Atoy Muzazi watched as the doctor pulled a sheet up to cover what was left of Marie Hazzard's body. Her empty eyes stared accusingly at him in the moment before they vanished from sight.

It was no surprise. He'd expected from the beginning that there'd be no saving Marie -- no matter how much you treated the wound with Panacea, you couldn't pull someone back from death. Still, perhaps just a little part of him had been hoping to be wrong. That some miracle had indeed been possible.

But... even if a miracle had been possible, the time for it had long since expired. Heap hadn't had the facilities necessary to treat such an injury, so Muzazi had had no choice but to put her in stasis for the two-hour trip back to Landfall-01, while the medical office there prepared for treatment. Every second of that trip had felt like two hours itself.

And still it had been fruitless. In the end, all of it had been fruitless.

The doctor, an Umbrant woman with yellow pupils, looked up at him sympathetically.

"With an injury like this," she calmly explained. "Death would have been instant. There was nothing you could have done."

"I see," Muzazi replied quietly.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? There was a great deal he could have done. He could have been faster, he could have been stronger… he could have been superior to the pathetic man who had to have been saved. There was so, so much more he could've done -- and he'd failed to do so.

"I see..." he said again, his voice nearly silent.

Winston's voice -- live from his hospital bed -- blared out from the script on the table, the cheer in his voice utterly unsuited for the situation. "Good news, Atoy," his tinny voice said. "I've managed to track down the bomb!" Apparently, he'd been working through the night to check the ships coming in and out of Nocturnus.

Governor Regan, lingering by the door, spoke up. "Tracked it down? What good will that do?"

He clearly meant it in an emotional context, but Winston seemed to take it as a logical query. "It's actually not very easy to obtain things like bombs and weapons so far out," he explained. "Unless you steal it from local security or have someone smuggle it in for you -- and there's no need for security forces on this planet to use a bomb like that. Hence, it was smuggled in. Hence, I found the ship that smuggled it in."

Atoy Muzazi's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He'd become used to being alone -- he didn't have any memories of a time when he hadn't been. It wasn't something he especially liked or disliked: it was just his default state of being.

Still, being with a partner for a time… he'd quite enjoyed it.

Winston's voice trickled from the script. "I have the name of the ship. How about it, Atoy?"

The doctor looked up from her paperwork -- then took a step backwards as she saw the dark, murderous expression on his face. Only a few seconds had passed, but it truly looked as if Atoy Muzazi hadn't slept for a thousand years. White Aether snapped around him, like breaking bones.

"I see," he growled.

Georg Amuzhen took a drag of his cigarette, savouring the tinge of Bubble that went along with it. Wasn't always easy to get ahold of, but the high it provided took the edge off like nothing else.

He watched through the lens of his gas mask as the pale blue smoke drifted up to the ceiling of the rusty hangar. This place really was a dump: they'd been paid well for the job, but he had no more desire to stick around Nocturnus. With the amount they'd made, they should be set to take it easy for a couple months -- maybe start setting up some jobs further into the Supremacy.

With a flick, the cigarette went flying up into the air -- and a second later, burst into flames entirely, burning away to nothing. This Aether stuff really wasn't half-bad, either. It'd definitely been worth paying for the tutelage for him and his crew.

"Progress?" he barked to Fridmann, his second-in-command.

The stout, goggle-wearing man looked up from the script he was clutching between his hands. "We're fully loaded, sir. Ready to head out whenever ya give the word."

Georg grinned to himself, licking his lips from beneath his mask. It really did feel nice to be in charge. An eight-man crew was hardly a criminal organization, but even holding power over seven other people gave him an indescribable rush.

"Tell the others to get on board," he declared. "We're blowing this shithole."

With that, he turned to the hefty cigar-shaped ship behind him -- the Needlepoint -- only to pause when he saw that Fridmann wasn't following. The little man had instead stopped, staring straight ahead.

"Boss?" he asked nervously.

