The man who was like God stood amid the ruins of a world, the cape he wore over his bare chest flowing in the wind. A dark red sun glowed in the sky, all but completely blocked by the legion of ships that infested the sky like locusts.
The boy and his fellows, an army in identical uniforms, stood dutifully behind their leader. Each held an identical plasma-musket up towards the sky, like a metal forest in miniature - or a city of skyscrapers stretching up to the stars.
The man who was like God lifted his last opponent up by the scruff of his collar, inspecting the body.
The opponent had been celebrated as a reincarnation of a mighty warrior, who had slain countless mighty beasts and annihilated all rivals as he led his tribe to domination of the planet they'd made their home.
The opponent's name no longer mattered, but there were likely only a hundred or so people in the galaxy that were capable of matching his strength.
"Disappointing," muttered the man who was like God, tossing the legend aside. The boy watched his power with awestruck eyes.
An Old Memory
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Giovanni Sigma Testament threw open the massive wooden doors as he strode into the garden of Gertrude Hearth, his face expressionlessly resolute.
He took no time to look at the greenery, nor at the bright lights above. Once, they had managed to sneak a camera into this chamber, and so he was already familiar with the scenery. He simply walked, shoes clicking against the stone path, robes swishing behind him from the speed of his pace -- to the place where he knew the Humilist Apexbishop would be waiting.
It didn't take him long.
Gertrude was already sat at the table in the central clearing of the garden, sipping that damnable tea of hers. The hedge perimeter around the clearing cast deep shade over her, yet the smug look on her face was still unmistakable.
As she saw Giovanni approaching, she raised a cheerful hand in greeting.
"Ahoy!" she called out. "I was surprised you wanted to meet so early."
Giovanni did not answer. He didn't even blink. He simply continued to walk towards her.
Gertrude's wry smirk twisted slightly as Giovanni drew closer, looming over the table. "If you'd like to take a seat…" she gestured with one hand to the available metal chair.
"Of course," Giovanni replied.
He took the seat, lifted it high above his head, and tore it in half with his bare hands. Metal screeched as it was wrenched out of shape, and when he was done Giovanni tossed the two pieces down to the ground like trash. The entire time, he did not break eye contact with Gertrude.
"I'd like to discuss some matters with you," he said, voice cold, his red eyes staring down at her.
Gertrude narrowed her eyes. "I suppose you'll have to do it standing up, then. It's highly irregular for two of the Apexbishops to meet up like this before the Truemeet proper. I don't know that Apexbishop Asmagius would approve, honestly."
"What I'm here to discuss does not concern the Paradisas," Giovanni responded without missing a beat. "It is a matter between you and me, unworthy of the Truemeet."
He told no lie -- in Giovanni's mind, the Paradisas were irrelevant. They displayed none of the avaricious impudence of the Humilists, nor their disrespect for boundaries. So long as they were satisfied with their false world, he was more than content to leave them be.
"Well," Gertude sipped her tea. "This sounds very serious indeed. What is it you wanted to talk about?"
Third Verse.
Giovanni blinked, suppressing the natural flinch of surprise. "I don't want to talk about anything. I'm here to remind you of your obligations."
Gertrude rolled her eyes. "Well, what are my obligations, then, child? You seem to be using a lot of words without actually saying anything."
A deep breath through the nose as Giovanni prepared himself, closing his eyes. If nothing else, he had to give her a chance. He could not show weakness at this moment. Only a monolith of pride was worthy to dictate history.
He opened his eyes again.
"You are to lift the illegal quarantine on Polis immediately," he said, with all the dignity of gospel. "In addition, since the initial delineation of borders during the establishment of the Final Church, the Humilist sect has improperly absorbed 223 systems that, by right, belong to the Superbians. You will also return these systems to us. I expect a signed contract promising your agreement to these terms by the end of the Truemeet."
Gertrude blinked, and the smirk fell from her face.
"Oh," she said, sarcasm dying her tone. "Is that all?"
Third Verse.
