Silicon considered the young man before him. He was of the next generation, freshly awakened, a fire burning in his eyes and a song in his heart. Whatever his power was, it was magnificent, an eagle-headed monster floating over him, crackling with lightning and shining like a blue sun in the dark caverns, outshining the Kena Stones that lined the ceiling above. The being's claws were curled into fists, mirroring the young man's, and the way he held himself was in a boxer's stance. From a more modern plane, perhaps. Maybe even Prime itself. Quite a few metahumans found their way here.

More evidence to this fact lay in the young man's clothing. Ripped jeans, a blue jacket, and a black t-shirt that had the AC/DC logo. Silicon supposed there was no accounting for taste.

“You, young man,” Silicon said, “What is your name?”

The metahuman flickered.

“J-Joseph.”

Silicon's heart sank.

“Before you go running your mouth about it,” Joseph said, “I haven't... I haven't picked a new one.”

“A real one,” Silicon spat.

“A new one. Maybe I like Joseph.”

Glass shimmered around them, and Joseph took a step back, his eyes darting to and fro, as he saw the shards and panes moving to surround them in a makeshift arena. Perhaps he was newly awakened, but he was already having a grasp on this eagle above him – they moved as one, as though the cobalt god were an extension of himself, a muscle to be flexed, four eyes glancing this way and that, though Joseph's metahuman eyes, those not connected to the azure deity, seemed to swim and scrunch with the effort.

“What kingdom do you hail from?” Silicon asked.

All four eyes flashed back to Silicon.

“I...”

Disappointment welled in Silicon's chest. He took a step forward, giving his sword a few experimental swings.

“You don't know.”

“I don't need to.”

Silicon all but glared at him, anger mixing with shame. When he spoke, his voice trembled like thunder.

“I know the nation I descend from,” he said, “Hyzodriad, the Kingdom of a Thousand Eyes. I'm descended from the royal guard – an entire family, devoted to the protection of their King. Protectors against interlopers and pretenders, threats both external and internal. You, who do not know your legacy, are as a common thief.”

Joseph seemed shocked at that, gritting his teeth. Perhaps there was something, deep within him, that was insulted by this. By the assertion of heritage, by Silicon's having what he did not.

Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

Silicon smiled.

“Let us dance, young Joseph.”

***

They were statues. Hundreds of them, so many that Becenti stopped to marvel at them, just for a brief moment, before the one next to him was peppered with plasma bolts. He dove, using the statues as cover, following the outermost ring of carved stone, the teeth-chattering sounds of the plasma pistol's spakspakspak erupting in the dark hall. The Domehead was flying above, a dark wraith with wings of Draconic night. Why he was using his pistol was beyond Becenti, until he turned to sense the green flames in the room. They gave off no heat, only light. A magician's parlor trick, powered by Earthmute himself. Grimacing, the older man stopped at one of the statues, that of Gorias, the Bull of Andlehoth. The old king's frame was more than ample cover, as Becenti took a moment to gauge his surroundings. He could hear the sounds of others in the room with him, the plasma pistol firing off again, though this time at someone else in the room – the slit-covered metahuman and her companion, perhaps. But aside from the Domehead's Fedtek, there was only the sound of metal and leather boots on stone, of footsteps both hurried and careful through the statues' latticework.

After a few moments, the Domehead spun, and made for the end of the room. Becenti took a deep breath. Then another.

And then noticed golden eyes open in the pale light.

Talrash.

With an agility he had only known as a man thirty years ago, Becenti flipped, grabbing the sides of the statue of Gorias and flipping over. The back of the bull –where he had just been – erupted in gold, a harsh light like the sun, flecked with metal and caking the man-bull’s back completely. Becenti landed hard at Gorias’s feet, scrambling up and pulling out his heatstone, heat wafting into a wall as Talrash stepped out from behind.

“Shimmer,” she said, smiling.

“Talrash,” Becenti said.

“Magician of the Red Wind,” she spat, “I can see your belly poking out of your suit.”

“Times change,” Becenti said, “I'm allowed to as well, aren't I?”

“For the worse, perhaps,” Talrash said, “In your prime, I would have relished the chance to end you. Now, all I kill is a sad old man pining for the past.”

A flash of anger welled in Becenti's stone-like face. The heat wall began changing form, ripples of spikes added to it.

“Well come on, then,” he said, “Old dogs bite the hardest.”

He flung the wall of heat at her, which she dodged, leaping sideways, maw welling with gold. There was just enough in the heatstone for Becenti to shield, just enough to get the hell out of the way, as he moved towards another statue as the beam ate at the shimmers, a solid plate of gold clattering on the ground like a restaurant tray.

Becenti could hear Talrash moving parallel to him, matching his movements through the circles. His heart pounded, blood pumping through in veins in time with the pulses of the heatstone, a rhythm that he knew by muscle memory. Four pulses for anything good to work with. The green flames stared at him like eyes, following his every move.

Green eyes that were joined by twin orbs of gold as Talrash pounced, her mouth glowing gold as she vomited, less a solid beam and more a stream, a sudden convulsion that coughed out like a waterfall. Becenti sprang back, pushing out the heat in front of him, grimacing as his will over it was lost as it turned into cold metal, a wall between him and Talrash. But no time to reflect on that, with her sight on him lost he went deeper into the army of statues.

Talrash tossed the wall of burnished heat aside, and continued stalking after him.

