Muzazi watched the stars through the glass, eyes flicking from bright point to bright point as if he were reading a book of the galaxy. It felt like an age since he'd last seen them, since he'd been able to see past the darkness of Nocturnus.
With Regan's death, the mission on Nocturnus was considered complete -- even if Commissioner Caesar wasn't quite pleased with the final results. They'd finally been able to leave that planet, directed to a mobile medical facility where Muzazi could have his injuries treated.
He continued to look out the window, noting the distant streaking light of a passing starship.
It wasn't as if he had much else to do. His injuries after encountering the Abyssal Knight had been severe, and so the doctors had told him he wouldn't be leaving this wheelchair for at least a month or so. The regen-gel therapy would take time to work its magic, after all.
The wheelchair he'd been provided with was a fairly advanced model, designed for comfort, but even so Muzazi felt incredibly constrained compared to his usual range of movement. The braces holding his broken arms together meant that he had to control the chairs movement using a touchpad just beneath his foot, which had taken some getting used to.
Gingerly, Muzazi wheeled himself over to the water dispensary in the corner of his room. "Water, please," he spoke clearly. The please probably wasn't necessary, but good manners were always a habit one should get into. The dispensary poured water into a little plastic cup. Moments after it finished, a thin automatic arm protruded from the side of Muzazi's headrest and picked up the cup, raising it to his lips.
The water was cold as Muzazi sipped it, prompting unwanted and intrusive memories of the time he'd spent freezing to death in the wastelands of Nocturnus. The frozen blood in his mouth, the sheer cold blocking his breathing… they were sensations he'd become very familiar with in his dreams over the last few days. Some wounds did not mar the body.
Warm yellow light flooded in through the hallway as the door to Muzazi's room slid open. Marie leaned against the doorframe, raising an eyebrow as she saw him struggle to drink the water the arm was providing him.
"That doesn't look too comfortable," she commented.
Muzazi had to agree. As he pulled his chin back, the automatic arm placed the cup down in his armrest, before retracting back into the chair. The whirring of the servos was irritating to his ears.
"These injuries are the result of my own actions," he replied solemnly. "I'll deal with them."
"Still," she sighed, strolling inside. "That looks like a pain. I could give you a hand, if you want."
Muzazi shook his head, ignoring the resultant twinges of pain. "There's no need. I'm not so helpless as to need assistance drinking."
Marie's eyes flicked over to the retracted arm, but she said nothing -- mostly because she was interrupted by Winston Grace, who strolled casually into the room as if he lived there. He jumped into the air to try and touch the lights above, but fell far short of the mark.
"Hi, Atoy!" he said cheerfully. "I see you're still injured."
Marie rolled her eyes as she strolled past the Cogitant. "I can see why they call you a great detective."
"Aw, thanks!" Winston giggled to himself as he blushed from what he clearly believed to be a compliment. "I'm glad you're finally recognizing my charm!"
Muzazi elected to ignore that most awkward of comments, turning his chair to face Marie instead. Marie had visited countless times since they’d arrived here, but this was the first time he’d seen Winston Grace in quite a while.
"Is something going on?” he asked Marie. “I wouldn't expect the two of you to come here together."
Even though the question had been directed to Marie, Winston answered instead, raising a hand like a child in a classroom: "We just got back from a meeting with the Commissioner."
The Commissioner?!
Foolishly, Muzazi tried to sit up in surprise -- only for the flares of pain to throw him roughly back into his seat. A coughing fit overwhelmed him. Such humiliation -- even the strain of that simple movement caused his body to rebel against him. "Why wasn't I told?" he breathed raggedly, recovering. "I've missed a meeting with the Commissioner?!"
"You didn't miss much," Marie said nonchalantly, pouring herself a cup of water. "With your hands like that, I doubt you could have saluted, anyway. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it."
At the mention, Muzazi glanced down at his hands, laid flat on the armrests of the wheelchair. The fingers on each of them were slightly lighter in colour than the rest of his hands. He hadn't been awake for the procedure, but apparently the frostbite had forced the doctors to amputate his ravaged digits and regrow them with Panacea. As such, they'd take some time to adapt to the rest of his body.