Georg turned to follow his gaze -- and his heart almost leapt out of his chest when he saw who was approaching.

For years before this gig as a smuggler, Georg had worked for a crime lord known as the Hyena. The guy had been a real piece of work -- never shutting up about himself -- but a big shot all the same, pretty much ruling over Caelus Breck. Georg had incinerated many of his enemies, and had been well compensated in return. All that had ended when the Hyena had been killed by a Special Officer.

Georg hadn't been there when it happened, but he'd seen the face of the man who'd done it on the news.

And that man was walking towards him now.

The name came to his lips. "Atoy…" he hissed, eyes wide behind his mask. "Muzazi…"

Muzazi wasn't in full form.

One of his arms was still injured, wrapped in bandages, and he was sure his hearing still wasn't perfect after being so close to that explosion. Still, he could hear the furious beating of his heart pulsing through his body like a wardrum, and so he couldn't be more prepared.

The man in front of him, the captain of this crew, was clad in leather from head-to-toe, with a gas mask hiding all of his face save the red hair that flowed from the back of his head. From the way he was stepping back, he clearly recognised that Muzazi was here as no friend.

"Georg Amuzhen?" Muzazi asked, voice low.

Winston had given him the name. A known weapons smuggler who'd arrived on Nocturnus shortly before the bombing.

Apparently, he'd served the Hyena on Caelus Breck before taking on this line of work. Muzazi vaguely wondered if they'd met at that time: he didn't remember him, but he'd never had the greatest memory anyway. Still, even if he didn't recall the man, he knew who he was...

The one responsible. Muzazi's hand didn't yet leave Luminescence's sheath. There were three people in his immediate vicinity: Amuzhen, the stocky man next to him, and an unseen third person standing a distance behind him.

There was a moment of silence, and then:

"Trafalgar Inferno!" Amuzhen roared, thrusting his palms towards Muzazi.

In an instant, a torrent of crimson flame burst forth from his hands, utterly consuming the part of the room Muzazi was standing in. Muzazi jumped upwards -- thrusters boosting him -- barely avoiding being scorched by the wave of fire. As he reached the crest of his jump, Muzazi forced Luminescence into the ceiling, holding himself in place for a moment.

Georg Amuzhen: his ability seemed to involve producing flames and directing them. The exact mechanisms behind it were irrelevant. The move he'd just used had covered a large area, but there was the possibility Amuzhen could use it in other ways, too. Muzazi would have to be careful.

"What?" Marie responded. "Act like myself? You know you love it."

A vein bulged on Muzazi's forehead. No. The time for caution had long since passed. Now his fury alone held dominion.

The second the flames began to fade, Muzazi tore Luminescence free, his fall taking on an unnatural angle as his thrusters pulled him to and thro. Amuzhen clapped his hands together, pointing the nozzle formed between his palms, tracking Muzazi as he descended.

"Picadilly Rapid!" Amuzhen screamed -- and, just as the name implied, rapid-fire bullets of heat were launched at Muzazi, like deadly glowing embers.

Easily visible, easily deflected. Muzazi's thrusters flipped him upside down, offering him an easier angle -- and he unleashed a series of Aether-infused slashes, each snuffing out one of the fire-bullets zooming towards him. Those that hadn't been perfectly aimed struck the wall behind instead, melting noticeable holes into the solid material.

Muzazi landed on one hand, using that to flip back into a standing position.

He wouldn't get any time to rest. The moment Muzazi's feet touched the ground, the stout subordinate next to Amuzhen began to gurgle and retch, his throat bulging like that of a toad. Scurrant, most likely, with an Aether ability enhancing his physical abnormalities.

The stout man's jaw snapped open and -- like a whip -- a long and prehensile tongue lashed out, aimed directly for Muzazi's face. The moment he went to dodge, however, the end of that tongue sparked with rancid pink Aether -- and split into three branches, each aimed for a different part of Muzazi's body.

Marie tossed the red parka at him before he could protest. "It's good to get out of your comfort zone," she said.

