Fight la Fight

“You know, I could get you through here reeeeeeaaal safe mister. Yup, just like that, you won’t have any trouble getting through this part of the city with me at your side; it’ll be more than worth it. There’s a lot of nasty people out there, mister, people that wanna kill or rape you or even rob you. Imagine that! Getting robbed, in today’s society! You’d have thought we’d moved past all that, but naw, it still happens. Well, mister, I won’t let it happen to you, no sir! You just gotta promise to stay real close and do what I say, else god knows what’d happen to ya!?”

Jonbiro tilted back the brim of his sugegasa to look at the man who had hounded him from the gates. He was young, early twenties at a push; He had droopy, bloodshot eyes; a squashed nose that looked to have been broken about twelve times; a downturned mouth sans enough teeth to eat an apple.

“You really should be careful. Some of the people you try to rob will catch on, like I have, and you’ll end up with less teeth than you already do now. Or dead. Now leave, before I break every bone in your scrawny little body.”

“You- Whadda you just say ta me?! I’ll kill you old man! You want- ach”

Jonbiro’s massive hand clasped firmly around the man’s skinny neck, lifting him into the air. He gasped for air, flopping like a fish out of water. “I don’t think you understand. I wear these robes, these beads, as a reminder. A reminder that I’ve done terrible, terrible things to people stronger and more powerful than you could ever aspire to be. I renounced those ways and became a monk. That was my calling. Your calling will be the mortuary if you don’t leave this planet in the next two days. I’ll be checking.” Jonbiro released the man, who slumped to the ground, where he lay, rubbing his neck and spluttering.

Jonbiro walked away, his wooden sandals clacking with each ponderous step. He could feel the energies around him, each one a person. Every person had a ki signature- Jonbiro had become somewhat talented at differentiating people’s signatures, and could often tell a less powerful opponent’s intent just by the fluctuations in their ki. He could feel that there were eyes watching him from above, and that the man he had strangled was calling his cohorts, telling them to ambush the “stupid old guy dressed up like it’s fuckin’ Halloween or some shit” (Jonbiro had overheard that last.)

The streets in this part of the city were all but abandoned, home to starving dogs and blood-gangs, roving groups of youths who were “training” to be a part of the Universal Tournament. It was all just a cover for gang violence spiralling out of control, and the law enforcement couldn’t be bothered with putting a stop to it. Their resources were stretched as it was, trying to avoid planetary annihilation by diverting more highbrow fighters to other planets.

Jonbiro walked measuredly through the district. Discarded newspapers skittered across the ground like tumbleweeds. Approaching a crossroads, Jonbiro took out his pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, tamping it down with one huge digit, and lit it, clamping it firmly between his lips. Smoke shrouded his face as three men emerged from the buildings across the street.

They were young, around eighteen or nineteen. The leftmost wore a white gakuran uniform, black jab gloves and had a long braided ponytail. The centre man wore a dark red suit that fit snugly across his skeletal frame. He wore thick rimmed black glasses and had a shaggy mop of jet black hair. The rightmost wore black Hi Fu embroidered in silver thread with a dragon. They took up positions on the street facing Jonbiro, settling into stances: the leftmost into Gidan Borai, the centremost into a kickboxing stance, and the rightmost into Ditangguan.

“I’m looking for Hojo Kurazo. Do any of you know him?”

Avenger collided with Malak's blade, and the resulting explosion sent both fighters flying backwards, nearly over their respective horizons. They shot towards eachother again, their blades clashing in a flurry of attacks, discs of energy sparking outwards from each impact. Lucy reached her fist backwards, a ball of black energy materializing before it, and then thrusted it forwards. Malak flew backwards from the explosion, and onto Zoe's swords. Lucy grinned.

Malak looked down at the energy blades protruding from his chest. He lifted his legs up and kicked off from Zoe, the blades sliding out as the wounds regenerated. He turned, and loosed a Finish Raiser into Zoe's face. She shot backwards, the blue, hooded re-entry cloak she wore over her Mobile Siege Regalia glowing as she cut through the atmosphere. Lucy  clenched her fists, the red aura surrounding her migrating to them, and increasing in intensity.

"NO ONE HURTS MY EX-GIRLFRIEND AAAATTTTTAAAAAAAACCKKKKK-!!!"

She thrusted both fists forward, and a continuous beam of energy shot forth from each one. Malak raised his blade to block it, and the energy parted around him, but he was still sent backwards, his body crackling with energy. Lucy swung her arms round behind her, using the attack to propel her forwards. Malak readied himself, raising his sword. Lucy cut the attack, shooting forwards on momentum alone, her fist raised for a punch. Her body began to revert to its original form, save for her fist, and her glowing golden eyes. The aura surrounding her fist grew in size and power, her hair whipping about around it.

"HEEEEEAVEEEEEEENLYYYYY PIEEEEEERCIIIIIIIIIIING-!!!! DEEEEESTIIIIIIIIIIIIIINYYYY BREEEEEEAAAAAAAAAKKKAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH-!!!!"

Her fist impacted Malak's mask. The energy of her attack shot off it, reflected instead towards the surface of the planet's moon, which cracked, a continent-sized chunk breaking off. She looked down, and saw Malak's blood-soaked blade entering her stomach.

"I'm disappointed that you couldn't foresee such an obvious attack."

"Oh, I foresaw it. I just didn't care." she said, with a grin.

"What?"

"You heard me, scrub - I said I didn't care! My destiny doesn't end with me dying up here, so it doesn't matter what happens!"

"That's nonsense!"

"It's exactly nonsense! But then, so's this whole universe! That's what makes it so great!"

Malak's hand exploded, and the blade flew out of it. Lucy kicked backwards, drawing the blade out of her stomach in a swift motion, clenching her teeth in pain. She held it in a two-handed grip, and looked down to see Zoe, hovering just above the atmosphere, aiming an anti-materiel railgun the length of a train car. Malak regenerated his hand, and drew his nodachi along his neck.

The explosion caused by his transformation shot Lucy back into the atmosphere, and he chased her down. His new form was slightly larger than his previous body, and resembled a skinless, heavily muscled man. His muscles were pitch-black, and his tendons, cartilage and bones were the same silver color as his mask, which had become his face, though with the same neutral expression. Two large, silver, angelic wings sprouted from his back, and behind them rested an orange energy ring, seemingly floating in midair, half as tall as Malak was. It glowed in unison with his eyes, and the orange ring on his forehead. He sped towards Lucy, his nodachi glowing with orange energy. Lucy transformed into her Shadow Avatar form, cancelled out her downwards momentum with a blast of energy, and flew upwards, her nodachi ready to attack.

"DEEEEEEESTTIIIIIIIIIIINYYYYYYYYY BREEEEEEEAAAAAAAKAAAAAAAAAAH--!!!!"

"DIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS MAAAAAAAAGNAAAAAAAAAAAA--!!!"

They met, and the continent beneath them instantly depressed, forming into a crater. A single spark formed between them, rapidly expanding into an explosion which cascaded across the surface of the planet, leveling mountains, evaporating oceans, and instantly reducing forests to piles of smouldering ash. Whole cities were undone in a matter of seconds. The earth between them opened up in a gargantuan fissure, which stretched across the whole upper hemisphere of the planet, venting core gases into the atmosphere.

Lucy's eyes met Malak's, before she looked down to where their blades met. A third had slid in between them, held in one hand by a man standing perpendicular to the fighters, his white longcoat and silver hair gently swaying in the subsiding wind.

“I’m looking for Hojo Kurazo. Do any of you know him?”

“You have an appointment?” Red asked.

“Special dispensation for an old friend. Take me to him.”

“Tch. Take a hike, old man.”

Jonbiro tucked his chin to his chest and laughed, each chuckle sending a puff of smoke from his pipe. He reached over his back, and lifted the bottle gourd from it, resting it on the ground in front of him.

“If you won’t take me to him, give this to him, will you?” Jonbiro placed one wooden sandal against it and kicked. The gourd rolled and rattled across the street, and Red stopped it with his foot.

“The hell is this, ma-“ The gourd exploded, a huge fireball expanding rapidly throughout the street. Jonbiro’s robes fluttered about him as he strode forward against the hot wind. Reaching the centre of the smoke, Jonbiro stopped and stomped with one foot.  A ball of golden ki surrounded him, and an instant later three beams of energy impacted the shield with low thrumming noises. Jonbiro shrugged off his raincoat, and pulled his robes down off of his rounded shoulders, so that it hung about his waist. He untied his hat, and threw it onto his coat. He began unwrapping the bandages about his midriff, the linen pooling on the floor by his feet. His movements were measured and sure; his second arms unfurled, and he flexed, the muscles across his double socketed shoulders pulling taut.

“Ki Release: Ni Ten Ichi Ryu.” His skin flashed gold, his eyes turning the same hue; an aura of light whipped itself into existence around him. He windmilled his arms around him, and settled into a low crouch, his palms facing outwards. The energy that was pounding against his shield intensified, then dropped away with the sound of vacuum being re-pressurised. The golden sphere of energy flickered, and then dropped away. The smoke rushed in to fill the space. The forms shot from the smoke- the three fighters, Red, Black and White. They rushed Jonbiro, smoke curling from their bodies as they ripped from the smog. Jonbiro’s arms moved in a blur, blocking the flurry attacks from each fighter. Red darted in with a burst of kicks, which Jonbiro met with punches from his upper arms. His lower arms covered attacks from his sides, delivered by both White and Black. Red overshot a kick, and Jonbiro clamped it to his side with his upper arm; another fist drove into the kickboxer’s ribs, and there was a crack, and he shot away into the smoke. Jonbiro spun, driving his palms outwards: Black and White were pushed away by the wave of ki that blasted from Jonbiro’s outstretched arms. The two fighters looked at each other; Black nodded, and darted off into the smoke. Only White was left facing Jonbiro.

The karateka reached into his gakuran jacket and withdrew a pair of sai, distributing one to the other hand, and dropped into stance. Jonbiro lifted one foot to rest on the other leg’s knee; his lower arms crossed, and his upper arms settled into positions like that of a mantis. White kicked off the ground, hurtling toward him. His daggers moved blindingly fast, shearing the air just millimetres away from Jonbiro’s bared chest. The monk was forced back, ducking and dodging away from the razor sharp edges of the sai. The swirling fighters reached an intersection, and Jonbiro jumped, and ran up the side of a tenement block; White followed, albeit at a slightly slower pace. Jonbiro kicked off of the wall, flipping over so that he was behind white. His four hands clutched a single ball of golden energy crackling with silver lightning.

“Ki Release:  Divine Strike!” The energy erupted from his hands; a thick beam that narrowed until it disappeared altogether, slicing through the buildings in front of him, through the entire block. There was a moment of stillness, and then the explosion erupted from the tenement block, spraying smoke and debris in a cloud around Jonbiro as he fell back to street level. He stretched down one foot, about to contact the tarmac, and he felt a massive gloved hand close around his ankle, and then he was being dragged through the air. He was flung at breakneck pace down the street before punching clean through the side of a burnt out bus, into a wall that buckled with his impact. Blood trickled down his forehead, mixing with the sweat that shined on his golden face. The monk looked up. The massive silhouette of Hojo Kurazo blocked the light drifting into Jonbiro’s crater.