The thought of that happening to him while he was unconscious sent twinges of sympathetic pain through his new fingers, but he honestly wouldn’t have been able to tell if he hadn’t been told. Modern medicine really was a wonder.
"Still…" he murmured, glancing back up. "I imagine the Commissioner was displeased. We failed our mission, after all… I would have appreciated the opportunity to defend myself."
"You'd be surprised," Winston commented. He’d taken out his script, and was already tapping away at it. "Apparently, Wu Ming put in a good word for you -- I guess his opinions override the Commissioners."
Muzazi closed his eyes. He supposed that made sense. The true purpose of this mission, from what Muzazi had gathered, had been to lure out the Abyssal Knight -- so that Wu Ming could confront him one-on-one.
He wasn't quite sure how he felt about being used as bait in that way, but… things had worked out for the best, as he understood it. The friendship of a Contender was a valuable thing indeed: it would help him and Marie rise up the ranks for sure. Usually, he'd feel more excited about that, but his emotions seemed somewhat dulled at the moment. The new goal that had come to him made everything else seem daunting.
"Atoy," he heard Marie say. "You still alive?"
She flicked his forehead, and he opened his eyes again. "My apologies," he said hurriedly, backing up a little in his wheelchair. "I was consumed by thought."
Behind Marie, Winston spoke up. "Well, looks like that's it for me," he declared, stuffing his script back into his pocket. "See ya. I had fun!"
"You're leaving?" Muzazi asked, strangely saddened. He couldn't say that Winston had been an easy person to deal with, but he'd gotten somewhat used to the strange Cogitant’s presence.
"Yep," Winston replied, a lopsided smile on his face. "There's a new case waiting for me -- the murder of a Minister in the Body. The Three Wise Men have requested I investigate: they're probably at least a little bit behind it, but it sounds interesting, so I'm gonna head out."
The words that left Muzazi's mouth surprised even him. "You won't be staying with us, then?" They seemed to surprise Marie, too, who visibly scowled in disapproval.
Winston himself furrowed his brow as if the notion was ridiculous. "Uh, no. Sorry." He offered an apologetic -- and somewhat confused -- shrug.
That was right. Muzazi had almost forgotten -- Special Officers like them were solitary creatures, generally speaking. A partnership like the one between himself and Marie was most unusual. To expect something like that from Winston too was bizarre in the extreme.
Friendship lasted only as long as you could see the other party. Muzazi smiled bitterly.
"Stay safe," he said softly, meaning it.
Winston just vaguely nodded in response, lingering by the door for a second. For the first time since Muzazi had met him, he seemed to be having trouble getting words out. The Cogitant’s eyes flicked towards Marie, and he clicked his tongue.
"About your, uh, secret…" he began.
Marie was merciless. "You say so much as a word, I'll find you and I'll kill you."
The awkwardness didn't last, and the old familiar grin quickly reappeared on Winston’s face. "Roger dodger," he borrowed Marie's phrase, offering an irreverent salute. "Good to know where we stand." Marie just rolled her eyes in response.
And with that, Winston Grace vanished through the waiting door. Muzazi vaguely wondered if they'd ever meet again. With the sheer size of the Supremacy, and the difference in their expertise, it seemed unlikely. Still, he supposed anything was possible in a universe like this.
The door slid shut again. The time had come to voice the thoughts that had been rushing through Muzazi’s head since he’d woken up.
"I seriously hope we never meet him again," Marie sighed, brushing her hands together. As she did, she spied the complicated expression on Muzazi's face and frowned. "What's up?"
"I've been doing some thinking." He'd had ample time for it over the long and stretching days. "About what I want."
Marie turned to look at him, cocking her head. "What do you mean?"
The words weren’t easy to get out. He didn’t fully understand them, either, so that was only natural. “I suppose… the way I want to live my life? The path I want to follow? I’m not certain how best to phrase it, exactly.”
“No, no, I get what you mean,” Marie nodded, her frivolity forgotten. “What is it that you want, then, Atoy?”
