Lie still, O honored one,
And sleep well.
The hands of your time have come to an end,
The sand of your life has run dry.
Sleep well, O honored one,
And lie still in the halls of the Velvet Palace.
Let your soul pass out of darkness,
Through the tunnels of your conscience,
And into the light of Y’s embrace.
May Y take you for glory,
May Y take you for prestige,
May Y take you for His.
Forevermore.
Hallelujah.
Superbian Death Prayer
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Mila's body ached.
As she was dropped down to the metal floor, she hugged her arms tight around herself -- as if the pain was leaking out of her very form, and if she could just cover the holes she could stop it. It was only when she realized just how close to the edge she was that she adopted caution again, shrinking herself into as much of a ball as possible.
It had been a long night, carried under Helga's arm like a piece of luggage, but it seemed the chase had finally ended. Slowly, as carefully as possible, Mila rose to her feet.
She and Helga stood atop a crane that towered over the makeshift cityscape of the Menagerie. Restaurants and diners, hotels and temporary housing… from this height, they all looked like little more than twinkling lights. If nothing else, though, this was a height that could kill.
At some point during her rooftop escapades, Helga had torn away a Humilist flag from a pole, draping it around herself as a cloak. It fluttered in the wind now as she looked out over her surroundings.
When she spoke, she could barely be heard over the sounds of the city below. "Mila," she said.
"Helga," Mila whispered.
So she was conscious -- or consciousness had returned to her at some point during the night's festivities. Mila had suspected: there was no way Helga could have bundled her into that ship and flown it here on reflex alone.
Helga reached up and seized one of her own bangs, holding it up to her eye. She was inspecting it for length. Of course: it had been quite a while since the last time she'd seen it, after all. It had grown.
"How long?" she asked, just as quietly, her voice raspy from disuse.
Should she lie? Mila didn't know what kind of mental state Helga was in. When she'd last been awake, she'd been in the middle of attacking Dragan Hadrien, and now with everything going on -- and the aftereffects from stasis -- there was no telling how she'd react.
Mila resolved to lie -- but then Helga turned to look at her, her eyes wide, and she found the truth leaving her mouth instead.
"A year," she said. "You've been under for a year."
Helga squeezed her eyes shut, and when she spoke her voice was pained. "You did that?"
Hurriedly, Mila shook her head. "No. No! I was there, but I was trying to save you. Trying to find a way to get you out. I swear."
There was suspicion, cold and analytical, swimming through Helga's eyes when she opened them again. "Why?" she nearly growled the word.
It was a good question. Mila had asked herself the same many times before. The last they'd met, Helga had betrayed her. She'd betrayed the Humilists, gotten people killed, and been caught trying to cover it up.
Why would Mila want to save her?
"I don't know," she lied.
Helga continued to glare at her, eyes like twin drills -- until slowly, they closed again. The sigh that trickled from her lips was long, as if an entire year of discomfort was being expelled all at once.
"Okay," Helga said.
For a few moments, they just bathed in the sounds of the city below -- the distant shouting, the blaring horns of vehicles, the whirring of machinery. Then, somehow, Mila found the courage to speak again.
"What do we do now?"
This time, Helga needed no time to consider the question. "I need to go back." She spoke with a regretful inevitability.
"Go back?" Mila asked, doing her best not to look down. "What do you mean? Go back where?"
Helga stared off at the lights that surrounded them, the glow shining off her face and making her seem ethereal. "The GID," she said simply. "I need to go back. I think I killed one of them back there… but still. No other options."
Mila's heart dropped. She hadn't wanted this. She took a beseeching step forward, painfully aware of gravity's hold on her. "Why do you have to go back?" she all but begged. "You don't need to. We can -- we can make a run for it. Steal a ship, like you just did. Make a run for it to where nobody can find us --"
Her words trailed off as Helga shook her head. "I can't," she said, in a voice that permitted no argument. "They have people important to me."
You're important to me. Mila thought of saying it, but in the end the pathetic words would not leave her mouth.
Helga went on, her pale face weary. "If I defect, there's no telling what will happen to them. I don't have a choice."
