Aetheral Space

Skipper glared at the massive bull-hologram that towered over them, squinting slightly as the false smoke from its flaming eye sockets flowed throughout the room.

"Don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said, voice light but expression unchanged.

"You believe correctly," the bull - the Sponsor of War, it had called itself - intoned. "We have never met before - in this regard or any other. There's no need for such a frightening face - I mean you no harm. I represent Taldan's sponsors, and we are very much interested in the services you can provide."

Ruth furrowed her brow. "Taldan's sponsors?" she said. The sudden swerve of the situation was clearly a little too fast for her.

Skipper's eyes didn't shift from the Sponsor of War. "They're the money," he said, disdain dripping from his voice. "You're the guys squeezing this planet dry like a piece of fruit, yeah?"

Dragan shot Skipper a long-suffering glance - couldn't he meet anyone without making an enemy out of them? Especially when they were at that person's mercy?

"That's a … crude metaphor," the bull said, sniffing. "Yet, I must admit, not entirely inaccurate. I prefer to think of myself and my associates as managers - ensuring that this settlement can reach its full potential. We've invested a great deal of time, effort and, yes, money, in making sure that happens."

Skipper smiled a humourless smile. "I'm so happy for you."

Dir looked up from his desk, nervousness clearly visible on his face. He wasn't used to this person's presence, Dragan realized. This was someone many levels above him in the hierarchy - the boss of his boss of his boss. He'd only recently made his existence known to the security chief.

Before Skipper could continue his quest to antagonize every dangerous person he could find, Dragan spoke up. "You said you want the services we can provide," he said, trying to hide his own anxiety. "We've already done that - we got Roz for you guys. Nothing else was discussed."

The bull turned it's head to face him. Dragan resisted the very tempting urge to take a step back. Weakness would be the same as surrender in this scenario.

"That's true," the bull sighed. "If it were up to me, I would declare our business concluded with that service you provided."

Liar. Even through the voice modulation, it was obvious. And the bull knew it.

"But…" Skipper prompted.

"But," the bull snorted. "My associates are not as charitable, sadly. They consider the service you just completed to be more of an … audition, than the conclusion of our business. And an audition that you certainly passed with flying colours. They would like for you to take on a significantly larger task now."

Skipper stepped forward, past Dragan and Ruth, and strode right through the hologram as he crossed the room. He reached the far wall and sat down against it, slouching on the floor. The smirk that played across his lips was as irreverent as it got.

"We don't all get what we want, Mister Cow," he shrugged. "Tell your friends they need to put out a new job ad. I'm not biting."

At the desk, Dir visibly suppressed a wince, biting his lip. Dragan and Ruth glanced at each other as the bull stood there, silent. It very suddenly felt as if the whole room had become a bomb.

The Sponsor of War's smile could be heard in his voice. "I understand a friend of yours is currently in the hospital."

Skipper's eyes narrowed, and Dragan saw a subtle spark of involuntary green Aether run across his elbow. He remained on the floor, but the sheer pressure exuding from him made it feel like he was standing above everyone else in the room.

"I'll kill you," Skipper said softly. "You do anything to them, and I'll kill you. That's a promise."

The bull went on, unconcerned. "You're free to believe that. But even if you were to succeed in such an endeavour, the damage would already be done, wouldn't it? It would be easier and much less emotional for all of us to cooperate as friends from the beginning."

Dragan was glaring at the bull so hard it felt like his eyes would be squeezed out of his sockets, like toothpaste from a tube. If Skipper doesn't kill you, he thought. Then I will.

Still, he didn't say it. He wasn't strong enough to have that luxury. If he wanted to kill somebody like this, he'd wait until they were a corpse before letting them know about it.

Skipper slowly stood up. "Seems you've got this all figured out already," he said through gritted teeth. "What's the job?"

The answer wasn't especially a surprise. "Kill the Citizen."

"I'm no assassin," Skipper said, shaking his head.

A rumbling, warbled chuckle rang out from the bull - which quickly intensified into an amused laugh, made volcano-deep from the modulation.

"That wasn't a joke," Skipper said, eyes cold.

"I know, I know, my apologies," the bull replied, laughter trailing off but the amusement that fuelled it remaining. "I just find it interesting when people lie to my face like that - and without even blinking, too! You truly are an impressive man, Skipper."

Dragan glanced as Ruth took a step towards the bull. Her face, lit red by the burning hologram, was inquisitive, confused.

"Lie?" she said. "What lie?"