Kurazo’s face was masked by red lacquered mempo, carved into the snarling head of a wolf, the mane of which was a plume of dyed red fur. Under a straw cloak, his massive torso was wrapped in black robes that criss-crossed his chest diagonally from both sides. A huge red sash about his waist held at least seven katana of various sizes and design; across his back was a broad, curving sword with a hilt three feet long. He wore armoured skirts and his lower legs were encased in three inches of ceramic armour plating, in the form of ornately spiked boots. Straps and buckles covered his entire outfit, securing the baggy clothing to his muscular form. When he spoke, his voice boomed and growled with deep bass notes.

“Mataki Jonbiro, the wandering monk. No use preaching to those already lost, my friend. But, you already knew that. Why have you come to my domain?”

Jonbiro grinned and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I need help.”

Lucy's eyes met Lordmillion's. His were characteristically calm and careless; hers were seething. She drew her nodachi out of the arrangement of swords before her, and backed away slightly.

"What are you doing here, Scrub?"

"I'm an art collector; I'm here to collect art."

"What the- does this look like a fucking art exhibit to you?"

"Yes, actually. Hand over the blade."

"Oh, change the bloody record." She replied, flying backwards and unleashing a starfire beam. Malak flew backwards, his wings wrapped around him as a shield; Lordmillion charged, deflecting the beam with his blade, and swung towards Lucy's knee. She lowered her nodachi to block, and with her free hand caught Malak's Finish Raiser, throwing it back towards him. Lordmillion kicked backwards, readying himself.

"Hand over the blade, and I'll spare your life."

"You got something against hurting me, Lordmillion?" replied Lucy, flying upwards, and unleashing a barrage of starfire beams down towards Lordmillion. When the red smoke subsided he stood, one hand extended, generating a force field around him. Lucy turned and drew her nodachi out in time to block Malak's swing, and then reached up and threw him away with a double-barreled kick. Malak's wings began to glow orange, and his rings opened, the top eighths of each ring disappearing. They began to spin; the ring on his forehead clockwise, and the one behind his back counterclockwise.

"ABSOLUTE CONTROL BLAST-!!"

Malak thrust his fists forwards, and an orange beam shot forth. It impacted Lucy in the chest and drove her into the ground, sending a cloud of debris up into the atmosphere. She lay in a newly formed crater, in her original form, with blood trickling out of the corner of her mouth.

"What the.... the fuck kinda attack was that, scrub?" she asked, struggling for breath.

"It is the ultimate manifestation of my Daemonic form's abilities. I can enter my target's body for a split second, and lock out all of their energy. It is thanks to this technique that I have been able to proceed so far in the universal tournament... without causing a single death."

"Without a single death? You're fucking bullshitting."

"Not a single person I have fought has died. I have instead used the power of my mask to show them the light, and they have mastered their own destinies by coming to my aid. My actions are utterly pure."

"Utterly pure? You're turning people into mindless husks, you cunt! That's worse than straight up killing them!"

"And who are you to be the judge of life and death?"

Lucy began to climb to her feet, grinning, and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "That's the problem with all you goody-goody types - you're too caught up in what's 'fair' and 'right'. Look around you, fuckwad. No-one heckles the wolf that kills its prey for being immoral. Morality's just a social construct, and a shit one at that; cling to it all you like, it won't change the underlying truth of the universe. The wolf eats the sheep, the strong destroy the weak, and no amount of whining will do anything about it. You can be the hunter, or you can be the hunter, and I know which one I intend to be."

She materialized Avenger, and ignited the blade.

"I elect myself to be the judge of life and death, because I have the strength to do so. I'll forge my own code, and open the path for others to follow in behind me. And if anyone gets in my way, I will destroy them."

"Even if it means becoming evil itself?"

"Even if it means becoming evil itself." she replied, grinning. Lordmillion placed Shiroryu before her, blocking her path.

"If you fight him in this condition, you will die, Lucy."

"Why would you care, scrub?"

"Because a butterfly caught in a spider's web is a terrible sight." he replied, drawing a strand of silver hair back into place with a gloved hand. "Leave. I do not wish to see you harmed."

"Have you got a crush on me, Vincent?"

"We... could revisit that offer of a beautiful death, if you'd like." he replied, moving Shiroryu up to Lucy's neck. She pushed it down to chest-height.

"I'm not leaving, scrub. Don't get in my way, and I won't attack you."

Lordmillion lowered Shiroryu, as a white aura began to appear around the blade.

"Likewise."

Spittle and blood sprayed from Holbach’s mouth, and his cigarette flew from his thin lips. Arang’s knee drove up firmly into his chin, and Holbach was sent hurtling through the air. His back snapped as Arang caught him on her elbow, and he collapsed to the floor, his entire body heaving with pain. He heard the click of a revolver hammer, and spun, lifting himself into a handstand and kicking her gun away. It skittered across the floor to come to rest by his bike. Holbach spun, delivering a flurry of hooks and jabs to Arang, who ducked and blocked with her arms bent by her head. She kicked towards his stomach, but Holbach shuffled back, bending over the attack, and delivered an uppercut that rocked Arang’s head back. She dropped to the floor, her arms extending upwards in spasm. Holbach stumbled forwards; Arang scrambled to her feet. Both fighters were exhausted: they had battled for well over an hour. The banks of the trackway were cratered and covered in scorch marks. The air smelt of ozone and singed concrete.

“Back down, Holbach. If you can’t beat me… you sure as hell can’t beat the people they’ll send if I fail to terminate you.” Arang’s voice was hoarse.

“Tch. This is the best Wu Sai has. I’ve seen the fighters they were assigning to compete in the Universal Tournament… you outclass every last one of them.”
Holbach grinned. “Checkmate.”

He launched himself at Arang, and before the startled expression had even settled on her face, he was firing a stream of blue energy at her. She was lifted from her feet to be thrown down the track. When she landed she was unconscious. He body bounced and rolled and skid until it impacted a rail car with a dull clang.

Holbach stood in the centre of the trackway, his entire body shaking with the exertion of the last attack.

If he was going to compete, he’d have to train.

Fucking hard work.


The bar was lavish, laid out in a traditional Japanese style, with large bamboo plants in each of the four corners, low opalescent-shaded lights and a long, dark bar. A bottle of sake sat on a tray in front of Jonbiro; behind the bottle sat Hojo Kurazo. His mempo and mane were sat on the table beside the bottle, reflecting light from its glossy red surface.

“The lair of the Wolf is more lavish than I had imagined, Kurazo.” Jonbiro smirked at the bigger man.

“The lair of the Wolf is exactly what I despise. It isn’t mine, it’s Kumagi’s.” Kurazo gestured to the gakuran clad man perched on the bar. His jacket was pulled down around his hips, and a thick bandage was wrapped around his shoulders and chest.

“I apologise again for the show of brutality,” Jonbiro said addressing Kumagi, “But I knew Kurazo would not show unless I made something of a row.”

“You destroyed half of my precinct, monk.” Kurazo growled, but then settled back in his chair, and crossed his massive arms in front of his massive chest. His face was broad and square; his eyes were dark under a heavy brow. Stubble covered his jaw, and a puckered scar extended from his top lip to his chin. “Having said that, I have to welcome you. It has been a long time.”

“It has, it has. My trip here is not to catch up on gossip, however. There are grave things at hand, stirred up by a certain individual who may well be of interest to you.”

“You mean my niece? Is she in danger?”

“Rizumé is safe. She was planning on fighting in the Universal Tournament. I was forced to incapacitate her. It’s only a matter of time before she trains up enough to face more opponents.”

“I’ve no problem with the girl fighting in the tournament,” Kurazo boomed. “After all, she’s a strong girl. She takes after Aiko in that respect.”

“I’ve spoken with Geroad.”

“The toad won’t intervene?”

“I’ve ensured he will not interfere in this in any capacity. It isn’t Geroad we have to directly be worried about. It’s his employers that are cause for concern.”

“They’ve never tried anything before now?”

“No, and they still haven’t, thankfully. But then they didn’t know Rizumé even existed. In fact, I’m not sure Geroad himself knew, until Aiko died.”

Kurazo frowned. “What do you suggest we do?”

“We have two courses of action.” Jonbiro lit his pipe, smoke clouding around his head. “One. We tell the girl everything. That includes everything concerning Aiko’s death. You’ll need to help me on this one most of all. Two? We continue as we are. I’ll need agents, fighters, funding, safe-houses. The list goes on. We can protect her until course of action one is absolutely necessary.“

Kurazo frowned even more deeply, his brows knitting in the centre. “I am her blood. I have no wish to see her harmed. But if what you say is true, and Wu Sai are out to kill her, we have to tell her everything.”

The main room of the town hall was an incredible feat of architecture. Almost four floors high the hall could sit nearly a hundred thousand people in the five massive balcony which surrounded the walls, each above the other. Of course, this building was designed nearly a thousand years ago, before their planet had discovered intergalactic travel, when this hall was the head of a mighty empire spanning three worlds. But empires fade as quickly as they rise, and the city had faded with it. Still, the room was big enough that sixty men had stayed to secure it. It was only when the first scream echoed, bouncing off the thousands upon thousands of seats, that they realised they needed sixty three.

The first corpse dropped, launched from the very top row of seats. It landed with a sickening crunch, the woman's spine snapping against a lectern. Three men on the ground floor turned and fired at the lectern, effectively turning it into wood pulp within a matter of seconds.  It only took a moment to work out where the body had come from; it had torn a considerable hole in the railing around the uppermost balcony. One fighter, fitted with enough military tech to outfit a battalion, cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled, his voice carrying around the room.

"Can you fuckers here me up there? There's suppose to be five of you on that fucking balcony, fuck are you doing?"

His answer came almost immediately, the four remaining corpses falling to the ground, blood spraying every where. The fighter swore under his breath and turned to the three men surrounding him. He whispered to them and turned back as they dispersed out into the hall.

"Everyone listen up! Looks like we got ourself a fucking coward, which means he's going to try and take us all out one by one, so I want everyone to gather right here, down on the ground floor. There's clearly no point try to keep him out now, we need to defend our position. I'd bet my ass every last fucker outside this room is dead already, but if you can get anyone on the radio tell 'em to come meet us. This is about to get real nasty."

He drew a pistol from a holster inside the leather bomber jacket and cocked it, a thin green strip of light flickering into life along the gun's side.

"Ya here that you damn mother fucker? Looks like you're gonna have to take us in fair fight"

"That's fine."

The fighter looked up just in time to see something blur past. It impacted the floor, the shock-wave throwing him back, his head hitting the lectern with a loud metallic clang.


Ike opened the door to his apartment and pressed a switch on the wall. The apartment flickered into life and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him and locking it. He walked past the lavish kitchen and into the living room, turning on the television. Sitting down he smiled as he saw coverage of his fight with James broadcast on a local news channel. He made a motion in the air and a side panel in the wall opened up, displaying several glasses and a tap. Ike reached out to take a glass, but moments before he could grab it the wall exploded.

Shrapnel went everywhere, a particularly large chunk going straight through the television. Ike sighed.

"If you want to fight, you can come back tomorrow. It's been a long day and I am not in the mood."

His reply boomed through the apartment, clearing being played on some sort of loudspeaker.

"Ike Harimata. So we meet at last. I'm a huge fan."

Ike put his hand through side of the couch and withdrew a mortuary sword from the lining. He stood up and walked over to the hole in the wall, scraping the sword along the floor as he walked. He looked out at his opponent and smiled, running his free hand through his hair.

"Why wouldn't you be?"

