Aetheral Space

Skipper's eyes flicked around the office.

"Usually these kinds of executions involve a shot in the back of the head, yeah?" he said, testing the waters. "You want me to turn around, or what?"

The Fifth Dead didn't even blink. Not much of a sense of humour in that guy, as expected.

The hologram looming down from behind the huge man didn't seem much better in terms of comedy appreciation. The silver horse stared at Skipper with unblinking hollow eyes, it's body frozen mid-gallop.

"Believe me, sir," said the icy voice that came from the horse. "If I had wished you dead, you wouldn't have the time to lament the fact."

Okay. Good to know.

Skipper kept the same easy grin on his face even as he looked at the Fifth Dead. This guy had put his crew through a whole lot of trouble -- Dragan had taken a tumble, and Ruth had pushed herself to her limits fighting him. If it was up to him, the Fifth Dead would be ending his term early, but -- of course -- it wasn't up to him.

"Well," Skipper said, stretching his arms in a mock-yawn. "What can I do for ya, then, pal? I'm a busy guy, so let's not waste each other's time, yeah?"

"Ruth Blaine," the horse said. "Dragan Hadrien. Yakob del Sed. All three are in our custody -- locked in cells far away from here."

"Keep rubbing it in, buddy," Skipper chuckled -- but with an unmistakable undertone of danger in his voice. "See what happens."

If the silver horse was intimidated, it didn't show any signs of it. "Fear not, sir," it said in its snide little voice. "They are being held only as collateral -- no harm will come to them, so long as you behave appropriately."

Skipper was getting real tired of being press ganged by barnyard animals. First, he was threatened by a cow, and now the horse was taking its turn? Unbelievable.

"Behave appropriately," Skipper said, wagging his finger in time with the words. "That's a, uh, I like that -- that's a good euphemism. I'm gonna have to use that. What exactly is the appropriate behaviour, then, buddy? If you want me to do something, you've gotta tell me what it is."

"You've been given two chances to eliminate the Citizen," the horse said. "And you've failed each time. We've decided that we need to provide you with greater support. Fear not -- I, the Sponsor of Industry, have arranged a scenario that will give both of you the greatest chance of success."

"Both of us?" Skipper's eyes flicked back down to regard the Fifth Dead. He might have just been imagining it, but he could have sworn he saw just the faintest glimmer of annoyance in that man's inscrutable gaze.

The Sponsor of Industry chuckled. "His mission is to eliminate the Citizen, just as yours is. I do not care who does it, particularly, so long as it is done."

Skipper crossed his arms, moved over to the wall and leaned against it as he stared down the silver horse. These guys really were doing their best to keep him from getting used to the situation, weren't they? If he had a chance to catch his breath, he might come up with a way out of this, but with everyone else effectively being held hostage he didn't have much choice but to comply.

He sighed. "What's this scenario of yours, then, buddy?"

Dragan bit his lip as he scanned the news story on his script. This didn't sound good.

PRESIDENT CHAEL ANNOUNCES REMEMBRANCE GALA

Following the horrific events of recent weeks, President Chael has announced he will be holding a remembrance gala in order to honour the fallen as well as raise money to support their family members.

78 employees of Shooting Stars Security Solutions were killed in the line of duty during the siege of the Anna Sait Memorial Hospital, along with Lucius Sait, the institution's director. Details on the circumstances behind these deaths have not yet been released, but a representative of S4 has offered the company's sincere condolences towards all those affected.

During his announcement to the press, President Chael confirmed that many prominent individuals in finance, industry and the arts had received invitations to the remembrance gala. The gathering is to take place in the Dawnhouse, which will take flight for the duration.

Regardless of the circumstances that have led to it, this assembly is certain to be a night to remember.

The news story became a scroll hanging from the wall of his Archive, each black letter massive on its white surface. Dragon inspected the paragraph, hand on his chin.

"It's a weird announcement," he said, taking a step back from the information. "Almost as weird as you. I mean, you do realize you're talking to yourself, right?"

Dragan ignored the jab. He didn't have any more time to get pulled into petty self-arguments. Even as his mind puzzled this whole thing out in his Archive, his body was walking through the transport station - getting closer and closer to the prison by the second.

"It's definitely a trap," Dragan said. "They know a gathering like that is something the Citizen won't be able to resist. But he's not stupid - and they know that, too. They must be pretty confident in their bait."

Dragan flicked an imaginary wrist, and a memory of Lucius Sait's announcement was projected onto the far wall. The skeletal man's face was warped by the bookshelves behind it, but his words came out clear as ever.

