Aetheral Space

Twenty Years Ago…

It was deep into the night when they took the child for initiation.

That couldn’t be helped: what they were about to show the child was highly illegal. It wouldn’t do for prying eyes to watch their gathering, or for prying ears to hear their words. Still… the child found it annoying. He had been pulled out of bed, after all, and forced to get dressed while it was still dark.

Deep in the bowels of Azum-Ha, there were countless places granted security by obscurity. Chambers that few knew existed, temples that none still lived to tell of. An altar had been prepared in the depths for this most sacred rite.

The child was dressed in robes of tanned human skin and brought into the temple, the place lit only by candles. Flickering flames turned the faces of the adults around him into abstractions, their kindly eyes and leering grins little more than vague impressions. In this space, they were secondary. The idol resting on the altar was primary… the only thing of worth here.

A skull.

It was the warped skull of some half-formed abomination, a fluid being killed in the middle of a transformation. One eye-socket was stretched out to such a degree that any occupant would surely slip free, and the other was narrowed to a thin slit. From one temple, a mess of horns protruded, while a gnarled antler pointed from the other.

The skull of Margrethe the Tenderheart, one of the Gene Tyrants who had once ruled over the galaxy… or, as the child’s parents and all these other people called them, the Gene Nobles.

“Look, Gregori,” the child’s mother whispered adoringly, her hands on his shoulders. “That’s what God looks like.”

The child just looked at the skull with dull red eyes. That was no surprise: after all, this eight year-old boy had never smiled nor laughed since the day he was born. He just stared at the world expressionlessly, observing it dispassionately… and always seeming distinctly unimpressed by what he saw.

This time was no different. He looked at the idol. He looked at the altar. He looked at the worshippers.

And then, he spoke.

“Gross.”

Present Day…

The Victor-Grave, built to honour the battle that had ended the Thousand Revolutions, was visited by hundreds of thousands of people every day. More museum than memorial, it was usually filled with the babbling of crowds and the droning of holographic exhibits. Tonight, however, it was as silent as the grave -- everyone had gone home, for the conclusion of the Dawn Contest.

That silence, however, was to be interrupted.

Endo Silversaint descended from the broken skylight into the central admissions foyer of the Victor-Grave, the light from his luminescent broadsword illuminating the massive room around him. As he fell, he scanned the chamber, keen for any signs of Gregori Hazzard’s presence. If he was to ensure Aclima reached the Arena of the Absolute safely, then it was imperative he held this scoundrel Hazzard off here.

Even if he couldn’t win, he had to delay. He was one of the Eight Phases of the Turning of the Heir, after all. There’d be nothing strange about him giving his life to keep the Supreme Heir safe.

There was a thud as Endo landed in the middle of the moon’s spotlight, the weight of his armour causing the smooth floor to crack around him. That was when the room’s security systems activated. Machine-gun turrets emerged from each corner of the ceiling, each aimed directly for Endo’s body. The yellow lights beneath each gun-barrel flickered as they scanned him, determining whether or not he was an intruder.

He used the few seconds he’d been given leisurely, planting his sword into the ground next to him and crossing his arms. No point in quibbling over measly bullets at a time like this. His honour and pride were at stake here.

The lights turned red, and the turrets wasted no more time.

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

Even as the bullets hurtled towards him, tracing red lines through space, the Silversaint did not move. He just remained standing there, arms crossed, visor facing straight forwards. The only sign of life within that armour… was the silver Aether that crackled across his shoulders.

Bonds of Fealty.

Countless tiny chains appeared throughout the room, a spiderweb of transient metal connecting each individual bullet to the room around them -- and pulling, diverting their path just slightly. As a result, they went off-course, the perfect aim of the turrets subverted. As the room erupted into debris, bullets slamming into every inch of the walls and floor, the Silversaint alone went untouched.

He still stood with his arms crossed, waiting for the noise that would end this little intermission.

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

BangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBangBang!

Click.

Click.

Click.

Endo Silversaint uncrossed his arms and pulled his sword out of the ground, the dust slipping off the blade as if it were water. With a lazy spin of the weapon, he deflected the strike aimed at his back, sparks flying.

