Tread softly. No, sweet child, softer even than that. You must be less than a breeze.

Do you hold a knife? No, you must not. Even your hands are far too much. No weapon must ever exist in the eyes of men.

Do you speak? Do you explain, plead, taunt? No, no... you must not. You must be hushed in all matters.

Our song is the silent one. Our choir is the quiet.

Let the only trace of your existence be the corpse left behind.

Excerpt, Quiet Choir Training Videograph

----------------------------------------

"This seems like a bad idea," Dragan said warily, eyes flicking around the place.

"Really?" Skipper raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. "Seems like a great idea to me."

"Yeah, Mr. Dragan," Serena chirped like a parrot. "It's a great idea."

Ruth's unexpected growl put a quick end to their chit-chat. "Can you all stop talking?" she asked. "It's tense here. We're being watched."

Apparently, they hadn't had the rank or prestige to get aboard the Deus Nobiscum itself, so Skipper had instead taken them over to another Superbian cathedral-ship -- the Sainted Wyrmslayer. If it was any less extravagant than the main ship, Dragan certainly couldn't tell.

There was a curious difference between Humilist and Superbian architecture. Even though the Menagerie was huge, it still felt cramped -- like the streets had been designed to create a crush of humanity, everything brushing up against everything else as it moved. In contrast, the Superbians seemed to take glee in spreading things out as much as possible, as if showing off the fact that they could afford to waste the space.

The main hall of the Sainted Wyrmslayer was no different.

As they walked down the center of the hall, pews were lined up on either side of them, none occupied -- with several meters between each row. The preaching plinth, as well, was considerably far away from where the actual procession would sit; no doubt speakers were subtly placed throughout the room to carry the preacher's voice. There was no sermon going on right now, though, so Dragan supposed he wouldn't get the chance to find out.

Serena looked up in great interest at the stained glass that covered the walls. Stylised murals of saints and folk heroes, messiahs and demons, legends and myths -- coming from the Supremacy, Dragan didn't recognise most of the stories he saw, but the light they cast over the room was magnificent all the same.

Magnificent… but a tad malicious, too. Perhaps Dragan was biased in thinking that.

"Remind me why we're here again?" Dragan muttered, glancing at Skipper. "Like I said, it seems like a bad idea."

Skipper looked back at him, grinning. "Like I said -- one of the guys trying to kill us was wearing the uniform of the Quiet Choir, part of the Superbian sect. The Quiet Choir operates out of places like this."

"Like I said," Dragan pushed on. "Why does that mean we have to come here? They obviously don't like us. What's the point of putting ourselves right in their grasp?"

"He's right," Ruth said darkly. "This is a bad idea."

"Nobody likes my ideas lately," Skipper sighed. "You guys have gotta get yourselves a more positive attitude."

"Or maybe you need to have better ideas," Dragan shot back.

Skipper shook his head. "Nah. No way."

Dragan took another step forward -- and as he did, he realized there was someone with them, someone standing right in the middle of their little group. A tall man with curly green hair, wearing flowing white robes.

"Can I help you… people?" the man asked.

Dragan froze. Serena whirled around. Ruth leapt back, perching on the end of a pew like a bird. Only Skipper remained relaxed -- he took a few more steps forward before turning on his heel, hands clasped behind his back.

"You certainly can!" Skipper said cheerfully. "Am I right in saying you're with the Quiet Choir, friend?"

The false friendliness on the man's face did not fade. His expression was so still that it almost looked like it was painted onto his face -- if not for the moving of his mouth.

"That is indeed so," he said, nodding respectfully. "I do have the honour of being counted among such an esteemed organisation. Why do you ask, good sir?"

Skipper leaned back, switching posture into a cross of his arms. "Wow," he said. "Ain't that just swell. My nephew here --" He pointed to Dragan. "-- he just loves you guys. Huge fan. Buys all the video games."

The Quiet Chorister cocked his head. "Are you making a joke of me, sir?" he murmured, the shadow of a threat in his tone. "I wouldn't advise that."

Skipper waved a relaxed hand. "Not at all, not at all. I've got a lotta respect for your profession as well. I just wanted to ask real quick…"

The grin dropped from his face.

"...how come you tried to kill me?"

Dragan glared daggers at Skipper. What the hell was he doing?! This wasn't what they'd discussed at all. Was he trying to drag them into another fight?!

Again, though, the Chorister was unflappable. Despite the accusation in Skipper's voice, the robed man just continued to smile genially.

"Pardon?" he asked. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken. You're not an individual we have marked for reprimand. I apologise for the misunderstanding."