Giovanni nodded. "Of course. I bid you good day, Apexbishop. Make the right choice for your people."
With that, he swung around on his heel and began walking away -- as he did, he kicked half of the ruined chair with such force that it flew through the hedge, leaving a noticeable hole. The doors were still open where he'd entered -- perhaps he'd damaged them when he'd flung them open -- and so Giovanni simply slipped through, his eyes narrowing in annoyance.
Third Verse.
He felt his Aether surge throughout his body, deactivating it immediately afterwards. That confirmed it, then: Gertrude Hearth had some kind of ability to disable Aether in the area around her. No matter how much he'd tried, he hadn't been able to draw upon it inside her garden. Range unknown, but from the limited testing he'd just done it was no more than fifteen meters.
He'd have to take that into account. After all, before all this was done…
…he got the feeling he'd have to kill her.
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Gertrude Hearth sipped her tea, reflecting on the meeting's events. She'd never had the opportunity to speak to the young leader of the Superbians in person, but in truth he had fit within her expectations nicely. Prideful, conceited, and with the sort of childish mentality that confused arrogance for boldness. If she wasn't mistaken, he'd tried to break through her Silencio, too.
“Heheh…”
She put a hand to her mouth, doing her best to suppress the giggle looking to burst forth. It didn't work.
"Hahahahahahahahahahaaa!"
The giggle quickly became a hysterical cackle, and as she laughed her lungs out she couldn't help but throw her head back and kick her legs in the air. It was a stark contrast to her usual matronly demeanor -- the mocking laughter of a child, with the malice only such immaturity could achieve.
"He's so weird!" she guffawed, holding her stomach, tears of laughter streaming down her face. "A signed contract?! That's so weird! Don't you guys think so too?!"
They appeared.
Some peeled themselves off of the hedges. Some picked themselves up off the ground. Some just twitched their bodies, stood as they always had been in plain sight. They had no camouflage, but they had gone unseen all the same. That was their genius.
In the dark times after the Thousand Revolutions, before the true unification of the Final Church, there had been no shortage of minor cults and orders. One of those organizations had believed that the universe was organized under a numbering system -- that every concept, organism and soul was given a number that defined its place in reality. That group had been put to the sword hundreds of years ago, but their legacy lived on in the name of this group of assassins.
The Negative Numbers: those that did not have a place in reality. Those that did not exist. Thirteen in all.
Their bodies were wrapped in bandages from head to toe, with only minute gaps for their eyes and mouths. Brutal weapons were clutched in their hands like lifelines, curved sickels and serrated knives and spiked whips, their surfaces still coated with dried blood. They spoke no words: the only sound that came from them was quiet breathing.
The Negative Numbers were recruited as children, informed of their irrelevance through esoteric methods, and repurposed as weapons of the faith. Gertrude had established the institution, and now they had accompanied her into her Apexbishopship. To them, her word might as well have been that of Y.
“What a freak…” she trailed off into chuckles, wiping one last tear from her eye. “There’s no way he expects me to actually agree to these terms. No doubt he has something else up his sleeve. Boys?”
As one, the Negative Numbers kneeled, their hidden faces angled towards the ground.
“Before I can make any countermoves, I need to know what Testament is planning,” Gertrude said lightly, returning to her usual dignity as she stirred her tea. “Have four of you shadowing him at all times, see who he meets with, break off to follow them as well if they seem particularly interesting. Two more of you will infiltrate the Deus Nobiscum, find out the current situation with the Cardinal council. I find it hard to believe they’d allow him to act so rashly.”
Thirteen nods in unison, thirteen steps back, and thirteen disappearances into the shadows.
Alone at last, Getrude took a greedy gulp of her tea, savoring the scorched texture of the leaves. It had never tasted better. She certainly enjoyed the trappings of power, the respect that came naturally to an Apexbishop, the authority she had over the Church. But this? The secrecy, the plotting, the dance of death between invisible knives?
Oh, this was what she lived for.
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Dragan’s eyes flicked around the party, taking in the sights spread out before him.
