City: Dag
Planet: Urdu, mining colony
Star System: Industry Cluster
THE DREAM SHOULD BRING ASH COMFORT, BUT ONLY REMINDED HIM OF FAILURE.
The Shining City of Apotheo stood tall on Arleth as it was, its highest peaks breaching the planet’s very atmosphere. But to Ash, as a mere child of eight, the towering crystal spires loomed even higher, and the ground of smooth, curving ivory spanned beyond comprehension. To him as a boy, the Astral capital wasn’t simply a floating city — though impressive in its own right, a worldly eye could comprehend it wasn’t some wonder of divinity; it was simply a massive satellite. Ash had never seen Apotheo from the outside, however, at least not since he was an infant. He’d spent his handful of years thus far within the confines of the Opal Ring, the innermost structure where the Astrals of sufficient power to call themselves ‘gods’ resided.
To Ash, the entire world was the towers he lived, ate and slept in, and the handful of gardens and pavilions the High King would show him on the occasional walk outside. He watched his child self awkwardly run onto the grassy training pavilion in the Opal Ring, a sizable park that housed numerous courses and climbing frames to hone the young Astrals’ natural talents. As the child Ash headed towards another group of children, his adult self looked around for the High King. Back then, Ash didn’t know why King Duriah wouldn’t take him the outside very much, but now he knew all too well
The High King was afraid of him, just like the rest. Duriah might’ve denied it, but Ash dispensed with giving the benefit of the doubt a long time ago.
The child Ash took in a few nervous breaths as he leaned forward, trying to focus on the obstacle course ahead: the Wind Gates, a series of criss-crossing bars with numerous flat, metal plates creaking on hinges, a massive, intricate set of wind chimes beneath an ornate tile roof. Ash’s adult self winced at seeing it again — he could never change his child self’s actions in the dream, no matter how much he willed it.
The training course was hand-crafted by Arleth’s finest artisans to hone a trainee’s agility and flexibility, said to be insurmountable by force alone. The trainee had to sense the flow of space and move in-step with it, like a leaf on the wind, and they’d weave through it without issue.
His child form looked at another Astral child beside the front of the gates — Sol’Sorien, who looked back uncertainly. Child Ash nodded with determination, and Sol shrugged and whipped an arm at the gates, sending a powerful gust of wind through them. The metal panels spun and clattered as Ash counted a few seconds, then dashed forward.
They smacked him around only a few times before depositing him back out where he started. For the third time, adult Ash recalled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Child Ash shook his head and looked up to the gathered crowd of Astral children laughing at him. Amidst the crowd, he saw her: Em’Rykora. Dark hair with auburn ends, reddish-brown robes and freckles across her tan face around her bright, intelligent eyes, Rya didn’t laugh with the others, and after a few seconds hesitation, she started swatting other kids’ arms down and throwing dirty looks. He glanced back at Sol, who cringed, then quickly hurried to help him up, but Ash shoved back to his feet beforehand, and his friend slowed. Ash waved him off and glanced quickly back at Rya, who nodded at him with a warm smile, but warning eyes. As if to say ‘it’s okay, you don’t have to,’ but young Ash wouldn’t hear it. He shook his shoulders out and turned back to the gates, jutting his head at Sol to send another wind gust through them. Sol shrugged nervously and did so, the panels whirling and spinning rapidly.
Without counting this time, Ash darted in, weaving and bending, finding more success as he stopped trying to move like wind. Throwing himself in head-first forced him to go with the flow, and he felt himself take two steps further than last time. Then another, then another, the plates fanning him from all angles as he kept going. The jeers of the other children faded away, either because he wasn’t listening, or perhaps, he let himself hope, they were impressed he was actually doing it this time. He felt a surge of accomplishment, but that quickly came at a price. He wasn’t minding his strength and took an aggressive step, rattling the stone foundations of the Wind Gates. The frame shook and he lost his balance, catching a metal plate square in the face. His rhythm ruined, Ash was battered about again before the course spat him out the right side, landing face-first on the grass.
The laughter came right back.
“Way to go, darkspawn!” one kid called.
