My dear colleague,

While I find the reasons for your leaving juvenile in the extreme, I have no choice but to accept them. The Superbians at large may see things differently, especially as you have elected to work instead for our most bitter adversaries. If nothing else, I hope they pay well for treason.

Men blessed with knowledge such as ours have a duty to improve the world around us. While the galaxy at large maintains an irrational fear of the genetic arts, the bravery of the Superbians is such that we are not afraid to turn them to benevolence. Diseases cured, deficiencies corrected… even if we are not thanked for it, the fact remains that we Superbians have benefitted civilization immensely.

A debt is owed that cannot be repaid. Whatever curiosities the Humilists have promised you simply cannot compare.

The Testament Project is the path to human perfection, both on a societal level and a biological one. If you think otherwise, you are deluded. While I do not expect a deluded man to overcome his misunderstandings, a place in my laboratory shall always be waiting for you if such a miracle does occur.

Regards,

Roger Brinkmann

Private Letter from the Personal Terminal of Dr. Roger Brinkmann

Her back to the cosmos, Isabelle Pi Testament stared at her script in deep concentration.

Interesting. Very interesting indeed.

In this route, it seemed that the main character ran into Josef for the first time at the Chapter 1 art festival rather than the roof in Chapter 2. Because she hadn't been warned about him by Alejandro, the main character's narration was much warmer towards Josef, and so the romantic relationship that would no doubt ensue was much more plausible.

In The Path Of The Wind really was a masterpiece. A lot of people online said that it was nothing but facile smut, but that was only because they didn't understand the deep characters and the complex plotting that the writer had envisioned. Isabelle had played a lot of DerisSoft's games, but INPOTW was definitely near the top.

She hadn't finished it yet, but she had no doubt the golden ending would be more than worth --

The door to her office slid open.

Isabelle hurriedly tapped the button to switch the program running on her script to the day's trade exchange, nodding sagely as she looked at the countless graphs and charts that formed a nation's daily business. She glanced up at the door as if only just noticing the visitor, her gaze darkening as she saw who it was.

"How can I help you, Pablo?" she asked, the sweetness of her voice unaltered.

Pablo Medina strolled into the room, his smiling face relaxed, his eyes closed. The binder he carried around everywhere -- stuffed with vintage trading cards -- was, as ever, tucked under his arm. In stark contrast to Isabelle's constant ceremonial habit, he wore a simple black sweater and a pair of blue jeans.

If you didn't know he was Giovanni's right hand man, you'd think he was a civilian who just wandered in.

"Are you free?" he asked pleasantly, looking around the office -- though how he did that without opening his eyes she could not say.

Of course not, she inwardly grumbled. I was just about to kiss Josef under the fireworks.

"Of course," she said, steepling her hands on the desk before her. "How can I help you?"

Pablo stepped over, pulling up a chair and sitting down across from her. The pleasant and ever-so-slightly insincere smile on his face remained unaltered. She waited for him to say something, but he did not. Instead, he slowly turned in his seat to look at the closed door behind him.

When he finally spoke, he did not look at her. "Can you lock that?" he calmly asked.

The polite smile quickly draining from her face, Isabelle reached under the desk and flicked the switch to secure the door. A red light flickered on above it -- and seemingly satisfied, Pablo turned back to her.

"That's very appreciated," he said. "I'm sure you've heard the saying 'loose lips sink ships'? We don't want people taking the things we say out of context. That'd just be the worst thing."

Isabelle narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Of course. Again, then: what can I do for you?"

"You've been sending a lot of messages to Cardinal Sera, asking about the Polis situation? Requesting an update?" Pablo said. "He's been very busy with the council's seclusion, so he asked me to deliver his assurances on his behalf. The Polis quarantine is well in hand."

Isabelle frowned. "How so?"

Pablo leaned back in his chair, sucking in awkward air through his teeth. "If only I could say, ma'am… but I'm sure you understand that information security is a serious concern in cases such as these, especially with the council in seclusion. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be talking to you at all, but Sera so did want to keep you in the loop."