Skipper's eyes flicked from Ruth to the bull, and in them Dragan saw something new - fear. "Don't," he said softly, shaking his head.

The flames around the bull intensified, as if it was forming a temple around itself. It's half-burnt, hollow expression didn't change, but Dragan felt an undeniable smugness radiating from it.

It knelt down, so that it was face to face with Ruth, empty eyes staring into her golden ones. It leaned forward, as if sharing a secret with a friend.

"I said don't," snapped Skipper, fear being replaced with genuine anger. He took a step towards the bull, but the shackles binding his hands meant that he couldn't do anything to stop events.

Dir stood from his chair, looked for a moment like he would intervene, but at a glance from the bull he shut his mouth and sat back down.

"Tell me, my dear," the Sponsor of War whispered. "What do you know of the man called Skipper?"

Ruth's expression looked uncertain for a moment - but then it hardened, retreating back into a learned roughness. "He's my friend," she growled.

"You think you know him well, then?"

Even though Ruth's face remained unchanged, Dragan saw the muscles in her arm tense as she did her best to snap the shackles binding them - to no avail.

Giving up on the effort, she looked back up at the bull. "Better than anyone," she almost spat.

"What's his name, then?"

Ruth had no answer for that, nor did Dragan. The question must certainly have occurred to Ruth at some point - it had definitely occurred to Dragan - but you couldn't tell that from her face; the uncertainty there was as if Skipper's name was something she'd never even considered could exist.

Skipper's own face, visible through the semi-transparent bull, was deathly pale. It was as if someone had just shot him in the gut.

"You don't…" he choked out, bound hands visibly shaking.

"No, I don't know," the bull conceded, taking a step back from the shaken Ruth. "But it's an interesting question all the same, isn't it? What I do know, however, are the things you've done. Your crimes. Your … well, sins might be a tad subjective, but you understand my point."

Even with the further implied threat, Skipper noticeably calmed down a little at that. Still, though, his eyes were fury.

"You think you know what you're talking about," he said slowly. "But you don't."

And with that, he turned his back on the bull, closed his eyes.

"Do what you want, pal," he said, finally sounding like his normal self. "See if I care, yeah?"

"How noble," the bull chuckled. "If only you could have demonstrated such moral integrity thirty years ago."

Ruth stepped forward again, this time nearly passing through the front of the bull. "What are you talking about?!" she snapped.

"Ruth," muttered Dragan, grabbing at her arm. "Maybe we should all just calm down a little."

Dragan didn't quite understand what was happening, but what was clear was that this situation was rapidly getting out of control. New emotions were leaking into what had previously just been a tense negotiation. Before long, someone here would do something they would regret.

Still … he couldn't deny that he was curious as well.

Ruth shook his arm off her, glanced towards Skipper with a half-guilty look on her face - then turned back to the bull, eyes resolute.

"Tell me," she said, voice just as resolute. "It won't change a thing."

Dragan opened his mouth to offer some other protest, but no words came. He, too, glanced towards Skipper apologetically.

The flames coating the Sponsor of War settled at a low simmer. "You see, my dear," it said, voice nearly inaudible over the crackling wood. "Your good friend Skipper was here thirty years ago."

That wasn't much of a secret. Dragan almost laughed, only for the noise to die in his throat when the bull looked towards him.

"And when he came here last," the bull concluded. "He set this planet ablaze."

-

Thirty Years Ago…

The Widow checked herself in a broken shop-window as she passed by. Today was a big day, after all, and if it went wrong she wanted to leave a presentable corpse.

She frowned, put a hand to her hair. The brown locks had started turning grey - stress, that was what it was, all the damn stress. Her eyes were ringed with sleepless bags, brown pupils looking just as weary. She adjusted her cufflinks; the outfit she was wearing was something of a mix between a business suit and a dress. A horrifying expense, but it wasn't like she had anything else to spend her money on.

She'd looked better, but she'd also looked worse. Either way - if all went well, she wouldn't be seen.

With a rustle, she pulled the note she'd retrieved from her pocket.

meeting manger repairs 1715 in steadfast district. will pick up kid and wait for you there - Klaus

She sniffed. Klaus' handwriting was as messy as ever, but at least the message was communicated efficiently. With a tiny spark of frost-white Aether, she froze the note over - and with the slightest pressure of her fingers, shattered it into pieces.

Manger Repairs. From the information she'd looked up, that was only a few streets away. Their time on this backwards planet would finally be coming to an end.