"Oh?" Skipper's lips curled into a smirk, already beginning the metamorphosis back into a grin. "What, you know every single person marked for 'reprimand'?"

"Of course," the Chorister smiled. "Proper bookkeeping is essential for a healthy mind. You are mistaken. I'd thank you to leave now."

Skipper stepped forward, lids falling halfway over his eyes, and stared the other man down.

"Some blonde kid with pigtails attacked us last night on the Aipol Beach," he said softly. "Nearly killed me. Nearly killed my friends here. Now how about you stop lying to me before I make you stop lying to me?"

For the first time, the serenity flickered away from the Chorister's expression.

"The Aipol Beach?" he echoed. "Oh. Oh dear."

----------------------------------------

"Manuel Havarashi?" Aiden asked, marching into the hospital room.

The mercenary looked up from his bed, grunting in affirmation. He wasn't especially old, but his hair had begun to turn grey all the same -- the stresses of his occupation, perhaps. A petite goatee poked out from his chin.

Security footage confirmed this man had been meeting with Mila Green right before she'd been ambushed by two unknown assailants. Manuel was a known quantity to the Forgiveness Corps: a notorious gun-for-hire. If he'd been meeting with Green, there was only one reason why.

She'd had a job for him.

"And who are you?" Manuel asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Aiden flashed his badge, his marker as a Detective Prestige, and immediately saw some of the tension drain out of Manuel's gaze. Ownership of a badge was its own form of strength. Merely by holding it out, people trusted in you.

Manuel leaned back, head against his pillow. "What can I do for you, Detective?" he said, relaxing slightly. There was still some trepidation in his tone, but that was fine. Aiden was someone to be wary of, for sure.

Still though… Detective? He was a Detective Prestige. Had Manuel not read the badge?

Aiden got straight to the chase, sitting down in the chair beside Manuel's bed. "You were involved in an incident last night," he said matter-of-factly. "Ambushed in the street by an unknown swordsman and knocked unconscious. Is that right?"

"You seem to already know it is," Manuel spoke seriously. "Why bother asking me about it?"

Aiden's eyes ran over the length of his bed. From what he understood, two of Manuel's cohorts had not gotten off so easily -- they'd been found dead -- but the head trauma the mercenary had suffered was nothing to scoff at. He even had a drip running into his arm, providing nutrients to keep him fed and anaesthetic to keep him calm.

"You were meeting with a woman named Mila Green at the time," Aiden continued. "Why? What job did she have for you?"

"Mila Green?" Manuel frowned before shrugging. "Don't know her. Think you might have some information mixed up, friend."

Aiden sighed, reaching into his pocket and bringing out the pin recovered from Manuel's personal effects. A golden spiral, like a serpent coiled around itself.

"Mitose, right?" Aiden said. "You guys take your business seriously, don't you? I've never seen one of these pins in person before. It's nice."

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A sliver of caution entered Manuel's gaze as he shifted in the bed. "We're licensed to work in Humilist space, sir. And we promise full confidentiality to our clients. If that information is what you're looking for, then I can't help you."

Aiden raised an eyebrow. "That information is key to apprehending a wanted criminal."

"Even so. My word is my bond."

Aiden's face slackened. "I see."

He reached into his pocket again -- and once again, pulled something out. A syringe full of bright pink liquid. Manuel's brow furrowed as he looked at it.

"What is that?" he asked, eyes flicking between Aiden and the syringe.

"It's called Pixie Dust," Aiden said, flicking the needle of the syringe with his fingers. "A drug. As the name suggests, usually it comes in the form of dust, but I managed to get this liquid form from evidence storage."

Manuel's voice was cold. "If you think a bribe of drugs would suffice to make me break my oaths, you are sorely mistaken."

"Oh, not at all."

Aiden leaned over -- and injected maybe a tenth of the Pixie Dust into Manuel's drip. Immediately, Manuel lunged forward to try and stop him, but the anaesthetic had already done its work. The movement was soft and sluggish, and all Aiden had to do to keep him restrained was plant a hand down on the centre of his chest.

"It's more potent in the liquid form," Aiden said quietly. "But by no means harmful -- at least, not in such a small amount. At the most, you should be feeling your heartbeat accelerate a little. Maybe feel lightheaded. It doesn't need to go any further than this." His gaze drifted to the syringe. "It can, though. A third of this syringe could do permanent damage to your nervous system. Where is Mila Green?"

Manuel clenched his jaw. "Don't know her."

