And upon retreating from the dinner hall and finding myself in the foyer of that nightmare house, I found myself accosted by seven spearmen. They were adorned with robes and furs fit for nobility, but when I looked for their faces I saw only swirling vortexes of meat and pus. By the time they spoke, I was already shaking terribly.

"My name is Modesty, and I am the end of men," the First Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw cruel kings scrubbing their crowns with rust.

"My name is Disloyalty, and I am the end of men," the Second Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a saint run through from behind.

"My name is False Testimony, and I am the end of men," the Third Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw great men accused by miscreant tongues.

"My name is Compromise, and I am the end of men," the Fourth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a fool accept to only have half his head chopped off.

"My name is Degeneracy, and I am the end of men," the Fifth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a kingdom gradually forget its principles and rot away.

"My name is Contentment, and I am the end of men," the Sixth Spearman said, and he pointed to the shadow, and I saw a vagrant lose all hope and become a living corpse.

"My name is Time, and I am the end of all men," the Final Spearman said, and before I could look to the shadow he thrust his spear and carved my brains from my skull.

I woke in a cold sweat, tears streaming from my eyes, and knew that again I had witnessed only accursed truth.

Personal Writings of St. Sylas, Saint of Dreams and Phobias

"They say this is one of the wonders of the universe, kids," Skipper said, arms crossed as he looked out the window. "So I'd recommend checking it out."

Dragan looked up from his book just in time to see it. Ruth was already next to Skipper, watching through the window, and Bruno continued to watch from his own seat.

The Menagerie was the flagship of the Humilist fleet, but just from looking at it you didn't get much of a sense of authority or prestige. Hell, you didn't get a sense of anything except size. Dragan couldn't imagine a vessel save for the Supreme's being much bigger.

From the looks of it, the Menagerie had started off as a massive cargo freighter -- and then from there, they'd added on parts of more ships, and then added more, and more, and so on and so on… now, the ship Dragan was looking at was little more than a network of interlocking parts, a chaotic cuboid structure with little coherency. Swarms of other Humilist ships buzzed around it like flies, forming something of a black cloud around the main body.

"Looks like a mess," Dragan commented. Skipper just shrugged slightly.

The Menagerie was the first ship to stop, assuming a predesignated position in the astral void.

Then, the Deus Nobiscum slid into view from the side. The great cathedral-flagship was more like a single long tower than the cuboid of the Menagerie, its surface covered with steel statues of saints and holy figures. Great panels of stained glass, spread out like angelic wings,

absorbed starlight for power. Countless other ships flew alongside it -- huge chunky war vessels -- each of them doubtless sufficient to blow any hostiles apart in the blink of an eye.

The Superbians certainly did like to show off. As the group continued to watch, the Deus Nobiscum flew right into the side of the Menagerie, locking itself into place with a specially designed port on the Humilist ship.

"They literally come together for this thing," Skipper muttered. "Pretty neat, huh?"

Bruno raised an eyebrow. "Things are meant to be pretty tense between them. Don't know if I'd be brave enough to put myself right in the hands of my enemy."

"Or stupid enough," Dragan commented.

"Arrogant enough, maybe," Skipper said, eyes still fixed on the two ships. "Way I see it, the only thing that separates the Superbians from the Supremacy are the prayers and the way they're not, ah, afraid to get wacky with genes. Still, you hear rumours in the Supremacy anyway…"

His voice trailed off. Skipper's gaze drifted upwards, and the slightest smirk tugged at his lips. Ruth glanced at him and exchanged the slightest nod.

"And there we go," he said.

It descended.

At first, Dragan had trouble seeing it -- the surface of the ship was jet-black, after all, blending in seamlessly with the void of space behind it. For a good few seconds, he could only track the ship's position by the stars that it was blotting out. His eyes quickly adjusted, however.

"And there we have it," Skipper grinned. "The flagship of the Paradisas fleet."

The ELIZA was a great black pyramid, moving inexorably through space without any visible form of propulsion. It's stark geometry was utterly featureless, lacking windows or airlocks, and unlike the other two ships it had come alone. Just looking at the triangular vessel, Dragan couldn't help but shiver -- and he quickly found that he'd unconsciously walked to the window, too, to stare at the ship alongside his fellows.

