Aldan Petrio put his script away as soon as the message confirmed his work was done. The backdoor he'd been given into Taldan surveillance systems had finally served its purpose -- the virus had been uploaded, and the network scrubbed. His client, the bull, would have no reason for complaint.

He wasn't entirely sure of what was about to happen, and hopefully nobody else would be either. Aldan leaned in towards the front seat of the taxi. "Abrianda Spaceport, if you please," he said, voice cold, speaking up to be heard over the rain impacting against the windows.

The taxi zoomed off, ascending over the skyline. Aldan Petrio didn't know how things would turn out, but he'd be interested in finding out from a safe distance.

Skipper suppressed a yawn as the gala went on. He'd never been the high society kind of type -- not even in the bad old days -- but he honestly couldn't remember these things being so boring.

How are you? How's your business? Mine's doing fine, actually, we're up blah-blah percent. Oh, how marvellous! My shoes? They're Edgar Verena, actually, very rare. Oh, you don't say! I simply adore caviar. Blah blah blah.

He felt as if he'd got his dosage of boring conversation for the entire year. Weren't parties supposed to be a good time? Maybe not when they doubled as memorials, sure, but Skipper hadn't heard one mention of the dead during his time here, leaning against the wall.

He hadn't seen his giant friend for a while, either. Presumably the Fifth Dead was being kept out of sight -- his huge size didn't do much to make him discreet.

A sound cut through the babble -- a spoon tapping against a glass. Steadily, the overpowering sounds of conversation faded away to a constant mumble. Skipper folded his arms: looked like the king was going to address his kingdom.

President Chael, the spoon-wielder himself, got up from his table with a cheeky grin, the tail of a shrimp still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Laughter ran through the crowd as he stumbled on his way to the stage, but it wasn't a mocking kind of laughter: this was how Chael worked the crowd, like a clown.

"Hell yeah," Chael said, climbing up to the stage. He swallowed the shrimp. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's what I'm talking about. Good to see ya, everyone. It's so good to see ya. Hey, hey, you. Nice one."

That last remark was accompanied by a point towards a seemingly random member of the crowd. Amusement danced in the eyes of the onlookers -- save for a table just slightly off to the side of the stage. Three people sat there: an old man, a young man and a middle-aged woman, all fairly nondescript.

Skipper smirked. These people thought they were slick, but he knew a bigwig when he spotted one.

"You know," Chael went on, holographic microphone hovering over his mouth, voice echoing throughout the chamber. "When I, uh -- when I first got elected, I got up on this stage just like I'm doing right now. Well," he patted his stomach. "Maybe a little bit less heavy, but who's tracking those sorts of things? Apart from my personal trainer."

Another wave of chuckles. Just funny enough to make laughter acceptable, but not funny enough to be funny. The immortal comedy of politicians.

"But hey, seriously," Chael lowered his voice slightly. "It's been great. Ten, ten fantastic years. I mean, who could've guessed? Wow. This isn't about me, though."

Skipper sighed. This was a memorial, after all. Like everything else, this was about the dead.

"It's about you guys," Chael said, pointing finger swinging throughout the crowd. "It's -- I sometimes think that in these -- these modern times we've got these days, we forget what heroism looks like. It's not just about, you know, guys jumping in front of bullets -- I mean, that's heroic, sure, but all you need to do that is a pair of good legs."

Another light chuckle.

"What, uh, what heroism is, real heroism," Chael jabbed his finger up into the air to punctuate his point. "It's keeping the lights on. It's keeping the water running. It's keeping guys -- and ladies, of course -- like you and me in work. It's providing. That's not something just anyone can do."

Seeing him here, working the crowd, Skipper could see how Chael got elected. There was the shadow of a performer behind him -- like a musician, maybe, hyping up his fans at a concert. That sort of showmanship had appeal.

Chael thumped his chest dramatically with one hand. "That's why I'm excited to welcome my boy Sant Titanos! Get up here, man!"

An elderly man, hunched over slightly, got up from the removed table -- he didn't look too pleased at being addressed as Chael's boy, but he hobbled to the stage all the same, watchful eyes glaring over the crowd. Once he reached the stage's foot, he flicked a hand, and a holographic microphone appeared over his mouth as well.

This is it, Skipper thought. This was definitely the man behind that silver horse -- the arrogance in his eyes was the same as that in the hologram's voice.

If the Citizen wanted to take out a Sponsor, this was his best chance.

The old man, Titanos, sniffed -- and with that quiet noise, the murmuring through the crowd was reduced to nothing. Chael invited merriment, but this man clearly invited fear.