Muzazi took a deep breath. He'd expected his next words to sound just as ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but these felt correct as they were spoken. "I want to become the next Supreme."
For a moment, the room was silent save for the hum of the heating -- as if the sentiment he'd expressed was taking time to permeate the space. Marie just stared, the thought process visible in her crimson gaze. Outside, the stars twinkled thoughtlessly, bright and merciless in their illumination. It was almost as if this declaration had a solar audience.
"I thought you would have already wanted to be Supreme," Marie slowly said, putting a hand on her hip. She leaned against the window. "Isn't that the whole point of the Supremacy? To rise to the top of the pile, right?"
Muzazi nodded. "Yes -- that was the ideal I held before as well, but only as an ideal. Right now I feel like it's… a firm aspiration. Something I genuinely want to achieve. Whatever it takes."
"Why?" she asked quietly.
These thoughts had been broiling in his head for days now. It felt good to let them out, to release them into the world and begin the process of turning them into actions.
"I believe in the Supremacy with all my heart," he explained as if putting the pieces of his ideals together as he went. "I believe in a world where everyone strives to become greater than they were the day before. However, I can't deny the dissatisfaction that has built up in the Supremacy -- Darkstar, Yuren Regan… it's like miasma, that bitterness. I want to improve the Supremacy even further, so there's no more reason for that bitterness to exist."
It was foolish to voice this ideal -- Atoy Muzazi knew that. Opening yourself up to others in this way, especially in such poor condition, invited betrayal. Once a dream had been released into the world, it could easily be pilfered by those who coveted it.
Marie walked over to the window, hands clasped behind her back as she observed the stars beyond. As a Gene Tyrant, Muzazi imagined she was much better equipped to appreciate the starlight than himself. What greater insight could she gleam, looking at it with such greater eyes?
Perhaps she, too, would leave through that waiting door, now that he’d revealed his inadequacy. He couldn’t deny that fear lurked within him. Every second before she replied felt like an eternity.
She clicked her tongue. "I think I'm with you, Atoy," she finally said.
This time, not even the pain could stop him from sitting up in his chair. "Really? Why?"
Marie turned to look at him, a cheeky grin on her face. She lifted her hand and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. "It pays to be friends with a Contender -- imagine the dividends I'll get from being pally with the Supreme!"
He smiled to himself. Of course it would be a reason like that -- Marie, like him, was too prideful to admit anything else. Her eyes told the true story.
"If I'm going to do this," he said, taking a deep breath. "If I’m going to become Supreme, then I need to become much stronger first."
Marie raised an eyebrow. "You want me to buy you some dumbbells?"
"Not like that," he laughed, shaking his head. "I need to understand more, to appreciate the source of the rot so I can cure it. I… think I need to meet him again, one last time. Dragan Hadrien."
His partner's face fell. "Revenge again?" It was no surprise -- the last time he’d dragged her out to pursue Hadrien, it had resulted in nothing but trouble for them.
Muzazi shook his head. "No. When Dragan Hadrien betrayed me and the Supremacy, that was what opened my eyes to the state of things. But I still don't understand why he did it -- the reasons he gave me on Taldan didn't ring true. I need to understand. I want to understand things: I can't be just an observer anymore. Otherwise, nothing will change."
The determination in his voice was like iron. Even with his body in this state, his spirit had been tempered by crisis -- right now, Atoy Muzazi felt as if he were invincible. No matter how his body was broken, no matter how much of his blood was spilled, he would never again allow his spirit to falter.
He had to keep walking, after all.
Marie blinked. "You're really set on this, huh? It sounds like a bad idea to me."
With a smile, Muzazi turned to the window, to the field of stars beyond -- to the promise that he would surely be more tomorrow than he was today. So long as that was true, anything was possible.
"I'm only human, Marie," he said. "It's natural that I have bad ideas."
----------------------------------------
The funny thing about maps, Wu Ming noticed, was that they actually decided where things were.