“See?” added another, “Even the Wind Gates don’t want you!”
“Shut up!” Rya called faintly.
“Yeah, it’s really hard!” Sol added, but their words drowned in the sea of mockery.
Adult Ash forced himself to watch now. He didn’t lament or bemoan this kind of treatment anymore — he had far too much perspective for that. He could never let himself feel bitter about being bullied when he knew Valkor’Alinares was on Cindreth in his place.
No, his shame came from what he did next.
His child self balled his fists in the grass and slowly pushed himself up. His breath quickened and his face curled into a grimace. A cracking, pre-pubescent yell escaped his lungs before quickly deepening into a deep, feral snarl. He whirled around and swung a wild haymaker into the Gates and traces of orange fire trailed his fist, like a comet breaching atmosphere. His punch melted the nearest panels and the bars they hung from, then the shockwave knocked all the rest clean off their hinges, forcibly bending the bars away and blowing the roof into pieces. Astrals a dozen yards away ran for cover as debris impaled the soft green pasture. The kids all scattered as the ripple of force from his punch threw them to the ground. They all stared at him, fists balled at his sides, shoulders heaving. Glowing red veins cracked up his neck.
Shame rose in adult Ash. This was the first time anyone besides Duriah saw him like this. When his father’s blood surfaced.
The parents of the Astral children rushed in, some coasting down on hover platforms, others flying under their own power, and swarmed to get their children away from him as armored Seraph foot soldiers formed up around him, aiming their energy rifles.
“Stay where you are!” A trooper barked, but young Ash wasn’t focused on them, instead his eyes drifted to find his friends. Sol’s mother, Ilio’Sorona, had already snatched him and flown away. Meanwhile, Rya’s father, D’Kezra, scooped her up and scrambled backward.
“What did I tell you about going near that thing??” D’Kezra whisper-yelled in his daughter’s ear, the words slicing through Ash, both child and adult.
Young Ash’s eyes shifted between the children, the Seraphs and the parents. His breath quickened and the air around him rippled. The Seraphs’ fingers flexed over their triggers until—WHOOSH.
High King Duriah suddenly stood between Ash and the mob, like a worn oak tree. A gust of hot wind followed him, billowing his white and blue robes and forcing the mass of Astrals back a step. Adult Ash exhaled uneasily, pacing around the dreamscape until he could look in the High King’s steely, judicial eyes, boring into the Seraphs and adult Astrals. In a fraction of a second, the Seraphs lowered their rifles and stood at attention.
“Y-your Highness,” the same trooper stammered, “Forgive us, sir. We did not know you were—”
He raised a hand and jerked his head aside, as if to say ‘Away.’ The Seraphs saluted with hands over their chests, then marched off. His gaze drifted across the other Astrals, who quickly averted their own. Before long, the wind cooled. Soothing to most, but chilling for Ash: High Queen Av’Ondra had arrived, approaching Duriah’s side. Young Ash looked up at her. She barely glanced back before disdainfully turning up as she reached her husband’s side, seizing his arm.
“Duriah, I told you,” she whispered, “I told you what would happen if you let it out with the children.” Ash’s shoulders hitched. “You can dress it up and call it one of us, but reality is staring you in the face!”
Duriah turned sharply to her, not threatening, but unbending. She sighed, then shifted from wife to Queen, and guided the other Astrals away, assuaging their fears by calling this a simple training accident.
When the courtyard cleared, Duriah exhaled wearily and turned to the child Ash. “…What have we talked about, Ashura?” He opened, his deep voice soft and patient, if tired.
Adult Ash bristled at hearing part of his full name, while child Ash simply looked down. “I tried really hard,” he answered shakily. “I did my breathing, and-and I tried to be like a river like you said, but the other kids wouldn’t leave me alone!”
“There are times in life where you must be calm amidst chaos, son.”
“I don’t get it, why do I have to do this stupid thing?!” Ash stomped, “I’m so much stronger than all of them! Why do I have to do the same stuff when I can just knock the gates down?”
At this, Duriah kneeled to Ash’s level and laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Son, just because you’re stronger, it doesn’t mean…” he sighed, exasperated. “Do you know why I have you come here?”
