If Abraham Oliphant had lungs, he would have gasped for air as consciousness returned to him.
Something was wrong. His body, which usually responded to his whims at the speed of thought, refused to obey him. It simply remained standing there, stock-still as a statue, smoke drifting up from the parts damaged by the blast. The only part of him that was capable of movement were his fingers, which twitched mindlessly at the ends of his hands.
One of his eyes wasn't working properly, either, blinking in and out of vision like a malfunctioning camera. Every now and then, he'd hear a split-second screech from the audio chip in his left ear. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
What had happened? Masadora had detonated the bomb strapped to himself, but that wouldn't have been sufficient to damage Abraham to this degree. Had it been some kind of EMP then, as well, or perhaps the delivery mechanism for a virus?
Whatever the case, the result was obvious: slowly but surely, the life support functions of Abraham's suit were failing. The reserves of oxygen, automatically stored as a surplus, were running low. The cardiac pumps that kept blood flowing to the brain were slowing, making him feel light-headed and ill. Slowly, slowly, he was being pulled out of this world.
He exerted his will, screaming inside his head for his body to move. If he could only walk, just a little bit, he could get back to his ship. His spare body was there waiting for him. He could be saved.
But no matter how much he demanded, no matter how much he commanded, his body did not move. It had already become an iron statue. Tears of fury and frustration ran down Abraham's face.
For a moment, he genuinely thought all hope was lost -- and then, there was a thump as a bulky humanoid figure landed on the ground in front of him.
His son, Roy. The man was good for little more than his muscles -- but seeing him here, now, was a godsend. He could transport Abraham's head to his ship in no time flat.
"Pa?" Roy called out, voice hoarse, swinging around in the darkness.
"I'm here," Abraham grunted, voice raspy and quiet without its enhancements. "Assist me."
Roy stepped closer, becoming visible in what little light was available, and Abraham could see that tears were streaming down his own face as well. His massive hands were shaking. His lip wobbled like that of an infant.
"Pa," he muttered. "Val, she's --"
Abraham took control.
"Listen to me carefully, boy," he barked. "I need you to use the emergency release in my suit -- that'll detach my head and some of the life support kit to keep me going. You need to get me back to my ship and my spare body. I don't know how, but that trash Masadora managed to do some damage. I will die if you don't hurry."
Roy blinked, before hurriedly nodding.
"Right, right," he mumbled, stepping over and groping for the emergency release -- his huge, clumsy hand slapping against the collar of the suit. "I just, um… I just…"
"Carefully," Abraham reprimanded, glaring daggers. "Any damage could be catastrophic."
"Sorry," Roy breathed, nodding again. His oversized fingers went to flick the switch, but passed over it instead. "Sorry! I just --"
His fumbling hands passed over the switch again.
"Boy!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Roy yelled, moving around behind Abraham to get a better angle. "It's just… Val, she's… she's…"
"Press the switch!"
The words left Roy's mouth as a whisper. "She's dead."
Angry heat rising to his face, Abraham simply continued to shout: "Do I look like I give a damn?! Hurry up and help me!"
Roy's fumbling stopped. Abraham, appreciating the reduced tension, took a deep breath with what little oxygen was still available to him. He spoke evenly, calmly, with all the authority decades of supremacy had given him.
"Listen carefully, boy," he said slowly. "You must take me back to the ship. If you do not, I am going to die. Do you understand?"
No response. Abraham couldn't see Roy from where he was, either. A fragment of uncertainty, something Abraham Oliphant had long forgotten the texture of, entered his voice.
"Boy?"
Again, no response -- save for the slow, purposeful sound of heavy footsteps. Footsteps moving away from him. No, no no no, surely he wouldn't…
"Boy!" Abraham cried out, unable to so much as turn around to face his retreating son. "What are you doing?! Don't be foolish! I'm still here!"
Footsteps. He could feel his 'breathing' growing shallower.
"Roy, what the hell do you think you're doing?! Think about this! What I said -- I didn't mean it, this is a stressful situation for us all! Use your head, son, that -- that anger, don't listen to it, please -- for the love of god, man!"
Footsteps. He could feel his 'heartbeat' slowing.
"Please! No no no! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" He tried to scream those words, but with the oxygen available to him they only left his mouth as shallow gasps.
Footsteps, and then -- nothing.
His vision turned black as his eyes ran out of power. Abraham Oliphant remained in utter darkness for the few minutes that remained of his life, as every function of his body grinded to an utter halt. He'd spent his entire life building his coffin, and now it could finally fulfill its purpose.
And once those few minutes were over? Well, it was a pretty safe bet he saw darkness afterwards too.