"And he sent you to tell me this? I find that hard to believe, Mr. Medina."

The longer the conversation went on, the more an oppressive feeling seemed to settle over the room, like the dark space outside the window would break in and drown them in empty. Isabelle gulped, but Pablo's face didn't so much as twitch.

"And yet it is so, ma'am," he finally said, his politeness unperturbed. "It's a curious world we live in, to be sure."

This was not a man who'd surrender to implication, then. Isabelle hadn't spoken with Pablo much before, but she knew him from reputation. Ever since Giovanni had brought him into his inner circle, his popular support had increased dramatically -- among the various Superbian orders as well as the public flock.

Clearly, he was a man who knew how to make the world dance to his tune.

If implication was useless, then she would abandon it. Isabelle clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. It felt as if by opening her mouth, she was pulling a trigger, but she did it anyway.

"I don't think Cardinal Sera sent you here," she said, voice cold. "I think Giovanni sent you here."

Pablo simply inspected his nails. "Really? That'd be strange."

"I don't think it's strange at all. There's no way Sera could have sent you here."

Pablo's friendly smile widened fractionally. "Why's that?" he asked, just a tad quieter, the shadow of anticipation in his voice.

She gulped. "Because Sera's dead. He's dead with the rest of the Cardinals. Giovanni killed them -- or he had them killed, didn't he? That day when he met with them."

"That would be an interesting scenario," Pablo said slowly. "Of course, if that's something you believe to be true, doesn't that mean you're in danger as well right now? I'd be Giovanni's accomplice, so it'd be in my best interest to get rid of people who've figured us out." Pablo frowned exaggeratedly. "Telling someone in that kind of position that you suspect them… well, I don't know, it just seems unwise to me."

Isabelle maintained as much eye contact as she could with someone with their eyes closed. "Not at all," she said firmly. "If your coup needed me dead, I'd have been killed on that day as well. So Giovanni doesn't want me dead."

Pablo slowly leaned forward, until his chin was nearly resting on her desk. "What Giovanni doesn't know won't kill him," he whispered.

An intimidation display. Any power it possessed would only come from her own weakness, and so she would simply discard it.

"I'm hardly helpless," she continued. "One of the main objectives of the Testament Project was to create humans with a greater connection to Aether. I might not be the success case, but don't mistake me for a normal person."

Isabelle stared at Pablo.

Pablo did not move.

Slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly, the seconds passed. Pablo's hand twitched slightly, as if to reach into his card binder, but then fell back to his side as he seemed to change his mind.

He sat back in his chair, his usual smile returning to his face. "Well, I have to say, that would be a very unique turn of events indeed. If Giovanni and I were involved in something like that, you're probably right that killing you here and now would be a bad idea. You're a stabilizing influence for the Church -- you'd be useful in the days to come." His smile flickered away for a moment. "So long as you kept your mouth shut."

With that, he stood and began to walk away -- before stopping right in front of the door. It was still locked, after all.

Isabelle made no move to unlock it.

"I've always wondered," she quietly said. "You weren't born in the Final Church. I highly doubt you're a believer. And yet… why is it you're here? What do you get out of all this?"

Pablo glanced back at her, and his eye opened -- just slightly.

He altered the sound of his voice, so it was easy to forget, but the man was indeed an Umbrant. His sclera was black as night, and resting within it was a yellow pupil, barely visible through the sliver of his eyelid. That golden eye was bright as hellfire, and the black slit within it so jagged that it resembled nothing less than a crevice in the earth.

The smile on his face lengthened and twisted.

"Right now," he breathed. "Giovanni is climbing the greatest of mountains. Don't you think it'd be amusing to see him slip at the summit?"

Isabelle blinked. "...what?"

His eye closed once again, and his smile returned to its usual friendliness. "The door's still locked," he pointed out pleasantly. "Could you let me out, please?"

The danger in that glance had been such that Isabelle found herself unlocking the door before even thinking about it. Pablo nodded in appreciation, and strolled out of the room.

Well, Gio, Isabelle thought, slumping back in her seat. You certainly know how to choose your friends.