Lordmillion and Malak circled around eachother, weapons at the ready. Malak swung, and Lordmillion deflected the blade, throwing it away, before lunging towards Malak's chest. Malak deflected the blade upwards with his forearm, and drew his blade towards Lordmillion's shoulder; he slid his blade back, blocking it.

"Why are you fighting for that girl? She tried to kill you!"

"Only tried."

Lordmillion flew backwards, and swung Shiroryu around himself, aiming for Malak's neck. Malak drew his wings around him, and Shiroryu slid harmlessly off the silver. He opened his wings, unleashing a blast of orange power which sent Lordmillion backwards, and turned in time to block a swing from Lucy, who hovered behind him, a faint red aura surrounding her. He placed two fingers to her chest, and she shot backwards, impacting the ground. Lordmillion unleashed a barrage of starfire beams towards Malak, who wrapped his wings around himself again.

"Fighting like a man too hard for you, scrub?" asked Lucy.

"I will not allow my pride to affect my battlefield decisions. Too much is resting on the outcome of this battle."

Lucy flew upwards, as Lordmillion swooped down, both fighters readying their blades. They impacted, sending out a disc of energy which flattened the curve of the planet beneath them, ejecting matter into the planet's orbit. They flew backwards in unison, unleashing barrages of starfire beams towards Malak. They hit his wings, which suddenly shot open, releasing a blast of energy. His body began to transform; he grew a head in size, his muscles surging, the silver of his tendons expanding across this chest and shoulders to become armor. His wings shifted upwards, almost flanking his neck, as a second pair emerged from beneath them, folding forwards around his waist and covering the front of his legs like a robe. The broken ring on his forehead expanded, with the lowest point remaining in a fixed position, so that the ring resembled the crest of a kabuto helmet. Below the ring, his mask split in half, revealing a face rendered in orange energy underneath; the two mask halves moved to the side of his face, resembling the cheek guards of an ancient roman helmet. Silver armoring appeared over the rest of his head, fusing with the mask portions to give him the impression of wearing a helmet.

"DAEMON FORM: CELESTIAL BEING-!!! AAABSOOOOLUUUUUTEEEE-!!! COOOOOOOONTROOOOOOLL-!!! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAST-!!!"

The ring behind Malak's back began to spin, as the energy in the space behind it was drawn towards its center. He thrust his right fist forwards, and a beam of energy shot forth, cutting straight through Lucy's forehead, but leaving no visible wound. She fell backwards, landing on the ground like a ragdoll, her eyes staring mindlessly into the space infront of her. Malak drew his second nodachi towards him with telekinesis, and turned to face Lordmillion.

"I regret that I was forced to use this form, but now the odds are in my favor. Submit now, before any more blood is meaninglessly shed."

"Blood is never meaninglessly shed." replied Lordmillion, readying Shiroryu. He swung towards Malak, who crossed his Nodachi to block. They began to glow, and fused into a single blade, Danketsu, which was half as large again as Shiroryu. Lordmillion flew backwards, a white aura engulfing Shiroryu.

"HEEEEAAAVEEEENLYYYYY PIEEEEERCCIIIIIIIINGGGGGG-!!! LEEEEEGAAAAACYYYYYYY BREEEEEAAAAAKAAAAAAH-!!!!"

Lordmillion shot forth, and swung towards Malak. Lucy appeared before him in an instant, deflecting the attack with Avenger. The wave of energy exited the atmosphere, tearing another chunk out of the planet's moon. Lordmillion's eye twitched as he inspected Lucy; the enthusiasm in her face had gone, replaced by anger, and the yellow of her eyes had darkened, becoming orange.

"Sorry, Scrub. I don't have a choice in the matter."

Lordmillion allowed the faintest of frowns to appear on his otherwise careless face. "I understand."

Lucy spun Avenger around her, readying it. Lordmillion materialized Kurimuzon in his free hand, and, reluctantly, charged.

Ike looked out at the street below him. The mob had swarmed around his house, nearly a hundred of them, not all human but near unanimously holding oversized weaponry of some description. Ike wasn't unacquainted with crowds, but somehow he suspected these people weren't about to form an orderly queue for his autograph. He jumped down, landing gracefully at the head of the mob, face to face with the woman holding the megaphone.

"I'm really not in the mood to fight you. Or your friends."

The woman laughed.

"I apologise movie star. Us peasants will leave you to your nap."

She reach into the holster on her belt, but before she could draw the gun Ike had plunged the blade through her chest. He kicked the corpse into the crowd and plunged to the left, crashing into a cyborg and pointing the still charging laser-cannon on his arm into the crowd, the blast disintegrating a path through the mass of people. Flipping the cyborg over his shoulder he ran downing the clearing, a hail of gunfire and energy blasts hitting those unfortunate enough to be standing where he had been but a second before. He twisted, the sword just grazing the throat of the man behind him but still cutting deep enough to spray blood into the crowd, giving Ike the distraction he needed to effortlessly eliminate another five combatants. There was a clearing around him now, each fighter not wanting to be the first to break the silence and attack.

"What's wrong? The key to a good crowd scene is to keep moving-"

He span and grabbed the shotgun that, moments ago, had been aimed directly at his back.

"-allow yourself to stop, even for a moment-"

The owner of the gun squeezed the trigger but a moment too late, the blast missing Ike and instead blowing a hole in a creature seemingly comprised entirely of tentacles.

"-and you're dead weight."

Ike drew a knife from his jacket with his free hand and stuck it into the shotgun-weilders throat, letting him gasp for air for a moment before withdrawing it and throwing it behind him, where it firmly lodged itself in a fighter's forehead. Ike grabbed the corpse in front of him and threw it into the crowd, abandoning the sword to fire energy blasts with each hand, the rapid bursts cutting through anyone who attempted to break free from the crowd and attack. As he put down one another came at him from behind, his attempt at a sneak attack thwarted as Ike thrust his fist through the man's chest, grabbing his ribs and throwing him into the path of yet another attacker. Suddenly the brawl stopped and the crowd stepped aside to allow a single man passage through the carnage.

"I assume these are your people?"

He was tall, though still dwarfed by Ike, and dressed in what Ike immediately recognised as an incredibly expensive suit. As Ike looked him over he realised his mistake- everything about this man: the clean, tidy haircut, the polished shoes, the blank, expressionless face, it was all designed. This man wasn't a leader; he was a bodyguard, cloned by the thousand and shipped across the galaxy to be cannon fodder the rich and famous. The tournament had certainly meant cheap men willing to take a bullet had become a growth industry.

"Ike Harimata. Threat level 6. My client wishes to speak with you."

"I'm afraid my agent arranges all my meetings. Her number is on my website if your client is still interested."

"It is preferable that you come with me peacefully. If you refuse I shall be forced to detain you."

"Does your client really think so little of me that he thinks I can't take out a couple of C-listers?"

"Perhaps you can-"

The man gestured and Ike turned to see the crowd of civilians that had gathered to watch the chaos.

"-but can they?"

Skye pulled annoyedly at the collar of her scarlet military riding coat, before opening it to her collar bone. She ordered her silver shoulder tassels with a brush of her hand, before sighing in annoyance, slumping back against the limousine.

"Why do I have to wear this stupid coat?" she asked, annoyedly. Veron chuckled, but his eyes remained fixed on the door of the presidential palace, even through the crowd of reporters.

"You're the head of the SWO's military. It's uniform."

"I'm the only member of the military, idiot!"

"Well, you're the only one we need. And if you ask me, it looks nice. Professional."

Veron Velocity stepped forwards from the limousine, as a multitude of camera flashes emerged from the crowd of reporters. He was dressed in a slim-fitting, dark crimson suit with black lapels, a black shirt and a lime green tie, which was the same color as his piercing eyes. He had long, shaggy, hot pink hair which seemed synonymous with the presence of an equally unkempt beard, but the tanned Minister of Economics sported a clean-shaven look which complemented his handsome, somewhat effeminate features.
"He's coming. Be on the lookout."

A man emerged from the crowd, surrounded by suited bodyguards who wrestled the horde of reporters away from him. He wore a loose-fitting dress shirt, the sleeves revealing only his finger tips, and with the collar opened to the middle of his sternum. He also worse loose-fitting black slacks, and polished black dress shoes. He was of average height, which meant he was a head shorter than Veron and a head taller than Skye, with a slender, elf-like body. His classically beautiful face was such that it was nearly impossible to gender, and if it were not for his flat chest and narrow hips, he could have passed for a woman as easily as Skye. He had neck-length, pale green hair, tucked behind his ear on his right side, and startling yellow eyes, which appeared to be staring into thin air. Veron slid the limousine door open, and he slunk in, followed by Skye. Veron climbed in, sliding the door shut, and the trio emerged from the other side of the limousine, climing into a Lancia 037 Stradale parked next to it. Skye clambered onto the bench, narrowly sliding under the ceiling of the car, and sighing with annoyance.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Soulfire." said Nails Nihilism, drawing his seat belt across his chest. Veron slid the key into the ignition, and the car pulled away, without any sign of pursuit.

"All the power of Sacred World Order at your disposal, and you can't get a car with four seats?" she complained, stripping her jacket off clumsily. Underneath, she wore a loose-fitting black vest.

"This is my personal car, Skye Soulfire." replied Veron, turning off from the main road. The bustling metropolis was beginning to wind down as the binary stars slid down from their precipice at the sky's height. Orange beams slid through the buildings, some illuminating the interior of the pink-and-white Stradale.

"Icarus. Not Soulfire."

"You don't get to choose your own name, Skye."

"Vincent Lordmillion got to."

"No-one was in a position to argue with Lordmillion when he decided to continue using his family name. At that point in time, he was Sacred World Order. That is, though, At that point in time." replied Nails. He reached into a compartment on the dashboard of the stradale, and withdrew a pot of blue and white pills. He plucked a pair of them from the container with long, slender fingers, and swallowed them. "Things have changed. As you know, no one man holds as much power as Lordmillion did. Not even I, he who would be considered our harbinger; and thus, our traditions still stand in spite of Vincent's defiance."

Skye sighed. A sudden need to divert the conversation feel over her. "I assume you won the election, then?"

"Naturally." replied Nails, with a smile.

"And you don't think that the king of the universe is going to one day realize that a quarter of his worlds are governed by people with alliterative names, eh?" said a voice from the glove box of the Stradale. Nails flipped it open. A dismembered, but apparently still living head was inside. It was a woman's, with hair and skin both chalk white, and blood red eyes.

"Answers Angels? What are you doing in my car?" exclaimed Veron.

"I wanted to hear the election results first hand, Veron."

"Oh?" replied Nails, a faint smile forming on his shapely lips. "And where is the rest of your body?"

"I left it back at SWO/RD." she replied, a knowing grin forming on her face. "Though I have a feeling I'll be reunited with it soon, eh?"

Nails smiled in kind. "Yes. Sacred World Order's Research Department. That is, of course, our destination. I must see how our Emotionality units are doing; as you know, a father should be with his children."

A faint smile formed on Skye's face.

"And SOU/RCE?" asked Answers.

"Of course. And SOU/RCE." replied Nails, grinning, as the wheels of the Stradale tucked under the frame, and the car began to ascend through the atmosphere.