"I'm waiting in my office, on the top floor, Citizen," Sait's memory rasped. "I'll tell you the names of my associates - and then you will kill me. Consider it a commission.”

"Sait is definitely dead," mused Dragan, wagging a finger at the looping memory.

"Yup," Dragon -- who had returned to his seat -- leant back, legs wobbling in the air above him. "He's dead as shit."

Not the most helpful contribution, but Dragan couldn't exactly scold himself for lack of effort. "So let's assume Sait told the Citizen the names of his associates before he was killed, as he said he would."

"Okay."

Dragan mentally paced back and forth as he walked himself through it. "A gala like this is gonna be invite-only, right? It said as much in the news story. So that means there's a guest-list - and I'd bet Noel can get access to that without too much trouble."

His double nodded. "Took you long enough. So when the Citizen sees the names of the other Sponsors on this guest-list, he'll have no other option but to attack."

"Exactly. He won't get a better opportunity. Which is when they intend to catch him," Dragan concluded, before furrowing his brow. "But that doesn't make sense."

Dragon cocked his head, a smug half-smirk dancing across his lips. "What doesn't?" he said, in a tone that suggested he already knew.

"If we've worked this out right," Dragan said. "The Sponsors intend to catch the Citizen tonight, at this gala. But I'm being sent to take care of Muzazi -- in anticipation of some disaster the Citizen's going to create? The pieces don't fit."

"Suggesting…?" Dragon dragged the word out as far as it would go.

Dragan's breath caught in his throat as the final pieces clicked together. The pale mists outside the windows of his Archive faded to an ominous black.

"Suggesting…?" Dragon prompted again.

"Two things," Dragan whispered. "One: the Sponsor of War has a different plan than the rest of the Sponsors. They're the ones who've arranged the gala, while the Sponsor of War has something else going on…"

His voice trailed off.

"And number two?" Dragon said coldly. His subconscious wouldn't allow his deductions to go unvoiced, after all.

"Two…" said Dragan, a deep horror dawning on him. "The Citizen isn't the one who's going to cause the disaster. The Sponsor of War is."

He reached the entrance to the prison, and his Archive retreated back into his mind.

The place looked more like a warehouse than a prison, to be honest -- but that was probably the point. Black sites like this rarely liked to advertise the fact. The lone guard posted to the entrance looked him up and down, the yellow dot on the visor scanning him thoroughly.

"We've been told to expect you," the guard finally said. He motioned with his plasma bow for Dragan to enter through the door behind him.

"Mm." Dragan walked past the guard without another word, entering the sterile complex beyond. He couldn't waste energy talking to these people -- every bit of brainpower had to go to two things only:

Figure out what the Sponsor of War was planning.

Figure out how to get away from whatever the Sponsor of War was planning.

Dragan strode through an automatic door and entered some kind of command center -- monitors lining the walls, each displaying the live feed from one of the cells. Atoy Muzazi was visible on one, still strapped down in a chair.

Surprisingly enough, he didn't seem to have suffered that much physical harm during his stay there. Dragan supposed that made sense, in a way -- if the Taldan government viewed Muzazi as a bargaining chip, they'd hardly want to break him.

"Mr. Hadrien," called out a gaunt-looking woman with slicked back hair -- the director of this facility, judging from the way other personnel avoided looking her in the eye. "We expected you'd be longer."

Dragan marched up to her, doing his best to keep both his gaze and his voice steady. It wouldn't do to show any kind of trepidation here. "I don't like leaving work undone," he said, voice icy as he could make it. "I pride myself on my professionalism."

She nodded approvingly. "That's the sort of thing we like to hear, young man. The way to Atoy Muzazi is open for you, and we'll only be happy to loop the footage on our end -- for as long as it takes. Please, proceed."

As long as it takes? What did she expect him to do to Atoy Muzazi? Dragan felt acidic disgust rise up in his chest, but he didn't voice it. This woman's assumptions could be useful: he didn't want to kill them early.

"I appreciate it," he said. "But I have other work to attend to first. Where is Reyansh Patel?"

He'd already seen Patel, of course - he was on another of the monitors, strapped down in a prison cell.

It looked like he'd had a much worse time than Muzazi. A bag was placed over his head, stained red with blood, contracting in time with his strained breathing. His hands, secured to the arms of the chair he was strapped into, were lacking fingernails -- thin red streams of blood flowed down from his fingers onto the floor below. Someone had certainly gone to town on him.

The gaunt woman frowned. "You're here for Atoy Muzazi. You don't need to worry about any other trash."