The attendance was certainly eclectic. There was no shortage of ordinary humans like them -- no doubt guests that had been specifically invited -- clad in suits and dresses, wining and dining in small groups. Business associates, perhaps, or members of the Paradisas that had not yet emigrated to their virtual world. As such, their group didn’t attract too much attention as they got off the elevator.
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But then, there were their hosts.
Dragan saw a woman with a segmented body like a doll, electronic lights flaring beneath the surface of her featureless face. A man with a box-like form that reminded Dragan of a forklift drove across the floor of the room, deep voice blaring through speakers on his side. Countless tiny Paradisas with fragile butterfly-like bodies fluttered through the air, speaking to each other in indecipherable beeping code. Holograms lounged in non-existent chairs and sipped non-existent drinks. Floating monitors displayed images of warped post-human faces. Simple geometrical forms, thinking cubes and spheres, floated through the air unburdened by gravity.
He only realized his mouth was hanging open when Skipper reached down and snapped it shut. It wasn’t that he’d never seen an automatic before, of course, it was just… this was a step beyond.
"Maybe not so conspicuous, yeah?" Skipper muttered.
Dragan rolled his eyes. "Hard to believe I'm hearing that, coming from you. What's the plan here?"
Skipper put his hands to his hips as the group walked into the party -- Ruth and Serena covering the back, Skipper covering the front, and Dragan lingering in the middle. Countless tables had been set out around the centerpiece of the party -- a massive glass fountain -- and so the group made their way towards it as they walked.
"Check out the main entrances -- elevators like the one we came in on," Skipper said casually. "Security automatics standing by at each of them, keeping watch."
Ruth went to look back at the elevator -- until Bruno took over for a brief moment and elbowed her in the waist.
"Don't look, idiot," he growled under his breath..
"He just said to look," Ruth rubbed her side in annoyance.
"Look without looking."
Ruth snorted. "That doesn't even make any sense."
"Anyway," Skipper continued, grabbing an hors d'oeuvre from a passing automatic tray. "My point is, if a security breach happens close to this location, units from this area are probably gonna be diverted to respond, yeah?"
"Makes sense," Dragan nodded.
"So we need some of us to stay here and keep watch," Skipper said, turning around and leaning against a table. "Can't be you, since we need Gemini World to get to the location we need. Can't be me, since I'm the one who needs to talk to this Hamashtiel guy. Ruth, Bruno -- er, Serena -- you up to it?"
Serena's sweet smile shrugged off any traces of Bruno's sourness. "Sure! What do you need us to do?"
"Just hang around the party, keep watch -- and if the security here leaves, call my script right away," Skipper said seriously, holding up the script in question. "Don't wait for me to answer, yeah? I'll assume the fact you're calling me means we're busted." He wagged a finger. "No matter what, don't call me unless it's for that reason. They'll be monitoring calls in here, so that'll set off alarms straight away. Only use it to let me know they're already onto us. Got it?"
Serena seemed uncertain, but Ruth nodded with confidence. "Won't let you down."
"You never do," Skipper grinned -- before his eyes flicked right back to Dragan. "Shall we, Mr. Hadrien?"
"What?" Dragan scoffed, folding his arms. "We can't even enjoy the party a little?"
"That's life, I'm afraid," Skipper said, popping the hors d'oeuvre he'd pilfered into his mouth. "No rest for the wicked and all that stuff. Now, Mr. Hadrien -- if I'm not mistaken, the porcelain throne awaits. Best place to enter the ventilation systems from."
"Please never describe a bathroom like that again."
"No promises. Ruth, Serena -- I'm counting on you two," Skipper grinned, raising a hand in goodbye as he turned and began to walk away. Dragan sighed and followed after him, a twisted frown on his face.
As they made their way out of the party and into the adjoining hallway where the bathroom was supposed to be, Dragan managed to catch snippets of conversation from the other attendees. Most of it was as he’d expected -- discussions of production contracts and automatic innovations -- but there also seemed to be some concerned talk about the Apexbishop of the Superbians.