----------------------------------------
Eli could have laughed. What a show. What a show to die to.
The incoherent begging of Abraham Oliphant had reignited Eli's consciousness, like a fire flaring right before it died down for good. His vision was blurry and indistinct, but he could see the hulking shape that was Abraham, frozen in place, already growing cold.
His lips were still moving, silently -- but as Eli watched from the ground, a lazy grin on his face, that movement ceased utterly. Abraham Oliphant stared straight forward into space as he departed from this world.
Eli tried to laugh, but the pain was such that he abandoned the notion immediately. Still… he'd done it. He'd actually done it. He'd killed Abraham Oliphant. Not good enough? If that was the case, then Abraham must have been abysmal.
Would he survive this? Was there a possibility? Eli glanced down at the lower half of his body.
Didn't look like it.
The blast had utterly annihilated Eli from the abdomen down, turning that entire part of his body into a red pulp of meat and bone. Rivers of blood were already forming from his carcass, and he could see his shredded organs like popped balloons. If nothing else, they'd save money on his burial: they'd only need half a plot.
He rested his weary head on the cold metal floor, still grinning up at the darkness above. He'd done it, if nothing else. It had taken everything he'd had, but here, at the end, he felt utter contentment like nothing he'd ever experienced before.
And as he felt that unfamiliar emotion, a spark of dark-green Aether ran along his fingers.
He could have laughed. Again, he opened his mouth to laugh -- but by the time that he did, the only thing that left his lips was a death rattle.
----------------------------------------
Cottian del Sed ran for his life.
As far as Dragan could see, he had no destination in mind, no plan -- just pure animal terror driving him to try and escape the present threat. Whether that threat was Dragan and Bruno or the demons in Cott's own mind, he couldn't say, but the man was running with all he had.
He charged through the dense city streets, knocking people over and smashing carts and stalls to pieces as he barrelled right through them. Dense orange Aether broiled around his body, making him little more than a sprinting battering ram. Every now and then, he'd look back over his shoulder, eyes wide with terror, at his pursuers.
Under these circumstances, Dragan couldn't get a Gemini Shotgun off without risking hitting people in the crowd. He glanced to the side, to Bruno, but the other boy didn't seem worried that Cott was going to get away. He just continued to stare ahead as he ran with practiced form, resolute.
They turned a corner, and the inevitable conclusion of the chase revealed itself.
Cott had reached the end of the district, all that awaited him being a railing and a long, long drop. He ran forward until he reached the railing as if a new exit would present itself, but as he grasped it tight and looked around frantically, it became obvious he had nowhere left to run. Still, Dragan kept wary as he slowed his pace -- a cornered animal was the most dangerous.
"Yakob," Cott breathed, turning around and pressing his back against the railing. "I-I can explain…"
Bruno's eyes were cold as ice.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"Yakob’s dead," he said. "You're dealing with us now." A forcefield hovered over one of his hands, ready to pummel a skull -- and as Dragan watched, Bruno's other hand reached out and grasped a nearby light fixture, warping it into a serrated blade of metal and broken glass.
Whatever happened now, it would be a cooperative effort.
Cott was shaking violently, hands deathly-white as they clutched the railing for dear life. It was like he was paddling in the ocean, that piece of metal the only thing keeping him afloat.
He looked down. "You don't understand…" he muttered, long hair hanging over his face. "They would've hurt me, Yakob… they would have…"
Bruno's eyes sharpened into Serena's. "They hurt us. You hurt us."
Cott finally let go of the railing, hands clawing at his face as if to find an exit through it. "You would've done the same…" he whispered, almost pleadingly.
Slowly, Bruno shook his head. "Never."
What might have been a laugh trickled from Cott's throat -- hollow, humourless, like the slow cracking of black ice. His face still in his hands, he called out, voice muffled.
"What now, then? You kill me?"
The glass in Serena's sword crunched as she waved it through the air, a few chunks dropping onto the floor below. Dragan was sure a blow from that thing would slice and flay at the same time -- and in that moment, Serena's face said that she would relish that prospect.
"I don't know," Serena whispered. "I haven't decided yet."
When Cott looked up from his hands, he sneered, but it seemed his heart wasn't in it as much as it had been before.
"You want to, though, don't you?" he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I fucking knew it. You would have done the exact same thing to me. Don't stand there all -- all righteous when you would have done the exact same thing!"
Serena said nothing, but her nose visibly wrinkled in disgust. Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere with her, Cott's eyes flicked instead to Dragan. He crossed his arms.
