O Joy! A new star rises in the sky!
O Honour! A new contender makes his claim!
O Truth! A new Supreme takes the throne!
On this day he is the one who has achieved this pinnacle. He succeeds the false Supreme named Henri del Muckronei. He achieves the apex via merit of the Dawn Contest. He has defeated the vile Abyssal Heir to stake his claim. Let his old name be washed from the world -- now he is Supreme and only Supreme!
O Joy! A new star rises in the sky -- and shines brighter than any other!
O Honour! A new contender makes his claim -- the first true might since records began!
O Truth! A new Supreme takes the throne -- and shall reign for all of time!
Supreme Guard -- attend!
Coronation of the Supreme, 04/22/960 ATR
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The world reconstructed itself around Dragan, blades of grass painted into existence by invisible hands. It only took a second for a blue sky and a pale green sun to make their appearances, as well. This was a planet of hills and fields, tiny mobile villages dotting the landscape.
Where was this? Dragan went to look around -- only to jump as someone stepped in next to him.
It was Skipper, without a doubt, now maybe sixteen or so, wearing a strange uniform. A buttoned-up blue coat with a tall cylindrical hat, and a long plasma-musket held up towards the sky. To put it bluntly, he looked like he was part of a marching band.
"The uniform of the Supreme Guard," Hamashtiel mused from the ground, where he'd taken on a tiny feline form. "I take it you were accepted into their ranks, then."
The true Skipper, hands plunged into his pockets, shrugged. "What you see is what you get," he said.
"Nice uniform," Dragan commented.
"Hey, it was a different time," Skipper shot back, a wry smirk on his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
More and more figures began to flicker into existence around their group -- more members of the Supreme Guard, all clad in the same uniforms as the young Skipper. Dragan stumbled backwards, phasing straight through the Guardsman closest -- a young Pugnant man with curly red hair and golden eyes.
The hundred hands of the Supreme, Achilles Esmeralda had called this group -- and casting his eyes over this assembly, Dragan counted one-hundred people exactly, all of similar ages to Skipper. The pursuit of glory came easily to the young, he supposed.
The boy with the curly hair glanced towards the young Skipper. "You alright, Z?" he said, voice scratchy. "You're quieter than usual. Haven't talked since that last stop."
The young Skipper looked back -- and the smirk on his face was exactly the same as the one Dragan had just seen. "Excited," he whispered. "Dalia's Boys are meant to be the strongest outlaws in this sector, yeah? That's what you said, Klaus."
"Klaus?" Hamashtiel murmured, the shadow of recognition in his tone.
The young Skipper continued, smirk spreading into a preparatory grin. "It's a chance to show him what we're made of. To have him notice us. How could I not be excited?"
Klaus snorted, looking off into the distance. "To make him notice you, I think you'd have to punch a hole right through a mountain."
Dragan followed his gaze -- and saw him.
He didn't know the legends of the Supremacy.
He didn't know the Supreme Guard.
He didn't know the faces of the Contenders.
But he knew this man. It was impossible not to.
He stood tall atop the hill, red cape billowing in the wind behind him, golden Aether crackling around his arms. He was young here, his long chestnut hair spread out behind him, his beard braided into magnificence. His body was splendid with muscle, carved like marble, and as he watched over the surrounding landscape, his form was like a work of art all by itself. He wore nothing save that cape and a flimsy kilt, but he showed no signs of discomfort either. Dragan doubted there was anything that could cause him discomfort.
This was the Supreme. This was the strongest.
Dragan gulped as he looked at that titan of the world, for a moment experiencing the absurd fear that this memory would spot him and evict him from reality. Hamashtiel simply stared silently, feline eyes narrowed in petty analysis.
Skipper just glared -- but not at the Supreme. His ire was instead directed towards his younger self, who was staring at the titan with twinkling eyes.
Dragan heard the boy whisper something under his breath.
"This is the best day of my life."
Time was merciless.
The scene shifted, and the three of them were standing in blood. The caves they found themselves in were already ravaged with battle, littered with bodies -- and as Dragan looked around, he spotted the first cracks of a dream.
Skipper panted as he pushed the corpse of an Umbrant woman off himself, the bayonet of his musket sliding free. His face was covered in her blood, and his eyes were wide with frenzy. For a moment, he struggled to pick himself up -- only managing it when Klaus hurried over and hauled him to his feet.
