Dragan leapt behind a nearby container, body moving almost automatically in a desperate scramble to survive -- and it was a good thing, too, as a second later the spot he'd been standing was blasted with another bolt of red light.
Panting for breath, Dragan stared with wide eyes at the corpse of Lucia Yet. The woman had fallen forward onto her face, her limbs splayed out, smoke rising from the hole in her torso -- the hole that went all the way through her body. For a second, Dragan was deliriously reminded of a donut, and it was all he could do to hold back the bile.
"You've got mighty fine reflexes there, boy," a male voice called out, their drawling tones echoing through the hangar. "Was sure I'd getcha with that second shot."
Dragan cleared his throat, doing his best not to let any fear escape into his tone, and replied: "If you're looking for this ship's crew, you're in the wrong place. I was just a prisoner here. I've no quarrel with the Supremacy."
There was a low chuckle -- indignant, just slightly, as if Dragan had said something utterly absurd.
"No quarrel?" the man called out -- and just under the voice Dragan could hear something, some hum. "That's a hell of a thing to say, Dragan Hadrien."
Fuck fuck fuck.
"You know me?" As Dragan spoke, he did his best to listen to that hum -- to figure out just what he was hearing. Some kind of machine, certainly, but what?
"You kiddin'?" The hum increased in volume, just the tiniest bit, as the man spoke. "Y'think they don't run the faces of traitors like you on the news, boy? Y'think you can just betray the Supremacy and get away with it? I don't think so, no sir. I won't allow it."
Dragan gulped -- he knew what that hum was. A hover platform, usually used by political officials to give impromptu speeches, or by snipers looking for a makeshift vantage point. His enemy had the advantage in mobility, then -- and whatever the gun he'd used was, it was doubtless much more powerful than Dragan's little pistols.
"You're here for me, then?" Dragan said -- and despite his best efforts, croaking anxiety infiltrated his voice.
"None of your damn business what we're here for, boy," the man said, his voice getting slightly louder as the platform came closer. He was looking for a better shooting angle, then. "But it sure as hell ain't you. Don't go flattering yourself. Killing you's just my moral obligation, you understand? When a man sees a rat, he puts his boot down on it. That's what makes him a man."
Dragan winced. From the way this guy was talking, he was obviously a true believer -- killing him was based on the principle of the thing, rather than any personal grievance. He'd probably get along quite well with Atoy Muzazi. Dragan understood idiots like this pretty well, now: there'd be no bargaining here.
Still, a little pleading never hurt anyone: "Listen," he said, eyes flicking around to look for the nearest exit. "You know my name already. What's yours? It's only right we know that about each other -- it's only honourable."
The man paused, and the tone of the hum shifted to indicate the platform had ceased moving. If Dragan's instincts were accurate, the enemy would be in a position within his range -- if he jumped out of cover, he could get a shot off. Slowly, quietly, he pulled his plasma pistol out of its holster.
"My name is Darren Roash!" the man cried -- and at the same time, there was the sound of a plasma round being loaded into a gun. "Savour it -- it's the last name you'll ever hear --"
Dragan leapt out of cover, pistol in hand, and fired off a flurry of plasma shots at Roash's position -- and then, before the smoke even stopped pouring from the gun, he turned on his heel and charged for the door. This guy had assault hardware way beyond Dragan's capabilities -- it was naive to think he could be killed so easily. The purpose of this attack, then, was distraction: creating the opportunity for Dragan to retreat and plan.
It occurred to Dragan as he ran that he hadn't even really seen his opponent yet -- only the vaguest glimpse of an armoured, long-haired figure on a floating platform as he'd fired. That was fine, though. That was absolutely fine. Dragan would be very happy if he never had a reason to get a more detailed look at this man.
"Coward!" Roash roared from behind Dragan -- clearly, the distraction hadn't been sufficient.
A second later, just as Dragan reached the doors, he heard the sound of rapid-fire plasma shots, and he knew that it was only luck that had saved him from being incinerated by the blasts of red light. Whatever strengths this Roash guy had, accuracy wasn't one of them -- three of the shots sailed over Dragan's head to strike the far wall instead, and the fourth was seamlessly absorbed into his Gemini Shotgun.