“To train with the Wind Gates?”
“Yes, and—” the High King hesitated, looking over the destroyed course. “…Until recently, yes, but it’s more than that. The gates and the children? They’re the same thing.”
Adult Ash chuckled bitterly, while young Ash looked at Duriah quizzically.
“If you wanted to,” Duriah went on, “You could smash right through the Wind Gates. You’d get to the other side, but…then there are only broken things all around you. You must learn to work within that which seems to inhibit you. The same goes for the other children. Eventually, you’ll all grow into the next line of Arleth’s gods. You must learn to flow with them, so that in the future you do not run through them.”
Angry as he was at Duriah for leaving, adult Ash still couldn’t deny the impact this speech always had on him. His younger counterpart sniffled as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Why do I get so mad all the time?” Young Ash asked. “I don’t like it…but when I’m mad, everything’s so easy!”
“That isn’t your fault,” Duriah squeezed his shoulders reassuringly. “But just because something’s easy, it doesn’t make it right.”
“Why can’t I be like the rest of them? Why am I all…broken?”
“Now you listen to me, boy,” Duriah’s voice dipped, more serious but no less comforting as he cradled Ash’s face. “You are not broken. And you are not here to break things.”
Adult Ash watched Duriah wipe a tear from the child’s cheek, then saw the red veins in his neck recede as the High King pulled him into a hug.
ASH STIRRED AWAKE ON HIS SOFA, HAVING AGAIN MISSED HIS BED LAST NIGHT.
Astrals and Entrophs may not have ‘needed’ sleep in the way most did, their bodies tended to work just fine without it, but their minds decompressed and rejuvenated just like anyone else’s. Ash had a complicated relationship with it; on the one hand, it was the only time he could feel himself really unclench. On the other hand, without his forward mind on high alert, his subconscious brought up all the buried intrusions and bad memories he worked so hard to keep at bay. Whenever he slept, it started out great, then ended with a cold sweat and a rapid heartbeat.
He sat up gradually and set the finished statue on the next cushion, then checked the horizon: barely sunup. He might not have felt rejuvenated, but at least he didn’t miss much of the day. He hesitantly removed his harness, threw on the same dark red combat fatigues and hastily put it back on. Taking more time in a full-body mirror, he donned his poncho, slouched his shoulders and even puffed out his belly as much as he was able; whatever he could do to downplay his imposing height, powerful frame and rough hewn musculature. Beyond its greater mobility, Ash much preferred the mortals’ contemporary battle garments to the ridiculous plate armors he was always gifted on Arleth — what good was armor to him anyway? A handful of species and materials across the universe were strong enough to give an Astral a real fight, but given the peacetime and isolationism Arleth enjoyed all his life, he found the shimmering suits of metal mostly ceremonial, and demeaning at that.
Satisfied with his disheveled ‘homeless soldier’ aesthetic, Ash set about the rest of his morning routine: he opened a utility hatch along one wall and swabbed his hand through decaying cables, pulling it back covered in stagnant, light brown oil. He rubbed some of the oil between his hands and ruffled his longer-on-top hair, then smoothed out his beard — blending in, but retaining a little discipline. He caught himself styling his hair the way Rya used to when they spent mornings together. He didn’t usually look fondly at his own reflection, but…well, maybe he didn’t mind the way Rya made him look.
Ash stalked down the dirt roads of the early morning ghost town. The few people around at this hour and not yet in the mines were clearly beyond the demands of labor — older, differently abled folks and a handful of injured, most of them vendors opening up their shops. They unhurriedly set up the same marketplace as yesterday, with a bit more life in them. Ash noticed they stood a little taller and smiled and waved at one another, seemingly uplifted after yesterday, but he made sure not to linger on anyone for too long. He glanced between the shanty buildings, then lingered on the one advanced structure in this square: the Temple of the Astrals. The smooth, organic design and ivory white stone texture was caked in soot toward the top, but the ground level was immaculately dusted and all grime filed out of its minute nooks and crannies — while the rest of the world around it remained mired and worn. Ash grimaced, but smoothed his face out quickly as a small family emerged from the temple: a father, mother and two small children. He looked down and ahead, hunched forward, hands in pockets under his poncho, and resumed his morning stroll.