“I’m surprised,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The turrets didn’t activate for you, Gregori Hazzard?”

Hazzard skidded to a halt a short distance behind Endo. He’d folded his fingers into claws, and now drove one of his hands into the ground to slow the momentum that Endo’s block had produced. The assassin narrowed those red eyes as he finally came to a halt, standing up straight.

“Whoever designed this place is a dumbass,” he said calmly. “If I fold my body up into a weird shape, the security system doesn’t recognize me as an intruder. How stupid. I’d bet there are even some Scurrants who could just wander about this building freely.”

Endo adjusted his stance, holding his sword in both hands: “I shall give you one warning: surrender.”

Gregori rolled his eyes, plunging his hands into his pockets -- taking the opportunity to refold them into some new wicked configuration, no doubt.

“I'm curious,” the red-eyed man said, strolling to the side, gaze fixed on Endo. “What's got you so loyal to Aclima? You can't seriously think that brat would make a good Supreme, could you?”

Endo’s reply was simple and true: “I swore an oath.”

Gregori raised an eyebrow. “And what oath was that?”

“An oath that is none of your business, Gregori Hazzard,” Endo said. “I shall not hand you daggers with which to chip at my morale, and a blackguard like you would not understand loyalty no matter how much I tried to explain.”

“Loyalty?” Gregori said, cocking his head. “That's kinda weird, though, right? My commander's meant to be Atoy Muzazi. Aren't I just being loyal to him right now?”

“He gives you your orders, true,” Endo said. “But you are sworn to the service of the Supreme Heir.”

Gregori snapped his fingers. “And Atoy Muzazi's the Supreme Heir now, so I guess I'm very loyal, huh?”

Endo pulled his sword back, silver Aether broiling around him. “He is a usurper,” he hissed. “And you are but his dog. Fear not, however… I shall put you down promptly.”

Gregori narrowed his eyes at the display of righteous anger: “Oh? Did I chip at that morale a little after all?”

“Oathsworn!”

The glowing chains appeared once more -- but this time, they did not bind or pull anything. Instead, as they manifested, they wrapped themselves around the blade of Endo's broadsword. Layers upon layers of them, so dense that no gaps existed, so massive their number that the sword became a club five times its former size in an instant.

Gregori’s eyes widened. This, at least, it seemed he hadn't anticipated.

He didn't have long to savour the surprise. With a mighty roar, Endo swung his weapon -- the size and speed of the club enough to demolish the entire room as it swept forth. Pillars were shattered one after another -- and even as Gregori leapt backwards, the air pressure alone was enough to send him smashing through the wall, leaving a sizable hole.

Endo wasn't done. He understood perfectly well that Aclima was Hazzard’s true target. If he let the miscreant out of his sight, he would no doubt resume his pursuit of the true Heir.

Banishing the chains from his sword, Endo used Bonds of Fealty to launch himself through the hole in the wall, tucking in his arms so that he could fit. Like an armoured missile he hurtled forth into the next room -- and a chain pulled him towards the ceiling, just out of reach of Gregori's next blow.

Gregori clicked his tongue as he saw Endo land amidst the rafters. This time, he hadn't reshaped one of his limbs in order to attack. He'd taken hold of a huge chunk of rubble and folded it using his abilities, forming a crude battle-axe.

It was hardly the sharpest weapon, but when infused with Aether, it would surely suffice to take a head off.

Endo inspected their new battlefield. They'd landed in one of the more prominent exhibits in the Victor-House -- containing the supposed corpse of the mightiest Gene Tyrant, Otrera. It was said that when Azez the Absolute had finally burnt away Otrera’s consciousness after three days of battle, the Gene Tyrant's corpse had engorged and spread to form a most hideous grave. Looking at it now, Endo couldn't deny that assessment.

A castle of bone was spread out below him, taking up the majority of the massive circular chamber. Dozens of rib-cages -- the smallest among them the size of a car -- and hundreds of grinning skulls, staring sightlessly into the night. Thousands of spinal cords formed a knobbly ground, indistinct spikes and limp fur protruding from every gap in the vile construction.