It was true. Maps were constantly being updated, sure, but those updates were built atop respected foundations -- and so the bias of the original mapmakers was passed down the generations. That what was important to them would remain prominent, while the things they disparaged would languish in obscurity. All fanned out from the origin point.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
That which decided the shape of the world was the quality of the original maps. If they were sufficient, they would become the basis for all that followed -- and their will would flow forth uninterrupted. The center of the universe was simply wherever people decided to put at the center of their maps.
The Supremacy had very good mapmakers -- and so, the very center of the universe was right here.
The Shesha floated in space, silhouetted by a blazing red sun, looking for all the world like a colossal metal starfish. No lights or decorations marred the great starship's exterior -- every inch of available room was occupied by weaponry. Gleaming plasma barrels, openings through which insectoid automatics could freely emerge, bombing cannons and cutting lazers. This was a vessel that could oppose a planet by itself, if the Supreme so willed it.
As Wu Ming approached the Shesha in his personal shuttle, he knew he was being scanned and assessed by countless security systems. If his shuttle had been stolen or he himself showed signs of an abnormal mental state, he'd be blown out of the sky before he could offer so much as a whisper of protest.
Against the might of the Shesha, even the Clown of the Supremacy would be unable to survive.
The fact he was still alive meant that he was allowed to proceed. His vessel proceeded on autopilot towards his personal hangar, wings folding away as they became unnecessary. The hangar, dimly lit by landing lights, welcomed him.
With the autopilot handling the landing, Wu Ming was free to relax for a moment. He glanced down at his new arm: Panacea truly was a wonder. It was a little sad to lose his last arm -- he'd had it for nearly three months now -- but he was sure he'd get over it soon enough. Nothing in this world lasted forever, after all.
Wu Ming knew that better than anyone. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn't count the other three.
The shuttle landed with a heavy thump, quickly secured by the docking clamps. Wu Ming rose to his feet without waiting even a moment, unbuckling the safety straps and hopping out of the pilot seat. As he left, he tapped one of the bobbleheads that had accumulated along the shuttle's dashboard -- the neck of the cartoon robot would keep swaying from side to side for quite some time.
Nobody was there to greet Ming in the dim hangar, and there were no ships except his own in that cavernous space. That was no surprise -- the Supreme loathed unnecessary noise, so the only individuals aboard the Shesha at any given time were himself, the Contenders, and the personnel on the prison deck. Apart from that, the gargantuan starship was empty.
He didn't plan on sticking around here long. There was a upcoming festival on Neuros Prime, so he'd just entertain the pleasantries and make his leave --
"Clown," intoned a deep, unamused voice. "We expected you days ago."
Ah, hell. The one person he hadn't wanted to run into. Wu Ming looked up to greet the figure at the top of the exit rank.
"Ah, you know how it is," he laughed. "Stuff came up!"
Ming couldn't see Avaman's face, but he was willing to bet the man's eyes were narrowed in contempt.
Avaman, the first Contender, floated inches off the ground as he regarded Ming -- as if he was walking tiptoe on the air itself. His dark green cloak billowed around him, the rustling of the cloth echoing throughout the massive chamber. The black glass mask that covered his face provided only the tiniest hints of humanity -- the surface sculpted ever so slightly in the shape of a human face.
Some people called him Avaman the Announcer -- a homage to the death and destruction that inevitably followed his arrival. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn't count the other three.
"I'm afraid I don't know how it is," Avaman hissed, his voice dripping with malice. "Why don't you explain it to me?"
With that, Avaman slowly floated back down the hall, inviting Ming to follow him. He briefly considered ignoring his fellow Contender and taking a different route to his destination, but relented as he decided it wouldn't be worth the headache later.
Avaman looked down on Ming -- the obvious intent behind his floating -- as they moved down the hall. "Well?" he prompted again. "Care to explain your extended absence, Clown?"
Ming glanced up at him, a sly smile on his lips and his eyebrows raised irreverently. "I sent word I'd be fighting the Abyssal Knight. Did you never learn to read, Avaman?"
The floating man didn't rise to the provocation, instead pressing on with his insistent little voice. "And what was the result of your little… fight, Clown? Is the Abyssal Knight dead?"
"Nah," Wu Ming replied casually, hands forming a pillow behind his head as he leisurely walked. "Things worked out a lil funny. You know how it goes."