"You," he said hurriedly. "Yeah, yeah, you. You understand, right? There's mutual gain here. I -- I have money, I'm well paid, I'm good at what I do. You help me here, I'll cut you in. You can't trust this one, they'll turn on you in a second, they'd have… they'd have done the exact same thing to you, that's the kind of person they are, so --"
Cold anger narrowed Dragan's eyes. "Another word," he said evenly. "And I'll kill you myself."
Serena took a step forward -- and that was enough to break the fragile quiet that had settled over the street. Orange Aether immediately began to dance around Cott's panicking form, and his voice cracked in terror as he screamed: "Monophobia!"
It was Cott's last gambit, but Dragan had to admit that it would have been a good one.
Sixteen aspects of Cott leapt out of him all at once, each of them clutching their weapons for dear life. Guns and knives, chakrams and maces, broadswords and rapiers. Just one would have been enough to cut a normal human being to shreds, and Cott had brought out a veritable platoon. It would have been a good move.
But he'd already lost a long time ago.
Scraps of wood and sawdust flew into the air like smoke as the aspects turned on each other, smashing puppet bodies to pieces with all the strength they possessed. They screamed as they did so, some clutching their skulls like something was trying to burrow out of them. All in all, the group lasted maybe thirty seconds -- the last trace of them being a severed arm that flew up in the air, turning end over end, before collapsing into fire-orange Aether.
Tears of stress streamed down Cott's face as he took in that sight, dumbfounded. "Huh?"
Dragan raised an eyebrow as he looked at Cott, who was now truly cornered. "Looks to me like you left your guilt out too long -- and now that you've taken it back, it's poisoned the well. Every aspect of yourself is touched by it. You're lucky they saw each other first, and not you. Your ability's not so useful anymore."
That was the last strike against what remained of Cott's ego. He collapsed to his knees.
"I…I…" Cott muttered, hands swinging limp at his sides. "Please."
Serena looked down at him, shook her head slightly, and let the sword she held slip from her fingers. It shattered easily against the floor.
Bruno reasserted himself with a dismissive sigh, still looking down at the prone Cott. If anything, his eyes were even colder than hers had been, like he was watching a particularly vile insect.
"Looks like she's lost interest in you," Bruno said, crossing his arms. "Can't blame her. Without that ability, you haven't got much, have you? I'm betting you've made other enemies, too. You're that sort of person. I wonder what they'll do when they find out your hitsquad is gone."
Slowly, vaguely, Cott shook his head -- looking up at Bruno with wide eyes. "No, no no no, no, you can't leave me like this…"
Bruno raised an eyebrow. "What? You want us to kill you now?"
Quite clearly, Cott didn't know what he wanted. Guilt that had marinated over years was clashing with the self-interest that had built up over the same amount of time, and the impact had shattered him. They were talking to a spiderweb of broken glass, conflicting desires pouring out of its mouth.
Cott's eyes twitched, his lip wobbled, as words wrestled for exit from his mouth.
"You can't leave me like this!" he finally screamed, clutching his head. "You can't make me live like this! What's a person supposed to do with all this shit stuck in their head?! Get rid of it! Fucking kill me!"
Bruno's eyes narrowed, and he turned to leave. "We've already killed you in every way that matters."
And then, his eyes squeezed shut, he began to walk away. Dragan followed after, careful to keep an eye on Cott from the very edge of his vision. The young man remained on his knees, screaming after them.
"Yakob!" he called out, begging. "Yakob, please!"
Bruno stopped.
"Yakob's dead," he said again, voice so dull and so quiet it was a wonder that Cott even heard him.
But hear him he did.
Dragan could see it in Cott's eyes, that delusional moment when flight became fight -- and with a rush of orange Aether, he charged forward at Bruno, screaming an incoherent war cry. A combat knife, simple but efficient, was clutched in his hands -- and this speed born of desperation was such that Gemini Shotgun simply flew over his head.
Bruno's body sighed -- and he turned on his heel with speed that Dragan had never seen from him before.
A violet-purple spark of Aether ran along his hands. As it did, Dragan saw some kind of clay-like substance pour out from his palms, hardening into a dagger that Bruno's body thrusted forward just as Cott reached him.
It met true.
Cott had been fast, but not fast enough. The knife ran him through, right in the middle of his chest, striking his heart without a doubt. He stayed on his feet for only a moment, looking down towards the handle protruding from his chest.
"Oh," he said.
And then, finally, he fell.
When Dragan knelt down next to him, to make absolutely sure he was dead, he saw that the young man's expression was curiously peaceful. He'd gotten what he wanted in the end, Dragan supposed. Now guilt was gone for good.
"I didn't know you could do that," Dragan breathed a sigh of relief -- only for his voice to trail off as he looked up at his friend's face.