"You okay?" the other boy said seriously.
The young Skipper nodded absently. "She just… came at me. I wanted to just knock her -- knock her out or something, but…"
Klaus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "It's how things work out. We're here to do serious work -- you did what you had to." His eyes narrowed. "Don't say stuff like that too loud, okay?"
Again, a vacant nod -- and a glance towards the Supreme.
He was sitting on a stone in the middle of the cavernous space, the broken body of a stretched-out Scurrant woman in his hands. He let the noodle-like form slip through his grip, and in a fit of frustration stomped down on the intact head. There was a sound like the popping of a balloon.
From this distance, Dragan couldn't see if he was saying anything, but the expression on the Supreme's face was such that he didn't dare approach even a memory.
Time was merciless.
Another day, another battle. The burning wreckage of an airship, caught in a massive web of sparkling red chains between two mountains. Dead crew members slid off the deck and tumbled into the abyss below as members of the Supreme Guard boarded the vessel, magnetic boots granting them purchase.
The young Skipper walked vertically up, musket slung over his back, eliminating whatever hostiles still remained with what could only be Heartbeat Shotgun. The bangs produced by the ability bounced off the vastness of the scenery, echoing back and forth.
One enemy, clad in full armour, wormed his way out onto the deck behind Skipper, hanging onto an alcove with one hand to prevent himself from falling. He pointed his gun at the unaware youth, finger curling around the trigger -- but that was as far as he got.
A tendril of purple smoke crept into the crevices of his helmet -- and immediately he started screaming, clawing at it with such panic that he neglected to keep hold. Immediately, he fell, flipping end over end as his muffled screaming faded into nothingness -- and his body faded into the dark.
The young man named Klaus had been covering Skipper's back, and the two exchanged nods of acknowledgement as the purple smoke returned to Klaus's hand.
Far above, the Supreme stood atop empty air, the ends of those red chains clutched in his hands as they secured the ship. There was an empty look to his gaze.
Time was merciless.
The young Skipper stood to attention, Klaus next to him, atop the egg-shaped goliath that was the Great Hall of the Body. The cityscape of Azum-Ha spread out before them, celebratory banners and holograms dying the planet red, and their fellow Supreme Guard filled the rest of the space around them like plants filled a garden.
Dragan recognised this kind of scenery -- every year, the people of Azum-Ha would put on this event to celebrate the anniversary of the Supreme's ascension. From what he knew, though, it had been quite a while since the Supreme had actually attended it.
In this memory, the Supreme slouched in a grand throne as -- one by one -- officials made their way through the gap between the two blocks of Supreme Guardsmen to pay their respects. The Three Wise Men -- the most prominent Ministers of the Body -- were first, followed by countless other Ministers and Governors, numerous Special Officers and warriors… even one or two foreign dignitaries were in attendance, not quite able to disguise the dread in their faces from this display of nationalistic zeal.
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The Supreme accepted all worship and fear with equal disdain, his eyes half-lidded as if he was about to fall asleep. He did not speak even once during the proceedings.
If Dragan had to describe the look on the mighty man's face, the word he'd use without a doubt would be… despair.
Time was merciless.
Walking islands dyed in their own blood, the massive crustaceans punched open and their insides ripped free. Dragan watched as the young Skipper watched the Supreme, arms bathed in green ichor. A massive grey wolf, manifested through the Supreme's Aether, sat loyally next to him -- but the titan himself just stared down at his easy kill.
He seemed dissatisfied.
Time was merciless.
Pirates were herded one by one by the Supreme Guard into the wreckage of the arena they'd been using on the locals -- and one by one, they were dispatched by the Supreme himself. Not one lasted more than a second, and not one left enough to be granted the rank of a corpse.
The serpents of water and fire that burst forth from the Supreme's elbows were more than enough to rend them beyond existence. The golden Aether that flooded the arena with each attack was akin to a supernova.
The young Skipper watched, the stars long gone from his eyes, and slowly glanced away.
Time was merciless.
The automatic -- once the size of a fortress all by itself -- lay in a broken heap of torn limbs and mechanisms, the Supreme himself sat cross-legged atop it. Once, twice, the Supreme pounded the material below with a frustrated fist -- each blow sufficient enough to shake the earth.