An unpleasant sound trickled from underneath that glass mask -- Avaman's laughter, born not from true amusement but instead simple mockery. A facsimile of enjoyment from one who had never truly experienced it.
"You failed, then," Avaman chuckled, putting a modest gloved hand to his chin. "The Supreme won't be pleased."
Liar.
The Supreme didn't give a single shit what any of them did -- not here in the Shesha, nor out there in the universe. The petty conflicts and battles of the Supremacy below him had long ago stopped providing him with the stimulation he desired. The four of them could slaughter each other right before him and he probably wouldn't even blink. Once someone reached the level that man occupied, all other aspects of existence became irrelevant.
Wu Ming didn't say any of that, though. To do so would disturb Avaman's delicate sensibilities.
"I'll be sure to offer him my apologies in person," Wu Ming replied easily, the very picture of relaxation. "Don't worry your pretty little head, okay?"
"I'm not the one who has to be concerned, Clown," Avaman prodded again. "A man who dances as wildly as yourself should make sure of his footing first."
Genuine laughter shook Ming's chest. "What? You get that out of a fortune cookie or something?"
They reached the massive doors to the throne room -- great black monoliths that reached all the way up to the ceiling. Everything was huge here, needlessly so, Ming found. Even these hallways they were strolling down were big enough to fly a starship through. Perhaps the Supreme who'd built it had had inadequacy issues?
Avaman stopped before the doors, still looking down at Ming. A distinct aura of disapproval radiated from the man, like a foul miasma -- and as Ming watched, a stray spark of rot-green Aether ran along the Announcer’s cloak.
"You're a very funny man, Wu Ming," he said, his voice soft and quiet. "So very funny."
Ming smiled back up at him, hands on his hips. "I try my best -- a ten-outta-ten life, you know. You want some tips on that? Some life advice, maybe?"
"No, that's quite alright."
There was a slight breeze. A second later, Wu Ming's head went flying off his shoulders -- and then thin strings lashed out from within the stump and pulled the head back, seamlessly stitching the wound closed before it could even begin bleeding.
Ming cracked his neck. "Total three-outta-ten move, my guy. I wish you wouldn't do that," he sighed.
Avaman's stance hadn't shifted in the slightest. "I could say the same to you."
Wu Ming wasn't sure why, but he just couldn't bring himself to like this guy. He supposed it wasn't that strange: none of the Contenders were very fond of each other, but with the others he managed to at least feign civility. But the pompousness Avaman exuded, the way he assumed authority he'd never been given…
Ah, to hell with it. Ming would just kill him.
Their movements were simultaneous and fast as lightning, sending bursts of air pressure down either end of the hallway as a result of their sheer speed. The lights far above flickered in sympathy.
Wu Ming pulled his arm back. "String Theory," he began calmly, rainbow Aether coalescing over his finger. "Black Hole."
At the same time, Avaman the Announcer thrust his palm forwards, Aether already coursing through the limb. "Whirlwind Greatsword!" he screamed, the facade of icy calm utterly shattered.
At this range, in this place, both of these attacks were as lethal as they came. Once unleashed, death for at least one party became a certainty.
But in this case, those attacks never were unleashed.
"Forest of Sin," sighed a resigned woman's voice from between the two of them. "Restrain."
Before either Wu Ming or Avaman could move another inch, they were seized by a mass of gnarled black branches, bound tightly by wood that felt like steel. These were the branches of Apex trees -- renowned for being even tougher than the hull of starships. There weren't many people capable of breaking out of something like that. Ming was one of them, of course, but that didn’t make this any less irritating.
Tormented human features were bulging out from within the bark, too -- moaning faces and grasping hands, like wooden statues straining against the air. He grimaced as they stared up at him, the markers of a grotesque ability. Ming knew when to throw his cards down. With a flick of his finger, the String Theory attack he'd primed was dispelled.
The raging winds around Avaman died down as well as he looked towards the source of this intrusion -- the woman standing in front of the now-open doors to the throne room.
