Act I: In Titan's Shadow

1. The Archmagus

San Agnes was one of the countless slums that pockmarked the surface of planet-city Titan. The ecumenopolis had served as the capital of the Relian Interstellar Federation for over a thousand years. In that millennium, Titan had grown to become the home of no fewer than fifty billion people. Despite the sustained prosperity of Relia at large and the near-complete development of Titan’s surface and vast subterranean levels, most of the planet’s denizens lived in conditions comparable to those during the age of Titan’s Great Planetary Conflict. San Agnes was a particularly downtrodden district in this regard; between the longstanding corruption of its public officials and the strength of its criminal gangs and syndicates, most of the locals had long since given up any hope for change - or, at least, any change for the better.

The West Divine was one of San Agnes’ many crime syndicates, best known for its illegal drug trade - its most popular products on the street, Havok-6 and Remem, were some of the deadliest to hit the black market. The former was a stimulant refined from a half-century-old military formula designed to give soldiers an adrenaline rush in combat. It had a penchant for enlarging the heart, though, among other negative cardiovascular effects, which greatly affected the disaffected youth of San Agnes that constituted its primary demographic. The latter was a potent hallucinogen that weaved false feelings of joy and happiness. The most insidious aspect of the powerfully addictive drug was that it twisted the user’s own memories, feeding on nostalgia and regrets. As could be expected, it was the drug of choice for the older demographic of San Agnes. With these two products, West Divine had cornered the majority of the drug market in San Agnes and its surrounding districts.

Most of West Divine’s products were moved through a warehouse located on the eastern outskirts of San Agnes, straddling a series of industrial districts that had long since turned into a dilapidated rust belt. The dead factories and worn-down buildings proved to be good cover for West Divine’s own manufacturing base, and the logistics warehouses in eastern San Agnes that once served as a hub for industrial goods now served as a hub for illicit narcotics.

In the courtyard of the warehouse, a handful of guards stood watch, though at this point in the late night, they were more inclined to turn on the vid to a local spinball match than actually guard anything. Two guards were huddled around a small portable vid, squinting to make out what the low-resolution display was showing of the match. Three other guards were seated at a fold-out table, their rifles lying on the table. Only one guard - the last of the six on duty - was actually standing at the ready, his back straight as he glanced at his would-be comrades who were kicking back on the job.

“You know,” one of the guards at the table spoke up, “it’s obvious that you’re the new guy here.”

The one guard that was standing looked around a bit before pointing at himself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” the first guard chuckled. “Come on, sit. What’s your name, kid?”

“I’m, uh, Kline.”

“Kline,” the guard said, as if testing out the name before he took a swig of his beer. He was one of the older men there, perhaps the oldest; permanent wrinkles and folds were starting to make themselves known on his face and the sides of his hair were gray. “I’m Jarvin. The punk over there,” he gestured at one of the guards sitting opposite him, who sported a multi-color mohawk and extensive imprint tattoos down his bare arms, “is Yodel. The other crackhead is Lodel. They’re brothers, if their dumbass names weren’t enough to tell you that.”

“Hey!” Lodel yelled belatedly, lowering his vaporizer and glaring at Jarvin when he finally realized he had been insulted. “I’m no crackie!”

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Jarvin chuckled. “Only a dumbass like you would sample the goods every time they pass through here.”

“Qual- quality assurance, man,” Lodel said between puffs of his vaporizer. “Boss appreciates that.”

“You’ve only kept your thumbs because no one else knows, ya’ dumbfuck,” one of the guards watching the vid, which was currently tuned to a spinball match.

“That’d be Hans,” Jarvin noted. “His buddy over there is Frankie.” The latter-mentioned guard raised a hand but otherwise kept his attention fixated on the match.

“Hi… guys,” Kline hesitantly greeted, briefly raising one hand in a slight wave before lowering it back to his rifle.

Jarvin eyed Kline critically. “So what’re you waiting for? Get your ass over here and grab a chair. Boss shouldn’t be here for another five, minimum.”

With a sheepish look, Kline shuffled over and unfolded one of the spare chairs that were propped up against the table, unslinging his rifle as he did so to place down on the table.

“So, where’re you from, kid?” Jarvin asked, polishing off the last of his beer before he crumpled the plastoid-composite can, tossed it onto the ground, and opened a second can from the table with a slight carbonated hiss.

“Um, I’m from, well, I’m from around here, I guess,” Kline replied sheepishly.

“No shit,” Jarvin faux-gasped with an open mouth before he chugged his newly-opened can of beer. “I couldn’t have guessed. I thought you were from the fucking Imperial Palace. Or,” he paused to wipe the excess froth off his mouth with the back of a hand, “maybe the Grand Concord. I knew I could smell the creds that you’re rolling in from across the table.”

“Oh.” Kline’s voice got a little quieter. “I’m, uh, from San Agnes. Block Six-Seventy-Three.”

“No shit, huh?” Jarvin responded again, though this time with an almost incredulous tone versus the mocking one he had before. “I’m from Six-Eighty. Hell, that’s basically neighbors at that point. Might’ve seen you before.”

