Some battles could be beautiful. Despite the bloodshed and suffering that inevitably bloomed as a result, combat could sometimes become an intricate dance, an impeccable waltz of call-and-response that elevated it from common violence to something transcendent and true.

This was not one of those battles.

Skipper hurled one of the circular dining tables with a roar as the Citizen sent another shower of blades flying his way. The blades shredded through the wooden table, reducing it to splinters before it could travel even two meters. That didn't stop the travel of the blades, either -- Skipper was only to avoid meeting a similar fate to the table by blasting them off to the side with a split-second Heartbeat Shotgun.

"I don't understand," said Chael calmly as a silver blade the length of a spear grew from his elbow. "You're clearly an intelligent man. You clearly understand the way this world functions. And yet you insist on adhering to fruitless morality." He grabbed the spear and snapped it off his arm, pointing it towards Skipper. "Don't you understand? Don't you get it? The forces that press down on us will triumph if you hesitate for a moment, if you compromise for a moment."

Skipper was grateful for the opportunity to take a breath. As he spoke, a distant alarm blared: "I've compromised before, buddy. Didn't much care for it. Never doing it again."

Chael narrowed his eerie red eyes. "Then you'll make a virtuous corpse."

He hurled the spear and Skipper went to dodge, blasting himself upwards with twin Heartbeat Shotguns from his palms. He went flying, reaching the rafters from the force of the blasts.

But that wasn't enough to dodge this time.

The spear lodged itself in the wall -- and a second later, erupted into a chaotic mass of similar blades, like a grasping plant of steel. The area of the attack covered several meters, and reached high enough that it almost stabbed through Skipper's dangling feet.

Oh, Skipper thought, trying not to think of just how close he'd come to losing his legs. That's good to know.

It wasn't just Chael's skin -- he could produce blades from the blades he'd already shot out. He couldn't imagine Chael had been holding back with that attack, so -- just from eyeballing it -- he could produce around seven generations of blades from the original source.

It was good to know, but it also suggested that Skipper was more screwed than he'd originally anticipated. Well, he had a classic solution for that.

Heartbeat Bayonet.

The invisible sword shredded through the mass of blades like a whirling ribbon, the sound of shattering steel filling the room. The blades were more fragile than Skipper had expected -- deadly sharp, but broken with just the slightest persuasion. As the broken pieces of metal hit the floor, they crumbled into grey dust, which then dissipated into similarly grey Aether.

Skipper let go of the rafters and fell back down to the ground -- blasting Chael with as many Heartbeat Shotguns as those seconds would fill. In response, more blades erupted around the Citizen's body, creating a metal cocoon that provided a shield against Skipper's attacks.

Each shot sent showers of metal shards flying off the mass, but the overall shield held firm. That was fine -- Skipper had only intended this as a distraction, anyway.

In the last second before he hit the floor, Skipper let out an Aether ping -- a surge of green Aether erupting from his body and spreading out into every section of the ship he could reach. He needed to get the lay of the land before he could focus on the battle before him.

Aether users on the ship -- he could feel their presence as if brushing over them with invisible hands. The first was Chael, here in the function room -- no surprises there. Skipper had always thought of the sensation granted by his Aether ping as something like taste, but he knew that wasn't quite true -- just a kind of synesthesia to allow his mind to comprehend an alien sense. Still, he couldn't deny that the cold, metal flavour emanating from Chael's Aether was fitting.

The second Aether user was the Fifth Dead, somewhere below deck. What the hell was he doing? There was something of a situation up here, and he was nowhere to be seen. The ping reached some Aether constructs that gave off the same flavour as the Fifth Dead -- like a stew that changed its contents every few seconds. Those constructs were the animals that he'd summoned before, no doubt. Was he fighting too, then?

Another Aether signature, a third one, even further below -- right on the edge of Skipper's ping range. The engine room. It was a familiar flavour, one that he'd sampled not long ago: like melted computer parts barely covering the scent of roses. Noel? She'd be the one reprogramming the ships navigation -- he could sense that same acrid Aether moving through the computers.

He didn't sense a fourth Aether user. Either the illusionist had made a run for it, then, or he -- well, they, he couldn't be certain of their identity yet -- was still here and just cloaking their Aether. The latter explanation was unlikely: illusions would take a lot of Aether, and using the same amount to cloak that Aether was just impractical.

He'd have to look into that later, then.

The cocoon of steel exploded outwards, metal spikes flying in every direction. Any trace of the room's dignity had already been wiped away, but the spikes gouged away whatever was left. The wallpaper was left hanging in tatters, the stage became a vague pile of rubble, and the ceiling began to buckle downwards as the rafters cracked like branches.

Heartbeat Landmine.

