Aetheral Space

Serena sighed dreamily as she watched the blender annihilate the egg she'd put in there.

"I love these things," she said, putting her face as close to the screeching blender as she could.

Again, Bruno tried to take back control in order to end the abomination against the culinary arts that was taking place in front of him, but it was no use. Serena's will to blend the egg was too strong. "Stop it," he forced out through gritted teeth. "If you break it, the hotel will make us pay for it."

They stood in the kitchen section of the hotel room Skipper had rented out for them all. The room wasn't that big - it was an open plan, with sleeping, relaxation, and cooking areas, separated only by different colours of the floor. They'd already dumped their sleeping bags in the sleeping area - Skipper had been too cheap to get them individual rooms - and the rest of the crew had gone out to get more food than what had originally been in the fridge.

Which left Serena with guard duty - and by extension, Bruno with babysitting duty.

"It's fine," said Serena, waving a hand dismissively. "Mr. Skipper has a load of money anyway. He'll just pay for it."

"He won't," said Bruno, speaking in the mind rather than with his mouth. "He'll make us pay for it - and he'll be mad."

"Mr. Skipper doesn't get mad," said Serena, again waving that damn hand. She truly just didn't care. "You worry too much."

Bruno sighed. There was no getting around this. This egg was going to get fucked up no matter what.

Serena continued watching as the egg's yellow yolk splattered against the sides of the blender, tiny cracking noises ringing out as fragments of the shell collided with the plastic. She giggled as the catastrophe ensued, cracks running over the blenders surface, thin lines of smoke belching out from the machinery.

There was a knock on the door.

Immediately, Bruno took control of the body - leaping back and putting himself into a combat stance. He ignored Serena's protests; if there was a threat, it was his job to defend the body until Serena could counterattack.

He poured his purple Aether into the air in front of him, partially solidifying and strengthening that air to create a forcefield. It was noticeable only by the slightest rippling.

The shield was big enough for Bruno's entire body to hide behind, so it wasn't very strong, but it'd be sturdy enough to withstand one or two Aether-infused shots and give Bruno a chance to run for it.

Whoever was at the door knocked again.

Skipper wouldn't have knocked - he had the room key. If it was Ruth or Dragan, they would have called for him after he didn't answer the first time. At any rate, they'd agreed that he'd receive a message on his script when they entered the hotel.

So it definitely wasn't a member of the crew.

"Who's there?" Bruno shouted out, keeping his body as still as possible. Room service? No - if that was the case, then they'd have already announced themselves as well. It was someone trying to be discreet.

There was a moment of silence. Then, a gruff voice rang out from beyond the door: "S4 Investigation Division. We have some questions for you."

Bruno tensed further, bringing his body lower to the ground, shrinking the forcefield to cover his new position. "You don't have to come in to ask questions," he called out. "Go ahead. Ask me from there."

Another pause from the door. There was a mumbling, too - the original speaker was conferring with another person, so there were at least two enemies.

He risked a glance backwards, towards the window. They had a balcony, so if it came down to it he could jump over to the next room and escape that way.

"We have a warrant," came the voice from the door. "If you don't open up, we'll be forced to break down the door."

Bruno gulped. This definitely wouldn't be ending peacefully, then. He'd have to use that escape route. Dispelling the forcefield, Bruno turned on his heel and ran straight for the -

"No!" cried out Serena, reasserting control. She charged towards the door, arms flailing. "If they break the door, Mr. Skipper will have to pay for it!"

"Idiot!"

Serena swung the door open, and blinked as a pair of plasmabows were pointed right at her face.

"Oh," she said.

-

"This place stinks," said Dragan, holding his nose as they walked through the busy Taldan streets. Cars zipped past overhead, and the walkways that they strolled on were packed with people.

Swarms of airborne drones passed overhead, both security and civilian, the disk-shaped machines chattering at each other in some kind of automatic-speak. Ground-based maintenance drones crawled over the walkways like hand-sized spiders, repairing any signs of damage that came up, no matter how miniscule.

"That's the smell of people, kiddo," said Skipper, stretching his new arm as he walked. Dragan shot him a glare; while he was walking carefree, Dragan and Ruth were stuck hauling the groceries.

"I'm from Crestpoole," snapped Dragan, holding a bag of fruit in his arms. "You know how many people they stuff into those breather cities? I know what people smell like. This is worse."

"I have to say, yeah," said Ruth - she was holding two bags in each hand with barely any effort. Sometimes, Dragan envied that kind of strength. "The place I grew up weren't exactly sterile either, but this is definitely worse."

"Wasn't," muttered Dragan.

"Hm?"

"You mean it wasn't sterile."

Ruth blinked. It was clear she had no idea what he was talking about. "Oh, yeah, cool," she said.

"Anyway," said Skipper, waving his new mechanical hand to punctuate his speech. "This place got so rich harvesting nendon gas from deep beneath the planet's surface - the stuff makes good fuel. It's no surprise the fumes from all that mining are a little, uh, pungent, you know?"

