Captain John Thratta stood on the bow of his sailboat, looking out over the bay. The stars were glittering, a beautiful, ephemeral tapestry, and their cosmic light cascaded over the sea, reflecting magnificently. Yet, the Navy Seal's eyes were downcast, his expression pensive. He folded his thick arms and knit his brow, thinking quietly and sullenly. The image of that boy's blank white eyes, rolled back into his skull as he stood on trembling limbs, struck something deep inside him. In the boy's place, Thratta's inner eye saw another silhouette - himself, in fledgling fatigues, muscle mass slimmer and fresh, face unscarred with naive eyes set into them.

"Underestimated the pup." Thratta cracked a small smile.

It was followed by another sigh. He had failed to find and apprehend Keke, so his little private expedition into Carnival Top was a bust. If the Cultivator Corporation had a target, he could have sworn they would have struck by now, but there was no mention of any incident, and no hushed whispers in the underground circuit. It didn't make sense for one of the Corporation's Four Kings to just call off the hit. Outside interference, perhaps? Internal strife?

He had taken Leon Valentine into consideration. Even if it was a fluke, that circus clown had made it onto the tournament roster back on Kutaiba's island. The fighters gathered there had been like fresh fruit, dangling from a full tree for the masterminds to pluck. Thratta kept tabs on the B and C list fodder who never made it to the late stage of the contest, and all of them had disappeared already. That was to be expected - naturally, the cream of the crop were tougher to reign in. He would know. Apart from his role in the war, he shared another kind of veteran status with the survivors of Dragon's Dominion - all had witnessed that freak in the iron mask clash with Byrus, and all of them now lived with the Corporation's phantom brand on their backs. One veteran could sense another, and he couldn't yet substantiate his faint instinct that Richie and he were alike. The omnipotent knew why - both were marked.

Thratta put in a call to his associates. The other line picked up on the sound of rapidfire footprints stamping themselves into the unfortunate faces of would-be assassins. He heard Mei-Liang's aggravated kiaps, and sigh in the aftermath of the beatdown she administered.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked.

"Not at all," a young woman's voice, tinged with the remnants of a Mandarin accent, answered. "What is it?"

"Carnival Top went nowhere. I can't spare anymore time offgrid like this, the brass will only tolerate so much tardiness. I'm leaving followup in your hands for now." he said.

"Thanks a lot." he heard Mei-Liang roll her eyes. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." Thratta said. "Our old pal Leon is untouched for now. I expected the Corp would make their move on him, or someone in the underground circuit. It's possible they smelled me snooping around and pulled out, but I wouldn't rule any further attempts out yet. More, there's some fresh blood in the ring down there. Kid called Richie. Already looked into him a bit, couldn't come up with any identifying info. No last name, no ID, no birthplace. Think you and Kokumo can do some digging on your end?"

"Sure, but why? What's so special about this kid?" Mei-Liang asked.

"He has some strange markings - he's adorned in twin azure dragon tattoos. They gave off a familiar sensation. He stood up even after I laid him out with the Emperor Knee strike. For just a second, it felt like I was staring down Shinsei again." Thratta said.

"You think Byrus will show an interest?" Mei-Liang asked.

"It's possible. The man's status is still unknown, right?" Thratta asked.

"Affirmative. Just gone into thin air." Mei-Liang confirmed.

"Good. If you should find otherwise, keep it to yourself. Of course, I don't have to tell you that, do I?" Thratta asked.

Mei-Liang checked her surroundings and her proxy, then casually stomped on the face of a still-conscious thug in the grimy back alley of some neon-lit city in China.

"Don't trust Interpol?" she asked.

"It's human greed that I don't trust. We should have rooted out Cultivator and shut them down, but time after time, we're blocked, and our sources turn up dead. I don't think it's any coincidence that the international conglomerate supplying military arms to my country and dozens others is squeaking out of any and all investigations." he resisted the urge to punch a dent in the bow.

"We can't prove anything yet." Mei-Liang said cautiously.

"We could if that jackass in the suit played ball." Thratta growled.

"Conflict of interest. The Institute is only as well-equipped as it is by Cultivator Corp's good graces." she said.