Skipper's own omnidirectional attack redirected most of the shards headed for him -- but not all of them. Metal sliced at his chest, his stomach, his face, leaving bleeding cuts that stung as the now ever-present dust tickled against them. The metal fingers of his prosthetic hand twitched involuntarily too: the mechanisms had obviously suffered some damage.

As Chael stepped out of the remnants of the cocoon, he brushed some metal dust from his shoulder. For a second, he was unarmoured, clad only in the shredded remnants of his tuxedo. The moment Skipper lifted his hand to take a shot, though, new armour grew to cover Chael's body almost instantly. Red pinpricks of light glared almost mockingly from within the Citizen's 'helmet'.

"Do you understand now?" Chael said, spreading his arms wide as he stepped down from the pile of rubble that had once been the stage. He moved with such dignity that the loose chunks of concrete seemed like a grand staircase. "My armour is worthless, truly, but I can create it faster than you can destroy it. It's the same with this whole damn city, this whole damn planet -- so long as there's the possibility that the system can be rebuilt, it will be rebuilt -- again and again, endlessly. Everything I have done, everything I do, is for the sake of eliminating that possibility. Why don't you understand?"

He came to a halt at the bottom of the rubble, arms still spread wide as if expecting an embrace. Skipper, recovering from the barrage on one knee, only chuckled.

"Everything you've just said," Skipper said, wiping a drop of blood from his nose. "I want you to know, you're probably right. These systems probably grow back if you give 'em the chance. The logical thing to do is burn the whole thing down and start again, yeah?"

"Of course."

"But there's the thing," Skipper forced himself back up to his feet. "I'm kind of an idiot, yeah? I don't think about these things logically." He thumped his heart with his mechanical hand. "I think about it with this ticker here. Like a human being, you get me?"

The trace of hope that had clearly been growing inside Chael disappeared. A muffled groan forced its way out of the armour. "So you choose naivety. I see there was never any hope for one such as you."

Skipper shrugged, grinning. "Now you're getting it."

Aether was an incredible power, it really was. It granted speed, strength and abilities beyond normal human means. There was an undeniable difference, a gap, between fighters who had Aether and those who did not.

But there were certain circumstances under which that gap could be crossed.

The first of those circumstances was usually referred to as 'a big fucking gun'.

Dir grunted as he fired a stun-wave in Muzazi's direction, forcing the swordsman to fly upwards -- using thrusters that burst from his feet -- to avoid it. The flames died at the height of Muzazi's ascent, and a split-second thruster that blasted out of his side sent him flying off horizontally, avoiding Dir's follow-up shot.

The second circumstance, needless to say, was the distance between the non-Aether user and his Aether-wielding opponents.

Dir was doing a good job at maintaining that distance between himself and his two enemies -- concentrating his fire to keep Muzazi dodging backwards and to the sides, while also making sure that Dragan was constantly within his line of sight. Dragan knew Dir would instantly shift his attention if he was given the slightest reason to. To prevent that, Dragan stayed in cover behind one of the consoles.

For that matter, Dragan wasn't even sure what he could do if Dir sent one of those stun-waves flying his way. He wasn't sure of Gemini Shotgun's exact limitations -- ideally, it would have none -- but he imagined there was quite the difference between recording an object the size of a coin or a plasma globule and recording a stun-wave that covered a meter across.

To put it bluntly, he wasn't feeling confident.

Muzazi, on the other hand, was zipping around the control room like some kind of pipe-wielding bug. Split-second thrusters flickered around his body, making micro adjustments as he flew through the room, avoiding the stun-waves that Dir sent surging towards him. He only touched the floor for fractions of a second at a time.

Even so, though, it was obvious that Muzazi wasn't in his best condition. He'd been imprisoned here for a while now, after all, and Dragan doubted he'd gotten much in the way of nutrition while he'd been this place's honoured guest.

The third condition was exhaustion, then. In the right circumstances -- very right circumstances, all clumped together -- a normal person with a gun could hold their own against an Aether user. The gun in this case was a truly massive cannon, which didn't hurt either.

Dragan gulped, making himself as small as he could behind the cover. He tried to ignore the sounds of the battle as he thought. Options, options. What were his options?

Again, he could try to run for it -- but if Dir didn't stop him, Muzazi definitely would. And even if he somehow got away, he'd be leaving empty-handed, making this whole exercise pointless.

He glanced towards Patel, still slumped over in his chair -- unconscious again, clearly. The shockwaves produced by the stun cannon had sent the bomberman's seat flying into the corner of the room. Even with the deafening sounds of the battle, Patel showed no signs of stirring -- so he wouldn't be much help.

There was every chance he could just wait for Muzazi to deal with the situation, but that idea didn't sit right in his skull. Leaving what happened to him up to someone else -- becoming a passenger in his own life? No, no.