There was a flash of silver -- and then the three branches of the tongue burst into blood, each cleanly severed at the root by lightning-fast bites of Luminescence. The man staggered backwards, what remained of his tongue thrashing in the air, but Muzazi wasn't finished punishing him.

The person behind him jumped into the fray -- a burly Pugnant wielding an equally large axe. He swung the weapon at Muzazi with all his strength, but the slightest dodge meant that the blade lodged into the floor instead, giving Muzazi the moment of freedom he needed.

He seized the bleeding stump of the toadman, squeezing and swinging with all the might his injured arm could muster -- and smashed the Scurrant against the far wall. There was a sickening crunch as the man hit the wall face-first and then slowly trickled down, leaving a substantial trail of blood.

That was one.

Muzazi ducked down, narrowly avoiding the second axe-swing from the Pugnant behind him. At the same time as he span around, he withdrew one of his knives from within his parka and sliced at the Pugnant's heels, bringing the man down to one knee with a roar of pain. Face to face with those golden eyes, Muzazi raised Luminescence to deal the finishing blow.

"Trafalgar…"

Change of plans.

"Inferno!"

As Amuzhen unleashed another wide-range fire attack, cooking the hangar, Muzazi seized the Pugnant man by the collar -- and swung him around in the direction of the flames, using him as a human shield. The man thrashed as the Aether-infused flames roasted his body -- but only for a moment. He passed as the fire did, his charred body falling to the ground as the flames died away.

That was two.

Muzazi kicked off the ground towards Amuzhen, his eyes flicking over as the entrance ramp of the ship flipped down and three new crewmates came running into view. A tattooed man wielding a machete, and two young Umbrant men holding butterfly knives. Could he finish Amuzhen before these enemies entered the fray? Unlikely.

Diesel-brown Aether surrounded Tattoo as he leapt up into the air -- and landed on a motorcycle that had suddenly appeared, obviously recorded. With a blast of Aether-infused thrust, the vehicle zoomed towards Muzazi -- and as it did, more and more recorded parts appeared on its chassis, each clearly intended to increase lethality. Tank treads, spikes, hooks, shredders -- by the time it reached him, it was more a mass of murderous metal than anything intended for transport.

The smart thing to do would be to back down and approach from another angle.

Marie smiled sweetly at him. "Took you long enough, Atoy."

Atoy Muzazi stood his ground, all twelve of his throwing knives blasting out of his parka. By firing thrusters of equal strength from both the tip of the blade and the end of the hilt, Muzazi could effectively freeze his knives in the air -- and he did so, forming a barrier of blades between himself and the approaching biker.

But he wasn't here to block hits. He was here to eliminate the enemy.

On each of the knives, a third thruster burst forth from the side of the blade -- and all of them began rapidly spinning in place. Just as Tattoo had manifested shredders on his bike, Muzazi had created a shredder in mid-air. It was right in the path of his attacker.

Tattoo swerved to try and avoid the barrier, but it was far too late. His body passed right through the web of blades -- and blood poured forth liberally, coating Muzazi's body. As body parts rained down and the bike dissipated into Aether, Muzazi found himself grinning mirthlessly.

That made three.

The two young Umbrants attacked at once, using the blade-barrier as a smokescreen and striking from either side of it. As the two lunged at him, the blades of their butterfly knives stretched out, aiming directly for Muzazi's torso. He could have laughed. He truly, truly could have laughed -- if it wasn't so insulting. They really thought they could best him in a contest of blades?

Two surgical strikes of Luminescence were sufficient to neutralize the threat -- the Umbrants dropped to the ground in two pieces each. That was not sufficient to sedate Muzazi's fury: he seized the bottom half of one of the bodies and hurled it towards Amuzhen. Unfortunately, an application of Trafalgar Inferno reduced it to ash before it could strike him.

Still, that was four, and that was five.