"You don't think he'd go as far as to shelter Keke, do you?" Thratta asked.

"I don't know. But I'd keep a low profile for now. I'll do my homework. As for your dragon boy, I'll forward the case to Kokumo. If your hunch is accurate and he's anything like Shinsei, we need to keep him as far apart from Byrus as possible." she sighed.

"Godspeed." Thratta said, and hung up.

He ambled to the mast and leaned against it, sighing.

This world is nothing but a nest of corruption, ruled by shadow dictators. He grit his teeth.

"How right you are." Crocus said, unheard and unseen as he stood in the crowsnest. "Quite literally."

He flexed his bony fingers, miming shadow puppetry.

"Continue to dance, little humans. Sway to the stage direction of the script that binds you. No matter how you try to sever yourself from the ties that bind, your fate is as inescapable as the shadow bound to your feet. Government, syndicate, factions, institutions - no matter where you look, all are stage dressing, facades no different from each other in the end. Whoever wins, you all lose. The only absolute is the darkness when the curtain falls. All masks will be cast aside, and then - you will finally be free." he chuckled.

The Faceless Man was gone in a flutter of stygian fabric, gone to the twilit grassy plains of his windmill-checkered realm. He made his own call, channeling his foul psychic signature into another mind of his ilk.

I trust you heard all of that? Crocus beamed into the mind of Lord Byrus.

A man with wild white hair and icy eyes smiled, looking out through the window of his great tower, over the sprawling cityscape beneath.

Loud and clear. the CEO grinned wickedly.

Do with the fragments of my omnipresent knowledge what you will, but remember our arrangement. Crocus said.

I take it you don't want me to scoop up the runic brat and his kin? Byrus asked playfully. He got a head full of sharp static, and winced.

The Forged Candidates belong to me and me alone. Do not touch them. He warned.

Yeah yeah, got it. Geez, why so serious? Byrus said.

I intend to let you do as you wish with what's left of this world, and those within it, as promised. That should be enough for you. The Candidates are all that I ask for. You will remember that. Crocus said.

Whatever man, it's your show. Byrus shrugged.

As for your end, you have a loose end to tie up. One of your subordinate Kings is compromised. Crocus said.

Yes, it seems so. Old Pinata-Head couldn't hack it, looks like. A pity, he has a really admirable thirst for wanton violence and civil unrest. Still, seems harsh to do him in over one fuckup. a playful tone leaked into the CEO's mental voice again.

What are you scheming now? Crocus asked.

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Your predictions, what were they again? Six Candidates? Byrus asked.

Yes. Not counting our late arrival, I believe five have already congregated. Richie, Freyja, Holly, Chikita,

Byrus smirked. And Cuppy, right? Can't believe the little scamp managed to actually hit you.

Crocus grunted. Indeed. But, if I could have anticipated that, they wouldn't qualify as candidates in the first place, now would they?

Byrus chuckled. Indeed. So, apart from them, and our mysterious sixth ranger, the likes of Good Ol' Thratta and the rest?

Unworthy. Crocus answered. Do with them as you see fit.

Goody. Byrus grinned. As it relates back to your question - How did you put it, my scheme? Just a fun little game to pass the time. The both of us have a crap-ton, after all. Your plans for Station Bay, the Eclipse draws near, yes? he asked.

Yes. The ether fog barrier is almost ready. Once the encirclement is complete, nothing gets into the city - and nothing gets out. The seed I planted in Mason will sprout on Halloween night, the event I paused will come to pass, and the synchronicity between the Void's strength that night and the frightful revelation to the masses will lift the veil between worlds. The city will become a cosmic sinkhole and fade from the world's memory. Those that survive will map the next stretch of the Backyards for me. The rest will become feed. Crocus said.

Fun! Byrus giggled again. That game I mentioned - it's a time trial. I'm gonna go ahead and give Keke another chance here, cause I'm a nice guy like that. If he makes it beyond the fog perimeter before it solidifies, all is forgiven.

That's not all of it, is it? Crocus asked.

Goodness no, where's the fun in that? I think I'll send a hitman, make the game more interesting. Byrus said.