Rizumé sprinted toward the lead man, swinging her hands over her head in a clasped hammer. He caught the blow on his silver gauntlet and shot a jab into her stomach, doubling her over. Kumagi leapt over her, planting a foot firmly in his face. The karateka landed in a crouch, spun on his hands, sweeping his leg low, and knocked the rightmost warrior from his feet. The man he had kicked regained his footing and pushed Kumagi back with a storm of slashes from a whipblade. Kumagi darted around the neon line of the weapon, weaving so that its razor edge never brushed even his silk gakuran uniform. The whipblader was thrown backward by a blast of golden ki, and then Jonbiro was above the battle, white robes billowing in the whirlwind surrounding the combatants.  He hung in mid-air, and his hands became a blur as he rained energy on the black clad warriors. Rizumé righted herself, wiping spittle from her lips with the back of her hand.

“These guys are tough, eh?” Kurazo lifted his massive paw of a hand to his mempo, and lifted it, showing a face glistening with sweat and split with a wolfish grin. In his left hand he held a katana six feet long, and gripped in his opposite hand were three regularly sized swords, clasped between his fingers and protruding as claws between them. Kumagi walked over to stand by his master, His hands concealed behind his back.

“You know them?” Rizumé asked, panting.

“They’re old acquaintances. Ex-air-force if memory serves.”

Jonbiro landed in a flurry of robes ahead of them, motioning over one shoulder that they should join him. The group of warriors had dropped back thirty or so metres, standing in perfect military chevron. The lead warrior wore a long black trench coat over reactive black carapace armour. His short grey hair glistened with sweat. One eye was covered with a silver eye patch. He wore a bandolier over his left shoulder, and his right fist was cased in a silver gauntlet. His subordinates wore similar attire, and each one also wore a dark blue beret, complete with golden snake badges. Jonbiro stood facing them, glaring from beneath the brim of his sugegasa.

“Stay alert. Not only are these fighters hiding their true power, they have some of the best discipline I’ve seen in this tournament so far. The fight so far has simply been a test. They wanted to assess our abilities. Luckily, we have tricks up our sleeves to match” The monk grinned beneath the brim of his hat, and Kurazo boomed a laugh.

Rizumé herself even offered a smile. She had felt scared until this point, alone. When Jonbiro had returned, and tried to tell her about her past, she had wholehearted rejected it. She was determined to not let it define her. She cared little for history- her place was here, on the battlefield.

Kurazo’s voice boomed out across the expanse between the two groups. “Is this it? Have you worn out toys expended your worth on this battlefield as well?”

The leader’s face set into a grimace, and he motioned with one hand. His fighters leapt backward over the crest they stood on, out of sight. Kurazo laughed and shook his head, but Jonbiro approached the ridge, peering down into the valley ahead of them. Flashes of energy ripping through the air, and the roaring peal of explosions echoed up to their vantage point at the lip of the gully.

Lucy flew upwards from the explosion caused by Lordmillion's attack, smoke trailing from her bloodied body. Lordmillion jumped upwards, hovering in midair momentarily, before unleashing a second starfire beam from an outstretched palm. Lucy rolled aside of it, as Lordmillion slashed through the air with Shiroryu, sending out a blade of white energy which impacted the starfire beam, reflecting it back towards her. It narrowly slid under her arm, charring her shirt, before being reflected again and impacting her directly in the chest. She flew backwards from the explosion, before kicking off from the ground and shooting towards Lordmillion, the point of Avenger ready to plunge through his chest. The tip of the blade began to glow red with heat as she tore through spacetime, emerging from a tear directly behind Lordmillion, still with all her initial momentum; Lordmillion turned and calmy placed his free hand on the flat of the blade, pushing it aside. The ground in front of the blade opened up as the kinetic energy was transferred to the surrounding air, and the resulting explosion blew both Lordmillion's and Lucy's hair backwards.  Lucy slid backwards, rapidly drawing Avenger over her shoulder before loosing it in a horizontal swing; Lordmillion slid under it, drawing Shiroryu upwards and removing everything further out than Lucy's elbows.

A few seconds after her forearms hit the floor, she stumbled backwards.

"You... cut my arms off, scrub."

"An astute observation."

Lucy looked at Vincent, her mouth contorted in pain. The orange glow had disappeared from her eyes, replaced instead by the redness which preludes crying.  Lordmillion was somewhat taken aback, though he showed no sign of it, save for that slight tightening of the pupils which Lucy lacked both the social skills and remaining lifespan to understand. The resemblance, now, was more than passing.

Lucrezia.

Lordmillion shot upwards through the air before the memory had even been entirely processed. He impacted Malak, seemingly catching the angelic behemoth by surprise as a bolt of white light, and reached his slender fingers around his face, as if trying to remove it. Malak reached around behind Lordmillion with Danketsu, as if preparing to commit seppukku, and drew the tip of the blade towards Lordmillion's back. Two diamond-shaped blades of light shot forth from Lordmillion's back, skewering Malak's fingers, and then growing until they were the size of wings, expanding to tear his hands apart. Malak's four wings closed in to skewer Lordmillion, their tip feathers sharp as steel; Lordmillion's wings shot through the top pair, twisting and breaking them. They exploded, like balloons filled with black blood, which trailed behind the pair as they shot upwards through the atmosphere. Malak's second pair were intercepted by another pair of energy wings, which rapidly sprouted from underneath Lordmillion's original wings. They slid Malak's wings outwards, before shooting forth into the base of them, causing them, too, to explode.

I'm sorry, Lucrezia. The world we dreamed of is but a beautiful fantasy.

Lordmillion's eyes began to glow white, and all composure was lost. Screaming with rage, he pulled at Malak's face, his arms shaking, pulsing with muscle. Tears streamed down his face, and his mouth was contorted in pain in much the same way as Lucy's.

"But... Heaven burned..." muttered Malak.

Malak's face came off, reverting to the mask it had once been. His host fell away, a ghostly trail of gaseous energy flowing from his mouth, and forming underneath the mask as a red body. Lordmillion released the mask, and flew back. His wings shot forth, each one impaling a limb, crucifying him in midair. Malak struggled, his body stretching, black blood leaking from it. The mask that was his face began to crack and shatter, black blood trickling from the breaks in it.

"And I fell." replied Lordmillion.

The mask shattered. The base of the cross shaped explosion shot down to the earth below, shooting city-sized chunks of matter up into the atmosphere, some of which were cut in half by the arms of the cross. Lordmillion allowed the force of the explosion to shoot him backwards, his wings disappearing as he fell downwards.

Lucrezia.

"LUUUUUUUCREEEEEEZIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!"

-

Lucy knelt, her head slightly bowed, and her eyes staring into nothingness. Her hair swayed forwards slightly as the shockwave of the explosion hit her. She remarked internally about how she used to hate her hair, and how now she regretted not doing more things with it whilst she had the chance, before closing her eyes and sighing.

"Giving up so soon are we?" said a man's voice. Lucy looked up as Alexander approached, revolver in hand.

"Lordmillion... cut my arms off, Kai."

"Oh no. What a horrible way for you to have died."

Alexander raised his revolver to her right cheek, and fired. A spray of gore and blood erupted from the front of her head as she shot backwards, her skull cracking as it impacted the ground. Alexander leant over her, and reached a gloved hand into the wound on her face, fingering her eyeball. He loosened it into the gouge underneath her eye, and slid his fingers around it before pulling. It came out as far as the optic nerve would allow it, though this snapped when Alexander tugged, the force momentarily lifting Lucy's head from the ground. He holstered his revolver and walked away, holding the eye firmly in a gloved hand.

"How disgusting."

James scanned the ruins. His visor displayed a variety of readouts about the planet, including the atmospheric pressure, the ambient temperature and radiation levels. He held up his hand, three fingers pointed up, and a laser sight flickered onto the wall in front of him, the signal that Mickey was in position. Dropping the hand back down and flicking a switch his visor flickered, the deep purples and greens of  the local plant-life replace by the display from his heat sensors. The humidity of the swamp made it difficult to differentiate between the ruins and his target, but it was better than his chances of seeing through the mist that engulfed the surroundings. He sighed and stepped into ruins, keeping his back against the crumbling walls. He stepped forward and ducked under a collapsed doorway stepping forward only to jump back, everything suddenly a blinding white as an energy blast rocketed past him and destroying a chunk of the building, bringing it crumbling down. James got up and rolled away from the falling debris, collapsing into a shrine dedicated to some long forgotten god.

Taking a moment to breathe he looked out in the direction of the blast, two figures burning orange and red against the background of the swamp. The ran at each other, one with a sword that looked far too big to wield at all effectively and one fighting with bare hands, ducking and swerving away from the blade and returning with rapid firing energy blasts.

"We might have a problem. Our target isn't alone. The new guy looks like a class 2, got some fuck-off sword. Probably magical or something, doesn't look nearly as heavy as it should be. What do you think?"

"He has a fucking sword, what are you scared he's going to come up and stab the four of us before we can get a single shot off? Just man up and engage."

James knew Mickey was talking out of his ass. They had both seen what a sword could do in the right hands. You had to be careful out here, this wasn't like the simulations. Last month three squads had been vaporised by some freak. One guy had just clicked his fingers and a couple of dozen guys were dead. Vaporisation became an everyday threat when you were hunting gods. On the other hand, it was a couple of miles walk until you were far enough out of the swamp's interference to radio in for reinforcements, so, swearing under his breath he moved towards the targets, still crouching. They were still fighting, the massive blade twisting and carving through the energy blasts that were fired relentlessly towards it. Holding the rifle steady James looked down the scope, centring the torso of the sword wielder in his cross-hairs. Breathing in he squeezed the trigger, the bullet finding it's mark.

A Week Later

Nails stood, staring off into the darkness. He had been doing so for the past hour. Skye had been standing in the same spot for an equal amount of time, only moving her arm to run through her hair, which had been cut to neck-length only this morning by Ezra. She had not gotten used to it yet, and it was increasingly angering her.

"Angels Angelos returned with Lucy Farr's eye, this morning." he said, finally breaking his silence.

"Oh?"

"Apparently Vincent removed her arms. That... would have killed her, if Angels hadn't finished the job himself."

"I wish I could've been-"

"Sacred World Organization, Special Duty Corps RAION." interrupted Nails, in that profoundly autistic manner he was so fond of.

"What's that?"

"With the acquisition of the twelfth Chimaera, the first stage of our plan is drawing to a close. As you understand, SWORD is now at its most vulnerable point; in previous attempts at fulfilling the scrolls, the thirteenth Chimaera is most commonly where the fatal fault has appeared. RAION will prevent this fault from appearing." Nails said, pacing the small platform upon which he and Skye stood, suspended in total darkness within the central column of SWORD's cylinder colony Noblesse Oblige. "The appearance of the Daemon Malak Al-Maut is especially disturbing. RAION will secure the final Chimaera, whilst SWORD will focus on protecting those Chimaeras we have already assembled."

"So RAION's the sword and SWORD's the shield, eh?" asked Veron, appearing from a door of light at the edge of the platform, and adjusting his tie as walked closer to the pair. A RAION broach was already pinned to his lapel. Nails smiled as an acknowledgement of Veron's entry.

"Veron will lead this team, as you would imagine. You'll be his number one. The other members will be Ezra, Running Rain, and... oh, of course. I haven't introduced you to our newest recruit, have I?" he said, a wiry smile forming on his thin lips, as he pulled a small communicator from his pocket.

"Lilith, please come to the Finality room."

A few moments later, a young woman entered the room. She wore a suit of advanced, SWORD-developed armor, composed of a skintight black undersuit coupled with a still form-fitting layer of blood-red armor plates. Over this she wore a ribcage-length black cotton jacket, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a RAION patch sown on. She also wore a blood-red scarf, which was the same color as her shoulder-length hair, and a black eye-patch covering her right eye.