Taking a deep breath to diffuse the tension in her body, she picked her script back up. Somehow, she was no longer in the mood for INPOTW -- instead, she found herself scrolling again through the messages she'd received that morning. Economic reports, Investigations into members of Giovanni's faction… and another message from Dr. Brinkmann, requesting that she have Giovanni visit him. As if she were his secretary.

Isabelle sighed. From the moment you were born, it seemed, strings were being put on you -- restraints forcing you to dance to the tune of your culture, your duties, your creator. They were made a part of you.

It appeared Giovanni was intent on cutting his own strings, but Isabelle wondered just how far a puppet could go without its support.

Dragan braced himself as a burst of wind, created from the sudden appearance of the zombies and the accompanying displacement of air, buffeted down the hallway. His feet went skidding back slightly, but he was kept from flying off by a reassuring hand on the back from Bruno.

"Watch yourself," he grunted, his expression already softening as he switched places with Serena.

She punched a hole in the wooden wall, pulling free a sparking shortsword of plumbing and wires shortly after. "Don't get careless, Mr. Dragan."

Now he was getting lectured by both of the dynamic duo. How embarrassing.

The zombies charged towards them, hollow faces twisted into snarls and growls as they ran down the hallway. One of the corpses, curiously enough, turned instead to an analogue clock on the wall and began mercilessly punching it to pieces. The rest came down as a tide.

Gemini Shotgun.

There were around sixty zombies in the hallway, and Dragan could only fire so fast. Three shots burst out of his Aether, popping three heads -- but before he could continue the assault, the rest of the dead were upon him, clumsy blows of fists and fees raining down on his body before he could react.

As he slipped on the loose carpet and collapsed to one knee, Dragan looked up -- just in time to see one of the zombies lunging down at him, mouth open and ready to bite down.

"Mr. Dragan!"

A sparkle of violet Aether, and two lightning fast swipes of Serena's sword. With that, the zombie’s head was cleanly severed from its neck -- and the head itself cleanly sliced in two as it came down. Before the body part could hit Dragan, however, it vanished into blue Aether, absorbed into his Gemini Shotgun.

Serena's face hardened into Bruno's -- and with two outstretched arms, he projected a forcefield that held the horde of undead behind it. Their fists battered against it, their faces pressed against it, and Bruno winced in discomfort as his feet slowly slid back across the floor. This was a bigger shield than his usual, and with the force he was holding back it wouldn't last for long. If they had Ruth's Révolutionnaire boost, it would be another story, but…

Dragan's eyes widened as he stood up. What he witnessed took less than a second.

A spark of ghastly green Aether coiled right in the chest of each zombie, the light of it intensifying, all of the corpses temporarily ceasing their assault as the glow grew brighter and brighter.

Puzzle pieces clicked together in his mind. The signs of an explosion in this hallway. The gore already splattered across it.

"They're bombs!" Dragan roared -- but too late.

The explosion tore through the building, metal creaking as the structure lost stability, Bruno's forcefield shattering as it was pushed beyond its limits. Dust and smoke flooded through the hallway, tinted red by the sheer amount of blood in their midst --

-- and then the floor gave way beneath them.

Boom.

"You're pretty good," Skipper called out, making sure to keep his stance steady as the building shook around them. "Not as good as me, but still. Ya can't have everything, yeah? You're fighting, what… three people right now? Not everyone can do something like that."

As he spoke, his eyes drifted through the omnipresent smoke, doing their best to spot any signs of movement in the shroud. So far, this enemy didn't seem to be mediocre enough to reveal their presence, but hey -- everyone made mistakes.

"So who sent you?" Skipper continued. "Paradisas get antsy about our little conversation and hire you? That'd be disappointing. I thought we were getting along so well."

The fog did not move.

"Nah," Skipper licked his lips. "This ain't Paradisas' style. If I'd really ticked them off, I'd expect some kind of gel automatic in my drink, tearing me apart from the inside. Not something this… blunt. So you're another faction. How about it? Humilists? Superbians?"

