Aetheral Space

Seven Years Ago…

It was freezing on the shuttle.

Dragan Hadrien wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm, even as his heart thundered in his chest. The jacket he'd been given at the recruitment station hung limp from his form, slightly too big, providing little protection. When he breathed, a cold mist rose from his mouth, but that was no bother.

He was used to worse.

As the shuttle -- one of many -- zoomed through the sky, Dragan cast a glance back at the planet where he'd spent his entire life. Already, the breather city he'd grown up in had vanished into the blackened clouds. Good riddance. If he never saw this place again, it would be too soon.

In the end, he hadn't told Fix about his intentions of leaving. There hadn't been a reason to. They weren't family, and there was no need for the bastard to know what Dragan was doing. Hopefully, that rocky face was another thing he'd never see again.

He wrapped the jacket tighter against his body, doing his best not to shiver. Throughout the shuttle, the other young recruits were getting to know each other -- babbling excitedly and filling the ship with noise. Ugh.

Let the future grunts have their fun, Dragan supposed. Unlike them, he was on a fast-track to a cushy position in the AdminCorps. The merits of being a Cogitant of consequence, he supposed.

As the ship finally left Crestpoole’s diseased atmosphere, Dragan found his gaze drifting to the window once again. The dark smog of the Crestpoole clouds had been replaced by a true void -- pure black in every direction, a night without end, an infinite ocean of ink. But that wasn't what grabbed Dragan's attention.

What did that were the stars.

In the breather city, all light was artificial, all air recycled. The idea of a sun was a bad joke, the closest thing a pale glow through the clouds.

Quite often, Dragan would stand on one of Breather 19's balconies and stare up, trying to see them. He'd read about them in books, seen them in videographs - these things called stars. Lights that made themselves.

Back home, he never saw a thing. For all he knew, these things called stars were pure fiction. For all he knew, the world that he saw was all there was.

But still … stars burned all by themselves, perpetual, never needing anyone or depending on anyone. There wasn't a thing in the world that could hurt them.

And they shone so bright … like nothing else in the universe. Bright enough to light up the dark. Dragan Hadrien had thought that he would quite like to be a star.

Now, though… finally… he could see them, see them clearly, twinkling against the darkness. All around him, like they had climbed out of his dreams and painted the skies. The cold breath lingered against Dragan’s lips… but a smile did not arrive there.

Oh, Dragan Hadrien blinked. I thought they'd be brighter.

AETHERAL SPACE

ARC 13

PART 5: SUPREMACY

Eion Stenhouse waited for history to unfold.

As Special Envoy to the Body, he'd had his pick of the litter when it came to observation booths for the final match -- and he'd made his choice well. Comfy seating, automatic servants, and a splendid view of the entire arena. Eion sipped his wine as he looked at the empty rectangle below, waiting for the participants to appear.

On one side, there was Maizer Dragan Hadrien -- the so-called Shooting Star. Maizer Mors was in good with him, so it was in Eion’s best interests for Hadrien to win. Of course, that didn't mean he could do anything to make that happen. At this point, everyone watching was nothing but a gambler…

…especially with the other contestant being such an unknown quantity.

Maiz Aclima, the only daughter of Kadmon the Indolent. She was young, but Eion had heard on the grapevine that she possessed a truly atrocious Aether ability. Perhaps that could turn the tide in her favor? Fate adored an underdog, after all.

Whatever the case, all there was to do now was sit and watch -- and that was an experience Eion Stenhouse intended to enjoy.

He raised his glass to his lips once more…

…only to pause as the doors slid open behind him.

He turned his head, ready to complain to whoever had invaded his privacy, only for the words to die on his tongue when he saw who it was. Slowly, he put his wine down on the table before him. Swallowing, he steadied himself, forcing his body into a state of apparent calm.

“What are you doing here, Rachel?” he asked as casually as he could.

The Shepherdess smiled back at him. She had a plastic bag in her hand, and raised it with a cheeky grin on her face. “I brought snacks,” she said cheerfully. “Mind if I watch the finals from here?”

He took a deep, tense breath through his nose. “Can't someone like you get their own observation booth?”

“Of course I can,” the Shepherdess replied, stepping into the room as if he'd agreed. “But I don't like having my names on things, you know that. Move up, I wanna sit down.”

Slowly, Eion acquiesced -- sliding down the length of the couch and giving her room to sit next to him. Humming happily to herself, she rummaged around in her bag and tossed him a can of juice. Wine forgotten, he popped the cap and took a sip.

Roriberry. His favourite. Of course.

He turned his gaze to the window, looking blankly ahead. “You seem in good spirits.”

“I am,” the Shepherdess replied, eating some chips. “It's been a great Dawn Contest. A little sketchy at some points, but we made it to the end, right?” She nudged him with an elbow. “Right?”

Don't touch me. That's someone else's skin you're wearing. Someone who never existed.