Anger still burning through Muzazi's body like a fever, he seized the stretched knives out of the air before they could hit the ground and hurled them -- one, two -- in the direction of the ship.

The first hit another crewmate, an older man in a monk's habit, who was rapidly descending the ramp. It struck him in the head with such force that it went flying off -- and kept going until it had pinned his ruined cranium to the wall of the hangar.

Six.

The second knife hit the main thruster of the ship, lodging deep in its inner workings. There was a crackle of Aether from it, and then a thruster appeared on the vase of the handle -- driving it deeper, deeper, into the ship's engine, until…

… it burst into flame, showering the hangar in chunks of burning metal. Muzazi saw no body, but he was willing to bet by the number of body parts that were raining down that that was seven.

Which left only one.

Georg Amuzhen was utterly untouched by the fiery explosion -- which only made sense. That leather outfit he was wearing must have been fireproof, to defend against his own flames, and was probably infused with Aether to enhance those qualities even further. The red-haired man took a step back as Muzazi advanced. Twin red flames still sprung from the man's palms, bearing something of a resemblance to Muzazi's thrusters.

"You fucked up, asshole," Amuzhen hissed, a hysterical giggle infiltrating his tone. "That's the two-minute mark. Londinium!"

The moment that last word passed his lips, the flames bursting from his hands intensified -- their heat growing until the flames turned blue, stretching almost up to the ceiling in their renewed vigor. Fiery orange Aether raged around Amuzhen as he laughed, almost intoxicated by this clear boost in power. He stepped forward again, regaining the ground he'd lost.

There were about ten meters between him and Atoy Muzazi.

Two-minute mark?

From hearing that, Muzazi could clearly guess what this Londinium ability entailed -- once Georg Amuzhen had been in battle for a set period of time, he could intensify the heat and ferocity of his flames tenfold. There was no way of telling if this was the limit of his strength, then, or if he'd just get another power boost in two minutes' time. Even without knowing that, though, Muzazi could tell a torrent of these flames wouldn't be something he could survive.

Should he retreat, then, and observe from a distance?

"Nice to meet you, Atoy," Marie said, extending a lazy hand. "Let's work well together."

Muzazi stood his ground, his blade raised high. This was a contest of strength, to determine which of them was supreme. There would be no retreat for him or his opponent.

Atoy Muzazi discarded everything. His burning temper, the aching pains of his body, even the anguish that had brought him here in the first place. His eyes stared ahead blankly like glass, and a line of drool ran from his mouth, but that was no matter. Right here, right now, he was nothing more than a hand to hold a blade.

He adjusted his stance, pulling his sword back and pointing it at Amuzhen as the flames raged around his opponents hands. Win or lose, this would be the end of the confrontation. There would be one more corpse on the ground before the minute had passed.

Amuzhen took a deep breath.

"Trafalgar Infer --"

Muzazi stabbed him through the chest, his sword -- stained red with blood -- emerging from Amuzhen's back on the way out. The voice of Georg Amuzhen died on his tongue as the air was pushed out of his lungs. He opened his mouth to say something, some final words -- but Muzazi roughly pulled his sword free and the smuggler fell wordless to the ground.

This was Atoy Muzazi's masterpiece. In less than a syllable's time, he'd crossed ten meters and dispatched his enemy. His speed when fighting ordinarily was impressive, but this was divine. The principle behind the increased speed was simple: he'd coated his entire musculature with invisible thrusters, programmed to activate only in sympathy to his own movements. The speed of every movement he made was multiplied countless times as a result.

Full Throttle. That was what he'd call this technique. It only seemed appropriate.

Finally, long overdue, the fire alarms activated in response to the flames and water rained down in a deluge. It ran down Muzazi's face and body, washing away the freshest of the blood, but the stains from the start of the battle stubbornly remained -- and nothing could wash away what had come beforehand.