Utter lunacy. I pity those under your employ. Crocus tutted.

Glass houses, friend. That cute little jester you doped up on elixir - why crash him into your precious Candidates? Byrus asked.

Luchesi is utterly worthless. His role will be fulfilled when his defeat verifies the Forged Ones' caliber. Crocus said.

Maybe if the cards fall just so, he'd like to get Keke's job, eh, Crocus? Byrus asked.

Do as you please. Bit players are beneath my notice.

And so, Crocus concluded their call.

Byrus grandly swept around beyond his desk, his yellow overcoat trailing behind him like a cape. He beheld his remaining two Kings, basking in their downtime within the executive penthouse. A tall, shredded middle eastern man in an open denim jacket that displayed a grisly scar running across his torso from right peck to left hip laid indolently on a persian rug, a goblet of fruit in one hand, the hose of a hookah in the other, both formed of intricate bejeweled gold. He wore a grand white turban bound by a vibrant red jewel at its forehead, its vibrancy matched only by the sharp, cunning, intelligent eyes beneath it. There was a regal pride in those eyes, and radiating from the man’s being, beyond the radius of the rug he laid abreast. He moved a grape from the goblet leisurely into his mouth, chewing with a contemplative expression that lent an intimidating air even to the simple act of feeding himself. A black goatee moved with the contours of his lips, drawn thin, before his face pulled itself into a sinister smile. Those eyes flashed, reflecting a fragment of Lord Byrus’s malevolent will imparted into them.

“Shall I go to the city to clean up house?” the man asked.

It was no secret among any of them that this was a thinly-veiled offer to personally execute Keke for his failings. Lord Byrus had chosen to share his telepathic communion with Crocus with his subordinates; a conference call, of sorts.

The other remaining member of their Kingly quartet - or, possibly just a trio now - sat, cross legged, head inclined, on the white mat of the royal combat ring that dwelled on prominent display in a grand corner of the office, each post marked with the emblem and kanji of one of the Four Auspicious Beasts of eastern mythology. The man was shirtless, dressed in patchy shorts and white wrappings about his legs and arms, the latter of which boasted fists concealed within bright orange kickboxing gloves. Across his head was a matching orange mohawk, and about his neck was a bright red scarf, coiled like a fuzzy snake. Whatever he thought of the meeting or the immediate situation, he kept to himself, head bowed deep in apparent meditation. On the wall at his back was a prominent trophy display of tournaments’ past, surmounted by a large rhino horn, broken cleanly at its base.

“No.” Byrus waved dismissively. “Another King is far too valuable an asset to endanger on a petty assassination task when the venue is about to become a self-contained apocalypse.”

Kutaiba shrugged halfheartedly. “A shame I’ll have to miss the festivities. Who would you send in my stead?”

Byrus opened his cell phone and kicked his legs up on his dark mahogany desk. “An expendable third party. Seeing as Keke had the crap kicked out of him by Mr Valentine, I think it’s a fair enough handicap to work with.”

He dialed.

“What?” a cold, clinical Russian voice asked after a pause.

“Hey man, how’s life?” Byrus asked conversationally.

“What do you want, Tovari?” the man asked.

“Oh Ivan, all business with you. You need to take more enjoyment in your work. Hey, how about this for an opening? ‘Death Roll cartel, may I take your order please? We have a special promotion, a buy one get one free assassination! Order now and get some complimentary krokodil!’ Not a bad sales pitch, eh?” Byrus said.

“Patience thinning. Out with it.” Ivan said.

“Hmm. Well, Krokodil is the subject of my call. Pass along a message I have for him, won’t you?” Byrus said.

“What message?” Ivan asked.

“I’ve got another job opportunity for him. It’s a sordid little internal matter, a golden opportunity to vent any lingering frustrations toward me by putting a cap in my ass. Well, my subordinate’s ass. Good enough, I wager.” Byrus said.

“Fine by me. As it so happens, I was looking to do some layoffs myself. Let the best man survive.” Ivan said.