"You told me she was fucking dead, Nails."

"I told you Lucy Farr was dead."

"And what the fuck's this, a clone?"

"A successor. A reiteration. EMOTIONALITY Unit 001. Lilith Lightbringer."

"But why'd you clone Lucy, Nails?"

"Because I knew it would piss off Vincent Lordmillion."

Skye drew her blade back. Veron smiled. "She only has one eye," he said, "because Lucy's right eye was chimaeric. There was never any information for the right eye in the DNA sample we took from your claymore."

"You touched my fucking sword?!" screamed Skye. Lilith shuddered at the noise. Skye noticed, and turned to face her. "And this is supposed to be an improvement? She's half blind and has some fucking syndrome - what, did your improvement programme consist of hitting a clone of her in the back of the head with a sink?"

"She's a product of the EMOTIONALITY project. An Emotivator. She has some of SOU/RCE's DNA, which means she can detect Chimaeras." relied Veron, continually adjusting his tie.

"And is she all we've got to go on?"

"No. We know the final Chimaera is somewhere in the nation of Kartz, in the easter-"

"I grew up there. I know where it is." replied Skye, climbing up from Lilith. "Come on, Veron. Let's get this over and done with. Wouldn't want Mr. Nihilism's plan to fail at this stage, now, would we?"

Veron walked over to Skye, and stared down at her, before helping Lilith up from the floor. The three of them exited the finality room, emerging in a weightless district of the colony. Outside a window which stretched around the circumference of the central column, an advanced warship, ostensibly commisioned specifically for RAION, hung in space like a champered bullet, ready to fire. It was sleek, like a dart, with two huge engine pods half concealed behind the primary hull of the vessel. Skye gazed at it, as Veron kicked off from the wall towards the docking ring.

"I'm sorry."

Skye turned. Lilith hung behind her, drifting in the weightless enviroment. Skye stared at her for a moment, before realizing she hadn't fully understood what she had just said.

"What's that?"

"I'm sorry for making you angry."

Skye smiled. "If you were really sorry, you'd kill yourself. Or, even better, let me do it for you."

"I'd like that, then."

Skye's eyes shot open. "Eh? What kind of backwards attitude's that?!"

Lilith looked at her, confused. "You... said I should let you kill me."

"Do you want to die?"

"...No."

A perplexed expression took hold of Skye's face "Do you want to live?"

Lilith looked down at her feet.

"...Not really."

Skye considered the situation for a second. "Whatever, what the fuck, I'm not a psychologist or a psychiatrist. I'm not cut out for this type of bullshit. I kill people and fuck people and I'm really not cut out for anything else. Blow your stupid cloned-up brains out if you want, because we can do this job with or without you."

Skye shot off towards the docking ring. Lilith drifted about for a few moments, before kicking off after Skye.

"This isn't a fucking ark, you hear? I can't let any fucker on-board. Job's fucking hard enough as is without fucks like you fucking buggering me ever' fucking second of the day tryna get off this fuck-back world." The harbourmaster leaned back in his chair, the furniture audibly straining against his gargantuan mass. He peered through squinted eyes set into his fat blubbery nose at Holbach, who stood across the desk from him, rifle slung over one shoulder. “Well?! What the fuck are you still standing there for? Fuck off outta my office!”

“You know the problem with people like you?”

“What the fuck are you on about?” The harbourmasters face set in disbelief that Holbach remained planted to the spot.

“You get one tiny fuckin’ bit of power, an’ because of your shit slog life, your cunt of a wife who’s cheating on you, your daughter who’s tangled up with that nigger slinging KDAD on the street corner, you fuckin’ lord it like you’re mother-fucking king of the bloody universe. An’ you know who that pisses off?”

“Let me guess, fucks like you?”

“Pre-fuckin’-cisely.” Holbach drew his knife from the sheathe on his thigh and threw it straight through the harbourmaster’s head, ramming the mass of flesh back and pinning it to the metal wall behind it.

Outside the harbourmasters office, clunky drones swirled around the hull of a vast starship. A teeming mass of people, aliens, automatons and power-suits crowded around the gangway, a hundred-metre wide strip of metal that lead toward the open maw of the ship. Guards in black carapace power armour stood in a firm line, obstructing the entrance and checking pass-papers as the crowd tried desperately to board Aphestias. Holbach pushed through the crowds until he was nearly at the fore- he heard a scream and shouting from the harbourmaster’s office, and smiled to himself. He had no papers, but he needed a passage aboard Aphestias. He looked around, and spotted a man in the masses. His dark brown hair was slicked back over his head, reaching down to his shoulders. A high collared jacket hung from his narrow frame, and his eyes were obscured by a mask not dissimilar to those employed by skiers. The tell for Holbach, though, was the sword strapped across his back. Even as Holbach noticed him, he turned his head slowly toward him, and smirked, nodding ever-so-slightly. Holbach inclined his head a fraction of an inch in return.

The fighter began to edge forwards, pushing through the last few people until he came face to face with the black-armoured guards. Holbach matched his advance, keeping him in the corner of his eye at all times. The fighter raised a single thin hand up, and placed it lightly on the faceplate of one guard, who stepped back only slightly, before pushing the fighter back with the butt of his rifle. Where the fighters hand had been moments before, however, was a handprint, glowing a faint purple-pink. The black-carapace armoured guard stepped back, one twice, before reaching up to brush the print away with a gloved hand. Smoke began to curl away from the print, as it burnt itself into the tritanium mask of the guard, who had begun to scream, a low keening that rose to a thin, high pitched wail. The other guards stood motionless, a single gap in their line. The printed guard’s lifeless corpse dropped to the gangway, the helmet almost half melted away, caustic bubbles popping and rippling across the shiny black glass. The fighter turned and grinned at Holbach, who stared back with icy eyes. The fighter slipped through the gap, and the guards to the left and right of him dropped to their knees, turning 180 degrees, and raised their rifles to their cheeks.

“Failure to comply will result in termination.” As the guards spoke in unison, red lines appeared across their visors, measuring the tones of their robotic voices.

The fighter spoke, his voice slightly accented. “That’d be a shame.” He leapt backward, and, drawing his sword in one swift manoeuvre, sent a wave of purple energy coursing toward the line of guards. On contact it ripped through, cleaving the line in two by the waist. The wave continued forth, but with only the effect of pushing the now screaming masses back by a pace or two. Holbach leapt above the crowd, landing roughly in front of the fighter, who bent his tall frame slightly, extending a hand. Holbach ignored the offered limb, instead spitting at the fighters highly polished shoes. His eyes tracked up a pair of perfectly pleated trousers in dark grey, to a crisp white shirt that clung to his muscular but lithe build. Holbach stood, realizing himself around two inches shorter than-

“Astros Hyperion Del Tissot Mordechai, at your humble service.” Astros bowed theatrically, flourishing his long, thin sword at his side. Holbach shouldered past him, marching toward the open door of the ship.

“How rude! You plan to leave all these people without even a consolation performance?” Astros raised his sword in front of his masked face. “En garde!”

Some Time Later

"If I don't get any chips, can I have another bacon sandwich?"

"Get out of here! I let one person have double bacon, soon everyone wants double bacon. You see any pigs on this asteroid? I've only got enough supplies to last us till the end of the month."

Iris pouted. "But I'm an ace."

"So was I," replied the chef, grinning behind his red/blue aviators, "but back then, we didn't have even any bacon, let alone double bacon for the fighter aces. Pigs hadn't been invented then."

A perplexed expression took hold of the young pilot's face. She ran a hand through her Blue hair, scratching her scalp in confusion.

"I'm sure that's not true. Pigs have been around for a long time."

"Well I've been around even longer, Kiddo."

Iris sighed, as the chef upended a hand-shovel of chips onto her plate. She impertinently pulled her tray up from the counter, and trotted off into the mess hall to find somewhere to sit. Azariah slid his tray along.

"A bacon sandwich, please."

The chef smiled, reaching a gloved hand to a tray of bacon sandwiches, kept warm by an overhead light. He placed it on a plate, which he then placed onto Azariah's tray.
"I saw that new fighter that's been delivered to your squad. She's certainly impressive - nothing like the old buckets of bolts we had to deal with. What's she called... the F-38? F-37?"

"The F-37 Soryu, Sir."

"Well, she's a good-looking bird." he said, depositing a shovel of chips onto Azariah's plate. "I like the forward-swept wings. I don't quite know what good they do, but I know that they do look nice. And I know you're just going to give your sandwich to Iris, so here, have another."

"Uh... Thank you very much, sir."

Azariah lifted his tray up from the counter, and set off to find Iris. He found her sitting in the far corner of the room, alone, her sandwich almost entirely consumed. He sat down opposite her, picking up both of the sandwiches he had been given, and depositing them on her plate. She grinned in a childlike manner, swallowing the last bite of her food, before leaning over the table, and wrapping her arms around his head. He squirmed uncomfortably.

Iris was the most talented fighter pilot Azariah had even seen, and that was including fictional characters. She was the first PRIDE pilot to have had the opportunity to fly the X-37, and had been sortieing in it for around a year before the production-pattern F-37 had been fully introduced. Yet, judging purely from her behaviour and unassuming appearance, one could only surmise that she was the rookie of the squad, or worse, the comfort woman. By contrast, Azariah Ephraim appeared every bit the image of the model soldier, save for his non-regulation neck-length black hair, the back of which he wore in a loose ponytail. Irregardless, he was only the third best pilot in the squadron.

"Eh - Iris?"

"Hmm?"

"My face - Well, it's in your-"

"Am I interrupting something?" asked a voice, which had the accent of personified aristocracy. Iris pulled back, disgruntled. Marquis de Coldheaven sat down next to her; his meal was a bowl of salad, served with a small glass of red wine. Marquis was, apparently, a very handsome man. Apparently. No-one could verify that rumor, due to the white mask which covered the top half of his face. He lifted the glass to his thin lips, and sipped.

"Not at all, Sir." replied Azariah, adjusting his hair.

"Hmm. Lieutenant Spiel - I've noticed that you've drawn a piece of anime girl nose art on your X-37. You are aware that that's against regulations, right?"

Iris pouted, folding her arms. "So's wearing a pleated skirt and thigh-highs as part of uniform. Funny how no-one calls me out that one, eh?" she replied, glaring at Marqius. He chuckled, pressing his fork into a tomato, and raising it to his mouth.

"I'm not saying I have an issue with either, personally. My mask isn't regulation, either. I just wanted to remind you, in case the higher-ups decide to call you out on it." he said, taking the pepper shaker from the center of the table and lightly tapping it over his dish. "Though I will say, drawing her stark naked, with only a pulse rifle for modesty, was probably in poor taste".

"It's Art. You've just got to deal with it."

And then, as if compelled to prevent PRIDE'S elite pilots from ever finishing a meal, the alarm sounded. Marquis and Azariah shot upwards, untangling their legs from the benches in an instant. Iris followed, her last sandwich in hand. She forced it into her mouth as the group hurriedly exited the mess hall, the red emergency light flooding the corridor. They began unbuttoning their jackets and removing them, in preparation for donning their flight suits; Marquis, unsurprisingly, made no attempt to remove his mask.

"Red Alert. All crew to Level Two Battle-stations. All pilots, prepare to sortie."