"A pleasure to see you, Wu," she smiled with plastic friendliness. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"
Paradise Charon was a giant of a woman -- easily seven feet tall -- with an imposing presence to match. Her fashion sense had changed again since the last time Ming had seen her: garish bright businesswear had been replaced with a black-and-gold militaristic uniform, her head of curly dark hair framed by a collar of golden feathers.
She was the strongest Contender, if you didn't count the other three.
On either side, Aether portals were open to her Forest of Sin -- and it was through those that the torrent of branches had flooded. Her half-sapient Aether ability would have been eager for whatever stimulation was available, Ming imagined.
"I'm doing great, Charon!" Wu Ming called back happily, squirming as he did his best to get comfortable in the wooden stranglehold. "Ten-outta-ten. How about you? Surprised you're not busy plotting with your pal downstairs."
Paradise's smile faltered, but only slightly. She was a creature of society, after all -- she was used to withstanding insults if it promised to pay off in the future.
Her eyes flicked over to Avaman, who was already doing his best to escape -- gashes slowly appearing in the branches like they were being hacked at by invisible axes.
"How about it, Wu?" she purred. "I'm sure we could kill him right now if we worked together. You interested?"
"Harlot," Avaman hissed maliciously. "Witch."
Paradise ignored the insults, instead turning back to Ming, awaiting his answer. A stray branch of the Forest of Sin reached out to caress her cheek, but she slapped it away, momentary annoyance crossing her face.
Ming considered it. He'd enjoy it if Avaman didn't exist anymore, but losing the opportunity to fight him properly would be atrocious. If he was going to slay the Announcer, he'd do it on a fair stage.
Still...
"Nah," he finally said. "I'm not into that kinda stuff. Let me go, will ya?"
Paradise frowned, and when she spoke again her voice was laced with danger. "Well, perhaps I should have the Forest just crush you both right now."
"We're playing that game, huh?" Ming smirked. "Fine. String Theory -- Wormhole."
In an instant, Wu Ming disappeared from his original position -- reappearing standing atop the branches of the Forest of Sin, scratching his head flippantly. He was pretty sure he could unleash Black Hole before Paradise could open another portal, if it came down to it.
It appeared she too was aware of that, though. With a sigh, she raised her arm and the grip of the Forest of Sin loosened around Avaman, allowing him to float away free.
"You're an impossible man to deal with," she said, idly waving a hand, before turning and striding back into the throne room. A moment later, Avaman soared after her, infuriated green Aether visibly crackling around him.
Avaman was the kind of person who'd foster resentment for any slight, but a glance down told Ming the true cause of his fury. The branches of the Forest of Sin were already beginning to dissipate, but Ming got a good view of the wooden faces all the same. He winced; the Forest's sense of humour really was atrocious.
Each tormented face was an exact replica of the person Avaman hated more than anything in the world -- the man called Skipper.
The throne room beyond the doors was as cavernous as the rest of the Shesha -- the throne itself surrounded by rows and rows of empty pews, upon which acolytes of the Supremes past must surely have gathered. Insects scurried out of the way of Ming's feet as he entered. The only light was the dim yellow glow of a holographic sun, slowly rotating up near the ceiling -- and that glow washed over the massive statue that sat the throne itself.
Paradise clicked her fingers, and a new Aether portal opened -- the branches that poured forth forming a couch for her to lay on. Avaman finally lowered himself down to the ground, kneeling reverently.
At first glance, it would appear an automatic was curled up below the throne. Silver and metallic, with windows of red glass through which some kind of sloshing liquid could be seen. As Ming entered the room, blue lights flicked on around the exterior of the machine, and servos whirred as it smoothly rose to its feet.
But this was no automatic: this was the Hellhound. He was the strongest Contender, if you didn't count the other three.
Cybernetics were nothing unusual -- after the fall of the Gene Tyrants, genetic manipulation had become the greatest taboo, and other than the Superbians none dared practice it. The focus of the dream to alter one's form had shifted instead to the realm of cybernetics.