Funnily enough, a path had been set up so that visitors could be taken on a guided tour through the carcass, but Endo couldn't imagine willingly stepping foot inside such an evil thing.

He stood up straight, sword in one hand, looking down at Gregori Hazzard. The paper-man stared back up at him.

“Just so you know,” Hazzard said, voice snide. “It's nothing personal. I've got nothing against you or that brat. It's just that I can't make my dream come true if I'm not on the side of a winning Supreme.”

“Your dream?” Endo shifted his stance slightly.

“You interested?”

An obvious tactic to make Endo lower his guard. “Hardly,” he snorted.

Gregori shrugged lightly. “Worth a try…” he sighed -- and the room exploded into violence once again.

Hazzard launched himself up to meet Endo, his body a dervish of blade-limbs, and Endo swung his sword to meet him. Sparks made fireworks as steel met paper. There, atop the building’s skeleton above the corpse's skeleton, they danced -- blazing points of white and silver Aether flowing across the rafters.

In terms of speed, Gregori was far superior to Endo, but the knight was able to compensate with Bonds of Fealty. If a chain pulled at an arm, his strikes could be accelerated. If a chain pulled him backwards, he could dodge a lethal blow.

Hazzard folded and unfolded himself again and again as he struck at the knight from all angles. Axes became swords became scythes became spears, each of them constantly striking, each of them probing for any gap in Endo's defences. The Silversaint understood now that Hazzard had surely been holding back -- this speed was far beyond what he'd used in his earlier attacks.

Before, he had been testing Endo's reaction speed. Now, he sought to conquer it.

A fire started below, lit by the sparks that rained down from their clash, but neither stopped to notice it. That was not an option. Their attention was focused entirely on each other. In a bout between opponents of this level, the first mistake would be fatal…

…but mistakes are inevitable.

It was the simplest thing that took Endo Silversaint's head. Gregori swung his arm as it refolded, and -- predicting the limb would become an axe -- Endo pulled his sword up with Bonds of Fealty to block. He hadn't been wrong: the limb did indeed become an axe, hurtling towards Endo's quick defence, white Aether burning along its blade.

However… that was only for a moment.

“Paper…” Hazzard breathed. “....Moon.”

Before the blow could make contact, Gregori's entire body folded and reshaped itself -- becoming a massive, razor-sharp shuriken. It was too late for Endo to adjust his movements further. He had already committed to a fruitless defence.

There was a screech of metal as Gregori's spinning form sliced through Endo's armour -- and so it was that the knight’s head was torn from his body.

“Well,” said Gregori, holding the helmet up by the plume as he unfolded his body. “I was sort of expecting this, truth be told.”

He shook the helmet up and down, listening to the rattling.

“With guys like you, who can use tricks with the environment, the best strategy is to constantly attack. You're so busy deflecting my strikes that you can't spare any focus to set up complex manoeuvres with your chains. Then, once you're used to my rhythm, I change it and catch you out. I've killed plenty of people with that same kind of trick.”

He turned his head to look back at the sight of his attempted murder.

“And…” he finished. “To tell the truth, I was sort of expecting this as well.”

Endo Silversaint was still standing there. Even with his head severed, he remained standing on the rafters, sword held in stable hand. The black hole of Silversaint's neck seemed to stare at Gregori like a single dark eye.

The armour was empty.

For a moment, the decapitated armour grasped at empty air where it's head had been, body language full of confusion and terror.

“W-What?” came Endo's sourceless voice, trembling. “My… where's my…?! What happened?! What happened to --”

Then, his arms fell slack, and he spoke again:

“Bonds… of Fealty.”

Endo Silversaint's voice had changed. Gone was the firm dignity of a chivalrous knight. Instead, his voice was hoarse metal -- iron scraping against raw flesh, cold fury barely contained by a cage of steel. Perhaps that was still in some way a righteous fury, but still… that voice was full of malice.