Sweat poured down the back of Aiden's neck. Despite the formidable facade he was putting on, he really had no desire to do this man harm. Why couldn't this guy just do the smart thing and give Green up? Why was he forcing Aiden to take such steps?

He was no coward, though. If Manuel Havarashi was going to push him, he was going to push back.

Aiden injected a sliver more of Pixie Dust, and Manuel's face began to turn red. Beneath his hand, Aiden could feel the mercenary's heart beating a mile a minute.

"Are you sure?" Aiden asked calmly. "Like I said… even just a third could ruin you. Come on. Just tell me about Mila Green."

Manuel squeezed his eyes shut. "I met with her… she hired me, us, yes, but I can't tell you more than that."

"Shame."

Aiden's finger brushed against the plunger again, but even just the threat of it was enough now. Manuel's eyes opened again, wide, and he threw out a clumsy and ineffective arm in protest.

"No, no no! Don't!" he cried. "For Y's sake, man! I'll tell you!"

Aiden released the syringe, letting it perch on the drip where it had pierced the tube, and smiled. "I appreciate it. What did she want you to do?"

"She… wanted help breaking into a ship. A rescue mission, she called it. Wanted us to bust out some woman being held there." Manuel could not look him in the eye. That was only right, with what he’d done.

So Green had been wanting to break Helga Malwarian free all along. No wonder Gertrude wanted her dead. With this kind of treason, Aiden would have done it without being asked.

"You realise that ship was official Humilist property?" he snapped. "That you were betraying your own faith?"

Manuel shook his head weakly, feverishly. "I didn't know… I didn't. I didn't know. We didn't even start the mission, those guys came and grabbed her. Took her."

"The two attackers," Aiden nodded. "Who were they?"

"I don't know."

Aiden's hand moved back to the syringe. Just a few drops more, but enough to shake Manuel's resolve.

"The Superbians!" he said through gritted teeth. "The… they said they were from the Superbians. I heard them talking before I fell unconscious. They mentioned it."

As Aiden had expected. "Thank you," he said. "That's very helpful. How did Green contact you?"

"That's…"

"How did Green contact you?"

Manuel looked away, eyes narrowed in shame, his body shaking. "Disposable script," he slurred. "Under the floorboards in my apartment."

Aiden smiled, letting go of the syringe. "That's excellent. I appreciate you taking the time out to speak with me. From what you've said, you've been involved in this against your will -- I'll make sure no charges are placed against you personally. Mila Green is the one responsible."

He stood up, pushing the chair back, and turned to leave.

"You're a disgrace," Manuel hissed.

Aiden stopped.

"What did you say?" he asked, his fists clenched. Surely he hadn't just heard that. Surely, after the lengths Aiden had just said he'd go to to keep this man out of trouble, he hadn't just said that.

In the shadow of his mind, the hulking form of Samael Ambrazo Zakos towered over him, wild eyes staring down. Manuel was looking down on him just like that.

Anger moved Aiden's body before anything rational could take hold. He stomped forward, seized hold of the syringe still embedded into the drip -- and pushed the plunger all the way down, injecting every last drop.

Immediately, he regretted it.

"What did --" Manuel began, before the capacity for words abandoned him and he began seizing wildly in his bed, pink bubbling drool coming from his mouth.

Aiden went to pull the syringe out, as if that would do anything -- but no. No. As a matter of fact, he didn't regret it. There was nothing wrong with what he'd done. He hadn't had a choice. Manuel had forced him into it with those disrespectful words.

He hardened the horrified expression on his face into a sneer, and took a step back.

"You shouldn't have said that," he said, before turning again and marching out of the room, doing his best not to pay attention to the gurgling behind him.

If people didn't respect you in this business, that was the end. He had done what anyone else would have done, in his place. Manuel simply shouldn't have said that.

As he went through the hospital door, Aiden spotted a nurse standing there, hands covering her mouth as she looked on in horror. He flashed his identification, and then -- for good measure -- stuffed a wad of bills into her grasp.

Wealth, like a badge, was its own form of strength.

----------------------------------------

Serena's face tightened into Bruno's as he leaned back in the pew, arms spread wide over the headrest behind him.

"So some random maniac attacks the Aipol Beach, tries to kill us, and then he gets excommunicated?" he recapped the information the Chorister had given them. "You guys really believe that?"

"Smells like bullshit," Dragan bitterly replied.

"Really?" Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Smells like soap to me. Someone's trying to wash their hands of the whole thing -- someone high up, since it takes a lotta influence to excommunicate someone."