He had something to work with, then. Dragan's Aether flared around him, recording the shot -- and as it did, he could sort of feel the composition of it, understand how it was put together. This wasn't standard plasma for a rifle like that -- it was fighter craft grade, meant to be used for air assaults on entrenched positions. Using it here, in this situation, was the definition of overkill.
So now he had one good shot against Roash's rapid-fire equivalent. Fantastic.
Dragan's shoes squeaked against the floor as he whirled around the corner, narrowly avoiding another burst of red plasmafire. He had to keep moving. This Roash character was obviously fixated on him -- he'd keep chasing him until one of them was dead.
Why were there so many damn hallways on this ship?! Dragan's eyes flicked around as he sprinted through the halls, trying to take in any landmarks they could. He was fairly certain the way he'd ran was taking him further away than Bruno, which wasn't great, but if he stopped to try and correct that he was as good as dead anyway.
The hallway split in two -- one fork heading right, the other left. Dragan's eyes focused on the flickering display on the left side -- TRAINING QUARTERS. Exactly what he needed: an open space in which he could arrange some kind of ambush. That kind of trickery was the only way he could win this.
A plan already forming in his head, Dragan charged around the corner --
-- and collided full on with the person who was coming around the other side, knocking the two of them roughly to the ground.
It was a girl with short black hair, wearing an Underman's uniform. She put a hand to her head, where she'd fallen, and groaned. Her script lay broken on the ground before her. Dragan could have screamed -- he was running for his life from the Supremacy, and he still couldn't escape from the UAP either?!
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No -- it didn't matter. He could hear the hum of the platform rushing through the hallways towards them. Without a moment of apology or even introduction, Dragan reached out, snatched the girls wrist and screamed:
"Fucking run!"
----------------------------------------
"Ah, I love the young people," the Widow sighed wistfully as she punched one of them in the face.
The smaller of the Nox sisters staggered backwards -- only avoiding being frozen to the wall by the timely push of her counterpart. The size difference between the siblings Nox was miniscule, of course, but there was no other method for the Widow to differentiate them.
The hallway had become a tunnel of pure ice, frosty-blue Aether radiating from the Widow's body and adjusting the temperature of her surroundings. Even the dust in the air had frozen over, creating a constant swirling of what looked just like snow.
The Widow found that she brought home wherever she went.
The Nox twins were doing quite well for themselves, all things considered. Most people who fought the Widow ended up dead by the two-minute mark, but this duo were now approaching three minutes without much in terms of grievous injury. The Widow wasn't going all out yet, of course, but it was still impressive.
The fact that they hadn't yet been killed didn't mean they were winning, though. The swings of the sickles they held in each hand were wide arcs, easy to predict -- and so easy to dodge or block at the Widow's leisure.
The smaller twin circled around her, aiming for the Widow's back, only for the blow to be deflected by a pillar of ice that sprouted right up from the floor. At the same time, the Widow kicked the cane that had fallen at her feet up into the air, blocking the other sister's frontal assault -- and sending her flying backwards.
The Widow glanced up at the lone surviving security camera -- the rest had become ice sculptures -- and smiled faintly. Captain Pierrot had retreated into Langston's office when the fight had begun, but she had no doubt he was watching through his script. He seemed to think this engagement was some kind of audition, after all.
That in itself was vexing: the Widow didn't fight for anything but Adrust anymore -- and certainly not for this Jaime Pierrot.
As if in sympathy with her irritation, the air immediately surrounding the Widow grew even colder -- forcing the Nox sisters to retreat to avoid becoming frozen in place. They landed side by side at the end of the hallway -- having slid over the frozen walls like ice-skaters -- their chests quickly rising and falling with ragged breaths.
The Widow tapped her cane against the ground. "You are very talented young ladies. Yes, very talented -- but if you continue like this, I'm afraid there's a good chance you will be dying. That would be a shame, seeing as you've finally stopped rhyming."
The Nox sisters glared down the hallway at her, their body language betraying nothing. Wonderful. Just what the Widow would expect from aspiring assassin's.
"So," the Widow wagged a thin, bony finger as she spoke. "I'm going to give you a chance, as I've grown soft in my golden years. If you can escape from this frozen tunnel, I will not pursue you. A good deal, yes? You keep your lives and you've learnt a valuable lesson --"
In twin flashes of red Aether, the two girls rushed down the hallway towards the Widow, sickles bared like bestial claws. Their speed was astonishing -- but, as the Widow already knew, insufficient.