When Eion Stenhouse had first met this woman, he'd known her as Rachel -- the adopted daughter of one of his father's colleagues. They'd played together, gone through school together, grown up together -- or, rather, he'd grown up with her. She'd led him by the hand to the position he was in now.

And why?

The Shepherdess put her feet up on the table.

For such easy convenience.

“Are you in a better mood now?” the pale young man asked. “Sometimes, when we find ourselves in a tough spot, closing our mouths and calming down can do a world of good.”

“Who are you?” Ruth repeated, her voice lower. The claws of her Direwolf gauntlets gleamed menacingly in the light. The young man's black pupils flicked down to look at them.

He tapped a finger to his cheek. “You're sad because I'm not the Shepherdess, aren't you?”

“That's not the word I'd use.”

He chuckled lightly. “Haha, you're so funny. I sort of wanted to meet you, actually, so I set up a scenario I didn't think you could resist. You expected to find the Shepherdess here, right? Sorry. She wouldn't be so obvious.”

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, then? You work for her?”

The smile dropped from the young man's face, and the air around the two of them seemed to turn cold. For a moment, Ruth was reminded of another horrible feeling -- one that took her a moment to identify. That night on Elysian Fields, when she'd felt the eyes of the Supreme on her… but slightly, subtly different.

Back then, she had felt Kadmon’s attention, but it had been a distant and impersonal thing. She had been one ant among many. There hadn't been any great malice there.

But this time? This time she could feel the air sneering at her.

Something evil was standing before her.

“No,” the pale man said, seriously. “I don't work for the Shepherdess. Please don't ever suggest such a thing again.”

“Who are you, then?” Ruth asked quietly, her throat dry.

“My name is Niain, friend,” he put a hand to his chest, his gentle smile returning. “I've found myself sympathetic to your cause, and I want to lend a helping hand.”

“You want to help me kill the Shepherdess?” Ruth's voice was full of doubt.

“Is it that weird?” Niain cocked his head playfully. “You've seen her. You've experienced her. I'm sure you can surmise she's good at getting people to dislike her. I dislike her just as much as you do… maybe even more, haha.”

“...ggh…”

Ruth's gaze drifted to the dark corner of the room, where the sound had come from, and her eyes widened. There was a man sitting in a chair there. At first, she thought he was bound to the chair -- but no, he was bound together.

The man's skin was drooping and sloughing away from his body, kept in place only by a series of oddly organic black bands. One of his eyes had wizened and turned black, like a raisin, while the other trembled beseechingly in its socket. A half-collapsed jaw twitched, an incoherent and barely audible moan oozing from his open throat.

“Who’s he?” Ruth demanded. “What's wrong with him?”

Niain turned to look at the man as if remembering he was there for the first time. “Oh, you don't recognise him?” he asked, surprised. “This is Brett del Boros -- he was doing the commentary for the Dawn Contest until pretty recently. It's thanks to him I've been able to keep track of the Shepherdess' comings and goings. A silver eye is a pretty useful thing to have, right?”

Ruth didn't know this man. She hadn't paid attention to whatever commentary was played over the Dawn Contest. But even if she didn't know him, even if he didn't know her, there was no human worth the name who could look at a sight like this and not feel fury.

“What’ve you done to him?!” she barked.

“Well,” Niain laughed lightly, rubbing the back of his head with a hand. “It was actually sort of a team effort, if you're that curious. Originally, I had the Forest of Sin moving him around -- but after Paradise Charon passed away, I had to take over myself. As you can see, it's a little gross, but there's always some of that when a starship gets a new captain, right?”

Ruth glared at him, her claws ready. She could be upon him in a moment, she knew, stabbing these claws into his body -- but surely he knew that as well. There'd be countermeasures.

And besides…

“What is it you want from me?” she whispered, throat dry.

“I told you,” his kind smile deepened. “I want to help you kill the Shepherdess, silly.”

A dull weight settled in Ruth's stomach.

This person, this Niain… if he was telling the truth, he was someone who hated the Shepherdess just as much as her. Someone who wanted her dead just as much as Ruth did. He'd been able to arrange all of this, he'd been able to set things up and lure her here… someone with those kinds of resources could be very, very useful.

But… the man in the chair.

But… her revenge.

But… the Shepherdess.

But… Ellis, Alice, Rex.

“What do you say?” Niain asked.

Bloody light cast its glow over Ruth's face as she wrestled with the answer in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut. She clenched her fists. Finally, she opened her mouth to answer --

-- only to be interrupted.

There was a sing-song beat as the Arena’s announcement system activated -- and a moment later, a smooth computerized voice made a proclamation.

“Attendants and participants.

“Please be aware of a change in the upcoming match. The Supreme Heir, Aclima, has elected to invoke ‘proxy law’ and bequeath her title and rights to another. As such, the final match of the Dawn Contest will be between Dragan Hadrien… and Atoy Muzazi.”