The children bounded ahead of their parents, but stopped short in front of Ash. He stammered to a stop, looking over toward their parents as they whispered amongst themselves. The mother and father came a bit closer cautiously, but the mother slowed. Great, he thought. She probably recognized him. He glanced back down to the children, then broke eye contact and passed them by. He stalked further ahead, but a series of pitter-patters drummed up behind him. The son rounded in front of him, looking up at him again with bright eyes.
"You're the man from the market, right?" the boy inquired with wonder.
"Go to your parents," Ash looked over his head, "You shouldn't talk to strangers."
"But you're not a stranger," the boy shook his head with a cherubic smile. He pointed at the Temple behind Ash, "Mommy says you're one of the gobs!"
Ash turned back to look at the parents. The father wore mild concern on his face as he scooped up his daughter, but the mother looked over at Ash with pure reverence. Ash sighed and looked back at the boy.
"She says," the boy went on, clutching the bottom of his shirt as he no doubt recited what his mother recently said. "She says she prayed to the gobs, and now you're here to protect us!"
Ash scanned the horizon, as if checking if anyone was watching, and knelt down to the son's level. "What's your name, little man?"
"My friends call me Zik."
"Hm," he nodded, fighting the instinctive reply 'I'm not your friend,' — no sense demolishing a child's feelings with another stranger danger warning. He thought for a moment, then looked at Zik straight, eyebrows up and more inviting than his resting face. "Wanna hear something your parents won't tell you, Zik?" Zik nodded. "You can't sit around asking gods for help. There's gonna be bad folk in this life. And when you're grown, nobody's gonna look out for you for no reason. You have to look after yourself, got it?"
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Zik's little face scrunched up in contemplation, looking down with knotted brows. "But…" he finally looked back at Ash, working up the courage, "I'm not strong like you. What if it's someone bigger than me?"
Ash looked down again and chewed on his cheek, then met Zik's eyes again. "Then you use this," he pointed at his head, "And you make sure they watch this hand," he held up a hand on Zik's left side, "…Instead of this one." With his other hand, he pulled a small wooden toy seemingly right ouf ot Zik's ear. Zik's eyes lit up and he took it. Ash gave the smallest smile, patted Zik on the shoulder and stood up. "Nobody's worth kneeling for, kid," Ash said, "Got it?" Zik nodded, more ecstatic for his new toy, but maybe he was listening just a bit. Ash chuckled. "Alright, go to your mom." Zik smiled and ran back past Ash, toward his family as the Ascendant resumed his stride toward his morning haunt: the Wet Mine Saloon.
Ash sauntered through the hanging doors, nodding at morning patrons and making his way to the bar, where Kirbius leaned on his thick forearms. The old man was aged beyond his years by hard living, but every ounce of him weathered and sturdy. It wasn't common to see older folk on Urdu, and most of the ones who did make it were emaciated or sickly — but Kirbius hadn't lost a step in all his years here. Craggy, long greyed hair and covered in dried wrinkles, lifetimes of tattoos across his thick arms and a wily awareness in his squint, the man was stately in his own way. He shot Ash a close-lipped, wry smile and cackled like a smoker. "Lookie here, boys!" he spread his arms wide, "The man of the people!"
The regulars laughed and jeered as Ash passed them, wearing a half-bashful, half-dismissive smile as he straddled a stool. "I like a quiet mornings, Kirb."
"Funny talk for the man who put on such a show yesterday."
"The goal of with a planet like Urdu was 'low profile,'" Ash bemoaned, "It doesn't help when you broadcast me like a supernova."
"Doesn't help when you kick the Takenda Clan's teeth in neither," Kirbius raised as he sifted through boxes of dried proteins and dehydrated root vegetables and began mixing a shake, "But you did it anyway, like."
Ash scoffed, "Well, someone's gotta." Kirbius cackled again as he poured the shake. "What?"
"'Someone's gotta,'" he parroted, "Says you like it's some absolute."