Azariah looked down at his right hand, as he hung his jacket over his shoulder with his left. If Iris had her skirt and Marquis had his mask, then the fingerless glove he wore on this hand was Azariah's break of uniform regulation. He flexed his fingers nervously, as the burning sensation caused by the black mark on the back of his hand began to intensify. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to draw upon that welling reserve of power.

He wondered if Marquis de Coldheaven hid such a dangerous secret behind his mask.

It was their third day on this hellhole. Sure, it was humid, the atmosphere was toxic and infested with insects with bites that ended in certain death, but Mickey was more than used to inhospitable environments. He’d rather be here than at base camp, with the constant drills and training sims. Never time to think.  He watched James raised his hand and reached out to his rifle, flicking the laser sight on. The hand went back down and James stepped forwards into the ruin. The cliff gave him a decent view of the surrounding area, but the mist got thicker further into the swamp and made it impossible to see anything on the ground. That was where James came in.

“We might have a problem. Our target isn't alone. The new guy looks like a class 2, got some fuck-off sword-“
Mickey cringed.  He could see it now as clearly as he had then, how the blade had torn through flesh, its wielder cutting with surgical precision. Much of Mickey’s life was lost to him, taken by drugs or alcohol, but he’d never forget the sound it made. Once you knew that people were nothing but sacks of meat, it was difficult to see them as anything else. He breathed slowly and opened his eyes.

“He has a fucking sword, what are you scared he’s going to come up and stab the four of us before we can get a single shot off? Just man up and engage.”

For a moment everything was still, and then the display on his visor registered the path of the bullet, flying away from James’ signal and meeting its target. The bullet sent out a signal that registered with his visor, which coordinated a position, and that meant a target. Mickey lifted the rifle, using the tripod to shift its incredible weight into place. Centring the scope on the signal he fired, the sound suppressors turning on to respond to the incredible noise. The shockwave from the round cut through the mist and collided with the fighter, exploding on impact.


James ducked behind a rock, the force of the explosion focused by the bullet’s design into propelling the sword wielder back into the tree-line. The other fighter looked up at James, stunned for a moment.  Regaining his composure he clenched his fists, which began to glow with energy. He raised a hand towards James and fired a blast of white hot flame. James held up his rifle to protect himself, the flame melting through the gun with ease. By the time the onslaught had let up the weapon was damaged beyond repair and James was left defenceless. The fighter stepped towards him, engulfed in a shimmering red glow.

“Why have you interrupted this? It does not concern you.”

“My employer wants you removed. And he is not accustomed to not getting his way.”

The door of the Big Zam saloon shot open, and the corrugated iron sheets applied to the roof as protection from falling debris let off a disheartening rattle. Something limped in, and only on further inspection could one even attempt to identify it as a barefooted human, under those layers of rags which, in their ubiquity, appeared as if given out by birthright to all those who decided to wander deserts and other assorted wastelands. It sat down on a stall, as a group of off-duty soldiers who had inspected its entry sniggered, taking sharp draws from dying cigarettes.

"I'll have a beer." she said, calling out towards the barkeep - a blonde-haired bishounen, no doubt too young to even sample the goods he purveyed. "I don't know what you have here, so, uh, just give me whatever."

"Sure." replied the keep. A few moments later, a full pint glass appeared on the counter in front of her.

"You got a straw?"

A crack of laughter sounded behind her, followed by an audible thud as one of the soldiers fell from his chair. The girl peered over her shoulder, at the group of red-jacketed men sitting around a game of cards.

"You scrubs got a problem with my drinking habits?"

One of the men, a ginger-haired slut with "Keene" written on his jacket's name patch, stood up immediately, his hand sliding to his holstered revolver.

"What the fuck did you call us?"

She sighed, kicking back her head so that her hood fell to her shoulders. "Scrubs. Scrubs being the plural of Scrub." she said, fully turning around to face Keene. "N. A person who enjoys large quantities of pedro, whilst having no qualms about where it comes from. This type of individual is characterized by their propensity to get absolutely and unconditionally clapped by Lucy Farr - that, being me." she added, grinning. "From the latin "Scruh", meaning "It's probably a good idea to piss off the demon pizza-delivery girl with the eleven-foot-long glowing katana" and "Uhb", meaning "I really enjoy having multiple, painful fractures and the inability to walk five steps without my heart exploding." "

Keene looked bewildered, running a hand through his ginger pomp as he repeatedly blinked. The other soldiers stood up behind him.

"You got an eleven-foot long katana?" asked one of the soldiers, a young black boy, no older than the barkeep. Lucy grinned.

"Yeah, kiddo. It's awesome. 'course, it's no good to me right now, seeing as my arms got cut off."

"Your arms got cut off?" asked Keene, grinning.

"Uh... I feel now that I should not have said that..."

Keene came at her, raising a fist. Lucy raised her foot, and Keene's crotch walked into it, doubling him over. She brought her knee up into his neck, then drew her leg away from him, before side swiping him towards the frame  the door. His flailing arm caught on the door, closing it on his head, which was caught between it and the frame. Another soldier came at Lucy with a knife, and she kicked his weapon arm hard enough to break the other arm, too. She caught the knife between her toes, spinning it, and readying it for a slash.

"Listen here, fuckers. There's a reason the moon blew up, and there's a reason that half of the northern continent is now orbiting the planet as a debris belt, and that reason is me. So how about you fuck off before I go all Heavenly-Piercing Destiny Breaker on your scrubby arses?"

"Ain't that one of Ike Harimata's special attacks from Wyvernball?" asked the black boy, who was now hiding behind one of the chairs.

"Shh. No. I invented it myself. Now, fucks, what'll it be?"

The soldiers sighed, picking up their wounded, and dragging them out of the saloon. Lucy sighed, dropping the blade, and slumping back down onto her stool. A red patch had appeared on her shirt, where the fight had opened the wound below her belly button. She was beginning to regret allowing Malak to stab her. The scared black boy climbed up from his hiding spot, walked over to Lucy, and then climbed up onto the stool next to her.

"You're not really a soldier, are you?" she asked.

"Nah, Miss. I just hung around with them because they gave me a jacket, and they're willing to gimme more attention than my parents ever did. They're dead, y'see."

"Oh. Do you want to hang around with me, instead? I could do with an extra pair of hands."

"I'm gonna be honest, but nah. You've only got one eye it's, it's proper disconcerting. It's proper shitty though, 'cos the rest of you is pretty hot. Like I wouldn't say that i'd would've fucked you at the drop of a pin but it's in that general direction." he replied, biting his lower lip.

"What are you, like fourteen, kiddo?"

"Fourteen and a half. I like to think I could pass for twenty at a glance. I'm a bit of a dandy, and I like to think I dress beyond me years. Actually, I tell you what, now you reminded me that I am a gentleman, like, I'll travel around with you, long as you promise to wear an eye-patch."

"Uh.... Okay. Well, do you know where the nearest military base is?"

"Yessir."

"And do you know how to hotwire an F-26?"

"Lady - I designed the F-26." replied Loquacious Crump, grinning.

Abimelech raised his head slowly, his eyes climbing the perfect form of his opponent. The dark charcoal of the Abyssal’s skin was fractured by carefully carved runes that glowed a deep, throbbing purple. The muscles of its torso stood out in a bas-relief fashion, as though the creature had been carved from stone. It lowered its jaw, and its eyes met with Abimelech, deep red flickers that smouldered in the ash coloured curved face. No feature aside of those eyes marked its head. A pair of ghostly wings extended from behind its back, of the same carved and flowing design of the rest of its body. In its right fist it clutched a long, ancient blade, and the left fist was wreathed in dark flames that curled up the Abyssal’s forearm. Abimelech stood, straightening his broad, bare shoulders. He raised his lance, the tattered black pennant at its tip fluttering in the hot wind. The Abyssal dove toward him from on high, its sword extended out in front of its wake, the fire of its other hand building and trailing behind it. Abimelech crouched, massive forces cracking the ground beneath him, before shooting forth into the dark red sky. His lance tip found purchase in the Abyssal’s shoulder, and it shrieked, an ear splitting sound that Abimelech had heard only once before; When his father had slaughtered Araz Kahdoun, the Greater Abyssal of the Fifth Plain.

Kamak Arek brought its fire to bear, pouring a stream of dark flames toward Abimelech. He outstretched one hand, and the fire impacted his palm, curling around his fingers, but leaving his pallid face untouched. Abimelech yanked the lance from Arek’s shoulder, and the Abyssal forced toward him, the mask splitting vertically, revealing a gaping maw filled with rows of razor sharp teeth. Abimelech turned in the air, bringing the metal shaft of the lance about to slam on the Abyssal’s neck. It made a choking sound before shooting off to the left, its limp form fluttering in the wind. Abimelech forced toward it, and drove his lance straight through its jaw, the tip protruding thereafter from its skull. Abimelech dropped from the sky, alighting on the ball of his foot, touching down gracefully. The Abyssal’s body fell after him, landing in a crumpled heap behind him.

From behind him, Abimelech heard three staccato claps. He turned, and there stood his father, Abrahiel Abaddon. His stark white hair was slicked back over his head, a single strand fluttering in the breeze. His dark blue skin was lined with wrinkles on his forehead and around his mouth, which sat above a strong jaw. High cheekbones framed narrow eyes and a long but powerful nose. His muscular build was accentuated by dark black armour. A sweeping purple cape hung from one shoulder, and his right hip was adorned by a dark black sword.

“Bravo, Bravo! Perhaps an encore is appropriate, Abimelech, after demonstrating such-“ A great beast ruptured from the ground behind Abbadon, a single yellow eyes proud on its red skinned face. Its huge torso splintered the surrounding rock with ease as it stood, showering dirt and gravel around Abaddon. “-Prowess!”

"Sefer Shevirah Ephraim. I knew Loquacious wasn't a real name. Why'd you gimme a fake one, scrub?"

"You're name's Lucy Farr." replied Sefer, adjusting the final fit with an ionic screwdriver. "You can hardly talk."

"Well, that's different." replied Lucy, flexing her fingers as the nerve links kicked into place. "You couldn't pronounce my real name in a human body, and even if you could, it'd just dye the seas red and cause a glowing Sephirot to appear in the skies above." she added, pulling her arm away from Sefer's workbench. To call the prosthetic arm "robotic" would be doing it an injustice; it was a masterpiece of bio-organic engineering, being essentially a replica of a human forearm, with multiple improvements made. Each finger could exert twice as much force as a fully-grown man's arm, and withstand five times as much punishment before breaking. Armored-piercing claws were installed in each fingertip, ready to flip out and tear through armor or shielding. A pulse-cannon - really, a series of chi-focusing panels arranged behind a magnifier - was installed in the palm of each hand, as well as a series of chi-panels arrayed along the inner side of the hands, to allow for more focused blasts of energy. The arms also featured an internal vibroblade, which could extend from either the wrist or the elbow. They were black, with red - painted so at Lucy's request - ergonomic, psycho-ceramic armor on top, which revealed only slight cracks of the black surface underneath, save for the palm of each hand which was unarmored. The ergonomic form meant that, when worn with a pair of gloves and a long-sleeved shirt, no-one would've been able to tell they were there.

"What's a Sephirot?"

Lucy rolled up the right sleeve of her shirt, and pointed to a tattoo on her upper arm, which resembled some variety of tennis racket.

"Ah."