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "That's not what my employer has said," he snapped. "Perhaps you'd like to discuss it with him directly?"

He stuffed a hand into his pocket, as if reaching for some kind of hologram projector, but the gaunt woman stopped him with a hurried raise of her hand.

"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "Do what you need to."

Dragan would have sighed in relief if that wouldn't have destroyed the whole point of the exercise. He'd bet everything on this woman not knowing precisely what his standing was with the Sponsor of War, so he honestly didn't know what he would have done if she'd called his bluff.

He nodded silently. "Lead the way," he said, motioning with a hand, subtly asserting a kind of imaginary authority. The woman nodded, and began striding out into the hallway.

As Dragan followed, passing rows upon rows of sealed cells, he ran through the plan in his mind. It wasn't exactly foolproof -- it had been put together over the course of about an hour's commute -- but it was the only map he had to navigate this situation.

He'd already executed step one on the way here. Step two was to make use of Patel. Step three was to get to Muzazi's cell. If he couldn't pull those first steps off, there was no point in thinking about step four.

Dragan went to fiddle with the coin in his pocket, but his fingers met only each other. Of course; he didn't have the coin anymore. It had slipped his mind.

The gaunt woman stopped outside a door that looked just like all the others. "Here," she said, hands clasped behind her back. "Don't take too long."

The door slid open, and Dragan stepped inside. The woman remained in the doorway, watching with cautious eyes.

Reyansh didn't look much better up close -- bruises lined his arms and legs liberally, and each breath was a crackling rasp. It was a wonder they hadn't killed him during all this. Still, though, the smell of blood and god knows what else filled the room like a miasma.

Dragan held his nose. "You really did a number on him.”

"Well," said the gaunt woman, a satisfied smile playing across her lips. "I don't tolerate disrespect. This young man learned that lesson quite thoroughly."

Dragan nodded as he approached Reyansh, the prisoner's breathing increasing in speed as he heard steps coming closer. The Cogitant's eyes flicked around the chair before him -- in the Supremacy cells he knew about, the Neverwire was generally attached to the back of the chair, making constant contact with the prisoner's back. He could only hope that was the same with the UAP.

Neverwire, as far as Dragan was aware, was the only substance capable of completely preventing Aether usage. It was made using a substance that the Gene Tyrants had created during the final days of their empire -- in the hopes of fighting off the legions of Aether-using rebels that had risen up against them. If you ran enough power through the substance, it stifled the Aether of whoever it was touching.

There'd be a power box, then, built into the chair -- to constantly supply the Neverwire with power. They wouldn't risk having it be connected to the buildings power supply -- if there was a power outage, every prisoner would just bust out no problem.

He crouched down, making as if he was inspecting Reyansh when he was really inspecting the chair. He didn't have time for a full investigation -- he'd just have to hope that the power supply was in the place that he expected. His body was positioned to obscure the woman's view of what he was doing. He wouldn't have a better chance.

"One good hit to the head should finish him," he said aloud, blue Aether already crackling around him. The woman didn't reply.

Now or never.

Gemini Shotgun.

The coin he'd recorded shot out almost silently, lodging in the back of the chair -- and as Dragan watched, the red glow of the Neverwire died down to nothing. He reached into the back of the chair -- still obscured from the woman's view -- and retrieved the now-burnt coin.

"What was that?"

"Not sure," muttered Dragan, leaning in closer to Reyansh. The man's breathing had stopped slightly -- hopefully that was because he'd realized what was going on and not because he'd died, because otherwise Dragan was kinda fucked.

He pressed the coin into Reyansh's hand and whispered:

"Sixty degrees up if you want to get her in the face."

"Mr. Hadrien," said the gaunt woman from behind him, true suspicion finally entering her tone. There was the telltale click of a safety being taken off a gun. "Step away from the prisoner."

Dragan sighed, put his hands over his head. "Of course," he said, standing up --

-- and the second he did, there was a spark of chaotic red Aether.

Reyansh, still blinded from the bag over his head, flicked the coin that had been pressed into his hand -- and it flew true, shining with infused red Aether as it zoomed right at the woman's face. As if in slow motion, her eyes widened, focused on the coin in front of them. She knew what this prisoner was capable of.

Dragan seized the opportunity brought about by the distraction and leapt behind Reyansh's seat, slamming his hands over his own ears. Bruno had told him before they'd been separated: Reyansh had a personal forcefield that protected him from his own explosions -- which made him the perfect human shield.

The coin exploded with a screech, shards of metal and bursts of fire filling the room.

The jailbreak had begun.