Skipper raised an eyebrow. "You want us to take out the Citizen for you? That's, uh, that's a big ask there, champ. You sure that's fair for just some youthful indiscretion?"
"I never said that," Dir said, fingers still calmly steepled. "All I ask is that you assist us in our investigation."
Dragan furrowed his brow as he listened. This felt like the kind of conversation that came with catches like landmines. Agree to something without really thinking about it, and you were screwed.
"I'll ask you again," said Dir, when Skipper didn't reply. "What do you know of the man called the Citizen?"
"He's a local terrorist," chipped in Dragan, earning himself another irritated glance from Dir. "Apparently, he bombed a news office recently. I'm assuming he's done other stuff?"
"You assume correctly," Dir said, now addressing him. "He has indeed done other stuff. The recent assassination of Augusto Price was the doing of him and his cohorts."
"That's awful," muttered Ruth - who, if Dragan remembered correctly, was currently a suspect in the assassination of an admiral herself.
"Cohorts," said Skipper, picking the nails of his organic hand, not even looking at Dir. "So this is a group operation?"
Something was trickling into Skipper's speech, Dragan noticed - even though he clearly was trying to stuff it down with a nonchalant demeanor, there was a kind of military efficiency to the way he was collecting information and clarifying it.
Had he been a soldier at some point? It would make sense, given his combat abilities.
Dir nodded. "Hoodlums from the local systems, we think - they've joined the Citizen after falling for his rhetoric, most likely."
"His rhetoric," Skipper said the word as if tasting it, still not looking directly at Dir. "There's a political motivation to this whole thing, then, yeah? Rah-rah fight the power and that kinda thing?"
The section commander waved a hand dismissively. "Pretty words to open up divisions between the classes here on Taldan. The whining of sore losers, nothing more. He's nothing but an aggravator that needs to be neutralised."
It was Dragan's turn to glare at Dir. He hadn't exactly been Mr. Rich back on Crestpoole - and he didn't much like the implication that being unhappy that some people could gorge themselves while you bordered on starvation made you a 'sore loser'.
Skipper caught a glance of Dragan's expression, then his eyes flicked back to Dir. "You ever been hungry, baldie?"
Again, Dir frowned at the use of what was rapidly becoming a nickname, but he answered all the same. "Of course I have. Everyone has, at some point."
"That's not what I mean," chuckled Skipper. "I mean really hungry. Hungry enough to eat anything, I mean. Hungry enough that your stomach is just made of pain."
"Of course not," said Dir.
"Hmm. Didn't think so," said Skipper, his voice a condemnation. Ruth nodded gravely behind him.
And with that, Skipper suddenly stood up from his chair with such force that the automatic furniture wobbled in the air behind him, almost flipping upside down.
"I don't much care for your motivations - or the way you talk about people," said Skipper, crossing his arms. "I'm afraid me and mine will have to take our leave."
Dir sighed. "I see. In that case, we have no choice but to throw you all in prison and throw away the key."
"I think your cause is just and I want to help," Skipper said, sitting back down. Dragan audibly groaned; he had no issue with Skipper getting himself into shit, but the rest of them was another story.
"How exactly do you want us to help?" Dragan cut in again. If he could take control of the negotiations here, then maybe he could stop Skipper from getting them all thrown into prison.
Dir leaned over the desk and tapped the screen of the script - the image changed from the bombed-out office to a photo of a young Umbrant man walking through a hallway, clearly taken by some kind of surveillance camera.
The Umbrant had short brown hair and white pupils that rested in his black sclera. His face seemed like the kind that was perpetually nervous, as if he was constantly on the verge of being attacked. In one hand, he held a script - in the other, some kind of envelope.
"Who's that?" said Bruno, speaking up for the first time in a while.
Dragan looked at him; he'd worked out that Bruno and Serena had worked in intelligence for a period of time, so was this kind of clandestine dealing bringing those old instincts back?
"This is Ambran Roz," said Dir. "A reporter for the Watch - the newspaper that had it's office bombed by the Citizen. We believe he has valuable information about the terrorist in question."
"And that's why they bombed the office?" said Dragan. "To try and take him out?"
"That's our working theory. It's not in the envelope, if that's what you're thinking - we found that thoroughly burnt in his apartment, along with the rest of his belongings."
"His apartment was bombed too?" said Bruno, still running his eyes over the photograph as he memorized Roz's appearance.