The old woman sighed. "Well, I can appreciate not wanting to disgrace yourselves, but this is a little far to go for your pride, yes? If you insist, though…"
Ice formed on the tips of the Widow's fingers, creating long, sharp claws -- sharp enough to pluck a beating heart from a young chest without too much trouble. She'd go for the young one first, she decided -- from what she'd observed in the past, older siblings usually grew more predictable in their rage once the younger was dispatched. The more gruesome the demise, the more useful that drive for immediate vengeance.
The sisters reached her, slashing with their sickles -- the younger one aiming for her legs while the older one went straight for the Widow's skull. Distraction hadn't worked, it seemed, so their final strategy was to dispatch her with overwhelming force.
A shame. She'd expected better. The Widow lunged forward with nightmarish speed, her claws piercing the younger sister's chest with a resounding crack of the ribs --
-- only to find themselves stuck.
The younger sister had frozen in place -- not by ice, but by the fact that she'd become an obsidian-black statue, from her skin to her clothes. Even the blood that had spurted out from the newborn wound was frozen, red droplets turned black and fixed into the air.
The Widow was so surprised she almost neglected to duck under the older sister's slash -- but in the end, of course, she did, sending her flying with a kick for good measure.
Still, this was a problem. The younger sister had completely transmuted her body into durable black stone -- and the Widow's hand was still wedged inside, unable to pull itself free. She'd effectively been immobilized.
"Well," she smiled, as the older sister ran back towards her. "This certainly is interesting."
----------------------------------------
"Report." Roash's gruff voice came over the communicator, distorted just slightly by the weak connection and the ever-present hum of his transport platform.
Niles fumbled for the script in front of her, planting it against her ear. "Um," she stammered. "H-Hadrien's moving through the training facilities now, h-he's got someone with him, I don't know who. I think he might be thinking of maybe doing an -- ambush on you?"
The explanation was clumsy, unprofessional -- and it took Roash a few seconds to respond with his usual grunt. The second the communicator clicked off again, Niles sighed with relief.
She'd nestled herself into a far corner of the ventilation system, huddled up among what supplies she'd managed to bring on her cutter pod. Her script, her pistols, her glasses. It wasn't much, to tell the truth.
Those glasses, perched on her nose, crackled with auburn Aether, the lenses rippling with light like an oil slick as they adjusted to new information.
She could see Hadrien -- see him through the countless walls and ceilings that separated them -- a glowing blue spectre that shimmered and sparked as it ran. The other person was beside him, their aura transparent, barely even noticeable. She couldn't see Roash -- he was no Aether-user, after all -- but she'd planted a tracker on him when they'd parted ways: she could pull his location up if she needed to.
As she watched Hadrien run, her finger tracked his position on her script's map, ready to report his location if she needed to. More than anything else, she needed to prove to Roash that she was useful. It was the only way she'd make it out of this alive.
The one who took out Jaime Pierrot would live, and all others would die: that was what the Instructor had said. Niles already knew she had no chance of assassinating such a man -- he'd be too well-guarded, and she was far too weak at any rate -- but failure to do so would mean a gruesome death.
She knew she'd have to cheat, to game the system -- but Daphne would never have gone along with it. The older girl only cared about how much use she could get out of Niles -- and now that her survival was a liability, she'd seek to end it as soon as possible. Even if Niles came up with a plan for the both of them to survive, there was no way Daphne would risk herself by carrying it out.
Roash, on the other hand… he was a man of honour. Even without Aether, he was skilled, well-armed. Even if he couldn't save her, he'd at least try. She'd made him promise, after all. Men like Darren Roash didn't break promises.
It was her only chance.
She could have screamed. How had she even ended up in this situation? What God had she pissed off to end up in this batch of recruits, with this maniac instructing them? She was sure she'd never done anything that bad.
Niles came from a family of Special Officers -- father, mother and all her siblings having fought for the Supremacy at one point or another. Doing otherwise had never been an option for her. She'd never even entertained other options. Since the day she was born, she'd lived in a ruthless world of claws and teeth.
She was weak -- she knew that very well. But she could tell when someone else was weaker.
Run while you can, Dragan Hadrien, she thought, tracking her quarry through the walls. Run while you can.