He slid the shake over to Ash, who threw back a gulp and looked back questioningly. "And?"
"And it ain't!" the bartender pointed for emphasis. "Not 'round here, that."
"Hmph," Ash brushed off, "Sorry state of things when I have to be the optimist."
"That it is."
Ash gulped down the last of the shaek and slid the glass back to Kirbius. "Anything new for me?"
"Not much," Kirbius pursed his lips as he washed out the glass and loaded another mix of the shake. "Spook stories from some of the hill miners up high."
"What kind of spook stories?"
He shrugged lightly, "Talk of a Slicer-class rippin' through atmo earlier this morning."
Ash's eyebrows lifted, "Slicer class? Those old muscle freighters?"
"So they said."
"Slicers haven't seen the sky for decades," Ash dismissed, "They rip through fuel cells."
"Tough sons of bitches, though."
"Doesn't help if they can't fly. No way a Slicer makes it this far out, they must be seeing things."
"It's what they heard," Kirbius corrected, "Slicers got those growly engines once they hit atmo."
Ash paused and looked down at the bar for a moment. "…Not many friendly types used to roll around in Slicers, huh?"
"No, sir."
"…Might be worth checking out. Which region was—"
"Hey!" a voice barked from the swinging doors. Ash turned around on his stool to see another aged yet sturdy man — maybe half Kirbius' age, but wearing the hardships of life on Urdu right up front. Ash didn't know him, but recognized his face — in fact, he'd had seen him — it was Zik's father. He'd taken off his cloak, revealing his left arm in a crude sling — explaining why he wasn't off at work in the mines.
"Morning, sir," Ash curtly dismissed.
"Real nice, what you told my boy about the gods!" Zik's father spat back, stomping across the bar toward him. "That's really what we needed to hear right after service!"
Ash fought to roll his eyes and leaned back on the bar in his stool. "He was just asking questions, he didn't do anything."
"He isn't the problem," the father jabbed a finger at Ash, "You were!"
Ash scoffed. "Like I said, he asked a simple question, I gave a simple answer. I'm not going to spoon-feed him a fairy tale. Apparently that's your job."
"Telling a nine year old boy there's nobody out there looking after him, that's your idea of kind advice?"
"Kind? Maybe not," Ash shrugged, "Wise? I'd say so."
The father stopped a few paces shy of him, face twisted in frustration and disappointment. "You're gonna tell him that, after he saw you save lives in the market yesterday??"
Ash huffed and stood from his stool. "What if I was late?" he looked down on the father, "What if I decided to stay in bed? I'm not gonna be there every time. You want to tell the kid the gods love him and keep him safe? Fine. I won't lie."
The father's hand shot up with surprising speed, slapping the shake out of Ash's hand. As the glass shattered on the floor, the crash struck an alarm bell in the back of Ash's mind, sparking his existing anxiety and stress. The Ascendant saw red, briefly taking leave of his conscious mind. Ash reflexively grabbed the man by the shirt and hauled him off his feet, baring his teeth as the father's eyes bulged. Once they were eye level, Ash's forward mind resumed control, his harness suppressing his spike in anger. He inhaled sharply and looked at himself, holding the father a foot off the ground. He looked past the man and saw Zik, his mother and his sister outside the saloon, just as the mother clutched the little ones close. Blinking a few times, Ash gently set the father down.
The father straightened his overalls and shook his head. "Look around you, big man," he chided, "We're not like you. The dust sticks in our lungs. The radiation bakes us a little bit more every day. We can't just jump on a cruiser and find a quiet little rock to settle down on. For us down here? It's a fight just to survive, and there usually ain't no way out. And the one thing my family has, is the idea that maybe there's someone out there who cares. Who's strong enough to watch over us. But no…you had to take that away from my boy..."
Ash exhaled and looked down, suddenly unable to meet the father's eyes. "Look, I…" he stammered, choking on his shame, "I was just trying to tell him how things are."
"Yeah," the father nodded disappointedly, "Instead of how you could make them."