Ruth paced back and forth, arms crossed, as the group talked. "So the Superbians have it out for us?"

"Could be," Skipper said, but his face was unsure. "I dunno, though… something doesn't feel right about it."

"If they do have it out for us," Dragan said, his voice hushed. "Shouldn't we get out of here? We're right in their hands. We shouldn't have come here in the first place."

"Agreed," Bruno nodded. "We need to get out of sight. Did the Paradisas get back to you, Skipper? If they're with us, why are we still hanging out around here? We should just leave."

"Nah," Skipper sighed. "Still waiting on the Paradisas."

Dragan's eyes flicked over to Skipper, but the expression on his face didn't twitch. That was a blatant lie. Dragan had seen Skipper get a call from the Paradisas back at the hospital. Should he call him out?

No. Not yet. Discretion was the better part of valour. For the time being, Dragan kept his mouth shut.

"Still though," Skipper continued, cracking his neck. "Hanging around here probably ain't the most genius plan. You guys go get the Slipstream ready, yeah?"

It was Dragan's turn to raise an eyebrow. "'You guys?' And what're you gonna do?"

Skipper jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, towards the grand double doors the Chorister had left through. "Got a few more questions for our pale-robed friend. Should only take a couple of minutes -- call me when we're ready to go."

Dragan considered arguing, but he honestly didn't recall an occasion where Skipper had responded to a logical argument. Instead, he simply sighed and got up.

"Fine," he said. "Don't fuck around, though."

Skipper's grin was so cheesy it was a wonder his teeth didn't twinkle. "Never."

The group split in two directions -- Skipper heading for the doors deeper into the cathedral, Dragan and the rest heading for the exit. Their footsteps echoed throughout the great hall -- interrupted only for a moment by the slamming of the doors behind Skipper.

When the quiet returned, however, it was already infested by a new sound.

The sound of skittering legs.

The neighbouring pews exploded into wood and dust as two giant ants, the size of hounds, lunged out from beneath them. Transparent liquid dripped liberally from their mandibles, and they let loose a nearly inaudible screech as they charged at Ruth and Bruno -- standing on either side of Dragan.

They responded quickly. Bruno slammed his fist into one ant's head and Ruth cleaved the other in half -- but it did not have the result anticipated. Seconds after making contact with the massive insects, Ruth and Bruno simply… vanished.

Dragan spun around on the spot, looking for any sign of his friends. None. He was alone.

"Guys?" he called out.

----------------------------------------

Ruth fell on one knee as she reappeared out of the void, her claws already bared and ready as she looked up with a growl.

She'd moved. This wasn't the same place. Instead of the grand architecture and stained glass of the cathedral, she was surrounded by pipes and hulking modules and blinking panels. Some kind of maintenance facility? The heat was excruciating: she'd only been here for a couple of seconds, yet her brow was already dripping with sweat.

She glanced to the side. Bruno was with her, rubbing his head -- he'd clearly had a less convenient landing. Touching those bugs must have been some kind of teleport trap.

Footsteps. Ruth's head snapped to face the direction of the threat.

A man in a black sweater, stepping out of the shadow of one of the machines. His eyes were closed, yet Ruth was certain he could see them. In one hand, he carefully held what looked like a deck of cards. In his other hand, he seemed to be holding a single card -- although that dissipated into crawling yellow Aether shortly after.

"Utility Card -- Borrower Ant," he said, as if that explained anything. "Teleports those it makes contact with to the game arena. Two of you, huh? I'm so popular."

----------------------------------------

Click. Click.

Calm, measured footsteps echoed out from the entrance of the cathedral.

The hand of death wrapped itself around Dragan's throat. There was no logical basis for it, but in that moment he knew he was in truly mortal danger. He should have called out. He should have called out for Skipper, at least, but all he could do was dumbly stare up.

A staircase led down into this cathedral, and now there was someone standing right at the top of it. Someone looking back down at Dragan.

Luscious dark hair hung like a shroud around them, their red-and-black robes as intricate as artwork. Pale skin made them seem ghostly, ethereal, like a spectral vision Dragan was experiencing. Crimson eyes looked down at him like he was a piece of shit on a boot.

"Dragan Hadrien?" the figure asked softly, in a voice that demanded worship.

Dragan blinked. He didn’t have time to answer.

----------------------------------------

Giovanni Sigma Testament threw a hand forward.

First Verse.

He would waste no time when it came to vengeance. This time, he fired ten crystal spears at once -- each one aimed at Dragan Hadrien's head, and each one aimed perfectly.

The room exploded into light and chaos.