Even so, Ming didn't know if anyone had gone as far with it as the Hellhound -- only the patriarch of the Oliphant Clan had even come close, as far as he was aware. The metal body the Hellhound inhabited was quadrupedal, segmented to such a degree that it was supremely flexible, and built with technical specifications more suitable for a starship than a prosthetic.
Wu Ming wasn't sure of the exact details, but from what he understood the only parts of the Hellhound that were still human were his nervous system and around half of his brain. Occasionally, those could even be seen floating in the red solution visible through his glass windows.
The blue light on the Hellhound's visor swivelled to face Ming. "Back?" he asked, in a stilted, unnatural voice -- an AI imitation of the voice he'd had before becoming like this.
"Yup."
"I see." And with that, the lights on the Hellhound's body flicked back off, and it returned to hibernation. The Hellhound was probably the most personable Contender.
Avaman, still kneeling on the ground, looked up at the stone-grey statue slouched on the throne. He spread his arms wide.
"My Supreme," he whispered, with all the reverence of a prophet. "Wu Ming, the fourth of your Contenders, has returned. He brings word of your enemies' trespasses."
There was no reply.
The grey thing that sat the throne, needless to say, was no statue -- only a man that had not moved in a very long time. Dust had accumulated. His hair and beard had grown long and unkempt. The only signs of life from the massive man were very slight breathing and the dull brown eyes that stared unblinking down at Avaman as he spoke.
He was a huge man, tense with so much muscle it was almost grotesque, but what was more impressive than that was the pressure he exuded. It was like standing in the eye of a hurricane just to look at him -- there was the constant sensation that you could be dashed into nothing at any second. He wore no armour, bore no weapons -- the only clothing he even wore was a piece of simple cloth wrapped around his waist. This sense of danger came from him alone.
This was the Supreme. He was the strongest.
Wu Ming stepped forward, savouring the jackhammer heartbeat in his chest, and bowed respectfully. The Supreme said nothing, made no sign that he'd even seen Ming, but that was nothing new. He didn't care about any of this -- it was all just ceremony.
"I encountered an agent of Darkstar on the planet Nocturnus," Wu Ming began, his dignified tone an utter contrast to his usual demeanor. "Namely, the traitor Samson Rhodes. I engaged him and we fought for some time, but he eventually escaped the field. However, I believe Darkstar would prefer to avoid further scrutiny, and will cease operations on the planet as a result -- thus, the crisis on Nocturnus has come to an end."
The throne room was silent. Over on her couch, Paradise put a hand to her mouth as she quietly yawned. Avaman continued to kneel, his head low. In his state of hibernation, the Hellhound was dead to the world.
The Supreme said nothing. He didn't even blink.
"The Supreme has heard of your failure," Avaman finally said, rising to his feet. "He would now ask you to leave."
The Announcer was totally pulling that out of his ass, but Wu Ming wasn't going to argue. He had other places to be, after all. With a grunt of exertion, he rose to his feet, bowed to the Supreme once more -- and turned, striding out of the door.
He could feel Avaman's glare bearing into the back of his head all the way.
----------------------------------------
As time passed, the Contenders of the Supremacy drained out of the throne room one by one. Paradise Charon departed first -- she had an appointment with a coalition of Ministers she was courting the approval of. Next went the Hellhound, heading out for his next hunt. Avaman stayed the longest, content to do nothing but stare at the Supreme's glorious form for hours at a time, but eventually even he succumbed to the human desire for sleep.
The room was empty, save for the insects, their nests packed close together in the ceiling. They crawled across the floor en masse, eager for any sustenance they could find. These were vicious things, ready to tear vermin apart for the meat beneath their skin -- but none of them dared to approach the man who sat the throne.
A voice as deep as the earth and as dark as the void between stars echoed throughout the room -- and with the first syllable, every single insect retreated at once, leaving the chamber truly empty.
"Boring…"
The Supreme spoke so softly that the shell of dust around their lips didn't even crack. Their eyes continued to stare ahead, morose and dull, forever fixed on the black metal doors. Even so, their voice was resounding -- it took precedence over all else.
"It's so very boring, isn't it…?" the Supreme sighed. "This rotten world of ours…"
END OF ARC 6