"Matters here on Taldan have been fraught as of late," Titanos said -- he spoke like this was a board meeting, rather than a party. Cold and dry. "This has resulted in considerable sacrifices on the parts of all involved. I apologize sincerely for the delay in a proper response --"

Chael cleared his throat, half-pulling a few sheets of paper from inside his suit jacket. "I've, uh," he said. "I've still got a few more pages?'

Titanos' iron gaze somehow turned harsher -- for a moment, it felt as if the sheer intensity of it would reduce Chael to a blast shadow. "I am speaking," he said, deadly quiet.

Chael rustled the papers, grinning sheepishly. "It's just a couple of pages."

Nervous glances ran through the crowd -- this sort of tension was something that was supposed to stay behind the scenes. This wasn't for their eyes.

Titanos closed his eyes, sighed. "Very well," he said, in a voice that suggested it was not very well. "Say your piece -- but make it quick."

"Okay, okay, yes," grinned Chael, almost bouncing up and down like an excited child as he stepped back up to the head of the stage. "It's just, uh, I've got kind of a question for everyone. Uh, you too, actually, sir." He glanced back at Titanos for that last bit.

The old man's brow furrowed. "A question?"

"Yeah. How dare you?"

The silence of the crowd remained, and the temperature seemed to drop substantially. A heavy tension settled over the room.

Skipper looked at Chael's face. That was the face of a man committing suicide.

"I beg your pardon?" Titanos hissed, somehow making the words seem like a curse from the depths of hell.

Chael shuffled on the spot, that easy grin still on his face -- as if this was all still part of the script. "It's a, uh, it's a simple enough question. How dare you? What do you think you're doing? Here, right now?"

Before Titanos could answer, Chael swung back to face the crowd. "It's the same with, uh, with all of you, too. How dare you?" He ignored the offended gasps from high society as he went on, growing more animated as he paced back and forth on the stage. "I mean, look at you, look at yourselves, look at yourselves, sitting there and -- eating there like you're supposed to be people, when you're not really, are you? You're parasites. You're drinking our blood, right?"

Titanos tapped a button on his watch -- presumably to mute Chael's mic -- but nothing happened. The President's breakdown went on uninterrupted.

"All of you," he said. "Why -- why are you here? You're here to drink, to eat, to -- to party? It's disgusting. You're all disgusting. Down there," he jabbed a finger down towards the ground. "You've got people -- people being eaten alive by this fucking city, and -- and out there you've got the rampages of the Citizen, who is me by the way, and none of you even care! I mean, people have died! They're dying right now!"

Skipper blinked. Wait, what did Chael just say?

Titanos turned a deathly pale behind the President. "What did you…?" he mumbled. "That's... that's not…"

What happened took only a few seconds, but felt like so much longer. Chael, smiling, turned around to face Titanos -- he leaned in, putting a friendly hand on the older man's shoulder. A spark of grey Aether ran along his arm as his eyes glowed an eerie red. An obvious Aether tic.

Skipper raised his hand, his finger, to fire towards the stage -- so painfully slow. The people in the crowd began to flee, chairs toppling to the floor as they scrambled to their feet. Prey sensing the invisible presence of a predator.

"I told you, didn't I?" Chael said to Titanos, his skin visibly starting to shift to a shade of metallic grey. "That I'd snap the chains of this society. I'll say it again, you old fuck: I'm the Citizen."

Titanos, eyes wide, opened his mouth to say something, but found himself unable --

-- as he'd been reduced to a fine red mist.

Skipper threw himself to the ground as a hail of silver blades flew through the air -- an omnidirectional attack originating from Chael's body. Titanos, who'd been standing next to the President, had been utterly annihilated, and those closest to the stage hadn't gotten off much better.

Chael still stood in the center of the stage, but his appearance couldn't have been any more different. The tuxedo he'd been wearing had been shredded by the blades that had erupted from his skin, and as he observed the carnage he'd wrought he looked like nothing less than a knight in dark armour.

His face was left exposed, however, his red eyes flicking through the crowd. They settled on the two remaining members of the table that Titanos had come from. The other Sponsors.

Wordlessly, Chael raised a metal-coated hand. The middle-aged woman rose from the table in a panic, hands raised in front of her.

"Wait!" she cried, hiding behind her hands as if they could deflect the attack.

Ah shit, Skipper thought. Looks like I'm gonna be a repeat offender.

He lifted his finger again and fired off a Heartbeat Shotgun at yet another President of Taldan. The shot rang through the room, cracking the tables it passed over, and struck Chael head-on --

-- only for him to fizzle away and vanish like a burnt-out lightbulb.