The Widow tapped her silver cane against the ground as she walked, holding her other hand up to shield her eyes from the impertinent rays of morning sunlight that had managed to make their way through the spider-web city of Taldan. She didn't need the cane to walk, of course, but both the handle and the end had hidden blades that could be useful weapons in a pinch. It was the same with her gloves - if she applied some pressure at the wrist, that activated a stun-current inside the outer fabric that she could transmit via touch.

For the commander of Vantablack Squad, nothing was too paranoid.

She reached the building. It wasn't much to speak of - a tiny box-shaped garage, clearly abandoned months ago. The windows were boarded up, and rust had already begun it's assault upon the shutters.

The Widow reached down and pulled the shutter up with one hand, closing it as she ducked inside.

The inside of the repair shop was nearly as depressing as the outside - dark and dingy, with a ruined car gathering dust in the center of the room. Empty shelves - the tools they once held now looted - lined the walls, and a smashed screen on the wall was all that remained of the diagnostic station.

She clicked her tongue. Her father had been a mechanic, and he would have been driven to despair by a sight like this - if she hadn't killed him years ago.

There was a sniff from the darkness.

A light rushed towards her. Immediately, she stepped out of the way of the first throwing knife - before reaching out and catching the second between two fingers. The custom design of the knife was unmistakable - silver and curved like a crescent moon.

"Klaus," she snapped into the shadows. "It's me, you damn fool."

Klaus stepped out of the darkness, three more knives clutched in his shaking hand. An eyepatch covered his bad eye, but the other one was clearly visible - the blazing blue pupil a stark contrast to the shaggy black hair that hung over it. He scratched his arms as he approached, eye flicking all the way around the room.

"Can't be too sure," he said hurriedly, sniffing the air. "Could have been someone else - pretending to be you, you know. Had to make sure. I think it's you. You smell like people - where've you been?"

She really wasn't one to talk - not with her hidden arsenal - but Klaus' paranoia got tiring very quickly. She handed back the knife she'd grabbed and leaned to the side, on her silver cane.

"I had to make sure the TPF couldn't follow me, didn't I?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Led their stalkers on quite the merry chase. Where's Aoel?"

Klaus sniffed the knife before stuffing it back into its holster. "Aoel? Meeting with our contact. You said stalkers. Were you followed?"

Klaus' speaking was so fast it took the Widow a second to catch up with him. "As I said," she muttered, irritation creeping into her tone. "I lost them."

"Are you sure? Don't smell sure."

"I'm certain," she said, in a voice that permitted no argument. "Is the kid with you?"

Klaus breathed in heavy through his nose, nodding with such force that his hair flopped this way and that. "Mm-hmm, yeah, yeah. He's here."

Glancing around, the Widow spotted him. She wasn't sure if it was intentional or not, but the kid had an undeniable talent for making eyes pass over him - without Klaus' keen sense of smell, there was a good chance he could just wander off and they'd never notice.

The kid, as usual, was still - hugging his knees as he watched from the corner of the room, expression unreadable through his mass of scraggly long hair. His mouth noiselessly murmured - giving that same silent spiel to himself, no doubt. The Widow could read his lips:

A person's duty is to their nation. A nation's duty is to the advancement of said nation, and the glory thereupon. To attain glory is to fulfill duties and responsibilities. Being given responsibility is the proof of being human. Someone who disregards their duty is not human. Duty is something given to you by a nation. A person's duty is to their nation.

It went on and on like that, whenever the kid had a spare moment, with only the slightest deviances. To tell the truth, the Widow hadn't been especially keen on taking the kid on at first - but her superiors had insisted, and she'd never been one to question orders.

"I know you said you weren't followed," cut in Klaus, still fidgeting. "But, you know, that seems a little suspicious. I don't know. I-I've just got a bad feeling, you know? I don't like the vibes of this place. It's just, um, something to consider, you know?"

She walked over, ignoring Klaus' paranoid ramblings, and ruffled the kid's hair, bringing his silent speech to a sudden end.

"Hey, skipper," she said, ignoring the groan of protest. "How's it going?"

The kid didn't say anything - just growled without words. Still, he didn't really resist the attention. He wasn't exactly helpless, after all.

She took her hand away. Serious time.

"So," she went on. "You ready to kill a president?"

-

Dragan blinked as the image was projected on the wall - a young man charging across an elevated platform, pointing a finger towards an old man standing at a pedestal there. There was a hole in the elder's chest, like he'd been run through with a greatsword. The heart had without a doubt been demolished - near-instant death.

He looked from the young man to Skipper, and back again - Ruth mirroring him a second later. Then, he opened his mouth to speak:

"Oh, what the fuck."