Mila's hands dropped weakly to her sides. "So… what? This is goodbye? Again…?" Already?
It felt like she was being crushed in a vice, like all the efforts she had made over the last year had come to naught. What a selfish thing to think. Just because she hadn't gotten what she wanted.
Helga stepped over to the edge of the crane, doing her utmost not to look Mila in the eye. "Yeah," she murmured. "Thanks for… helping me out."
And without another word, she dropped off the crane, vanishing into the citylight. Mila swallowed down her bitterness, took in a deep breath, and sighed.
For a moment, she just looked out at the ramshackle metropolis. Then she realized she had no way to get down.
----------------------------------------
Muzazi's body ached.
The second he woke, he put a hand to his throat -- feeling the rough texture of bandages and machinery there. Wires running from the wound in his neck to a module hanging over his bed.
His bed? Muzazi looked around. He was in a bed, then, connected up to medical equipment -- though the room he was in was no hospital. It seemed to be part of the complex he'd first met Lyons in, judging from the dim decor and the distant smell of barbecue.
"You're a lucky man, Atoy Muzazi," Jean Lyons said softly.
Muzazi's eyes flicked over to the corner of the room, where the pale man was standing, hands in his pockets. That same serene smile was plastered on his face. When he blinked, it was slow and inexorable.
"What happened?" Muzazi grunted, trying to force himself up -- but the wires in his throat were like a leash, and the fear of tearing them out kept him still.
"As I said,'' Lyons chuckled, pulling up a foldaway seat next to the bed. "You're very lucky. Agent Malwarian nearly inflicted a fatal wound on you. By the time Olga returned from chasing after her, you were nearly gone."
"She saved me…?" Muzazi muttered, rubbing his bandaged throat. Somehow, he couldn't imagine her doing that.
"I saved you, Mr. Muzazi," Lyons said -- with a note of insistence that Muzazi had not yet heard from him. "With the supplies aboard that ship, she was able to stabilise your condition, but without these current measures -- yes, you would be dead."
Stolen story; please report.
Muzazi looked down at the wires -- no, the tubes -- and saw the orange paste flowing through them. "This is Panacea?" A grisly image of the Repurposed flowed through his mind, and he had to resist the urge to tear the thing free there and then.
"Well spotted," Lyons said, leaning over. "It's slowly replacing the damaged part of your throat. I'd speak softly until it's finished -- but I often find myself speaking softly. Just act however you are comfortable."
Slowly, through the hazy wall sleep had created, memory returned to him. Helga Malwarian running, Olga going after her… so she hadn't caught her in the end, then. Their mission had failed.
"May I tell you a story about my life?" Lyons suddenly said.
Muzazi looked up at him. The expression on his face hadn't changed, nor had the tone of his voice, but an intensity seemed to radiate from him all the same. To be truthful, Muzazi had little desire to hear this story.
"Of course," he replied.
"I'm sure it goes without saying, but I wasn't always in the position you see today," Lyons said, quietly smiling. "As a matter of fact, I used to consider myself quite an ardent opponent to the Supremacy."
Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "In what way?"
"In quite a brutal way. We bombed public places, we murdered and tortured whatever officials we could get our hands on… yes, we were quite despicable in our time." He spoke as if he was discussing the weather. "When I say 'we' in this context, I'm of course referring to the terrorist group I was a member of. A small outfit, not one you would be familiar with."
"What happened?" Muzazi couldn't picture someone like the person Lyons was describing ascending to be the head of the Supremacy's intelligence division.
"We were caught, eventually -- inevitable, really, with how sloppy we were. The ones who caught us were actually the Galactic Intelligence Division, funnily enough. The head of the Division at that time was a… forgiving sort. My former comrades were lined up and shot, but I was made to see the… depths of my presumption, the foolishness of it." He had a far-away look in his eyes, and when he spoke it was like the reaper's whisper. "The explanation took several months, but by the time all was over I understood completely -- the order of this world, I mean."
Muzazi shifted slightly in his bed. "And what is the order of this world, then, sir?"