A second later, the woman was run through by a flying blade the size of a lamppost, the force of its flight impaling her against the wall. A shower of smaller blades reduced her younger companion to a pile of unidentifiable meat.

Skipper gritted his teeth. What the hell was going on?! He was sure he'd hit Chael -- he couldn't have missed, not at this kind of distance. Was it some kind of counter ability? No, Chael had been fully devoted to the attack -- he wouldn't have had time to react at the speed of sound.

He turned his head. A second Chael, the one who'd actually fired the attack, was standing on the edge of the stage, looking impassively at what remained of the Sponsors.

"And so it goes," the Citizen said softly.

A pit opened in Skipper's stomach. The first Chael was an illusion?

The sounds of screaming filled the air as the panicked crowd trampled over each other in their efforts to get to the door, climbing over the corpses of those who'd died or been injured in the original attack. Chael watched them retreat out into the hallways, expressionless as the room emptied.

Before long, it was just him and Skipper.

Skipper kept his finger trained on the Citizen, keeping his distance. He'd seen that Chael could attack from range -- he'd skewered that woman from across the room, a much further distance from the omnidirectional move he'd used to annihilate Titanos.

Chael stared at Skipper, his glowing red eyes like malevolent beacons. His own arms stayed down at his sides, but Skipper knew that didn't mean anything. That original attack had fired blades out of his whole body -- if he was aiming at you, you'd never know it until he fired.

"Neat trick," Skipper said cautiously, making his way around the back of the room. "Body double?"

Chael blinked. "It's not my trick, Skipper. It's a mistake to think you've met all my friends. Do you intend to shoot me?"

The lazy demeanour that had defined the President of Taldan had vanished completely, replaced by the cold resolve of a man with singular purpose.

"Still thinking about it," Skipper said, doing his best to surreptitiously glance around the room as he kept his finger trained on Chael. The illusion was someone else's ability, then? It couldn't be. Were they here? "You managed to pull off a hell of a thing there, pal -- President moonlighting as a rebel leader. It's, uh, it's hard to imagine nobody noticing you vanish. How'd you manage that?"

Chael didn't answer -- he only continued to stare.

"Don't tell me," grinned Skipper. "Your illusionist buddy's been covering for you, right? Acting as a body double while you're out doing your thing. Now that would be a neat trick. Am I right?"

"You're an exceptional man, Skipper," Chael said calmly. "I feel as if we could get along quite well. Why not put that hand down and help me out here?"

"Sorry, pal. I've got folks to look after."

Chael smiled, but his eyes remained dull and dead. "I understand you're being threatened. Look," he gestured towards the corpse pinned against the wall, towards the pile of bloody meat, towards the red mist that was still falling to coat the floor. "Here are the ones who've threatened you. Are you still afraid of them?"

Skipper clicked his tongue. "Can't risk it. Sorry."

"I see," Chael said, closing his eyes -- the slightest red glow still visible from underneath his eyelids. "Die, then."

Skipper threw himself to the ground as countless blades were fired out of Chael's body, each one barely passing over his head. This attack was more powerful than the first -- the rooms walls were reduced to splintered messes -- and any remnants of the Sponsor's corpses were given their final indignities.

"The work is not yet done, Skipper," Chael called out -- his voice was hollow now, metallic. It sounded like he was wearing a helmet. "Someone else will take their place so long as there's a place to take."

Skipper rolled over onto his back, keeping his finger ready to point as he looked up at the ceiling. He couldn't hear Chael moving, so the man was still on the stage -- Skipper couldn't afford to move, then, or the Citizen would just use that omnidirectional attack again.

"If your big plan is to just kill every asshole who pops up, buddy," Skipper called out. "You're gonna get real tired real fast."

There was no reply -- only a tingle as he was struck by an Aether ping originating from the stage. Chael locking down his position.

Time to move, then: he had absolutely no faith that the wooden tables he was hiding behind would be able to defend against one of Chael's spears. Being careful not to expose himself, Skipper moved into a crouching position -- ready to start running the moment the need arose.

"Don't worry," said the Citizen, almost casually. "I have a way to solve that problem permanently. I really am lazy, you know."

There was the whistling of metal on the wind.

Skipper leapt out of cover seconds before a shower of tiny metal blades, each the size of a human hand, shredded the table he'd been hiding behind. He rolled to a halt several meters away and -- not wasting a second -- pointed his flat palm towards Chael.

Chael was doing much the same, his arm pointing in Skipper's direction, blades already protruding ominously from between the gaps in his armour. Hand to hand, sword to sword, will to will.

Skipper grinned uneasily. "Let's dance then, pal."

Heartbeat Shotgun.