade could reach its mark, new silver shards grew to cover the gap in Chael's armour, his red gaze instantly covered by a sea of interlocking silver spikes. Skipper's projectile shattered against that shield harmlessly, but that was fine. That was ideal, in fact.
Because now, for just a second, the Citizen couldn't see. Skipper glanced upwards.
Heartbeat Bayonet.
The whistle that escaped his lips grew in intensity, the sound waves being infused with his Aether and gaining new properties -- sharpness, strength, mass. For just a few moments, the audio was given a physical presence in this world.
The invisible blade slashed incessantly against the ceiling -- the already weakening ceiling -- leaving deep gouges in its surface before fading away. A second later, there was a rumble, a resounding crack, and the damaged ceiling burst apart, the roof finally collapsing in on itself --
-- the weight of the ship above falling directly down onto the Citizen.
That made him move. As the faceshield he'd created dissipated into grey Aether, he turned his head upwards -- and a mass of colossal blades erupted from his back, dwarfing his own body in size as they held the ceiling up.
Skipper rushed forward, blasting Heartbeat Shotguns behind himself in order to increase speed -- and within a second, he was right in Chael's face. He couldn't exactly tell through the mask, but he swore he saw those red eyes widen, just slightly.
Against an enemy like this, it was common sense to keep your distance and engage carefully.
Skipper didn't much subscribe to 'common sense'. He reached forward into the mass of blades, grabbing the remains of Chael's tuxedo collar and pulling him close, so they were nearly face to face. Skipper's emerald Aether crackled as it did his best to prevent the blades pressing against him from piercing his body.
"What are you…?!" It was natural for Chael to be confused -- this was clearly a suicidal move. Even with Chael being preoccupied holding the ceiling up, there was nothing stopping him from annihilating Skipper with the blades covering the rest of his body.
The spikes forming his armour lengthened slightly, preparing to fire --
Heartbeat Landmine.
A pulse of sound burst out of Skipper's body, and the spikes directly touching him shattered. For a moment, Chael's surprised face was visible -- before new spikes grew to cover it.
Heartbeat Landmine. Heartbeat Landmine. Heartbeat Landmine.
Sound shattered the blades, again and again, even as they constantly replenished themselves. The gap between Skipper's attacks was too short for Chael to fire the blades -- and if he tried to retreat, he risked bringing the ceiling down upon himself.
The whole thing came down to endurance. Skipper felt dull pain pulsing through his body as the blasts of sound reverberated through him. He knew Chael would be suffering, too, producing those many blades in so short a time.
Who would give first?
Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. Heartbeat Landmine. New spikes. The carousel of combat went round and round, second after second, resetting itself endlessly.
"I'd say," grunted Skipper, pushing through the pain. "We're at an impasse, yeah?"
"No," snarled Chael. "We're at an end."
Oh, so he was planning something, then. Maybe a blade had landed behind Skipper, then, and he was planning to grow new spikes from it to run him through. Now that he listened, he swore he could hear the tinkle of falling metal behind him.
That was fine. He'd thought of that. All that meant was that they'd have to take a trip.
Heartbeat Shotgun.
Blasts of sounds erupted from the soles of Skipper's feet, launching the two of them upwards. The blades protruding from Chael's back snapped, and the concrete they had been holding up came crumbling down again.
Heartbeat Landmine, continuous.
A pulse of sound, like a bass drop, erupted from Skipper's body -- and kept erupting, like a continuous field surrounding his form. As their upwards flight reached the ceiling, the sound field blasted through the rubble and they kept going, up to the next floor -- a section of hallway that had clearly seen better days.
Chael's armour was being shed and reproduced so fast Skipper could barely make out his features, just an indistinct silver mass. Still, it was holding.
Well, he wasn't done yet.
Skipper continued blasting the Shotguns from his feet, and they kept going upwards -- through that ceiling as well. The continuous Heartbeat Landmine tore through it like a drill.
Next floor. A section of offices, recently abandoned. The desks and computers were smashed to pieces by their very presence, sound waves ripping through the room.
Next floor. Some kind of sleeping quarters -- they smashed through the bed on their way up, and the feathers that had stuffed the pillows billowed around the room like massive specks of dust.
Next floor. Another hallway.
Next floor. A custodian closet.
Next floor. A maintenance tunnel.
And then, they broke out into the night -- right on top of the Dawnhouses deck. Cold air filled Skipper's lungs as the harsh winds buffeted at both he and Chael. The moon hung high above, clearly visible, like a great eye observing the battle.
There was a moment of distraction -- just one -- and Chael didn't miss it. Skipper grunted as a blade-formed boot slammed into his stomach, and the force of the blow and the fear of impalement gave him little choice but to release the Citizen.
They went flying in opposite directions, Skipper rolling into a kneeling position -- holding onto a maintenance handle for dear life. This top deck was flat, slick with condensation -- clearly it wasn't meant to have people on it while the Dawnhouse was in flight -- and the wind was doing it's best to send them both flying off into the abyss.
Chael hadn't gotten out of that attack unscathed by any means. He was clearly exhausted -- he could only produce enough blades to cover roughly half his body now, and his face was bright red from exertion. He landed on his stomach, and for a moment it looked as if he'd just go sliding right off the deck -- then, he planted twin blades from his wrists deep into the metal below, anchoring himself into place.
Skipper grinned, trying to hide his own exhaustion. "You don't die easy, huh?"
Chael glared at him through his one visible eye -- the other was covered by a hastily assembled mask of blades. "I could say the same," he growled.
There was no more need for words after that.
Skipper charged forward, and Chael answered him.