The eyes were sharper than Bruno's, but the expression was softer than Serena's. The body was more relaxed than Serena, but with an underlying sense of discipline that far exceeded Bruno. This was a person Dragan Hadrien did not know.
It looked down at Cott with a strangely sad gaze -- an expression that quickly faded as Dragan watched, a sense of finality washing over him. It was like seeing someone's personality disintegrate in real time.
Or like watching a ghost pass on to the next world.
----------------------------------------
Things hadn't gone perfectly, but Carla Oliphant had won. She couldn't help but smile as she walked into the hangar, hands stuffed into the pockets of her longcoat.
He was dead.
He was dead.
He was dead.
The childish urge to skip and cheer almost overwhelmed her, but she still couldn't suppress the gleeful giggles that bubbled out of her throat. She'd dreamed about this day for so long, and now that it had come it was everything she'd dreamed about. Abraham Oliphant was dead, and his wretched Clan would soon collapse without him. Roy was the only senior family member left, and he'd never had much of a head for organization.
Who would pick up the slack, she wondered? There were always remnants of Pandemonium lurking around, so maybe one of them, or perhaps some new player entirely. Well, they could fight over the scraps as much as they liked -- Carla was leaving all of this behind her. She'd done all the violence and betrayal she'd set out to: the time for a peaceful life was long since passed. Maybe she'd take up farming.
The ship she'd hidden away for this moment was a cramped but cozy thing, big enough to hold maybe two people at the very most. She'd expected Cottian del Sed to join her here for the getaway, but it seemed he wouldn't be making it. He hadn't been around when Carla had been watching her father die through the drones, so something had probably happened to him.
Oh well. One less person to pay.
She threw herself down in the pilot's seat, hands beginning the startup sequence with practiced precision. Below her, the engine rumbled reassuringly, heat diffusing through the vessel. With a flick of her finger, she went to open up the screen to map her route out of Supremacy space.
"Fella's gotta eat…" someone mumbled.
Her finger never reached the screen. Instead, when she looked down numbly at her hand, Carla saw that her finger hadn't reached anything at all. It couldn't.
After all, it was completely gone -- the only trace of its existence being the gnarled, chewed stump of blood and bone protruding from her knuckle. Her hand shook as she looked down at it, shock overwhelming pain for a brief, brief moment.
Anduan the Cannibal emerged from the gap between her chair and the floor, keeping low to the ground as he crawled into view. Carla's missing finger was still protruding from his mouth, and as she watched he nibbled it away into nothingness like a rabbit feasting on a carrot.
"100,000 stator," he muttered, dazed eyes looking at her, drool running down his weak chin. "Fella's gotta eat, y-you know…?"
And then she felt the pain.
Even as she screamed, she whipped her revolver out to attack -- but it was far too late for that. Another snap of Anduan's jaw wrenched the barrel of the gun right away, leaving nothing but a mass of twisted metal. Another lunge stole the gun from her grip completely, Anduan chewing it as if it was salad, the ruined device visibly pressing against the inside of his throat as he swallowed.
Carla twisted in her seat, turning to flee -- but it was too late. Anduan was upon her.
His teeth clamped down on her shoulder first as he latched on, holding her down like a lion eating a zebra. Her flesh and muscle came away as easily as butter, Anduan greedily digging his face into the wound, the snorts of satisfaction making him sound like a pig.
Carla went to kick him with her free leg, but lost the foot for her trouble. She could feel his teeth scraping against the protruding bone, tears of pain beyond anything she'd felt before rising to her eyes.
Anduan's hands gluttonously scooped up parts of her body like he was dissecting a birthday cake, flipping her over to have better access to the feast. He slurped down hair like spaghetti. He crunched down bone like rock candy. His eyes rolled back in pleasure as bloody meat passed through his lips, the crimson dripping from his chin.
Carla's strength had abandoned her -- and even if it hadn't, it would have been near-impossible to move with the state her body was in. She was a carcass with delusions of life. Death was certain within the next few minutes.
While Anduan ate, he wept, tears of guilt streaming down his bloody face. It was like he was being torn apart at the same time as her, like he was murderer and victim both.
"Fella's gotta eat," he whimpered, forcing her remaining hand down his throat, muffling his words. "Don't hold it against me. 100,000 stator, d-don't hold it against me…"
As Anduan hooked his teeth beneath her cheek and began to peel her face away, Carla could have screamed: "You idiot! You fucking idiot! Stop! I'm the organizer! You won't get paid anything! Stop! Fucking stop! I'm not one of them! I'm in charge!"
She didn't end up saying any of that.
But she did scream.