Niain’s smile twisted into a wry smirk.

“Oh my,” he giggled. “She'll hate that.”

Eion Stenhouse inched away as the space next to him broiled with fury.

The Shepherdess' eyes were bloodshot. Her fingers twitched, crushing the chip held between them. She glared forward, her expression almost animalistic, as she digested the news the announcement had just brought.

“Huh…?!” she snarled, her voice darkened and deepened by outrage and disgust.

Wu Ming put his feet up and laughed as he watched the videograph screen explode into confetti of talking heads and breathless headlines. His disciple had certainly grown bold in his absence -- as had Atoy Muzazi. He hadn't thought the swordsman had it in him.

“Ethically, it's probably a little shitty,” he chuckled, raising his glass. “But it's a ten-outta-ten for the spectacle!”

Bruno didn't react as the news spilled over him, even as the crowd he'd infiltrated exploded into excitement. It didn't matter. Whoever Dragan would be fighting, it didn't matter.

His gaze was fixed on the empty arena before him, at the flat space where the final two contestants would soon clash. All Bruno had to worry about was finding his chance. His chance to jump in, get face-to-face with Dragan…

…and drag them all out of this absurdity.

When Dragan Hadrien had heard the news about Atoy Muzazi, about Aclima, he had to admit he'd felt a moment of anxiety. The guaranteed victory he'd arranged was no longer quite so guaranteed. Muzazi had become strong -- anyone who'd watched the previous matches would be able to tell that. There was a good chance that he'd be able to win.

Dragan Hadrien had felt that fear, real and true…

…but that had been more than an hour ago.

Now, he was as calm and tranquil as a monk. He truly was grateful that he'd managed to enlist Anya Hapgrass’ assistance in this Dawn Contest. If not for her, he'd never have received this advanced warning of the switch, and he'd never have been able to make the preparations he needed.

Everything was still slotting into place for him. That was the only thing that mattered.

The only one who decides what happens is me.

He threw a white cloak over his black bodysuit, already mid-stride towards the exit to the throne room. The Branches of the Tree of Might lined up on either side of the door, forming a corridor of bodies, bowing to Dragan as he passed.

He didn't look at them, though. His sapphire eyes remained fixed right forward. His was a gaze forever on the future: that was the image he intended to convey.

“Zero Branch,” Xander said, bowing lower than any other. “We await your return.”

Dragan deigned to glance at him.

“That's the last time you'll need to call me by that title, Xander. By the time I return…”

He threw his arm out as he strode through the doors, spreading his pale cloak wide.

“...I shall already be Supreme.”

The noise that filled the Arena of the Absolute was a mixture of jubilation and derision -- aimed at both participants.

Few could deny that Dragan Hadrien was powerful -- his performances against Paradise Charon and PALATINE had more than proven that. However, the numerous matches he had effectively skipped in this Dawn Contest -- subterfuge clear for all to see -- suggested a cowardly streak that many traditionalists did not approve of. His association with the Tree of Might had hushed those doubters slightly… but not enough that they couldn't be heard at all.

So, cheering and booing.

Atoy Muzazi, on the other hand, had been hugely popular. His conduct and strength were what people liked to see in a true warrior of the Supremacy, and his hard-fought matches had won him the adoration of the people. That had been before his defeat against PALATINE, however, and before he had suddenly reappeared. To those watching, the sudden replacement of the Supreme Heir by her chief bodyguard was more than a little suspicious. Already, rumors of a coup were rampant.

So, cheering and booing.

Roughly a fifty-fifty split for both sides… perfect.

The two finalists walked down the length of the arena, coming to meet in the middle of the flat plane. There would be no special environment this time, no gimmick, no artificial landscape to be ruined. Only these two and the power that dwelled within them… doing their best to kill each other.

They couldn't have looked more different.

Dragan Hadrien's white cloak seemed to shine in the light as it fluttered in the wind around him, a stark contrast with the black bodysuit he wore underneath. Cold blue eyes glinted, framed by silver hair that waved through the air like a second radiant garment. Inhuman in his cleanliness, almost angelic. To be frank, it looked as if he'd never seen a speck of dirt in his life.

Atoy Muzazi was quite the opposite.

It was as if he'd been dragged through all the pits of hell on his way here. His clothes were disheveled and filthy, his face covered in dirt. A combination of sweat and rain and god-knows-what dripped off of him, leaving a repugnant trail as he moved. He glared with his one good eye, the expression more like a rabid animal than a person. Already, he was preparing the Radiants in his hands, ready to launch forward the instant the match began.

The two faced off.

Dragan smirked humourlessly. “You've seen better days, Atoy Muzazi.”

Muzazi said nothing, just continuing to heave out haggard breaths.

The voice of the announcer boomed out from above, drowning out the noises of the crowd.

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“ONE!”

An instant of silence, and then…

“BEGIN!”