Sefer got up from his table, and retrieved a shotgun-sized railgun from a rack on the wall of his den. It was the basement of an antiques store, which he had been allowed to live in, in exchange for fixing the owner's wife (who was an android). It was filled with various designs he had created - most out of scrap, however. Lucy's arms, as evidenced by their build quality, had been stolen from the KoreTech design lab Sefer had escaped, after being held there for most of his childhood - whilst there, he had designed most if not all of KoreTech's recent products, including the F-26 Ayanami, and the F-37 Soryu. All this Lucy had learned in the past two hours, as Sefer had attached her new arms to her. She rolled down her sleeve and stood, before materializing Avenger in her right hand, and sheathing it. She had somehow managed to find exact replacements for all the items of her clothing that had been lost or damaged, thanks to a malicious clothing company extending its reach over the universe for undoubtedly nefarious purposes - she had also acquired a black eye-patch, per Sefer's request. Thankfully, however, her scarf had been neither lost nor damaged.

"Come on, kiddo. We've got a fighter jet to steal."

"Do you even know how to fly?"

"I do what I want."

"Yeah, but do you know how to fly?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, kiddo." she replied, climbing up the ladder which led to the street outside. Sefer followed, tucking his alloy cannon under his military jacket.

"Stop calling me kiddo."

"Stop being fourteen."


----


The cockpit shell slid shut, a faint whine sounding as the hermetic seals locked into place. The inside screen lit up, displaying the PRIDE logo, then the OS version and logo, before fading out to a composite feed stitch, take from the cameras which dotted the F-37's hull. Azariah ran the pre-flight checks - technically, the OS could do them for him, but he liked the sense of security from doing them himself. Everything was nominal, as was to be expected. Marqius's masked face suddenly flickered into being on the terminal positioned between his legs.

"This is a requested intervention on behalf of the nation of Kartz. An unknown organization has attacked one of their worlds - a heavily populated planet known as Shoryn. Initial reports suggest they may be UT Competitors - there are at least four individuals described as demonstrating "extraordinary" abilities, as well as a small army of stormtroopers. Their ship is capable of atmospheric flight, and is allowing them complete aerial dominance as they raid and pillage. Our job is to take out that ship. Therefore, we've been granted permission to use X2 weapons."

Azariah nodded, as Marquis's face faded away. The terminal now displayed a schematic of his jet, with its winged locked forwards in space configuration. His jet, along with those of the rest of his squadron, were loaded into one of the PRIDE base's many jet catapults - the jets, arranged next to one another, were like bullets in a magazine, ready to be chambered. The catapult magazine slid sideways, depositing Azariah's vehicle in front of a long corridor, easily wide enough to fly down.

"Warp co-ordinates, input. Establishing wormhole feed. Initial firing, confirmed. Preparing full firing. Full firing, confirmed. Wormhole stable. Exit zone clear. Azariah Ephraim, F-37 Soryu, Please sortie."

"Roger that. Azariah Ephraim, F-37 Soryu, Launching!"

The nuclear pulse engine fired, and the F-37 shot forwards, speeding down the corridor. At the end stood a disc of blue light, which seemed to grow larger as the F-37 accelerated. The F-37 entered the wormhole entrance, emerging instantly from the corresponding exit, half a universe away. The planet was underneath him; Azariah rolled so that it was above his canopy, and pulled his nose upwards, beginning his descent. The wings automatically slid backwards into atmospheric flight configuration, as Azariah began spooling up the X2 railgun mounted in the aircraft's nose, and the jet began glowing with the heat of orbital entry.

Rizumé leapt away as a bolt of energy rippled through the air in front of her. Her chain whips retracted, spooling into her gauntlets. Jonbiro alighted beside her, both pairs of arms folded heavily across his chest. The two watched as Hojo Kurazo spun through the melee ahead of them, whipping his blades in a ghastly dance of death. His grace was matched only by his strength; the three katana in one hand dicing clean through a reptilian fighter clad in thick power armour, and the no-dachi in the other separating three fighters from their lower halves. Kurazo spun between opponents, meeting blades momentarily with his own before riposting, using his katana as claws to net the enemies blade and then render them apart with herculean power. One man, a monk of some description, leapt at the samurai, his entire body aglow; using the very tip of his no-dachi he cleaved the man in two, and his body erupted with golden energy that pushed The Wolf back, sliding on his wooden sandals until he came to a halt alongside Jonbiro. His red mempo was slick with blood and sweat. He flicked his swords, blood spraying in delicate arcs from their tips, and sheathed them in one swift movement.

“The ‘yotsukenshuho’ is a sight to behold, Shishou.” One of the fighters had stepped forward from his dying comrades. One half of his body was charred from the explosion, but his other half was clearly a metallic grey. He wore baggy grey fatigues and a sash, from which hung an ornate, straight bladed sword. His bald head glistened in the mid afternoon sun. A symbol was scarified into his forehead- a stylised ‘W’.

“What of it?” Kurazo snarled from under his mask. Rizumé settled into a crouch slightly, loosening her arms to allow her chain whips to spool freely on the ground. Still the warrior kept walking toward the three, his steps slow and measured, fists swinging boldly by his sides.

“I wondered- Could it stand up to my Wu-Tang sword style in single combat?” He unsheathed his sword measuredly, placing one hand behind his back, settling into a low stance.

“Tch. Prepare to die.” Kurazo stepped forward and tore his katana from their sheathes, slicing toward the lone warrior. He parried all three blades with his blade, and slipped under the attack, diving into Kurazo’s huge reach and barging the bigger man’s chest, pushing him back a step. Kurazo spun, sweeping his katana in an arc. The warrior leapt over the attack, alighting and stabbing toward Kurazo’s mempo. The samurai caught the lunge with a side swipe of his blades, batting the warrior’s sword to the side. The strength of the foil took the lone warrior off step; Kurazo’s no-dachi flashed from its sheath. The warrior flipped forward, the tip of the blade taking the hairs from the back of his neck. Kurazo’s eyes widened at his failed draw; he was forced back three steps by a flurry of thrusts by the lone swordsman in an instant. Rizumé stepped forward, moving to help the samurai. Jonbiro’s heavy hand clasped her shoulder.

“Aid him and you will sully his honour beyond repair.”

The swordsman plunged his blade into Kurazo’s thigh, and blood splashed from the wound. The swordsman sliced upward, cleaving Kurazo’s cuirass in two. The samurai leapt away, sweeping his swords in an arc, which the lone warrior avoided with ease. He landed in a crouch; the lone warrior imitated him. He began laughing, a low gurgle that rose into a hysterical wail. Kurazo crouched low, and then leapt toward the swordsman, an ear-splitting shout erupting from behind his mempo. The swordsman jumped to meet him, and their swords met with such force the ground beneath them depressed. The two spun around each other mid-air; upon landing the swordsman cracked three blows against Kurazo’s gauntlets, splitting the lacquered bamboo and metal in seven places. Kurazo stumbled backwards, flailing his swords ahead of him, warding the swordsman back. He lingered in a low stance, the gurgling laugh still emerging from his throat.

“Kurazo!” Rizumé leapt forward, and the swordsman turned toward her.

The RAION ship flickered into view on Azariah's panoramic monitor, outlined by a flickering red box. Various warship silhouettes flickered into view on the terminal positioned between his legs, but he dismissed them with a flick of his gloved hand; he had seen enough warships to now this was an entirely new class, on which no pre-existing data could possibly exist. Iris's helmeted face appeared to the right of his vision, the visual feed overlaying the real-time image of her X-37 as gathered by the F-37's hull cameras.

"Don't die, Bishounen-sama."

"I don't know what that means," replied Azariah, his polarized visor still facing towards the image of the ship present on his monitor. "But I'll try not to."

"I mean it - I don't think Marquis will let me steal his bacon. Not that he ever orders any."

"He's a vegetarian."

"He's a fuck, that's what he is. So stay alive."

"...You too, Lieutenant."

Iris's feed cut out, as the OS switched into combat mode. The array of terminals surrounding him parted, rotating towards the rear of the cockpit and exposing a greater amount of the panoramic monitor, as the pilot seat slid downwards into a more central position. He was only 8km out from the target, which was located centrally in the city, partially shielded by rows of high-rise towers it had somehow managed to slide behind. The night sky was lit up by so many tracer rounds arcing towards it from the surrounding ground forces, as well as hundreds of missiles and railgun shots originating from artillery units positioned in the surrounding mountains. The ship was returning fire with its CIWS turrets, throwing up great chunks of earth as the 400mm rounds carved their way across the city surface. Azariah's enemy warning system flared into life, and he rolled away from Iris and Marquis, descending into the depths of the city.
The radar system located the targets; two disc-shaped aircraft approaching at rapid speed from the front. He hugged the ground, the belly of his Soryu nearly scraping the street as he sped along it, using the high-rise office buildings either side as cover. He thought he had avoided detection, until one of the aircraft emerged from the face of one of the buildings ahead of him in a cacophony of glittering glass shards and twisted metal supports. Azariah barely avoided being crushed by the shower of debris as he sped past the aircraft, which turned and took off after him, spraying towards the Soryu with high-velocity cannon rounds. The Soryu was too low to the ground to pull up sharply without taking out the tail, and Azariah was trapped by the fire, each missing shot shaking the Soryu as exploded cement shards crashed into the hull. The aircraft was obviously a drone, judging by its size and reckless behavior.

Azariah pulled the nose up slightly, bringing the Soryu into the precise range of the drone's AA missiles. The on board AI sensed this, and four missiles dropped from the drone's hull, their engines firing once they had enough vertical clearance from it. Azariah cut the engines, and the entire craft seemingly fell silent as he locked the vertical stabilizers into their horizontal storage configuration, and fired the nose and tail RCS thrusters intended for space navigation. The Soryu spun on the spot, and when it had completed a 180 turn Azariah gunned the engine to its maximum potential, screaming as the massive deceleration Gs coursed through his body, the skintight under-suit of his pilot suit suffocating him to prevent his body from exploding. The missiles couldn't adjust in time and overshot the target, exploding behind it and furthering its acceleration. Azariah loosed two missiles from the underside of the Soryu's wings, which coursed upwards and exploded in front of the drone, stunning it; he took the opportunity to lift off from the ground, shooting up behind the drone and clearing the street. The second drone shot out from behind a building, loosing airburst cannon rounds which near enough shook the Soryu to bits, but could not pierce its armor.

Azariah pulled the nose upwards, bracing himself for another RCS-assisted turn as he cut far within the drone's turning angle, lined up a shot, and fired. The railgun slug tore through the drone with such energy that it completely counterracted any contrary motion, and the drone assumed the Slug's velocity for a few microseconds before exploding in a nova of purple flame, which was so loud that it caused the panoramic monitor's speakers to cut out for a few seconds. The first drone shot through the explosion, its hull opening to reveal hundreds of dumbfire rockets which arced towards Azariah. He sped through them, twisting and turning through the cloud of explosives, and emerged with only a few hull burns from the low-caliber charges. The drone accelerated towards him, as Azariah gunned the air brake, stilled his breathing, and positioned the reticule over the drone. The two slugs cut through the drone; the first stopping it in midair, and the second propelling it momentarily towards the ground before it exploded. He accelerated again, turning the nose towards the ship, and allowed himself a moment to breath as the warning system showed a clear path towards the ship.

"Azariah Ephraim, preparing to deploy X2 warhead."