Dragan gave Skipper a glance. He sure seemed to know a lot about this planet for someone who'd only just arrived.

Skipper took in a deep breath through his nose. "Ah, get a whiff of that lungrot! Nothing like it."

As they walked back to the hotel, Dragan looked off to the side and saw quite a few people setting up stalls - and on many of the street corners, many straw effigies had been set up wearing business suits. There were firework installations, too, and huge red banners.

"Is there a party or something going on?" said Dragan, looking at the preparations as they passed.

"Oh!" said Ruth, following his gaze. "Yeah, I heard people talking about that. They're setting up a niain, I think."

Dragan furrowed his brow as they passed the corner. "The hell's a niain?"

Ruth grinned: she clearly liked the idea of being in a position to explain things. "You've never heard of it? It's like, ah, a party when someone dies."

"That's called a funeral."

"No, no," Ruth said, snapping her fingers as if trying to conjure an explanation inside her brain. "A funeral's for when you're sad that somebody died - a niain's for when you're happy about it. So, it's a party for when assholes die, I guess."

Dragan considered it. It sounded kind of morbid, but it also sounded like a pretty good time. He couldn't deny that he loved himself a bit of schadenfreude.

"It was originally a tradition from the Final Church's Superbian sect, if I remember right," said Skipper, running his hand over the railing as he talked. "But now we all get to enjoy the festival of gloating! Sharing is caring, right?"

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Did you pull that explanation from an encyclopedia?"

Skipper laughed heartily, puffing out his chest like a proud bird. "I'm what you call a man of the world, kiddo. Get a good look." His face suddenly snapped into seriousness. "Hold up a sec."

He thrust his arms out to his sides, blocking Dragan and Ruth's path. His eyes flicked around cautiously - and as Dragan followed that gaze, he too saw what Skipper had seen.

Until now, they'd just been moving with the crowd, not really watching the people they'd been walking alongside too closely. But now that the three of them stopped, the flow of the crowd was moving around them - and even with the grumbles of annoyance from the sudden roadblock, people were still moving.

Apart from seven people in the crowd around them - men in casual clothing, their eyes clearly focused on Skipper, Ruth and Dragan, who had come to a stop as well. Their hands were in their jacket pockets. Almost certainly holding weapons.

"What's going on?" whispered Ruth, nervous. It made sense - if something kicked off, she was in a bad position holding so many bags.

"Just chill," muttered Skipper, taking in the numbers and positions of the watchers around them. "Plainclothes, huh…?"

Plainclothes - a very telling word to use. "Are they security?" said Dragan quietly. "I was under the impression we hadn't committed any crimes yet."

"Well, you know," shrugged Skipper, clearly enjoying the fact that he had two shoulders again. "These things happen."

"They seem to happen a lot around you."

"Maybe not the best time," hissed Ruth. Dragan nodded in hasty agreement.

A muffled beep rang out from Skipper's coat pocket, barely audible over the crowd and - without taking his eyes off the men surrounding them - Skipper reached into his pocket and pulled out a script. He tapped the screen with a finger.

Looking over Skipper's shoulder, Dragan saw that a message had been sent to his script. The sender was listed as unknown, but the message read:

We have your comrade. Surrender peacefully. You will not be harmed.

Ruth turned pale as she saw the message, looked to Skipper with eyes as wide as saucers. She didn't say anything, but the fear was obvious on her face.

"They could be bluffing," whispered Dragan.

As if on cue, another message came through, with an image attached: a photo of Bruno sat in the backseat of a car, scowling at the camera. He didn't look hurt, but he definitely wasn't there willingly.

Don't play games, the message read. Car is waiting for you at nearest parking bay, black Cabriole.

Skipper sucked in air through his teeth, then glanced at Ruth and Dragan. Indeed, a Cabriole-model car was docked at the nearby parking bay, it's windows tinted and opaque.

"Well," he said reluctantly. "I guess we're going for a ride."

-

As they were led down the hallway of the security complex - not handcuffed, but with weapons in uncomfortable proximity - Dragan watched their captors closely.

Dragan wasn't that familiar with this planet, but from what he understood law enforcement on Taldan was provided by a company called Shooting Star Security Solutions. Frankly, he thought it seemed like a terrible idea to sell the right to detain citizens to the highest bidder, but he guessed it wasn't his place to judge - mostly because he was the one being detained.

The guards flanking them were holding plasmabows in their hands, the plasma inside their glass arrows glowing a soft orange. Their stance was cautious, but there wasn't enough resolution in it for this to be an execution. The guards truly were leading them somewhere that wasn't a body pit.

"How the hell did they catch you?" Dragan hissed to Bruno, who was walking alongside him.

"It wasn't my fault," he snapped. "I was about to get away. Ask Serena what happened."

Bruno's features softened, became Serena's. "It wasn't my fault, either!" she protested. "Bruno said if we broke something, Mr. Skipper would have to pay for it, so I couldn't let them break the door down!"

"Your concern for my wallet warms my heart, Ms. del Sed," said Skipper, leading the pack.