A white chain appeared, linking the empty helmet Gregori was holding to the empty armour standing before him. With a vicious tug, the helmet was pulled from Gregori's grasp and reattached to the hollow armour. Endo reached up with a gauntleted hand and pushed down on the top of the helmet, slotting it back into place.

It was as if the injury had never even happened -- and, really, Gregori supposed that it hadn't. His heart ached to see it.

“You saw…” the Silversaint rasped. “...didn't you, Hazzard?”

“Obviously I saw,” Gregori put a hand on his hip. “Is that a canned response? What are you really, anyway -- an automatic?”

The knight's stance didn't so much as twitch. “Self-Aware Aether Armament… designated Silversaint. Personality simulation… has been terminated.”

Gregori whistled. “Fancy.” He cocked his head. “If you've tossed away your personality, though, doesn't that mean you've lost your Aether?”

“The underlying consciousness… is intact,” the Silversaint spat. “‘Endo’ Silversaint is mere camouflage. The facsimile of a knight of honour. A parody of Atoy Muzazi.”

“I see,” Gregori clasped his hands behind his back, folding them into blades while they were out of sight. “So you're not human at all, really, are you? Who's controlling you, Hapgrass?”

“There is no reason to answer that. There is no benefit… to your continued existence.”

Well, Gregori could see where this was going.

“Die.”

The Aether Armament launched itself forward.

Up to this point, it had fought while doing it's best to fulfil the role of an honourable knight. As such, it had made combat decisions that, while not bad, were not the best. Honorbound strikes and honorbound guards.

That wasn't the case anymore.

The Silversaint unleashed a relentless and ruthless flurry of blows, passing its sword from hand to hand as it struck at Gregori with inhuman strength. Gregori's specialty wasn't defence in the first place -- and so he chose to evade, folding and unfolding his body out of the way of attacks. Right now, against this method of assault, this was his best option -- if he tried to escape completely, he'd open himself up to an attack.

Of course, as the Silversaint had said, it was not an automatic. There was no guarantee it would keep doing the same thing forever.

The Silversaint tossed its sword up into the air, the weapon spinning end over end as it rose. Gregori's eyes flicked up instinctively to track it -- and in that moment, the Silversaint lunged forwards. That second of distraction had been a second too long.

“Bonds… of Fealty!”

Chains wrapped themselves around its fists like knuckledusters, and the Silversaint unleashed a flurry of devastating punches against Gregori, faster and more agile than any boxer. Cruel iron fists smashed into Gregori faster than he could dodge -- and with a final haymaker to the chin, Gregori Hazzard was sent flying off the rafters.

It was infusion alone that saved him.

His time in the Special Officers Commission, his time in the Honest Men… they had forged good instincts. Right before that final blow had hit, Gregori had focused all his infusion into his chin, a pinpoint defence that would have proved fatal if his hunch had been off. Only because of that was he able to remain conscious.

“Paper Moon!”

Gregori refolded his arms into flat shapes like wings, turning his fall into a glide. He swooped down into the frozen carcass of the greatest Gene Tyrant, eager to put distance between himself and his opponent, but --

“There's… no… ESCAPE!”

The Silversaint would not let him go so easily. As he descended into the massive corpse, the Silversaint pursued, running on all fours as it jumped from rib to rib after him. All the supposed dignity of a knight had truly been thrown away. This was a monster after him now.

Seeing that his escape route was about to be cut off, Gregori tried to veer into a turn -- but the beast was too fast for him.

Each movement was accompanied by a flash of steel silver. The Silversaint seized hold of Gregori's leg once more, slammed him into the ground -- and then pounced on him, metal hands wrapped around his throat. There, in the alcove that had once contained Otrera's heart, Gregori Hazzard wrestled with death.

It took all of his strength, and most of his Aether, to just barely pry the Silversaint's fingers away from his neck -- but he managed it. He bought himself the tiniest freedom to breathe, and the tiniest freedom to speak.

“I want…” he gasped. “...to ask you something.”

The Silversaint sneered. “There is no reason… for me ever to share combat information with the likes of you.”

Paper Moon.

Gregori Hazzard was a troublesome one.