"That's correct. We've managed to pass it off as one of the Blastland gang's doing for now, and the Citizen hasn't yet taken responsibility for it."
Skipper seemed to have shut up for the moment, thank goodness. The sensible people - also known as Dragan and Bruno - could actually negotiate now. Ruth, too, if she ever spoke up. Really just anyone but Skipper, now that Dragan thought about it.
Bruno looked up from the script to Dir: "You want us to find this person?"
"That's right."
"I don't see how that's any easier than catching the Citizen," Dragan said seriously. "This city's damn big - and if he's hiding from the Citizen already, I don't see how we're going to find him.'
Dir smiled thinly, took the script back and put it in one of his desk drawers.
"That's simple," he said. "We already know where he'll be. The niain - tomorrow night. He's already made contact with one of our undercover officers in the smuggling guilds, seeking transport off-world."
"Sounds like you've got him already," said Skipper, leaning back in his seat. "Good job all. What do you need us for?"
Dir’s smile faded, his expression turning grave.
"If we know he's going to be there," he said. "So do they. And they'll be coming for him."
-
"Is he asleep?" said Muzazi, striding back into the alleyway.
Marie Hazzard glanced back at the large sack slung over her shoulder. "That's one word for it," she shrugged. "He's unconscious, at least."
"That will suffice," Muzazi nodded. "Did he give up the location?"
She nodded down the alleyway, at the barely noticeable door built into a metal plate on one wall. The only reason to hide such an entrance was fear of scrutiny. Yes, it was very likely that this place was Aldan Petrio's lair.
"Let's go," he said, walking past her towards the entrance.
Hazzard raised an eyebrow as he passed her. "That's it?" she said, sounding half-amused in that way she almost always did. "No 'thank you'?"
Muzazi paused. It was true - he had forgotten to thank her for her diligence. His manners had deteriorated ever since he'd arrived on this planet.
He glanced down at his garb: perhaps that was the reason why. It had pained Muzazi to hide his identity while in the UAP - the truly strong should never fear to show their face - but Marie had managed to convince him that he would impair the mission otherwise. As such, he'd taken on this disguise.
The appearance of a lout, clad in run-down, dusty clothes, with little hope of ever climbing out of the abyss called poverty. He'd thrown away his clean, dignified uniform in order to create this facade - but Luminescence still hung there, strapped to his side.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
No matter what he did, where he went, he could not abandon Luminescence.
"Forgive me," he said quietly, looking down at the blade. "I didn't mean to be so rude…"
Where Muzazi had expected reproachment for his disgraceful behaviour, Marie only laughed and clapped a good-humoured hand on his shoulder - with a splendid amount of force.
He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about his new companion. He'd originally been against travelling with a partner, but the Special Commission had been somewhat wary of allowing him to run free after what had happened on Caelus Breck. He'd explained the circumstances behind his decisions there, but there was still an opinion that he was … unpredictable. In that sense, Marie was here to watch him just as much as help him catch Hadrien.
As for Marie herself, though, he found little reason for complaint. He'd never met such a master of Aether cloaking, and during their travel here she'd demonstrated fine knowledge of weaponry and piloting. She seemed a splendid, multi-talented Special Officer.
"I'm only joking, Atoy," she giggled, patting him on the back. "Don't take it so seriously, okay?"
He nodded respectfully. "I see; it was a joke. Thank you for indulging my foolishness."
That only sent Marie into another wave of laughter - by the end of it, she had laid her bag down and was clutching her stomach with both hands. Muzazi hoped his misunderstanding hadn't caused her too great a stomachache.
"You're so damn earnest," Marie said as her laughter trailed off, wiping a tear from her eye. She looked him up and down, a strange look in her eyes. "Well … I don't dislike it, but be careful, okay? There are people who'll take advantage of you if you're like that."
A sudden, hot flare of anger ran through Muzazi's body, and his grip tightened on Luminescence's hilt to such a degree that his knuckles turned white. He gritted his teeth, glaring into empty space as if it held his quarry.
“Yes," he growled. "I'm aware of this."
Dragan Hadrien.
He was the reason Muzazi had come here, the reason he had submitted himself to such disgrace. Many had told him that chasing Hadrien at this point was meaningless - any secrets he had access to weren't worth wasting the time of a Special Officer to keep hidden.