“Goodness gracious, so harsh on the poor boy.” Byrus chuckled. “Regular little exercises like these are what keep symbiotic criminal outfits in perfect condition, don’t you think? Survival of the fittest in motion, such a beautiful thing, it moves me!” he degraded into full-on maniacal cackling.

When their call was concluded, Byrus stood and ran his fingers through his long white strands. “I just remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere. Such a busy day today. Play nice while I’m gone, won’t you boys?” he said.

He vanished into thin air, leaving a fading crackle of purple electric sparks in his wake. He rematerialized in another office apart from this one, these curtains drawn closed and casting the room in dark shadow. The CEO’s appearance had also changed. His unkempt fall of stark white hair was now cut short and tidy. In lieu of his extravagant yellow and black jacket, and his baggy white silk pants and steel-toed combat boots, he now wore a muted striped work shirt with a red necktie, black work pants, and shiny dress shoes. He sat himself at his alternate desk, unconcerned with any observers who might have noticed his teleporting in and out of the building, seeing as his security clearance was akin to a one-way mirror, and visits to his chambers were invite-only.

He combed his hair back and paged the desk.

“Send Agent Kokumo in, won’t you?”

A few minutes later, the capoeira master, yellow bikini visible like the exposed part of an iceberg above her buttoned interpol-issue office suit, stood at attention.

“Tomoki Tovari.” she said unenthusiastically, folding her arms.

Agent Tovari tented his fingers and smiled at Kokumo.

-

Richie clutched his core and sat up in his bed, panting. “JESUS!”

Cuppy looked over at Richie from the hotel room computer desk, and smiled. “Good morning! Or evening, I guess.”

Richie slumped over, writhing like a mortally wounded caterpillar. “Fucking ow ow ow… I feel like I got used as a trampoline. By a tank.”

Freyja blinked a few times. “You’re… awake…”

“Yeah?” Richie said through pained hisses and watering eyes.

“Sailor boy kicked the fuck out of you and said you’d be out for a couple days. Pressure point or some shit.” Freyja said.

“Tell him he missed. Wait, did I fucking lose?” Richie stiffened.

“It’s alright, we made a buttload of bread!” Cuppy chirped, hefting a huge bag of cash and jumping onto the bed with Richie. It bounced the ginger brawler up, off, and onto the floor.

He made small, sad newborn kitten noises, mewling pathetically as he gripped the knee-shaped dent in his core.

Freyja pinched the bridge of her nose. “Cuppy… Cuppy… fuckin’...”

Richie popped up like a vexed meerkat poking over the side of the bed, brows furrowed, a ‘I’m going to strangle Cuppy’ expression on his face.

Then he saw the article the puppet moppet had been looking at, and he limped his way over to the computer desk.

“This is…”

Among the photos associated with the Dragon’s Dominion tournament, John Thratta, complete with that fucking anchor on his back, took a prominent position on the heavily-redacted news article. Richie’s eyes, as if by instinct, fell to the line offhandedly mentioning how Thratta had lost to Shinsei.

“Hah! Fuck you!” he cheered, and then threw up again. “Gonna piss red.” he grumbled.

“I mean, you manhandled, what, nearly twenty people? That’s a hot streak.” Freyja shrugged.

“Don’t pity me. Thank you.” Richie said.

“Richie is a cat.” Cuppy nodded to himself.

“Anyway, the big show the Polish hottie said is tomorrow night, you sticking around? We technically have a few vacation days left.” Freyja said.

“I’m no longer in the mood.” Richie frowned, glaring at existence, more or less.

Completely, utterly fucking trounced. He thought the last time had been the last time. He kept pulling ahead in the racing game, and cheating fucking rubber band AI kept hitting him with blue shells. Where did all these guys come from?

Richie forced himself up and started limping for the door.

“Where are you off to?” Freyja asked.

“I’m going back to my yard, and I’m going to kick a replica of that card-carrying honky in the nuts until my foot breaks.” Richie growled.

“Have fun!” Cuppy waved cheerfully.

Freyja smothered Cuppy with a pillow. “Rich, you shouldn’t move in your-”

An airball blew a hole in the wall next to Freyja’s face. “Be safe.” she shrugged.