“Er, maybe, I suppose,” Kline conceded. “I’m not very fond of going out or anything. Mostly stayed home…”

“How did a punk like you get into a place like this then?”

Kline looked down. “My, uh, my ma. She’s sick, and I just really need the creds. I know that there’s always jobs like this out there. Half my friends have already gone into it before.”

“Tha’ desperate, eh?” Yodel squawked, the sound so high-pitched and jarring that Kline had to turn to face the man with the mohawk. Only then did Kline spot the tell-tale metallic silver of a biomod on the man’s throat. Yodel’s eyes almost immediately narrowed, as if able to see what Kline was staring at, and Kline immediately turned back to Jarvin.

“Yea- yeah. I am.”

“Well, it’s not a bad gig,” Jarvin admitted, crumpling up his second empty beer can and tossing it before leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Couple years, learn the ropes. Good skills, good pay - if you can keep your head on you.” He jerked his head toward Yodel. “Even if it’s just barely.”

Both brothers glared at Jarvin.

Jarvin shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one who needs a damn biomod to grunt.” He went in for a third can, popping it open as he continued. “He’s lucky his head’s still attached to his spine, much less being able to speak. Next time he gets into a firefight, make sure he keeps his fucking head down and not bobbing around like a bullseye.”

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The brothers continued glaring, but there was little to say in response - in Yodel’s case, that was more literal than figurative.

“But either way, you’re not the first kid I’ve seen come around these parts with that kind of story,” Jarvin continued as he returned his attention to Kline. “No one around here has the kind of creds to front for that kind of bill.” He took a swig of beer. “At least the gangs pay well.”

“Is that why you joined, uh, sir?” Kline hesitantly asked.

Jarvin’s beer froze millimeters from his lips, and his eyes seemed to glaze over. A silence hung over the table for a few moments. Finally, the older man shrugged and continued drinking.

“It’s been too long. I don’t remember that shit.” The curt response left little room to reply, and Kline just sat there with an inscrutable expression in return.

A flash of lights from outside the compound alerted all of the guards. The lights were in the air, but the distance was quickly diminishing as the lights seemed to grow brighter. Jarvin quickly crumpled his empty beer can and tossed it. Hans and Frankie packed up the vid with the efficiency of trained professionals. Even Lodel managed to put away his vaporizer as he slung his rifle over his shoulder.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Jarvin muttered to Kline. “It’s routine. Quick and easy does it.”

Kline didn’t respond. Even if he wanted to, the roar of shuttles’ engines as they descended was too loud for anyone else to hear his words anyway. The shuttles themselves were nothing special - not particularly expensive models, but that only meant they blended well into everyday traffic. The side door of the shuttle slid open as it completed its landing, revealing a pair of mountainous-looking men dressed in suits that could only be characterized as slightly too tight on their hulking frames. Behind them was a tall, skinny man with a fashion sense that went well past eclectic - a pink heavy coat framed his silhouette, accompanied by shiny silver pants, what appeared to be a white bra, and a pair of dark glasses.

“Mister Two,” Jarvin greeted, performing a deep bow. The others followed, and Kline likewise. Of course, the man they were bowing to was Number Two - the aptly named second-in-command of the West Divine. The rumor was that he had been excommunicated from the Conclave of Magi as a result of his extreme behaviors when he was a Tier 6 magus. “We weren’t expecting you. The memo said the boss was coming today.”

Number Two waved a hand. “Onesy couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. I’ll have to inspect the goods today.” As he finished, the man frowned. He sniffed the air like a dog, as if searching for an elusive scent.

“Sir?” Jarvin hesitantly questioned. He was silenced by a single finger from Two.

“I sense something…” Two’s gaze suddenly turned onto Kline, and he shuffled toward the hapless guard quickly. “Who are you?”

“U-uh, Kline, sir.” He seemingly wilted under Two’s gaze.

Two’s tongue flicked out, and he leaned in beside Kline’s right ear. “Fresh meat?”

Kline froze in place, barely stammering out a reply. “Ye-yes, s-sir.”

“The kid’s not the one you’re looking for,” a voice called out from behind Kline. Two’s eyes flicked past Kline’s shoulder, and Kline himself turned to see Frankie, one of the guards who had been watching the vid, walk forward.

"What?" Jarvin spluttered out. "Frankie, what in the everlasting hell are you doing? Get back in the fucking line!"

With a smile, ‘Frankie’ reached up with one hand and pulled off his face, revealing a wholly different one behind the synthflesh mask. His dyed neon green hair - a wig - fell off to reveal dark hair beneath. His tattooed face was replaced by unblemished, lightly tanned skin. His dark eyes shone with a barely concealed zeal. The double chin that Frankie sported disappeared, and in its place sat a fairly strong jawline that complimented the thin lips and nose that sat above it.

“What the fuck!” Hans yelled, scrambling to draw his handgun. “Where the fuck is Frankie?”