But still … it was the principle of the thing. To Atoy Muzazi, the whole world relied on the principle of the thing.
He didn't understand. Why had Dragan Hadrien betrayed him at the moment of his own rescue? Why had he turned the lie of his betrayal into truth? To be offered the Supremacy's open arms and slap them aside … it was unimaginable. Incomprehensible. It was as if Dragan Hadrien had decided to stop breathing.
He would find Dragan Hadrien, force the answers out of him, and correct whatever misunderstanding had led him so astray.
Marie winced. "Seems I hit a sore spot there. Sorry sorry."
He sighed deep, letting his anger leave him through his breath. His grip on his sword relaxed, and he let his hand fall to his side. His breathing returned to a calm and steady tempo.
"No," he shook his head. "My apologies. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."
As Muzazi walked past her towards the entrance, Marie rolled her eyes.
"I already told you to stop apologizing..." she muttered, irritated.
-
There was much to attend to, and yet things kept getting in the way.
Aldan Petrio looked up from his desk as he heard a loud bang from the entrance, and a moment later one of his underlings came half-running, half-limping into his complex, eyes wide with fear and stinking of anxiety.
The complex had once been an air filtration centre - once the authorities had switched to using filter drones to keep the air 'clean' (for lack of a better word) in the Pit, the centre had essentially just become free real estate.
Due to its previous use, however, the layout of the headquarters was exceedingly simple: essentially, it was a long, wide hallway with around twenty banks of computers on either side - workers tapping away on holographic keyboards, poring through every piece of surveillance that the Petrio operation had access to.
Aldan Petrio's desk was right at the end of the 'hallway', a massive hulk of metal bolted to the floor. Countless holographic screens and keyboards were arrayed around him, like a spider's web.
Aldan watched disinterestedly as his underling charged towards the desk, leaving a red trail behind him.
The moment the underling came too close, his two bodyguards pointed their plasma pistols at him, and he skidded to a halt. He tripped over his clearly-injured foot and collapsed to his knees, yelping in pain.
"What can I do for you?" Aldan said, looking the underling over with one eye as he kept reading through intelligence reports with the other, his pupils moving independently of one another.
He often thought that he'd won the genetic lottery in some respects: his Scurrant blood gave him the capacity to take in twice as much information, while his Cogitant half let him process and utilize it.
As someone born victorious, he didn't much like losing - not even in the smallest ways. Not even by having an underling disrespect him and go unpunished.
Aldan scanned the underling's face, cross-referencing it with his memory.
Dennis Malkuth. 23. Single, but has flings with two girls on opposite sides of Brink District. Known associate of Gretin Lands, another thug of little value. Lives in an apartment in Rapid District with two brothers named Karl and Riki. Spends the majority of his pay at a bar owned by his uncle called the Well Wagon, although on occasion he visits a smaller establishment belonging to a friend. Homeschooled by father, now deceased from lung failure. Recruited to my organization by Harman Roe, now deceased from gunshot wound. Cannot abide the taste of salad. Has a fetish for sunburnt skin.
Aldan blinked. Yes, he knew a little about this man.
Malkuth panted there on the floor for a second before looking up, eyes still deathly wide. "B-Boss," he breathed. "They're coming."
Aldan stroked his black goatee, continued looking down at the man with one eye. "Who's coming?" he said, still sounding somewhat disinterested. "Full sentences, please."
The thug opened his mouth to speak again, but he was cut off by another bang from the entrance - followed by a pair of twin gunshots.
"Ah, I see," said Aldan, smiling thinly. "I'm under attack. Men, please prepare for battle."
With those calm words, half the workers at the computers stood up from their screens - making sure to lock their screens in accordance with security procedures - and pulled heavy-duty plasma shotguns from underneath their desks, pointing then towards the entrance. Aldan liked to make sure his staff were as multipurpose as possible.
"If possible, take them alive," he called out a little louder. "I'd like to know how these intruders found out about me."
That was more than possible - he'd had those weapons crafted from parts that included a stun function. He'd have to perform interrogation on site, but that wasn't a problem. More than once this complex had played host to torture sessions: they were unpleasant, but not intolerable.
"You don't understand, boss," whimpered Malkuth pitifully from the floor. "They ain't … they ain't normal…"
Sighing in exasperation, Aldan looked up with one eye to watch the entrance, his other continuing to look over the latest purchase records from the Dawnhouse's culinary staff. If these intruders were unusual, Aldan would simply observe until he understood - and then they would no longer be unusual.