Ash looked off again. 'Make things right' always sounded like a promising option, but he'd seen what the promises of the powerful were worth. The ambitions of a 'god' to make things right only ended one of two ways: it wasn't enough, or it went way too far. He knew he'd be shamed for refusing to choose one or the other, but at least, he reasoned, he himself did the least damage this way. These thoughts went through his head as the father looked him over awaiting a response, but no words came. There was nothing he could say to this man that wouldn't be tainted by privilege and distance from real strife. Instead, he sighed in defeat and returned to the bar, while the father grumbled in disappointment again.
After a moment, the doors fluttered open again, followed by a set of heavy footsteps, the jingling of chains and a smoky, drawling voice: "Anybody know where I can find the Sheriff 'a these parts?"
Ash didn't recognize the voice, but he paid little mind, again stumbling down that pit of self-chastising as he stared at the splintering wood on the bar. "Who's asking?" he managed absentmindedly.
"The Big Bad Boss Hog, that's who," the dry tone returned.
Ash's brow creased now as he turned around. "Who the hell—" he cut himself short as he saw the new figure standing across the bar. His skin was steel grey, his gold eyes slightly-too-wide and encircled with black markings, wore his hair in a wild mohawk and kept an unexpectedly immaculate mustache over his sharp teeth. A thick chain wrapped his right arm from bicep to wrist, a massive meathook hanging from the end. In his left, he held a modified double-barreled shotgun with a magazine clip of some kind jutting out of the bottom, and a comically oversized — no, not just oversized, an artillery caliber plasma salvo launcher slung across his back. Everyone else's eyes locked on the figure as well — on Urdu, locals would be lucky enough to have a half-functional bolt action rifle; even the pirates only barely fared better. Ash quickly assessed the situation: the other patrons had a safe distance on him, but Zik's father remained a few paces away. He shot to his feet and pushed back on his right foot, splitting the wood floor somewhat, allowing him to slide smoothly across the ten feet of distance to Zik's father, quickly putting the man behind him as Ash and the Hostile sized each other up. "Weapons down," he ordered evenly, "Identify yourself."
The Hostile squinted at him, then nodded, "Yep, that's you."
"First and final warning," Ash rolled one shoulder, Tectonic energy in him thrumming quietly. "Identify."
"Oh, right!" the mustache said, slapping his forehead, "My card!"
THWIP, the Hostile flicked his right arm forward, the chain soared across the space, pierced Ash's burlap poncho and hooked his harness. With a grin and a jerk of his arm, the Hostile hurled him off his feet. He crashed head-first through the front wall of the saloon — not anywhere near the crippling impact it would be to most other species, but a wakeup call nonetheless as he skidded along the dirt ground in a storm of dust and debris. Ash shook his head and wiped dirt from his eyes, unhooking himself as the chain retracted into the Big Bad Boss Hog's hand, who stepped over the shattered front of the Wet Mine. Ash balled his fists and slowly pushed himself up.
"Sledger Qarnan," the Hostile introduced, flicking the safety off his shotgun, "Here on business."
Before the Hostile — Qarnan — could level his weapon, Ash launched forward, kicking up more dust behind as he shoulder-checked him. Qarnan bounced down the road like a skipping stone, his feet kicking up as his face ground a trench through the dirt. Ash glanced quickly at the wrecked saloon, then at Zik's father, who ushered his family in the opposite direction of the skirmish. He and the father locked eyes for a second, then Ash looked away. If he thought too hard about his surroundings, he'd be paralyzed. There was a clear obstacle in front of him, and he planned to run right through it.
Qarnan dragged himself up and spat a mouthful of rock and sand, before locking eyes with Ash and cracking his neck. Ash slowly paced his way, arms loose and watching for his opponent's subtlest movements, waiting for the giveaway of his next attack. "What brings you to my moon, Sledger Qarnan?"
"I'm a bounty hunter. Work it out." Ash slowed a step, his fixed composure faltering slightly. Qarnan saw this and grinned. "What'sa matter, Sheriff?" he teased, "Keepin' a couple'a personal details ta yerself?" Ash tensed up and grimaced. He hated when Sol was right.