It seemed that Lyons had almost forgotten he was there. His eyes snapped back to look at Muzazi, and the tone of his voice returned to normal.
"Well, we like to think the Supremacy is above all else," he explained. "But in truth it is below -- it is the foundation upon which humanity rests. Even the UAP define themselves solely by their opposition to us. Without us, there is only barbarism -- for we are the foundation's foundation. Do you understand?"
Slowly, Muzazi nodded.
Lyons placed a soft, cold hand on Muzazi's arm without breaking eye contact. "Your conduct on this mission was… unsatisfactory. Sloppy, even. You no longer needed Mila Green alive once aboard the ship, yet you did not kill her. Why is that?"
Muzazi's eyes widened. Was he really being asked why he hadn’t murdered someone in cold blood? The thought had never even occurred to him. Was that what was expected of him here?
"I saw no need to," he said honestly.
"Hm." Lyons sounded unimpressed -- and as he stood up, Muzazi could see an unmistakable trace of derision in his gaze. "At any rate, see that you get your head into the game, Mr. Muzazi. You don't have unlimited chances."
And with those foreboding words, he strolled through the door, closed it behind him -- and returned the room to the darkness.
----------------------------------------
Dragan's body ached.
As he pulled himself out of the hospital bed, he felt twinges of pain from half a dozen different places. His legs, which he'd used to smash stone the night before. His arms, which he'd used to punch steel -- or what felt like it -- the night before. His ribs, which had taken the brunt of an explosion the night before.
And his brain. His brain hurt most of all.
"Come on, grandpa," Skipper said with mock-sympathy, supporting him under one arm. "Let's get you home. You want some oatmeal, yeah?"
"Go fuck yourself," Dragan groaned, his voice raspy from the stimulant treatment.
Fortunately, he hadn't actually lost any tissue, so Panacea wasn't necessary -- but stimulants, used to accelerate natural healing, came with aches of their own. To put it bluntly, it felt like someone had poured acid through his veins.
"Can't be helped," Skipper said as they made their way down the hallway, as if he'd read Dragan's mind. "Someone's obviously after us, so it's a bad idea to stay in the same place for too long. No choice but the accelerated treatment."
Through the windows, the darkened city of the Menagerie was visible. Lights on the roof of the great chamber illuminated the cityscape below somewhat like an artificial sky, but it still somehow gave off the impression of being dim. Lights of cars flowed through roads like insects down below.
"Where are the others?" Dragan grunted, sucking up the pain and walking unassisted.
"Ruth's hiding out in an apartment I dug up," Skipper quietly explained, eyes flicking around for any potential eavesdroppers. "I've got Bruno and Serena in a different hospital, though -- I thought it probably wasn't a good idea to keep everyone in the same place if we're being followed. We're on our way to grab them now."
"Then what?"
Before Skipper could answer, the world answered for him. An audible buzz came from the man's coat pocket -- and in a flash, he whipped his hand in there and pulled free his script. A grin slowly spread across his face.
"Well, before anything else, Mr. Hadrien," he said, looking down at the screen. "I need to answer this call from our good ol' Paradisas friends."
----------------------------------------
Giovanni's body ached.
It was only natural. His rage could not be constrained by his form, after all.
The remains of Jamie Pot had been placed on the table before him, ruined arms folded over to cover his chest. There was little point to it -- much of his face and torso had been scraped away, leaving nothing but a bloody hole. His white robes had been stained a vicious red, and his hair hung around him like a mass of spikes.
Gently, Giovanni reached over and brushed those golden locks out of the way. "Was it painful, Jamie?" he asked the silence. "Did it hurt?"
Jamie's body had been recovered by one of their agents in the Forgiveness Corps -- yet Giovanni had not been able to believe Jamie was dead until he'd actually seen the body. It seemed such an impossibility. Giovanni had always held the older boy in high regard, believed he could do anything, and now this…
It was… not a good feeling.
"Gio," Pablo said from his side, his emotions as imperceptible as ever behind his mask of a face. "It's best that we act quickly. If we don't, things will get worse."