White Aether flared around him as he folded the ground the two of them were wrestling on, destabilising the Silversaint's grip further -- and then kicked hard against the knight's chest plate with a pinpoint strike, sending it flying backwards. As the Aether Armament landed on its feet, no worse for wear, Gregori rolled into a kneeling position.

“It's not that,” Gregori said, massaging his neck with one hand. “I just want to know… how does it feel?”

“...What?”

“When I kicked you just now,” Gregori continued, a strangely anxious energy leaking into his body language. “How did it feel? Did it hurt? Did you imagine what the pain was like? Or was it just… was it just information, that you could do what you wanted with?”

Pathetic.

“You already know this won't work, Hazzard… there is no reason to tell you that.”

“Right, right,” Gregori quietly nodded, hair hanging over his face. “It's just that… well, it's sort of embarrassing, but…”

He looked up, and his crimson eyes were almost sparkling with sickly enthusiasm.

“Well… I guess I'm kinda jealous of you.”

That, the Silversaint had not expected. It cocked its helmet, plume flopping like a ponytail. “Jealous?”

Slowly, Gregori pulled himself up off the ground, arms swaying limply. His gaze remained fixed on the Silversaint, though. Was this some kind of trick? Was he baiting the Silversaint to come in closer?

For the time being, the best move would be to observe. The Silversaint gripped its broadsword in both hands.

“Yeah…” Gregori said softly. “There's nothing human about you at all, is there? Not really. Pain and suffering… living and dying… happiness and sorrow… you don't have to worry about any of it. You've escaped all that. Ah… damnit, I am jealous… it really is embarrassing…”

The man was just rambling to himself now.

“What is your point?”

Gregori Hazzard kept talking, head down, but the Silversaint didn't know whether that was a response to what it had just said or not. “I knew someone,” Hazzard said. “Years ago… not exactly like you, but someone who wasn't human either. We were partners for a while. I don't think she thought much of me, but the things she could do… the things she could be… beyond anything I could have imagined. Marie Hazzard. Do you know her? You've probably heard her name at some point. The first name, I mean. I probably shouldn't spill this so easily, but… she was a Gene Tyrant, you know? The very last of them…”

“Enough of this,” the Silversaint scoffed, taking a step forward. “I've no interest in your tepid life story, Hazzard.”

“She died…” Gregori murmured, hair hanging over his face. “A few years ago now… on Panacea… I heard she died, and I… and I just had this thought…” His arms swayed, left to right, right to left, as he took a step forward as well. “Ah, I couldn't stop thinking about it… again and again… that… that…”

He looked up.

“That thing belonged to me.”

It was a feral sort of stillness that possessed the face of the man before the Silversaint. A snake in the moment before it struck. A lion in the moment before it pounced. But somehow… somehow worse, somehow impure. There was a hollow hunger there. Unlike the whims of beasts, it was not something that could be sated.

Gregori Hazzard's voice was cold as ice as he hissed: “I gave her my name. I gave her my face. And what do I get in return? Nothing. Nothing but false hope. Having to look at the sort of freedom I could never have.”

It was curious.

When the Silversaint ceased personality simulation, all of its emotions save for those helpful in combat seemed to disappear. They weren't erased, per se, but they were suppressed to such a degree that they might as well have been. Even if some tiny trace of sorrow or joy or longing remained in the Silversaint's heart, it was minute enough to be invisible.

Which was why it was curious. Right now, the Silversaint could feel a distinct sense of disgust towards the thing standing before it.

“You are mad.”

Gregori looked up, his eyes focusing, as if remembering for the first time in a while that the Silversaint was still here.

“Mad?” he muttered, dangerously soft.

Gregori Hazzard smiled, and Gregori Hazzard laughed.

“Sure!” he cried, spreading his arms wide as he gestured to the carcass-land around him. “If I'm mad, then here is my madness! We'd done it! We'd escaped these disgusting fucking cages of being human, and what do we do?! We lock ourselves back in!”

“You wish to become a Gene Tyrant?”