Well, those weren't his problems right now.
The hallway leading to the bathroom was black like the rest of the ship, but the consistent lighting from above was enough to prevent any discomfort. One wall of the hallway was taken up entirely by a looping videograph of a waterfall, while the other was composed of some kind of dark wood.
"Fancy," Skipper whistled as they reached the far door. "They really shelled out for this pisser, huh?"
Dragan glared up at him. "You're ruining bathrooms for me again."
Skipper chuckled, and opened the bathroom door. A metal sphere floated in the room just beyond.
"Hello," said Hamashtiel.
The speed with which Skipper moved his arm was extraordinary, but Hamashtiel was ready for him. A lash of silver surged forth from the floating metal sphere, and before Skipper could fire his Heartbeat Shotgun a steel manacle had appeared around his wrist.
"Shit," he muttered.
Skipper went flying, dragged by the manacle like there was an invisible chain attached to it, and crashed into the videograph monitor. It cracked out into spiderwebs. At the same time, there was another silver lash -- this time aimed at Dragan's throat.
Before he could even respond, Dragan felt a heavy weight settle around his windpipe, and knew that Hamashtiel had got him too.
"Well…" Skipper wheezed, pinned against the wall by the metal bracelet. "I'm guessing you saw us coming, yeah? Mind if I ask how?"
Hamashtiel's voice was calm, but strangely doubled in a way unlike an Umbrant -- the tones of a man and a woman speaking in perfect unison. It emanated from the metal sphere as it floated out of the bathroom and into the hallway.
"Your infiltration of Mestrilyn's apartment went undetected by his security systems," he explained patiently. "But unfortunately, not by our surveillance systems. I thought you seemed like an interesting person, so I let you come this far, but I can't allow you to interfere with my meeting with Mr. Mestrilyn."
"Well," Skipper adjusted his position, claiming as much comfort as he could under the circumstances of metal bindings and broken glass. "I'm sorry to say, but doesn't the fact you're here with us instead of wining and dining with Mestrilyn mean I have interfered?"
A faint red light ran underneath the surface of Hamashtiel's metal body.
"Not at all," he answered a moment later. "I am streaming my consciousness to this vessel. It's not difficult for me to stream to two bodies at once. I'm with him right now."
"Wowie," whistled Skipper. "That sure is impressive. This is actually pretty convenient, since I wanted to talk to you anyway."
Dragan swallowed, awfully conscious of the weight against his windpipe. Until he needed to, he didn't dare move.
"I'm well aware that Aether attacks can be delivered through words alone," Hamashtiel said softly. "As such, you should also be aware that I can crush the neck of your associate at any --"
Okay, he needed to.
Gemini World.
Dragan disappeared for a moment, escaping from the metal restraint -- and a second later, he reappeared on the ceiling above Hamashtiel, already plummeting down, his body braced for a devastating elbow drop. Electric-blue Aether coursed through his arm.
"Kid!" Skipper cried, his eyes suddenly wide in alarm. "Wait!"
Shit.
Gemini World.
Dragan vanished again in the moment before he struck Hamashtiel, before reappearing on the other side of the hallway. Through it all, Hamashtiel did not move. Dragan saw that the shackle that had been restraining his throat was still floating in place there, seemingly liberated from gravity. Sparks of silver Aether ran along its surface.
"Are you surprised I can use Aether from an automatic body?" Hamashtiel asked, seemingly reading Dragan's expression. "The connection point of Aether is consciousness, not crude biology, so the power is capable of emerging from wherever my mind might reside." The manacle decomposed into some kind of liquid metal and returned to Hamashtiel, orbiting his spherical body as a ring. "By the way, Skipper, I'm surprised you told your disciple to cease his attack. I assumed this incursion was intended as some form of assault against us."
Skipper grinned. "Not at all," he said, before gesturing to his restraint. "You mind releasing this?"
"I do," Hamashtiel serenely replied. "You don't need access to your arms to speak. So, speak."