He sprang forward. Qarnan snapped the shotgun up and blasted at him. Instead of passing through the fire like raindrops, the volley actually smacked Ash clear in the face and…stung. Caught wholly off-guard, Ash stumbled off balance and wiped a hand across his face; a drop of blood on his glove! Qarnan again grinned and rapid fired, forcing Ash to raise his arms like a boxer blocking punches, willing Tectonic energy over his forearms, where the enhanced ordinance fizzled off harmlessly and allowed him to close the distance, rip the shotgun from Qarnan's hand and crack him across the jaw with an elbow. The strike should've taken most creatures' heads clean off, but Qarnan barely reacted to the open gash across his cheek — whatever this bounty hunter was, he could clearly measure up to combat with an Astral or Entroph. Not unheard of, but exceedingly rare — Ash chided himself for his overconfidence.
Qarnan answered the elbow strike with a left hook and a right knee. The blows hurt, but couldn't break Ash's skin. Qarnan strong and durable, but lacked enhanced strength and reflexes compared to Ash. The Ascendant weaved under a haymaker and fired back a left hook and right uppercut with impossible speed. Qarnan reeled back from the impact, then righted himself and glared at Ash while his jaw dangled in his skin, shattered and dislocated, yet the bounty hunter seemed no worse for wear. Ash hesitated in confusion as Qarnan's jaw suddenly snapped back into place, the bone somehow whole again! Snapping out of it as Qarnan lunged forward, Ash surged forward as well, cutting off Qarnan's momentum and blocking his two strikes. He grabbed Qarnan by the flak vest and hurled him upwards, right through a derelict skyscraper, its windows shattering from the impact and a layer of dust puffing off its surface as the steel caved in on the middle level.
With a moment's reprieve, Ash scooped up the shotgun, quickly ejected the magazine and flicked out one of the shells. Pulling the shell apart and dumping its contents in his hand, he found the touch of them induced a dull sting even through his gloves. The sensation again surprised him, but an idea formed in his head. He tossed the brass-colored shot at a rusted water tank and they whipped right towards the metal, tearing through and sticking to a firmer alloy at the base. It dawned on him: Qarnan's rounds were a superconductive magnetic material. Astrals and Entrophs were radioactive by their very nature, and superconducting magnets proved a natural barrier to radiation. Mild ones were able to somewhat deflect their abilities, while stronger ones, theoretically, could bypass their natural durability and harm them. It was only ever rumored to harness magnetism into offensive capability, any research from mortal scientists never proved successful — or, as Ash suspected, was never able to progress before either side found the researchers and silenced them.
Snapping back into focus, Ash broke the shotgun over his knee and looked around him: people scattered, a general panic among them as the block rumbled. Pulling his lips in, Ash thought it better to keep the fighting away from this level, and leapt upward toward the skyscraper. Clearing one quarter of its height in a single bound, he caught himself by digging his hands into the steel, then climbing up its face like an ape. As he approached the hole he made, Qarnan suddenly peaked over the edge, leveling his artillery piece directly at Ash's face.
"…Hrm," Ash grumbled.
"SMILE, YA JACKWAGON!" Qarnan hollered, blasting a one-foot orb of crackling purple energy down into Ash's nose.
The heat was intense and the pressure hit him like a solid punch in the face, but conventional weapons like plasma still couldn't break his skin. All the same, it was enough to blow him off the side of the building and crater him back in the dirt. Ash groggily lifted his head, spots clearing from his eyes. He managed to spot Quarnan at the same position, this time fiddling with something on his gauntlet, the roar of an engine suddenly echoing through the buildings. Ash tried to himself up, but the bounty hunter whipped up his plasma cannon again and launched another orb of burning magenta right into his chest, still not harming him, but sent to the ground in a daze once more. Ash shook his head and rolled to the side as a third bolt soared for him impacting in the crater as he cleared the blast radius. He pushed up to a knee and glanced up, but Qarnan was gone. The roar was louder and closer now — not loud enough to be his Slicer ship, but a powerful engine nonetheless. His eyes bounced between the deserted chrome towers, searching for rapid movement amidst the rising smoke and dust plumes when a flying craft suddenly breached.