Two figures strode into the room from around the corner. One was a man in scruffy clothing, though clearly unsuited to them, with dark hair and a pristine white sword in his hand. The other was a young woman wearing a leather jacket - unlike the man, she had no visible weapon, only the fists balled at her sides.
"Your guards are really rude," grinned the woman. "We sent Dennis in as our ambassador, but they shot at us anyway!"
"Fire," said Aldan, droll, picking up a mint from his desk and popping it in his mouth.
His workers opened fire, a blue storm of stunshots flying through the air and soaring towards the pair. To an ordinary person, these shots would likely be too fast and too numerous to properly perceive - but it was clear already that these two were not ordinary people.
The man went to the left - flying slightly further than the force of his jump would allow - and landed on top of a desk, his foot slamming through a not-inexpensive computer. His sword moved so fast it looked like a fluid whip, two swipes easily bisecting the shotguns of the nearest guards.
The woman, on the right, simply kept charging forward to the guard nearest her. The guard calmly lifted his shotgun towards her and fired off stunshots - once, twice, thrice - each blue bolt striking her with no visible effect save a momentary twitch.
The swordsman leapt upwards, avoiding another round of stunshots, before opening up his scruffy coat, the movement making it look as if he had wings for a moment. In that same instant, numerous tiny silver objects came shooting out from within his garment, flying forwards with incredible speed.
Aldan narrowed his eye, inspecting the projectiles more closely. They were small knives, each one with a thin white thruster flaring out of the back of their handle. They maneuvered through the air like miniature starships, lodging themselves in the guards' weapons and making them inoperable.
In the next few seconds, the two intruders would begin actually killing his workers. Aldan ran a few quick calculations in his head, confirming his prior assumption: it would cost more to replace these workers than it would to offer his resources to the intruders.
"Surrender," he said calmly, his quiet voice cutting through the carnage as he raised a relaxed hand. Immediately, his guards threw down their weapons and retreated back, closer to his desk.
The thrusters on the flying knives died down, and they clattered to the floor as one. The swordsman sheathed his silver sword.
The woman clicked her tongue, balled fists on her hips. "I was just getting into it!" she said, annoyed. "But, hey, you're a smart cookie for giving up, Mr. Petrio. Nice one."
Aldan watched the intruders with one eye each as he spoke. "What can I do for you?" he said, voice droll. "This interruption is inconvenient."
The swordsman - clearly the leader of this operation - stepped forward towards Aldan's desk. His guards looked as if they were going to try to repel him, but Aldan shook his head. There was little they could do against this man at any rate.
As the man approached, Aldan observed closely. His efficient stride, the resolute expression in his eyes, his combat skills, the fact that he wore a disguise, the fact that he had the pre-existing connections to know about this place - for someone of Aldan's caliber, the inevitable conclusion was easy to reach.
"You're a Special Officer of the Supremacy, I take it?" he said, swallowing his mint.
The Special Officer faltered in his step for a moment, narrowed his eyes. He hadn't been expecting his identity to be revealed. The woman, on the other hand, didn't look surprised in the least - she had a better understanding of the way this world functioned.
"That's right," the Officer said finally. "And you are Aldan Petrio?"
Aldan nodded. "Yes."
"The information broker Aldan Petrio, who has a backdoor into the Taldan government's surveillance records?"
"That's right."
The Special Officer reached his desk, and looked down at Aldan with cold grey eyes. Aldan vaguely wondered if this interaction would end with his death - that would be unfortunate, if so. He had clients to meet with later that day, and those appointments would have to be rescheduled while his replacement was decided upon.
"The Aldan Petrio who can uncover any secret?" the Special Officer said quietly.
Aldan nodded.
The Special Officer put a hand in his pocket - earning a series of flinches from Aldan's guards - and pulled out a script. He slammed it down on the table with barely restrained anger, and from the intensity of his gaze Aldan knew it was for him to look at.
"I need you to find someone," the Officer said.
Aldan looked at the image on the screen: it was of a young man with shoulder-length silver hair and blazing blue eyes. A fellow Cogitant, without a doubt - and from the background, it looked like this was an image taken for some kind of official identification.
"A name would be useful," he said, already committing the face to memory.
The swordsman spoke through gritted teeth: "Dragan. Hadrien."