Mordechai’s thrust whistled past Holbach’s cheek. The mercenary leaned to the side and punched the crossguard of the blade. Mordechai’s arm crumpled back on itself, splitting within the confines of his coat sleeve. Blood soaked into the fabric, and his face dropped, the colour draining as quickly as water from a sink. Holbach followed the punch through, his other gauntlet clad fist cracking across the fighters face. His glasses splintered shards of glass and multiple teeth skittering across the gangway.

“Out of my way.” Holbach shouldered past the reeling Mordechai, who promptly collapsed; dead or completely unconscious, Holbach couldn’t tell and certainly didn’t care. From the crowd behind him he heard a scream and then shouting as panic broke out.

The interior of the Ark was dimly lit by huge fluorescent strip lights. The main atrium was a large hangar space, with scaffold towers placed seemingly randomly across the vast floor space. Washing lines and electric cables connected the towers as well as gangways hastily constructed with plasteel and scrap metal. Evidently, some travellers had given up on evicting the ship, and instead had elected to live on board. The smell that permeated the chamber was of shit, food and smoke. Holbach wandered among the ramshackle lanes of the Ark, a sense of disgust filling him, curling his lip and flaring his nostrils. He shouldered his rifle tighter and set out finding a place to camp out the three week long journey to Abyssa.

"Which do you see yourself as?"

Lucy rolled her head the side, inspecting the stonework with her remaining eye. Her hands reached into her jacket, retrieving a pack of cigarettes, and sliding one out.

"Well, that's the son of God right? See, I think anyone who compares themselves-"

"It's illegal to smoke in an Art Museum." interrupted Vincent, drawing a silver-plated tin from the interior of his black, woollen funnel coat. Lucy bit down on her cigarette.

"Scrub, the only thing I care about less than Legality, is Morality." she replied, lighting the cigarette with a quick flare of her palm cannon. Leaning back on the bench, she turned her towards Vincent as if to kiss him, her cigarette clenched between her teeth.  A hand gloved in black leather slid  a cigarette into Lordmillion's thin lips, before he turned and placed his cigarette against hers.

"To answer your question," she continued, not taking her eyes off his, "I'm not enough of a scrub to allow myself to be crucified, and even if for some reason I did end up crucified, I wouldn't go and die over it. I'd be too busy seeking revenge.". She turned back towards the statue, running a hand through her fringe. "As for the other one, well, I just don't see myself as a motherly figure. Mainly because I took Malak's sword through the abdomen, and so my being a mother is probably something of a biological impos-"

"I don't need to know that."

She chuckled mockingly, before dropping her cigarette on the floor and extinguishing it with her shoe. "Oh, I'm fucking sorry, scrub. Have I upset your sensitivities? You literally cut my arms off, but obviously hearing about me getting stabbed is just a bit too much for you to stomach, right?"

"Did you come halfway across the universe just to be a prick?"

Lucy clenched her teeth, before sighing. "No. Goddammit, No. Let's go for a walk."

Paris had mostly survived the Colony wars, though the immense amount of debris dropped onto the surface meant it was now a coastal city. Lucy and Lordmillion found themselves strolling through a pleasant park, littered with bodies from a nearby Samurai Master dueling his challengers.

"You're an Angel, aren't you?" asked Lucy, her hands in her pockets.

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you kill me?" she asked, as a nearby warrior monk violently discovered the true meaning of Bushido.

"I made a promise not to perpetuate the cycle of hatred between Daemons and Angels."

"And yet you still killed Malak?"

"I had no choice. He was controlling you; we both would have died."

Lucy frowned, adjusting her scarf. "So you broke your promise for me?"

Lordmillion unbuttoned his coat, reaching inside with a gloved hand. It returned with a ring - Onyx under gold leaf, with the coating cut away to form the inscription; 'À mon seul désir'.

"Lucrezia Lordmillion believed in a world where Daemons and Angels could overcome their inborn instincts to kill and destroy each other, and live - if not in unison - in harmony. I killed Malak not out of instinct, or hatred, but to protect you, and to protect myself. Perhaps, if she was still alive, she would be disgusted at me. Perhaps she would want to do to me as I did to Malak." he said, clenching his hand into a fist. "But what if, by saving you, I fulfilled the true intentions of her dying wish, and the promise she begged me to make?"

"I couldn't tell you that, scrub. She's dead." replied Lucy, ducking to avoid a blast of Honor shooting over her head. "And whilst it's a nice thought, Angels and Daemons just can't work together. Fate always drives us to conflict. I'm sure you realized that when you were forced to... well, cut my arms off."

"What if I told you Lucrezia was a Daemon?"

Lucy stopped, and chuckled nervously. "That's nice."

"And, she was pregnant."

Lucy drew her pistol - a Berretta 93R Lucy Farr Custom, colored red and black and chambered for .50AE - an placed it to the back of Lordmillion's head.

"That's not even funny, Scrub. Now shut the fuck up before I blow your pretty little bishounen brains out.". The nearby Samurai paused their battle at the mention of lovely bishounen boys being nearby, but after a quick scan of the park, quickly resumed their bloodbath.

"We dreamed of a better world together. And for that, she was murdered, by the very man who instilled that ideology in us in the first place. A man who was like a brother to me. He drove Shiroryu through her back, and captured her soul in a tesseract. When I found her, it was too late. He pinned the murder on members of our own organization, and gave me Shiroryu to  murder them in the name of Justice. Only in later years did the truth dawn on me."

Lucy lowered her gun.

"I would have killed him upfront, but even I could not match him in power. So I continued to serve him, biding up strength. I sabotaged his operations from within - assassinating his loyalists, leaking information, supplying weapons to our enemies. I killed women who were in love with me, and some men, too. Hundreds of people have died by my blade, but not one of them was unaware of who truly killed Lucrezia. They deserved death."

He continued walking, and Lucy kept pace, though her gun was still in hand.

"I collected Shiroryu and her sister blades to build up an arsenal capable of destroying him. Even my closest allies never knew the truth. I was beyond suspicion. But now, I no longer have any desire to lurk in the shadows. I have lived and lost by the code of Lucrezia, but that has not stopped the perpetuation of this endless waltz. My intentions now are murder on an absolute scale. My blade shall be an arbiter on par with god. My strokes shall be testament, my cuts, divine providence, and I shall deliver ten thousand deaths unto Nails Nihilism. And if you want revenge on the man who took your eye, and the woman who murdered Artyom, you will join me."

Ike waited in the containment chamber. He had been there for almost three days, judging by the meals he had been brought. It was pitch black when sealed, and barely large enough for him to move at all, although the plethora of straps and chains removed that possibility anyway. After what seemed like an eternity he could feel the chamber being moved. Eventually he heard the hiss that signaled the door was opening, and sure enough he was flooded with light a moment later. He staggered out blindly, his eyes slowly acclimatising to the brightly lit white corridor ahead of him. He couldn't tell how long it continued for, but he couldn't see any end to it. He turned around, but the chamber had been locked into the wall behind him, sealing him in. Shrugging he turned back and walked down into the corridor.

He had been walking for a while before he saw any change in the blank, seemingly unending passageway. It was silent, almost disturbingly so, and the lighting was beginning to give him a headache. When he eventually did see the end it was in the form of a small, red door. The door was so small that Ike had to almost crouch to enter it, but when he did he was greeted a scene that could not have contrasted more with the clinical, bland corridor. Paper was everywhere. It had been arranged into piles of some kind, but there was no semblance of order. Small conveyor belts transported more of it in and out of the walls, the steady grind of the motors filling the room with a mechanical hum. Ike moved forwards, trying in vain to avoid disturbing anything, and noticed a small figure in the center of the room. He could not have been a third of Ike's height and he seemed far too frail to be moving, but eight disproportionately long arms darted back and forth, moving and exchanging papers without bothering with the inconvenience of actually studying their content. He looked up at Ike, his eyes filling the black half moon spectacles he wore.

"I have been expecting you Ike."

Ike smiled, but without his usual confidence. He prided himself on his ability to read people (half of acting was, of course, reacting), but this creature's voice was slow and monotone, it's face completely expressionless. It had not stopped sorting as it talked, and although it was clearly organic everything about it suggested that it was more machine than man.

"I cannot say I expected you. Is there a good reason you have threatened innocent people to get to me?"

The creature paused for a moment, as if to consider the question. Ike waited for his response, but none came.

"It was foolish of you to meet me without any sort of security."

Again the creature was silent in thought, but this time it seemed to come to some conclusion.

"Innocent people... such an interesting concept. Do you know how many people work for me on this planet? I suppose not, you'll have been in stasis for most of your time here. Almost 3 billion. They are all, I suppose you would say, innocent. Presumably, their families are as well. It's about five billion people in total, none of them great thinkers or artists, but all of them good at their jobs and prepared to work hard. You may not know this, but I run a rather large conglomerate of corporations. The five billion people here are, compared to the amount it takes to run an operation like mine, utterly insignificant. If you were to attempt to attack this body, and I was forced to detonate the explosives I have installed and vaporise this planet, it would take four days to rebuild this plant at another location. It would take half a second for my mind to be uploaded to an inter-planetary network and placed in a new body. And yet it could take decades for the universe to produce an individual like yourself. Do you see what I mean, Mr. Harimata? Innocence is irrelevant. When you have ambitions like ours, what matters is how a man proves his worth."

Abrahiel Abaddon gestured grandly toward the scorched and blackened landscape of The 5th Plain of Hell.

“All of this, Abimelech. Countless centuries of toil and hardship have forged the once bleak and terrible 5th Plain into… well, a bleak and terrible, but productive 5th Plain. It is through mine own pain that Hell is what it is today. Would you slight your own father in throwing all that away?”

Abimelech sat at a huge table, a single slab of obsidian engraved with golden tetragrams and runes. His arm- or rather, his upper arm, lay on the table, with what remained of his forearm regenerating slowly in front of him. The bone grew first, like roots of a tree stretching into soil. Sinew followed; stretching over the bone; and then muscles, flesh, and finally skin, growing over the red fibres of his arm like a scab.

“It isn’t about slight,” Abimelech said slowly, gritting his teeth at the pain from his regeneration. “It’s abo-”

“Don’t tell me,” Abbadon admonished, “It’s about ‘seeing more of this universe’. Don’t be so bloody foolish! Your calling is to rule Hell as I have ruled Hell!” Abaddon’s measured calm was slipping.

Abimelech stood, his face set in grim determination. He faced his father, bowed slightly, then turned and stormed from the room, his arm finishing its regeneration as he closed the door. The hall outside was empty aside of two Silhouette Guardians, ephemeral beings conjured as gatekeepers by his father. He strode past them, walking quickly through the chambers that made up Abbadon’s palace, Xa Maktul. His father had not tried to stop him. Presumably he had made that speech as a last ditch effort, already resigned that he would pass the rule of the 5th Plain to Anahkaten, his most senior general. Abaddon generally appeared as a commanding and stern entity, but Abimelech knew him to be more lax with his peers, and it was likely due massively to Anahkaten that Hell had remained hellish for the past nine centuries. Nevertheless, Abaddon was not a demon to be taken in the slightest lightly.

Abimelech descended deep into the bowels of the palace, traveling for hours before he reached a single obsidian door, sole in a chamber hundreds of feet below the surface of the Plain. The great slab of rock was engraved with yet more runes and wards in the ever-present gilded work of Runemaster Lothien. Abimelech approached the door, which swung open of its own device. Through the doorway Abimelech could see the swirling vortices of a warp gate. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, and then stepped inside.