Skipper shifted slightly, the smile falling from his face. He took a deep breath -- and Dragan found that he was holding his breath, his eyes flicking between Skipper and Hamashtiel.
"I want to enlist your cooperation," Skipper said seriously. "I have a plan to eliminate the Supreme. I want you to provide automatics to help with that plan."
Hamashtiel simply floated in the air for a moment before replying.
"What plan is this?" he asked.
Skipper shook his head. "Can't tell you that. Not out loud. You have access to archeological records right now?"
"Of course I do."
"Look up Elysian Fields."
Elysian Fields? Dragan furrowed his brow. This was the first time he was hearing that name.
Green lights blinked inside Hamashtiel's body for a moment, liquid metal still swirling through the air around him.
"Ah," he said, after a moment. "I assume you intend to force an individual confrontation, then? I'd say that would give you the best chances for victory, but sadly I do not have any interest in assisting. I wish you the best of luck."
Skipper narrowed his eyes. "What? You guys are willing to just let the Supreme run rampant?"
A chunk of glass lost its grip and shattered further on the floor.
"Run rampant?" Hamashtiel mused. "That's a curious choice of words. The current Supreme is inactive to near-pathological levels. Psychological profiles indicate some form of depression is likely. He has not left his flagship in years. An indolent Supreme like that is the best thing for the galaxy at large -- better than a warmonger or schemer, at any rate."
Skipper's pupils dilated, and his nostrils flared. "You don't get it," he growled insistently, tugging at the restraint. "He's the lodestone. It doesn't matter if he doesn't do anything -- he's the one they all rally around. When they go to war -- when they go to war -- it'll be his face on the posters, his ideals they'll be fighting for! Get rid of him, in the right way, at the right time, and the whole house of cards comes falling down!"
Skipper's passion was almost feral, his teeth showing, his eyes wide. Dragan didn't know that he'd ever seen him like this before.
"You're making an emotional appeal now," Hamashtiel said, sounding almost sad. "That's not something that will work well with me."
"No," Skipper hissed -- and he tore his arm free of the restraint with a flare of green Aether. "Not emotion. Experience. I've seen what he's like. What he'll do. What others will do for him. He doesn't need to lift a finger -- the Supremacy will burn down a thousand worlds all in his name."
"Experience?" Dragan murmured.
"Experience?" Hamashtiel asked.
For the first time in the conversation, Skipper faltered, his mouth opening soundlessly for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was strained: "I've… been around the block a few times. Seen some things. I can tell you about --"
"With words?" Hamashtiel chuckled. "Words are emanations of sound and performance, easily falsified. If you are to show me your 'experience', there is only one medium I will accept."
A panel on Hamashtiel's body slid open, and two needles on cords slithered forth, like metal tendrils. The spikes were thin, barely visible, like sharp and solid hairs. Dragan had never seen one before, but he recognised them from his limited research on the Paradisas: a consciousness upload cord.
Skipper paled. "The Garden?"
"As you say. Do you accept?"
"N…" Skipper began -- and then stopped, only continuing once his face hardened. "Yes. If that's what it takes." He glanced at Dragan. "You okay with it, kiddo?"
"What does he mean?" Dragan asked warily. "What, like we go through your memories in that virtual world?"
Skipper nodded grimly.
After a moment of consideration, Dragan nodded, before turning back to Hamashtiel. "If this is a trap, I'll kill you before they kill me."
"Sounds like a deal." Despite the bravado in his voice, Dragan couldn't help but notice that Skipper's hands were visibly shaking.
The two cords flexed through the air, stretching out until they were hovering in front of Skipper and Dragan respectively.
"Well, then," Hamashtiel said. "I'd advise the two of you not to move as I make the connection. I'm confident in my aim, but there's always the risk of retinal damage."
Getting a spike shoved into his eye wasn't how Dragan had pictured this party going, but… he gulped and nodded, as subtly as he could.
There was a flash of movement as the cord thrust forward --
-- and then everything went white --
-- and then a lifetime spread out before him.