The young Skipper watched. His dull eyes matched the Supreme perfectly.
Time was merciless.
The man who was like the sun killed.
"Disappointing," the Supreme muttered. He held the broken body of his adversary aloft. In the end, the legendary warrior had barely survived a minute against him. Impressive, but not nearly sufficient.
Time was merciless.
The man who was like God killed.
"Disappointing," the Supreme muttered. A cityscape burned, a foolish planet that had dared attempt to leave the Supremacy. The Knights of Plenty that had declared their rebellion lay dead on the floor of the senate chamber, their armour melted into their forms. What was left of their faces betrayed their dying agony.
When the young Skipper glanced to his friend Klaus, he saw a glare that matched his own.
Time was merciless.
The man who was like Death killed, and killed, and killed again -- but no matter how much he killed, the blood that washed his hands remained unworthy.
They had called themselves witches, the band of assassins that had stashed themselves away in the caves and tunnels of Biolight, the ever-dark world lit only by the bioluminescence of its inhabitants. Their Aether abilities had taken on a magical aesthetic, to be sure, but in the end the Biolit Witches had been as human as anyone else. The way they had shattered proved that better than anything.
The Supreme sat atop a butchered tree, his face in his hands, clearly contemplating the ease of his victory. His Supreme Guard milled about, already preparing the ships to leave the planet -- the Supreme had only come here to fight the Biolit Witches, after all, and now that they had been dealt with this place held no further attraction.
There had been rumours of a new crime syndicate forming in the Dreamstar system. Like many of the enemies that remained for the Supreme now, they were miniscule, but for someone like him there was no option but to pursue. He was the kind of creature that died if he stopped moving.
The young Skipper sat on a bench, taking a swig from his bottle of water -- his eyes locked on the Supreme himself. This latest campaign had been exhausting, the Supreme allowing no time for rest as he moved from target to target with all the desperation of a man knowing he'd long ago run out of worthy opponents. Sleep had long since become a luxury -- the young Skipper kept himself on his feet with stimulant packs, and even they had begun to lose their edge.
They'd made camp in a nearby village as they'd searched the tunnels for surviving Witches, and as Skipper watched he saw the village elder make their way over to the Supreme's repose. The old woman hobbled using a walking stick, her face covered with the bioluminescent face paint endemic to the region. Although they were part of the Supremacy, Biolight was only one step above a Lilith World in terms of infrastructure -- no doubt this visit from the Supreme was the most excitement they'd ever seen.
Skipper didn't know why, but he found himself following the woman with his eyes. She reached the Supreme, cleared her throat, and --
-- and died.
The moment she'd opened her mouth to speak, the Supreme had reflexively raised an arm blurred by vibration -- and the blast of motion that had erupted from the limb reduced the woman to a fine red mist. Not even the plants where she'd been standing survived, the landscape converted to cruel grey stone. He'd killed her with all the effort it took to crush an insect.
Heads turned to look at the sudden noise, and Skipper sprang to his feet -- but the Supreme just looked up at the sight of the murder, sighed in irritation, and shook his head.
"Don't bother me," he muttered to empty space. "How much longer until --"
Bang.
For a second, Skipper could have sworn a gunshot had gone off -- and as the Supreme suddenly stumbled forward, he could have sworn the giant had been hit. But that was simply ridiculous. There was no way a measly gunshot could disturb the Supreme's tranquility. The very notion was absurd.
It was only when the Supreme turned to look right at him, eyes wide, that Skipper understood this was reality.
The attack had glanced off the Supreme's head, shredding one of his ears and reducing it to limp scraps of skin. It hung, bleeding, from the side of his skull. Skipper knew full well that the Supreme had countless abilities that would heal that injury in an instant, yet he made no move to do so.
He just stared… at Skipper.
Slowly, Skipper looked down -- and saw his own finger, still crackling with emerald Aether, pointing right at the Supreme.
Heartbeat… Shotgun? He hadn't… surely he hadn't. Had he just tried to kill the Supreme?! Had he lost his mind?!
The Supreme's mouth slowly widened into an exuberant grin. He seemed the happiest that Skipper had ever seen him.
Someone was shouting. Across the clearing, supplies held in his hands, Klaus was staring at him in horror. Every plasma musket in sight was raised to point directly at Skipper, directly at the traitor.