He'd said so himself, hadn't he? To Dir, even, back at the hospital.

"The only one who decides what happens to me is me!"

He'd never been one for introspection, self-analysis, but as he ran that statement back in his mind he found himself agreeing with it utterly. At the time, the words had come out in a stream of emotion -- not really considered -- but looking back Dragan could recognize that they were honest in a way very little that he said was.

He couldn't very well go back on them, then.

Another shot from the stun-cannon shook the room, and fragments of concrete crumbled down from the ceiling -- falling towards Dragan. Without even really thinking about it, he released his Aether into a field around him, analyzing and recording the chunks of concrete before they could hit the ground.

They were tiny, barely the size of pebbles, but they were numerous -- fifteen in all. And Dragan knew they could be fast, too.

There was a gap between the stun-shots -- a small one, but noticeable to his Cogitant senses all the same. Enough time to pop out of cover and make his move. Enough time for Dir to notice and blast the shit out of him -- probably literally, if he took one of those shots full on.

Best not to think about that.

The stun-cannon fired -- Muzazi narrowly zipped out of the way of the shot, but was forced to retreat towards the back of the room in the process. The moment the stun-wave passed Dragan's position, he leapt to his feet.

Muzazi was tired. Muzazi was at a distance. Muzazi was a melee fighter.

But Dragan was none of those things.

He found himself looking right into Dir's eyes -- the distance between them was much shorter than he'd originally thought. Perhaps two meters. If he made a run for it, there was a good chance he could reach the security chief -- but he wasn't confident enough in his ability to do that.

Dir's eyes narrowed, and the angle of the stun cannon adjusted to face directly towards Dragan. The security chief's finger tightened around the trigger.

Gemini Shotgun.

Fourteen chunks of concrete materialised over Dragan's shoulders with resounding bangs, flying towards Dir with incredible speed, leaving streaks of sparking blue Aether behind them. The speed of their original fall, enhanced by Aether infusion -- Dragan hoped it would be enough.

It wasn't.

The projectiles were fast, but Dir had the physical speed of a Taldan prize fighter. He adjusted his footing in a moment, shifting the cannon in his hands so that the side of the barrel served as a shield between himself and the projectiles.

Rat-a-tat-tat. The pieces of concrete bounced off the metal cannon, leaving modest dents in its surface as they ricocheted to embed themselves into the walls and floor. Even with the damage to the gun, Dragan knew that wouldn't have been enough to disable it.

The slightest sense of triumph leaked into Dir's stoic expression. That was his fatal error.

As expected, Dir had shifted his attention away from Muzazi as soon as Dragan poked his head out. Dir's eyes had moved in his direction. Dir's gun had moved in his direction. That left an opening ripe to be exploited.

There was a flash of white Aether from the edge of Dragan's vision -- and a second later, Dir wasn't alone in his view. Atoy Muzazi had appeared next to him, the remnants of a full-power thruster still dissipating from his back. He held the pipe in both hands, raised it high above his head.

Aether was an incredible power, it really was. It granted speed, strength and abilities beyond normal human means. There was an undeniable difference, a gap, between fighters who had Aether and those who did not. There were certain circumstances under which that gap could be crossed.

But a moment of lost focus rendered them all moot.

The pipe came down --

-- and Dir caught it in his hand, moving with the same speed he must've used to throw a punch in the Taldan fighting rings. It wasn't a clean catch -- Dragan could hear the man's knuckles crunching, his wrist snapping -- but it halted Muzazi's attack all the same.

Muzazi, lightning fast, adjusted his grip to make another attack -- but Dir moved at the same time as well. His good hand, the one holding the cannon, turned just slightly so that the barrel of the gun pressed against Muzazi's torso. His finger curled against the trigger.

Bang.

Dir did not pull the trigger.

For a moment, his brow furrowed, as if he were confused -- and then he staggered backwards, the cannon falling to the floor with a resounding clang. The hand that had been holding it went to his throat.

There was a hole there, right on the side of his neck -- even as the blood ran from it, creating a slick trail on the floor, one could see the other side of the room through the wound. Dir collapsed, slumped against the wall as he futilely tried to keep his wounds closed. His eyes flicked to look at Dragan.

Dragan panted heavily, staring at Dir as the security chief's breathing gradually but inevitably slowed. He had fired his fifteenth shot, the fifteenth chunk of concrete that he'd kept in reserve just in case.

Just like Dir, he couldn't help but stare -- for a few moments, they were locked there, two pairs of eyes staring into each other… until only one pair of eyes were staring. A death rattle, hollow and clicking, slithered out of Dir's mouth as his gaze clouded over.

Dragan blinked.