Aetheral Space

Boom. The distant sound of an explosion.

Atoy Muzazi opened his eyes.

If he had to describe the state he'd been in for the last few days, the closest thing he could say would be 'meditation'. He'd endeavoured to keep patience alive in his heart, to simply wait long enough for his opportunity to come around. There'd been a vague awareness that his captors were trying to inflict pain on him, but little more than that.

The alarm began blaring, a steady whoop-whoop that echoed through the complex. Muzazi took a deep breath.

He couldn't think of a better opportunity than this.

Who had come for him? Marie, most likely -- she was a resourceful sort, and had likely concocted a plan to break him free once she'd discovered his location. He couldn't ignore the possibility that this was an unrelated emergency, though -- UAP planets were infamously rife with crime.

Whatever it was, he couldn't let the chance slip by. Muzazi sat up as much as his restraints would allow and took stock of the situation.

His Aether was.still unreachable -- so the Neverwire this chair used was still active. That was unfortunate. Given enough time, he was confident he could free himself using his own physical strength, but he didn't know how much time he had.

Still, there was nothing he could do but try his best. With a grunt of exertion, Atoy Muzazi began his work.

The gaunt woman's body had certainly seen better days. Probably every day of her life had been better than this, now that Dragan thought about it.

She had been left charred and twisted on the ground by the explosion, heavy smoke still drifting up from her carcass. There was no doubt that she'd died instantly. Dragan didn't expect she'd find any consolation in that, but it made him feel a little better.

Dragan stood up from behind the chair -- it had been heavily damaged in the explosion, too, but the parts directly behind Reyansh's body were completely unharmed. It had been the right choice to use him as a shield against the detonation.

After taking a moment to brush the spot away from his clothes, Dragan whipped the bag off of Reyansh's head -- and winced.

Reyansh certainly hadn't gotten the VIP treatment here. Someone had clearly pummelled his face -- the swelling so bad in some parts that one of his eyes was nearly completely covered up. Blood had stained his teeth a visceral red, and his nose was visibly out of alignment.

Patel's one good eye, it's golden iris a stark contrast against the red blood and purple bruising that covered the rest of his face, looked up to regard Dragan.

"Why?" he rasped through dry, cracked lips.

Dragan gulped. "Because it's the right thing to do," he lied.

It was probably kinder to say that than the truth: Dragan needed someone to bust doors open for him. Patel had the kind of firepower he needed, and through what he'd observed and what Bruno had told him, he had a good idea of his personality.

"Let's get you out of there," Dragan continued, reaching down and undoing the straps binding Reyansh's arms. He was painfully aware of the blaring alarm -- they didn't have much time before additional security showed up.

Reyansh rose from the chair with shaking legs, massaging his wrists. Dragan held out a fistful of stone chunks -- created by the first explosion -- offering them to Reyansh.

"Extra ammo," he said by way of explanation. "We need to get to Atoy Muzazi's cell. Can you move?"

Reyansh took a deep breath -- and as he did, chaotic red Aether swirled around him gleefully, as if relieved to finally be free. A bloodstained smile crossed his lips.

"You are a good person, Dragan Hadrien," he said, incorrectly. "Yes. Yes, I can move."

"This is kinda short notice, huh?" Skipper said, adjusting the bowtie on the tuxedo he'd been given. He and his new companion were heading upwards in an elevator -- one that would take them to where the gala guests were boarding the Dawnhouse.

The Fifth Dead glanced down at him, face impassive and distinctly unimpressed. As expected, he didn't say a word.

This was quickly becoming the most awkward elevator ride of Skipper's life.

Still, his old man hadn't raised a quitter. Skipper persevered: "I mean, they've just kinda dropped this on us, yeah? We're going to this party and waiting for the Citizen to try something. That's pretty crazy, right? I mean -- personally, I mean, I think there are better plans out there, but I guess they don't pay me to think, huh? They don't pay me at all, actually. Do they pay you, big guy? Out of curiosity."

"No." The Fifth Dead stared at the elevator doors as he spoke, his monotone voice like a barely restrained earthquake.

Skipper leaned against the glass window of the elevator, arms crossed. "No, huh? That's crazy. There's a lawsuit in there somewhere, I'm pretty sure. Gotta be breaking some kind of labour law, yeah? By the way, you tossed one of my guys out of a car last week. You wanna talk about it?"

The Fifth Dead didn't reply. He didn't even move.

"I don't know about you, big guy," Skipper went on, inspecting where his fingernails would be if his hand wasn't a robotic prosthetic. "But I'm feeling kinda sore about the whole thing, yeah? I mean, I did hit you with my car, so I guess that's a little payback, but I'd still like an apology. You get me? Just a little 'sorry, boss'?"

Again, nothing.

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "Y'know, I ran into one of your predecessors once."

That did it. The Fifth Dead's eyes flicked over to look at Skipper, pupils dilated with utter rage. A crackle of ominous orange Aether ran along his massive arm.

"Mention this again," the Fifth Dead said. "And die where you stand."

Skipper made a big show of zipping his mouth shut, and the Fifth Dead turned to look at the door again. Purposefully provoking the giant assassin wasn't Skipper's finest hour by any means -- but he wasn't in the best state of mind. It was as if he'd been locked onto a set of rails, and if he tried to diverge from them his crew would be the ones to pay the price.