Skipper opened his mouth to say something -- but before he could, he was struck by a dozen attacks at once, the wrath of the Supreme Guard he had just reflexively betrayed.
He was dead before he struck the floor.
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A black void fell, all-encompassing, all-protecting, with only the slightest fuzz of static to betray its existence.
Dragan took in a deep breath, and was shocked to realize just how alien it felt. When was the last time he'd taken in air? It was like he'd just forgotten to do it while he was watching… had he been watching? Or was he the thing being watched? He'd known Skipper's thoughts at those times, seen what was going through his head, so…
"I've ejected you for just a moment," a red butterfly said in Hamashtiel's voice as it landed on his shoulder. "Because you seemed to be having difficulty distinguishing yourself."
"Distinguishing myself…?" Dragan mumbled. His tongue felt fat in his mouth.
"It's a common issue with Cogitants entering the Outer Garden for the first time," Hamashtiel explained patiently. "The fidelity of the scenario is such that you lose yourself in your analysis of the scene, and thus confuse yourself with the subject. It shouldn't happen again, but I thought it best I warn you: be careful to keep a grip on yourself."
Dragan furrowed his brow. "Outer Garden?"
Hamashtiel suddenly froze between one flap of his wings and the next, and the buzzing static around them suddenly seemed quite hostile. Dragan opened his mouth to say something, but before he could the crimson of Hamashtiel's wings flared and
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"It's a common issue with Cogitants entering the Garden for the first time," Hamashtiel explained patiently. "The fidelity of the scenario is such that you lose yourself in your analysis of the scene, and thus confuse yourself with the subject. It shouldn't happen again, but I thought it best I warn you: be careful to keep a grip on yourself."
Dragan nodded. "Alright, I guess. Can you put me back in? I haven't missed anything, right?"
Hamashtiel shook his head as much as a butterfly was able -- which is to say he rotated unnaturally on the spot like a 3D model of some kind.
"No," he assured him. "Thoughts are accelerated here. Barely a second has passed in that iteration. I shall return you now."
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The abyss that Dragan was returned to was as empty as the last void, but much more tranquil. The emptiness of the Garden had seemed like something outside of reality, whereas the place where the young Skipper now slept felt more like the bottom of the ocean itself, save for the lack of pressure.
Only the upper part of the young Skipper's body remained, floating in the dark liquid. His hanging entrails fluttered in the current like long blades of grass. Metal cords kept him in place, and a rebreather was placed over his mouth, through which only the slightest rasp could be heard.
"I thought you died," Dragan murmured, looking at the human wreckage. "I know it's stupid to think that, but --"
"I did die," the present Skipper said bluntly, unseen in the darkness.
"Then what?" Dragan scoffed. "They -- they brought you back to life?"
The vaguest silhouette crossed its arms. "It is what it is."
Dragan waved a hand in front of himself, seeing specks of orange in the liquid they were floating in. He leaned in closer, peering at one of them, recognising it. "Panacea…?" he murmured.
"Along with whatever else they could throw at me," Skipper muttered darkly. "Stimulants, growth gels, Panacea… anything they could do to bring their Supreme's new favourite toy back so they could reap the benefits."
All around them, muffled by glass and plastic, Dragan could hear practiced voices speaking to each other.
"You were conscious?" he asked, aghast.
Skipper shifted. "I heard, but I didn't understand."
…lost cause…
Wounds closed.
…the lights are on, but nobody's home…
Legs grew.
…We continue as long as the funding does. Do you want to tell the Wise Men we've wasted their time?...
Breathing stabilized.
…I don't care about Strauss' freak of nature. Vicious or not, a substitute is a substitute…
Fingers twitched.
…Seal the room -- don't let them get through! What do you mean it isn't working?! Security! Security, get here --
Eyes opened --
-- and glass shattered.
The void collapsed into cruel light, washing over the young Skipper. A low, weak moan trickled from his throat as he lifted a lethargic hand up to shield his eyes. Despite everything, however, he could not avoid seeing the person beyond -- the one who had broken into this waking sleep.
The woman called the Widow inspected the sight before her, cocked her head slightly, and raised an eyebrow.
There was the slightest smirk on her lips.
And time was merciless.