Silence, save for the distant blaring of an alarm.

"I gotta tell you, pal," Skipper said, slowly turning on the spot. "I love a one-man show, but I can only keep it fresh for so long. How about a little dialogue here, yeah? Wouldn't kill ya --"

Movement.

Skipper whirled around, body flaring with emerald Aether, just in time to see a silver throwing knife fly towards his skull. Dull grey Aether ran along its surface -- and from this distance, dodging was not an option.

Two things blocked the projectile at once. Skipper's Heartbeat Bayonet -- and a shotgun blast from within the smoke, originating from a different direction from the knife. The metal implement clattered to the floor, right next to the unconscious Ruth.

Oh, Skipper grinned. That makes things a little more interesting.

There were three parties here, then.

The shotgun-wielder with the green Aether, who wanted to defeat him but not kill him.

The knife-wielder with the grey Aether, who had just made an attempt on his life.

And him, ol' Skipper… stuck in the middle.

His grin widened.

Sounds like a good time.

The doors to the lobby of the Aipol Beach flew open as the squad of Vox Dei breached the luxury ship, their crimson armour and spherical helmets utterly unsuited to their relaxed surroundings. The sound of their marching echoed through the building as they made their way inside, organized into two rows, providing a corridor for their leader to walk through.

Jon Peak handed his own helmet to a subordinate as he walked, undoing his belt and tossing it over his shoulder. These were late hours, and so the only ones in the lobby aside from the Vox Dei was the automatic receptionist behind the counter.

That was fortunate. Witnesses wouldn't do in a situation like this.

"Post four men at this entrance," he barked. "Armed with the whistles. Don't allow me to leave before I revert. It'll cause difficulties."

There was no response, but he knew his men would follow that command. He had trained them well, after all.

In the distance, he could hear the sound of explosions. Jamie Pot had no doubt already begun his attack on his target -- and that would have lured out Keat's targets, the agents working for Gertrude Hearth. If he got rid of them, the Humilist scourge would have less pieces to play with.

And that would bring them one step closer to lifting the quarantine on Polis -- and freeing his son from their tyranny.

Quickly, without any sign of shame or hesitation, Jon Peak removed his armour and clothing -- until he was standing, unclothed as his day of birth, before the assembled soldiers. Then, he cracked his neck. Violent, crackling red-and-white Aether coiled around him, and his body began to shake, blood leaking from the pores on his face as he fell to one knee.

His men, gathered around him, began to thump their gauntleted fists against their chest plates, the resounding booms like the sound of war-drums.

Jon Peak’s ancestors had been Scurrants -- of the kind so monstrously twisted that they weren’t even recognizable as humans. He himself was something called a throwback, a Crownless child born to a subspecies pairing, so he had been able to walk among the general populace without so much as strange glances. Even so, however, that potential still existed within him…

All it needed was to be activated.

Blood Moon Summons.

Peak growled, the sound of it deep and dark enough to vibrate bone -- and as he did, he felt the warm taste of blood on his lips.

Rows of razor-sharp fangs were forcing themselves out through the roof of his mouth, and the shape of his face was changing -- bones creaking and cracking as they reshaped themselves, the structure of his skull shifting into a mixture between a snake and a wolf. His eyes, bulging out of their sockets, became so bloodshot that they were all but crimson.

Wiry, dark fur began flooding out of his skin, coating his body. His tailbone extended into a tail proper, waving through the air prehensile, the length of it nearly matching his own height. Gore exploded out of his back as two extra arms burst from his shoulder-blades, long and thin like the branches of a tree, claws sharp and careful enough to slice through steel. Extra claws, too, slid out from underneath his original fingernails, causing them to pop off their fingers and clatter to the floor.

As his musculature finished swelling to its utmost, and his height completed its ascension, he resembled nothing more than a slavering beast. Blood and saliva leaked from his mouth, and his secondary tongue -- pale and pointed like a tentacle -- tasted the air.

He could smell the enemy. He could smell meat.

The howl that erupted from his throat shook the building more than any explosion ever could have.