"Quiet." The guard next to him thumped him with the end of his plasmabow, and Skipper staggered forwards. Ruth stepped forward, growling from deep within her throat, but a firm pull back from Bruno stopped her from just jumping on the guy.

"It's cool, it's cool," said Skipper, recovering his balance. "Let's all just relax, yeah?"

The yellow dots on the visors of the other guards glanced towards each other - even without being able to actually see their eyes, their nervousness was obvious. It made sense - a person who could use Aether was often just as dangerous unarmed as otherwise.

Personally, Dragan had little doubt Skipper, Ruth, Bruno and Serena could dispatch these guards with ease. The prospect of him managing it gave him a little more pause, though.

They reached a large wooden door at the end of the hallway. A plaque above it read 'Grennis Dir - Section Commander'.

"He's expecting you," the guard who'd shoved Skipper said, indicating towards the door with his bow. Skipper nodded theatrically, reached out with his hands, and pushed the door open - striding through without even taking the time to check what was beyond it.

Dragan, Ruth and Bruno followed behind him.

The room was indeed an office - spacious but not gaudy, with the far wall being a window that looked out upon the landscape of huge buildings spearing up into the sky like great metal trees. There was a slight distortion to the glass - Dragan recognised it as being far beyond plasmaproof; likely you could survive a bomb going off in here.

The man sitting behind the desk at the head of the office was stocky but solid - and clearly a Pugnant, judging by the golden glint in his eyes and the fang that poked out of his mouth. Two prosthetic windpipes ran along the side of his neck, re-entering his body just underneath his jaw.

He smiled mirthlessly. "We meet at last, Mr. Skipper."

"Pleasure," said Skipper in a voice that suggested anything but. "What can I do for ya?"

The stocky man leaned over the desk, eyes flicking around the group in front of him, taking them in. "You seem like you wanna get right into it," he smiled thinly, speaking with a drawling accent. "Kinda anxious to get to it, huh?"

"It's up to you, pal."

The stocky man nodded. "Why don't you take a seat?" With a tap of a script on the desk, four automatic chairs hovered from the corner of the room and deposited themselves behind Dragan, Skipper, Ruth and Bruno.

Skipper sat down first, crossing his legs, and the others followed suit.

"Pretty sure we haven't met before," said Skipper, moving around in the chair, trying to get comfy.

"I'm the commander of these fine young men and women," the stocky man replied, nodding towards the guards still standing behind them. "I'm pretty sure my name's on the door - Grennis Dir."

Skipper grinned. "Never heard of you."

Couldn't he at least try not to antagonize the people holding them at gunpoint? Dragan shot Skipper a glare, which he of course ignored.

Dir steepled his fingers as he regarded Skipper. "Be that as it may, Mr. Skipper," he said. "I have certainly heard of you. You and your cohorts caused quite a stir last time you were here."

I fucking knew it.

Seeking further information, Dragan glanced at Ruth and Bruno. There was no recognition on their faces - whatever Skipper had done on Taldan, they hadn't been with him at the time.

"Well, you know," Skipper chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Youthful indiscretions."

"Mm," smiled Dir. "I know exactly what you mean. Like you said, these things happen, don't they?"

Skipper grinned. "Exactly!"

"Unfortunately," Dir went on. "In this case, those youthful indiscretions carry a sentence of thirty years hard labour."

Skipper's laughter trailed off into a bizarre choking sound. "T-Thirty minutes hard labour?" he said, clearly hoping that he'd just misheard - or, more likely, wanting to appear a fool.

Dir glared at him. "Thirty years."

"You mean thirty days, right?"

"Thirty years."

Skipper groaned, obviously realizing that he couldn't get out of this one by playing stupid. "Is it too late to say that I'm actually not Skipper?" he said, giving it one last go.

Dir raised an eyebrow. "It is."

"Shit," said Skipper, folding his arms.

"Yes."

Skipper leaned back in his chair - for a moment, it looked like the thing would just topple over, but he managed to keep his balance. At any rate, Dragan moved his own seat a few inches away just to be safe.

Staring up at the ceiling, arms still folded, Skipper spoke: "Since I'm not already doing my thirty months of hard labour, can I assume this is one of those situations where you offer me a deal?"

"You can."

"And - if I take that deal - we get off scot-free, yes?"

"You are free to believe that."

Skipper shot the security official a rare glare. "Yes or no, baldie."

"Baldie…?" Dir started, looking genuinely hurt as he put a hand up towards his head, before putting it back down onto the desk. "...yes. If you assist us with a small matter, all previous offenses will be forgotten."

"We need that in writing," cut in Dragan, earning himself an amused smirk from Skipper and a raised eyebrow of annoyance from Dir.

"You'll get it," Dir said tersely, after a moment's consideration. "Now, as for what we need from you."

He slid his script over the desk - on the screen was an image of the office Dragan had seen on the news, the one that had apparently been bombed earlier that week.

Dir looked at them gravely. "What do you know," he said. "Of the man called the Citizen?"