Dark bridges, cylinders as featureless as the ship proper, extended down from the base of the pyramid -- connecting it to the Menagerie. The three ships, as dissimilar as could be, had come together.

The Truemeet had begun.

"Makes me feel weird, looking at it," Ruth frowned. "Like it's… staring at you or something."

"They say the Paradisas branch of the Final Church has technology hundreds of years ahead of everyone else," Skipper said, his own eyes fixed on the ship. "Hell, they might be staring at us.*

"Ugh," Serena shuddered. "Stop. You're giving me the creeps."

"Sorry, sorry," Skipper waved an apologetic hand back without looking. "Still, though… it's gonna be a real pain to sneak into."

It really was… wait.

Dragan looked up at him. "Huh?"

-

"Seriously, it's not that big a deal," Skipper chewed as he talked, already drowning his next fry in ketchup. "It's not like this is the first illegal thing we've done, yeah? Far from it."

After docking in one of the massive hangars of the Menagerie, they'd moved into the vessel proper. The outside of the ship had been a sight to behold all by itself, but even so, it hadn't quite prepared Dragan for the view on the inside.

It was like a city had sprung into existence over the course of the last hour or so. Stores and stalls, restaurants and cafes… independent units coming together to form a new whole, buildings slotting together like toy blocks. Even the diner their group was sitting in bore tank treads that had been used to bring it here.

Bruno picked at a sad-looking salad as he looked out the window of the diner -- he'd positioned himself right next to it when they'd gotten into this booth. His eyes tracked the strange crowds that passed by -- the majority of them wearing the patchwork clothing of the Humilists, a few wearing normal clothing like them, and the occasional one or two dressed in the exhausting memorabilia of the Superbians.

"I thought Humilists weren't supposed to make anything," he muttered, eyes flicking this way and that. "Find it hard to believe they found all these buildings in a junkyard somewhere."

"Well," Skipper cracked his neck. "Humilists don't make anything, sure, but not everyone who hangs out with the Humilists is a Humilist. You get me?"

"What do you mean?" Ruth asked, taking a deadly-looking bite of a hotdog.

"In nature," Skipper smirked as if he was saying something profound. "Pilot fish swim alongside sharks, and they take advantage of the fact they've got the big guy next to them. It's kinda like that."

Dragan rolled his eyes. "In what way is it like that?"

"Like it or not," Skipper leaned back. "You can't build a society on hand-me-downs. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to make stuff for yourself -- medicines, food, technology, materials for repairs… and the hanger-ons take care of that stuff so the actual Humilists don't have to."

"Make a profit from it, too, I bet," Bruno grunted, still staring out the window.

Ruth paused, her hotdog thoroughly devoured. "That still sounds like cheating to me."

Skipper smirked bitterly. "When ideals meet reality, you'd be surprised how many loopholes just pop into existence."

Tap, tap.

Dragan leaned forward, a glare already starting to develop across his brow as he tapped his finger against the table. His own burger went untouched.

"Feels to me like you're changing the subject, Skipper," he said, hushing his voice. "What's this about us breaking into the ELIZA?"

"Well," Skipper frowned. "We're breaking into the ELIZA."

"Why?" Dragan hissed.

Skipper grinned. "Why, Mr. Hadrien, I thought you'd never ask! Need to get a face to face with this guy," he said, sliding his script across the table. "Just for a lil chat, you know?"

Dragan blinked, looking down at the image on the script. Serena leaned in next to him to get a look, too.

"Mr. Skipper," she sighed, shaking her head. "That's not a guy. That's a ball."

She was right. The image on the script was of a metallic sphere, around the size of a chair, floating through a hallway. Two further rings of some silvery material hovered around it, glowing slightly with a dim white light.

Skipper tutted slightly. "It pains me to see you all know so little of the world, really. It's like I said -- the Paradisas are years ahead of everyone else technology-wise. Most of them live permanently in this virtual world they've made, so when they need to act in reality, they remote-control automatic bodies like this one. His name's Hamashtiel, an advisor to the Paradisas Apexbishop. I need to get him on our side."