“I want out,” Gregori snarled, tugging at his collar like he was trying to rip his shirt open. “Out, out. I want out of this disgusting fucking body. I want out of this disgusting fucking species. People look at these things, these Gene Tyrants, and they either hate them or they love them. That's wrong, that's gross. If you see something that much greater than you, you shouldn't love it or hate it. You should become it, you should tear it open and wear it's skin until it's yours, until you're it.”

The Silversaint listened to Gregori's rant in silence -- and it was only when he stopped to breathe that it raised its sword above its head once more.

“You cannot be allowed to live,” it said simply. “Oathsworn!”

The sword erupted into silver chains once more, illuminating the room, and the Silversaint brought the shining blade down towards Gregori’s head.

But…

“You showed me something good…” Gregori breathed. “...so I’ll repay the favour.”

He looked up, the blade an inch from his forehead.

“The Unfolded World.”

“My ability, Paper Moon,” Gregori said casually, returning his face to its usual mask, returning his hands to their usual pockets. “Allows me to fold and reshape anything I infuse however I like. I mean, I say that, but it’s not the whole truth, you know?”

He walked along the calcified flesh of the strongest Gene Tyrant, looking up towards the ceiling.

“I mean, I say all that, but it’s not 100% accurate. I can reshape things to a degree. An arm into a sword, or a car into a paper aeroplane -- but I’m still just manoeuvring the original object, right? There’s limits to it, and I kinda hate things that are limited.”

The Silversaint’s metal legs dangled in the air.

“So after I parted ways with that thing I told you about, I started to work on a new ability,” Gregori continued. “The idea was to create a new fold in something, right? A non-existent sort of fold… it’s a difficult one to explain. So then, when I unfold it, I’m creating something new, entirely new.”

The Silversaint’s arms twitched, all but locked in place.

“I wanted to make it so I could reshape the world however I like, create anything I like…”

The Silversaint stared helplessly down at its foe.

“...but in the end…”

Gregori stopped.

“...all I could manage were blades.”

All around them, the corpse of the Gene Tyrant had changed -- and the surrounding chamber, too. Nearly every inch of available space had erupted into sharp thin spikes, like a colony of sea urchins, impaling the Silversaint from every angle. Spikes of bone and spikes of steel and spikes of brick and spikes of glass, holding it up on high, keeping it trapped in a prison of blades.

Again, it twitched, but that was all it was able to do.

“Thanks for letting me talk,” Gregori smiled thinly. “I don’t get a chance to open up often. See you around.”

As though they were just friends who’d met on the street, Gregori turned on his heel and began to walk away.

“Where…” the Silversaint groaned. “...are you going?”

Gregori glanced over his shoulder. “Did you forget? I’m going to go kill that brat Aclima. Don’t worry…” he smirked. “...against Hadrien, it’ll be a mercy killing.”

Endo Silversaint was nothing but a facade. A mask that had temporarily believed itself to be real. It protected Aclima because that was the directive it had been given. If it was ordered to kill Aclima, it would have done so without hesitation.

There were limits to its orders, though. In a situation like this, where its own existence was at stake, the correct course of action would be to stay put and await retrieval. It had already been defeated. There was no purpose in provoking a final blow.

It knew that to be true, but…

I’m going to go kill that brat Aclima.

…but for some reason…

I’m going to go kill that brat Aclima.

…for some reason…

I’m going to go kill that brat Aclima.

…the correct course of action had changed.

The Silversaint tore itself free from the spikes with a bestial roar, shredding its armour and sending scraps of metal flying in every direction. Silver chains pulled together what little of the armour survived, and it was Bonds of Fealty alone that kept the Silversaint’s body intact as it landed on the floor. It had so many holes that the scenery behind it was visible from every angle, and only one arm and one leg remained, such as they were.

This body would not last more than a few seconds… but the Silversaint could move fast enough for that. A chain of light pulled its discarded sword to its remaining hand, and it swung the weapon with all its strength.

“HAZZARD!”

Gregori just turned, looked at him with those dull red eyes, and sighed.

“Oh,” he said, distinctly disappointed. “You’re human after all.”

Pale skin turned white and dry…

“Gross.”

…and the Silversaint felt the final grasp of something almost inhuman.