Muzazi fell to one knee, his entire body aching -- this was the first time he'd used Full Throttle, but he could already tell that forcibly moving his muscles like this would cause significant damage. Slowly, with shaky hands, he sheathed Luminescence. He'd desperately hoped for the euphoria of victory once he'd defeated these people, or even just simple relief, but…

...but he didn't feel any better at all.

Regan's sigh came loud and clear over the script on Muzazi's table. "I understand that battle is, um, unpredictable," he said. "But it would've been very helpful if you'd left one alive -- to extract information from, at least."

His hands on the table, Muzazi stared down at the script, his eyes dull. Even with this obvious reprimand, his heart didn't quicken in the slightest. All of this, right now, was just noise.

"It's as you say," he muttered. "Battle is unpredictable."

With that, he tapped the screen of the script, and the call ended. The last thread they could pull had thoroughly turned into a dead end, thanks to his foolish actions. The vengeful fever that had filled him for those few minutes had thoroughly died down. Now he felt like nothing more than a stringless puppet. Even the effort to breathe seemed toilsome.

Even with this failure, Muzazi couldn't help but feel that things had come to a conclusion. Katashi Oliphant-Hidaka had fallen comatose after his injuries, and showed no signs of waking up. The smugglers, who'd been in contact with the culprit, had been slaughtered to a man. And Marie Hazzard, his more competent half, had left this world. There were no more avenues to walk down. All was lost.

The venomous words of Dragan Hadrien, spoken in that interrogation room back on Taldan, came to mind:

"These things you ramble on about? Honour, dignity, all that shit? They don't exist. They're things people made up to make themselves seem more noble. There's no difference between me shooting you in the back and shooting you in the front. If I were to pull out a gun right now and shoot you - while your hands were tied - it wouldn't mean a thing. You'd be dead and I'd be alive, so I'd be the winner. The person who's willing to do what it takes - whatever it takes - gets what they want: that's the rule. That's the only rule."

Perhaps he’d been right after all. Muzazi had approached this pitch-black world with honour, with dignity, and he’d been rewarded with the bomb of an invisible enemy. Could there be anything more dishonourable than that? Even shooting someone in the back was more personal.

Even thinking about it was too much right now. Muzazi turned away from the table.

The residence Governor Regan had provided in Landfall-01 had all the amenities Muzazi needed. He threw himself down on the hard couch and blankly watched the videographs being streamed to the monitor on the wall.

Comedies, game shows, old classics… as the hours stretched on, the clock on the wall incessantly beeping to indicate night hours had begun, the light from the videographs were reflected off Muzazi's eyes as he watched them uncomprehendingly. Even if he was in no state to enjoy these features, though, it was good to have noise. Noise to fill the silence where his one and only partner now lived.

There was a knock on the door.

The protagonist of the videograph made a crude joke, and his traveling companions loudly complained. They were a band of warriors traveling to a distant mountain, so that they could throw the corpse of an ancient evil emperor into the volcano there. If he were in an ordinary state of mind, Muzazi imagined he would have quite enjoyed that plot. Would Marie have enjoyed the jokes, he wondered?

There was a knock on the door.

Muzazi glanced up. Someone had come. Was it Regan, with information he couldn't communicate over the script? Perhaps Winston had leaped out of his hospital bed and come to drag him back into the investigation. Or perhaps some unknown enemy was waiting outside, ready to dispatch him before he could find out anymore.

There was a knock on the door.

Whatever the case, Muzazi decided, he'd respond in kind. His hand on Luminescence's hilt, he made his way to the door -- pausing for a moment as the metallic knocking sounded out once again. He took a deep breath, readying his Aether, and tapped the button to open the door.

It slid open, the cold air outside already infiltrating the unit. Apart from the frigid darkness and the snow, however, there was nothing at the door. Some childish prank, then? His hand on his sword, Muzazi slowly looked to the left, then the right. Still, nothing.

"Down here, Atoy," sighed an already-exasperated voice.

He glanced down. Special Officer Marie Hazzard was much smaller than he remembered.

"Yeah," she said, fists on her hips. "I guess I've got some explaining to do."