Play it cool, Skipper, he told himself. You've been in worse spots.

There was a pleasant beep from the elevator, and the door slid open. The first thing Skipper heard was the billowing of wind -- they were on the roof of a skyscraper, after all, where a transport would take them up to the Dawnhouse.

The second thing Skipper heard was a man angrily shouting: "You can't do this to me!"

"Zhao, c'mon, you're -- uh, you're causing a scene."

The other guests boarding from this skyscraper had distanced themselves quite well from the two men arguing. The one Skipper had heard first was a younger man in a black coat, a purple fez perched atop his head. He was jabbing an aggravated finger right into the chest of his verbal opponent.

That guy Skipper recognized. He'd never been huge on Taldan politics -- apart from the one obvious incident -- but even he recognized the planet's current President. Chael wasn't the most impressive looking statesman Skipper had ever seen: he'd clearly put some effort and money into the tuxedo he was wearing, but the bowtie was crooked and his slouching demeanour lent a sense of dishevelment to everything coming into contact with him.

As he was ranted at, Chael rubbed idly at the stubble on his cheeks.

"A scene?" the younger man - Zhao, apparently - was snarling. "A scene? After you've turned this whole planet into your own little fucking fucking scene since the moment you were elected?"

Chael took a step back, scratched his cheek awkwardly. "Zhao, c'mon…" he mumbled, not quite meeting the other man's gaze.

For a moment, Zhao looked like he was about to launch into another rant, but settled for a wordless shout and threw his fez onto the ground. His foot came down on it hard -- once, twice, thrice -- and once it's death was confirmed, Zhao whirled around and stormed off, marching right past Skipper in the process. The Fifth Dead had already made himself scarce.

Skipper strolled over to Chael as casual as could be, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tuxedo. "Heya. What was that about?"

Chael, still staring at the elevator Zhao had left on, waved a vague hand. "Oh, uh, you know. Hard to -- hard to find the help these days, sometimes, man."

Even if Chael didn't say it in so many words, Skipper understood. There was a non-zero chance this whole gala was going to turn into a bloodbath. This was the final opportunity to make sure at least some people weren't around for it.

The sigh escaping Chael's throat stopped part way through as he looked away from the elevator, realizing just who he was talking to. "You're…" he muttered.

"Name's Skipper," said the man himself, extending his prosthetic hand. "Nice to meet ya."

Chael looked down at the hand, caution in his brown eyes. "I've been told a lot about you."

"By your Sponsor pals, yeah?"

"Sure." The man blinked, still hesitating.

"Eh," Skipper said -- and now it was his turn to wave vaguely. "Try not to worry about it, buddy. One presidential assassination's enough for my career. You're safe as can be, yeah?"

Chael looked up as the transport that would take them to the Dawnhouse touched down on the roof's landing pad, looking more than a little like a giant coffin. It's doors opened, and the fiesta began streaming in.

"Yeah," Chael muttered, with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Safe as can be."

This was perhaps the weirdest position Dragan had ever been in.

Reyansh Patel made his way down the corridor, flicking pieces of exploding rubble at whatever unfortunates were stupid enough to pop out of cover. The sound of detonation was near-constant.

Dragan didn't see any of this, however -- because he was walking back-to-back with Reyansh, keeping watch over the section of the hallway they'd already made their way through. It wasn't the most dignified of positions, but it was the best way to make sure that Reyansh's personal forcefield covered Dragan as well.

The sound of explosions died down, replaced by the panicked sounds of retreating footsteps. Then, Reyansh spoke: "Those scoundrels are moving away -- perhaps to regroup?"

Dragan moved away from Reyansh and pointed his stun pistols down the empty corridor. As Reyansh had said, the guards seemed to have made themselves scarce -- but you could never be too careful.

"Maybe," Dragan muttered. "But we can't worry about what they're doing. This is our opportunity."

His eyes flicked to the side, to the door that stood there - Cell 346. He recognised it from the last time he was here. Muzazi's cell. He nodded towards the door, and Reyansh stepped forward, already holding the chunk of rubble in his hand.

"This is the one?" Reyansh intoned, tossing the stone up and down in his hand.

Dragan nodded.

The rubble flared with haphazard red Aether.

It had been difficult work, but Muzazi had managed to get one of the straps binding his arms loose. He'd had to undo it with one of his feet, which took more than a little gymnastic prowess, but he knew now that it was certainly possible. If he could do the same to his other arm, he could free himself from this contraption.

He paused for a moment. The sounds of explosions outside had been near-constant for the last few minutes -- getting louder, even -- but now they seemed to have suddenly stopped.

Perhaps he should --

The door exploded, metal bending inwards as fire and force pressed their full might against it. Foul heat impacted against Muzazi's face, and he was forced to squeeze his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, the room before him was a wreck. The door was open, and through it he could see a burning hallway, not to mention…

Not to mention…

Muzazi flared in anger.

Not to mention Dragan Hadrien, stepping into view through the smoke. The warrior Muzazi had fought before being captured was with him too, and the two looked at him with inscrutable expressions.

"Hadrien," growled Muzazi.

"Yeah," the Cogitant said. "I'm still not happy about it either."