A Valkyrie? Ash thought incredulously, Guy's got some vintage taste…
The Valkyrie rocket rider tore through the air: a fierce twist of metal and leather with the exaggerated body of an antiquated oil-powered motorcycle, with two thrusters in place of tires and a pair of ridiculous wings; a twelve foot span of sharp, flat steel blades emanating an anti-gravity field to balance the erratic rocket power. Ash saw Qarnan straddling the absurd machine and swinging his hook chain like a lasso. It didn't take a genius to figure out what his next move was, so Ash launched off the ground again, angling to intercept him before he could whip the chain at him. But Qarnan reared back on the yolk, pulling the Valkyrie up and flashing blinding flares right at him. Ash shielded his eyes and missed his target, Qarnan weaving right and throwing the chain back. Before Ash could land back on the ground, the chain wrapped once around his torso. Ash's eyes bolted open as the hook pierced his chest between the plates of his harness. Air expelled from his lungs and his muscles locked up — the cut on his cheek from the shotgun shells was one thing, but the weapon stabbing him through the left pectoral kicked his long-dormant sense of danger into high alert. Suddenly he was prey being hunted, no different from any other creature.
He yelled in pain as the chain snapped taut and dragged him back through the air. He coasted downward and ground through the rocky surface as dark, blackish blood seeped out of the wound. The veins along his neck crackled to life with red light. No, he ordered himself, but his body would not obey. The front of his mind would rather die than be a monster, but his survival instincts didn't care for his philosophacl scruples.
The red veins crawled along his cheek and cracked through the whites of his eyes, then overtook them altogether. Ash looked up at the Valkyrie with smoking, red-orange coals, and gritted his teeth. He grabbed the chain and dug his heels into the dirt with a low snarl. He dragged through the ground further until KATHOOM, like a crack of thunder, his feet refused to budge and the chain snapped taut again. Qarnan grunted from above and gunned the throttle, but the Valkyrie crawled mere inches forward, Ash's feet digging deeper into the soil. He wrapped the chain around his arms and gripped it higher, the air around him quivering as he exuded intense heat. With a snarl, he swung the chain in a circle. Suddenly Qarnan's thruster power meant nothing, and the Valkyrie ripped through the air like a toy on a string. Ash whirled the Valkyrie around three times, then whipped it right through a skscraper, nearly cutting it in half. Then another. Then another. Finally, he whipped the chain directly down and slammed the Valkyrie into the dirt as the three towers rained debris.
Ash jerked the hook out of his shoulder and dropped to his knees. After a moment, his eyes cleared. He breathed deep, shivering as sweat now coated his brow. Regaining himself, he looked around in confusion. Dust rained on Dag, the city now wide awake and crowding with panicking citizens, forming in a wide perimeter around him. He looked up at the buildings, now on the verge of collapse. Shame welled in his chest like an iron ball pushing on his heart, before a sputtering yell drew focus forward.
Qarnan surged up from the wrecked Valkyrie, several broken ribs ripping through his skin and one shoulder completely dislocated. When Ash got to his feet, the people drew back in fear. He stopped short and scanned the crowd: huddled and trembling, like he was an escaped beast on a rampage, or natural disaster bound in flesh. He even spotted Zik, clutching his mother close as tears coasted down his cheeks.
Qarnan charged chaotically as his broken bones reset themselves and open gashes sealed up on their own. "YOU EGG-SUCKIN' GUTTER-TRASH SONUVABITCH, YOU TRASHED MY RIDE!"
Ash looked between the factors before him: the unsteady buildings, the bounty hunter and the masses.
Qarnan closed in.
Zik buried his face in his mother's shoulder. Afraid.
Ash dropped to his knees and put his hands up, "I surrender."
Qarnan skidded to a stop, brows furrowed in befuddlement. He saw Ash glancing at the buildings, then the crowd, then looking down at nothing. The bounty hunter straightened as it clicked in his head, rolling his eyes and chuckling at Ash. "Pansy," he spat, pulling out a thick pair of stasis cuffs. They crackled with electricity as he snapped them around Ash's wrists, filling his body with thousands and thousands of volts. He let the arresting sensation flow through, lowering his resistance and allowing his vision to darken.