Ruth leaned on her hand, looking down at the script. "For their tech?"

"Kinda. They've got more automatics than anyone else -- I just need them to lend us a few to beef up our numbers. Nothing too big: I don't imagine they'll wanna make it obvious they were involved with an attack on the Supreme."

"So you want to negotiate with this Hamashtiel person," Dragan said.

Skipper nodded. "Yup."

"So go negotiate with him. Why does this require us to break into their flagship?"

He waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, we gotta. I don't want this down in any kinds of books. Things'll get… complicated."

Dragan blinked. "Oh sorry, I didn't realize we didn't want things to get complicated, you fucking clown."

"Don't be mean," Serena scowled. "I'm sure he's doing his best."

Skipper waved another dismissive hand, crushing a fry in his palm and stuffing the resultant mess into his mouth.

"It's fine," he insisted. "Really. Seriously. Most of the ELIZA is open to visitors, anyway, so we just use your Gemini World to sneak in from there and give ol' Hamashtiel my pitch. Easy peasy."

Dragan ran his hands over his face. "Yeah, you always make it sound so easy peasy. Then some unforeseen variable comes in and screws everything up."

"Seriously, relax," Skipper crossed his arms. "I'm promising you here and now, kid: I've taken everything into account."

Atoy Muzazi reached for a sword that was no longer there, his hand hanging in empty space for a moment. Then, it fell limp to his side.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Avril-J asked, popping her head around from the pilot seat.

Her chalk hair hung limp over her eyes, but it didn't seem to have dulled the Superbian’s piloting skills any. Even with her gaze upon Muzazi, the thump-click from below confirmed they'd docked in the hangar without difficulty.

"I'll be fine," Muzazi muttered, waiting for the doors to open. "Thank you both for your assistance."

From what Muzazi understood, he'd nearly been dead from oxygen deprivation when Avril-J and her brother had come across his vessel. By the time he'd regained consciousness, they'd already been on their way here to the Truemeet. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and so Muzazi had elected to disembark here.

It had been a long flight. He'd spoken little. More than anything else, he'd just sat and stared at the emptiness outside, pondering the voids that now surrounded him.

Only dull, hazy memories remained of his time aboard the ruined Arrowhead. Recollections of short breaths, freezing cold, and an indistinct figure standing above him… a figure out of legend…

A dream, surely.

"You sure you'll be okay?" Gordon-J paused as he walked past, carrying two boxes in his diminutive arms. "You were in a bad state when we found you -- at the very least, you should see a doctor to make sure there won't be, like, after-effects or anything."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The two clones -- identical in appearance -- were merchants, hoping to offload their cargo of antiques at the Truemeet. Muzazi imagined most of those artifacts had been pried out of graves or pilfered from tombs, but he said nothing. Again, always, beggars couldn't be choosers.

"I know a guy you could go to, cheap, should be around here," Gordon-J continued. "If you wanna hang around just a minute, I can --"

"I said I would keep it in mind," Muzazi snapped, glaring down at the little clone. "Do not pester me."

The doors of the ship opened, and -- without another word -- Muzazi stalked down the ramp.

The hangar was full to bursting with people, some stalls and storefronts already set up around the edges of the room. Muzazi had no doubt that such overcrowding was extremely dangerous in a facility like this, but nobody seemed to care much.

Well, if they were intent on foolishness, it wasn't his job to dissuade them. He had his own goals in mind. Like a shadow, he passed through the gaps in the teeming crowd, a grim look on his face.

He didn't know where it would be, but his destination was already known. More than anything, Atoy Muzazi needed a drink.

The finger was stark white, its nail jet-black -- and as it tapped against the screen showing Atoy Muzazi's lonely walk, it made no sound at all.

"There's our boy," a smooth voice spoke through nightshade lips. "He seems to have a dour aspect to him right now. Solstice, Equinox, try not to be too rough with him, please. Bring him back unharmed."

Two nods, and two pairs of feet efficiently moved out of the room.

"After all," the voice murmured. "There's a great deal of work waiting for Atoy Muzazi."