"What do you mean?" Giovanni murmured, looking down at the body. The body. When had this corpse ceased being Jamie, and instead become an object? He was sickened by himself.
"The Aipol Beach was under Humilist protection," Pablo continued, placing a firm hand on Giovanni's shoulder. "Even if we got Jamie's body back, it's now known that he was there. If we don't act, the massacre aboard will be firmly associated with us."
"Act?" Giovanni muttered. "Act? What do you mean, act? Associated with it? We are associated with it. It was my will."
Pablo's expression didn't so much as twitch. "All the same, Gio, it's best that information doesn't enter the public arena… not until the time is right."
John Peak spoke up from his place at the door of the mortuary, stepping forward. "There is precedent, sir… for this sort of thing."
Giovanni narrowed his eyes.
I want to kill you, Peak. I want to tear you to pieces right here, right now. Where were you when Jamie was being killed? Why are you here safe and sound? Why are you here and he isn't?
"Precedent for what?" he growled.
Peak cleared his throat, shuffling on the spot. Clearly, he was wise enough to know when he was on thin ice. "Posthumous excommunication, sir," he said, looking away. "To distance the Superbian sect from his actions. We can say he went rogue, went on a rampage."
"His mental issues were no secret," Pablo added. "The Quiet Choir will be happy to corroborate."
The words were knives. "If he's excommunicated…" Giovanni said, sounding lost as he looked down at the body. "He can't be buried on Velvet Palace. He can't be properly put to rest -- he'll just be cremated like… like meat. Like nothing. I…"
Pablo's hand squeezed his shoulder. "A sacrifice for the faith. He believed in you more than anything." He moved closer, speaking into Giovanni's ear -- close enough that Peak couldn't hear. "You are the one closest to God, Giovanni. You alone hear his words. Jamie would have died for you. You think he wouldn't have done this?"
"Sir," Peak demanded, his loud voice cutting through the room. "If we're going to do this, we need to do it now, before it become obvious what we're --"
"Fine!" Giovanni snarled.
Crimson Aether broiled around him as his speech overpowered all else. Peak took a cautious step back. Even Pablo seemed to shrink away. The storm of Aether lasted only a second before dying away, but it seemed that the two of them were holding their breath for a very long time.
"Fine," Giovanni repeated. "Make the announcement. Just… go do it, both of you."
A pair of dutiful nods, and the two made their way out of the room. Giovanni wiped his eyes dry with the back of his hand, looking down at Jamie. Before the day was out, his friend would be nothing but ashes, blown out into space. That thought made his heart ache more than anything else.
There was the tiniest beep, nearly audible, from the script in his pocket. More ill news, no doubt. They'd removed some of Gertrude's pieces, but the cost had not been worth it.
With a flick of his hand, he brought the new message up -- but to his surprise, it was not from one of his agents. The message, empty save for a single attachment, was from an anonymous sender. That alone should have been impossible, given the Superbians security.
The wise thing to do would be to have the attached file scanned immediately, but Giovanni Sigma Testament was not in a wise mood. He tapped it with a finger, and his eyes widened as a video began to play. A fragment of security footage, recovered from the Aipol Beach.
He saw Jamie standing in the darkness of a shattered room.
He saw Jamie fall, laid low by a shot of blue movement.
He saw the one that had done it.
A young Cogitant man with silver hair and blazing blue eyes, collapsing to the floor. He hadn't been among the dead on the Aipol Beach -- he was still alive. Giovanni's grip tightened on the edges of the pedestal before him, stone crumbling against his strength.
The video switched to a shot of a document -- the personal identification of this person, clearly pilfered from some Supremacy database given the AdminCorps logo emblazoned on the side. That blue-eyed face stared back at Giovanni from the identifying photograph. Slowly, like he was peeling a bandage free, he read the person's name.
Dragan Hadrien.
Dragan Hadrien.
Dragan Hadrien.
A scream of fury escaped from his throat -- and the fist that came down on the pedestal was more than enough to shatter it.
You won’t burn alone, Jamie, Giovanni promised the lost. You won’t. I promise. I’ll send this filth to join you.