‘Frankie’ swatted Hans with the back of his hand, sending the man flying several meters before crashing into the ground.

“And who might you be?” Number Two intoned, pushing Kline out of the way and onto the dirt.

“Archmagus Julius Alkas,” the imposter introduced himself with a slight bow and a small smirk, “at your service.”

“By the way, that means he’s a Tier 9 magus if you’ve forgotten what an archmagus is,” a voice called out from behind Two. With the slightest glance, Two saw a small black cat sit in the middle of the compound’s gate, licking his paw. The cat stopped, staring at Two directly, eye-to-eye. “So you’re pretty screwed,” the cat continued.

Without a verbal response, Julius suddenly lashed out, an electric arc emanating from his hand that Two easily dodged. Two’s bodyguards, on the other hand, were not nearly as lucky, being sliced in half across the torso along with the shutte, which erupted into a fiery blaze of fuel and twisted metal.

“The fuck!” Jarvin yelled, hurriedly raising his rifle. Before he or the other guards could bring their rifles to bear on Julius, however, they were swept off their feet by a massive gust of wind and flew meters away, crashing onto the ground with more than one sound of bone crunching. Dazed, Jarvin could barely make out the black cat leisurely striding toward them. “Sorry about that,” the cat said, sounding distinctly unapologetic. “It’s nothing personal. I just want to watch the fight properly.”

Number Two was dodging each of Julius’ lightning bolts, which produced quite the explosive effect when it slammed into the courtyard’s dirt ground. Still, with his coat now browner than it was pink, Two was clearly not having an easy time. Sweat dripped from his brow from the exertion, and he was constantly on the backfoot, with Julius having nearly-permanent initiative to attack.

“I expect more from a Tier 9 magus!” Two yelled, sliding behind a tree that burst into flames when a shot of lightning hit it. “Is this what the Conclave has devolved to since I left?”

“I was under the impression you were kicked out,” Julius dryly replied, sending another bolt of lightning toward Two.

“Semantics!” Two replied. “I left, they kicked me out - it all happened around the same TIME!” Two spun around on his last word and finally sent out his own counter-attack: a small flurry of ice crystals with edges sharpened into razorblades. For his part, Julius didn’t bother to move; instead, he erected a circular shield of electricity, through which the ice crystals passed through and melted into harmless splatters of water that didn’t even make it to Julius.

Two saw the futility of his attack and stopped to pant, staring at Julius, who seemed unperturbed by the amount of mana he had just expended. “What in Khavan’Rel are you?”

Julius forged a long bolt of electricity, sizzling in anticipation, aimed directly at Two. “Take heart in knowing that you were defeated in battle by a real archmagus. Not every schmuck can claim the same.”

Two barely screamed before the bolt of lightning shattered any semblance of a mana shield he had and slammed into him, blasting him dozens of meters away where he lay as a twitching mess.

“That might have been overboard, Julius,” the cat murmured, walking up to the archmagus.

“He’ll live,” Julius intoned. He paused for a moment. “Probably. The authorities can pick him up.” Striding over, Julius forced one of Number Two’s eyes open and intently stared into it. After a few moments, he dropped him back to the ground unceremoniously.

“He didn’t know anything,” the cat guessed.

“No, Koda, he didn’t,” Julius agreed. “Number One was supposed to be here tonight. Someone must’ve tipped him off.”

Koda shrugged, as much as a cat could shrug, before leaping onto Julius’ shoulder. “Or maybe he just got hungry and stopped for some meat skewers. Plenty of reasons why he didn’t show up.”

“Seriously, what is it with you and meat skewers,” Julius muttered as he walked toward the warehouse.

“They are objectively the superior food. Meat, perfectly grilled and seasoned, that can be eaten without any plate or utensil.” Koda gesticulated wildly while standing on his hind legs on Julius’ shoulder. “That’s unbeatable. They’re literally perfect.”

Julius didn’t bother responding as he blasted the heavy metal doors of the warehouse off of their hinges. Inside, crates stacked upon crates of drugs were neatly stored, each ready to be sent to local distributors for sale.

Wordlessly, Julius sent a sweeping bolt of electricity across the warehouse, causing the drugs to catch fire - Havok-6 in particular was a highly flammable substance. He spun around and walked away, letting the fires engulf the warehouse entirely.

As Julius walked back out into the courtyard, he saw Kline, the newbie of the group, still on the ground, trying his best to play dead. Walking over, Julius lightly kicked him in the torso, eliciting a grunt from him.

“Kid,” Julius intoned. Kline peeked out of the corner of his eye. “See this as an opportunity and quit while you’re ahead. Or,” Julius gestured to the array of dead or injured gangsters that littered the courtyard, “you’ll end up like them someday. And whoever it is then probably won’t be as merciful as me.”

With that, and the swish of a cloak that Kline swore was not there a few moments ago, Julius strode away, his figure framed by the fire of the burning shuttle and the lights and sirens of law enforcement coming.

“Yeah,” Kline finally muttered to himself after a few moments, “that sounds like a good idea.”