***

There was a moment, when Pocket and Analyza broke through the fifth line of statues, staring through like the barest remains of a treeline at the final door, that they had done it. They had worn their wounds, and made it to the end.

And then Analyza felt a sharp, burning pain rend through her side. She let out a gasp of pain and collapsed. Pocket spun around, eyes narrowing at the Domehead stepped forward, his plasma pistol's muzzle still smoking a putrid pink. Analyza curled around her wound, her face contorted.

“You,” Pocket said, “I'll kill you.”

The Domehead nodded in acknowledgment. And pulled the trigger.

There was something about Fedtek that just made it slower. It was plasma-based weaponry, each shot lobbed out like a catapult, and unlike the firearms of other planes one could see the glob of goo sing through the air. Pocket could not dodge bullets.

But she could dodge this, as she ducked to the side, pulling out a knife and flinging it at the Domehead. The bolt of plasma swept just past her, singing off the hairs on her arm, an uncomfortable heat that made her heart skip at the near-miss. The Domehead reacted, twisting out of the way of the dagger, bracing himself as Pocket charged, one hand closing over the mercenary's wrist, pulling it up, three spaks drumming awry as he fired in blind panic before he lost his grip. Pocket kicked the weapon aside, and heard it clatter somewhere into the darkness as she wrestled against the mercenary, the two of them pushing against the other in a few agonizing heartbeats, before the Domehead brought up a knee and rammed it into Pocket's stomach, followed by a crack as he slammed his helmet against her forehead. She stumbled back, collapsing against one of the statues, her world swimming with stars.

The Domehead began approaching her, rubbing his hands together, ripples playing in the air.

Heat, Pocket realized, He can control heat.

And then the Domehead turned to the left, heat spinning into a shield that he brought up as the Silver Knight's blade slashed down. The shield held, barely, as the blade dug dangerously close at the Domehead's arm, the two of them holding for a few moments before the mercenary, with a surprising shock of strength, threw him off. Oliphant stumbled back, but did not fall, using a statue as leverage to stop his momentum. He and the mercenary stared at one another for a few moments, before Oliphant raised up his blade, a grim expression on his face.

One that was betrayed by a fire in his eyes.

***

There was a moment of silence as Silicon and Joseph made final predictions of the other's move.

Then, in a rare moment of panic, it was Joseph who struck first, leaping forward and stopping just at the edge of his soul's range, hunkering down and letting the eagle surge out, a great claw making for Silicon's head. Silicon turned to glass, the claw shattering through it, shards and pricks digging into azure, plasma-like flesh. Joseph winced, as pieces of Silicon flew out as though he were a shattered vase.

Then, the shards and pricks of glass began to move around, digging further into the eagle's hand, cutting upwards. Joseph gritted his teeth to stop his screaming, eagle's vision watching the rest of the glass cloud together into a ball.

One that broke, a stream of glass flying towards the bird, peppering it, each dagger of glass embedding deep into the blue skin, then pulling itself across it. Joseph let out a yelp.

But the soul did not break. Not like Mordenaro. Taking a deep breath, his entire body feeling like ice, he rose to his feet. The glass reformed back into Silicon's human form, the knight floating like a specter, blade in hand. Without a word, he plunged the sword downwards.

On his left, Joseph saw the clear-purple blade cut down, sawing through his soul like it were an oak.

And then, more ice-hot pain. Joseph let out a howl, and swiped backwards to get Silicon away. The knight retreated, a calculated expression on his face, Joseph more a math problem than an opponent. One to strategically cut away, he supposed. The glass embedded in the eagle tore away, coming back to Silicon like attack dogs, floating around him and already pointing back at Joseph for another pass. The knight stepped back. Joseph spluttered, tears in his eyes as he coughed, seeking to overpower his agony, his entire body throbbing.

With a titanic effort, he forced himself back up to his feet, feeling lesser than he was before. To his shock, parts of his soul were splattered on the cold stone floor, and he could feel something akin to blood leaking down the soul's wounds.

“So you can take pain,” Silicon said, “Far more than the average man.”

Joseph didn't answer, his head pounding as he gulped. He had taken worse, he told himself.

He had taken worse...

“Does it always do that?” Silicon said, “Your beast, your god, it bleeds like an animal.”

It hadn't before. But then, this was the longest he'd held it after taking so much punishment. This wasn't like Mordenaro, which had been a sudden shock that had shattered his soul to pieces. This was pain he could handle, a slow burn that wasn't quite as dramatic.

Yet the soul bled. That couldn't be good.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Silicon continued, “The discovery. The realizations. He who does not know his own power, does not know his own soul. You do realize that is what you use, yes?”

“Y-Yes, you bastard,” Joseph coughed, “I do.”

“You realize what you toy with, yes?” Silicon said, “To bear your soul like this, to let it be injured in such a way, it's...”

A rare look crossed on his face. Pity. Joseph wanted to strangle him.

“I don't fucking care,” Joseph said, “L-Let's just get this over with.”

“The soul is an abstract thing,” Silicon said, “It is a spiritual concept, and thus is subject to the spiritual realm. The realm of emotions. It is affected by the mental battles one plays in the day-to-day. It changes and adapts, based on those experiences. But yours... yours is physical. Who's to say it's not affected by those experiences, as well?”

Joseph stopped. Silicon glared at him.

“You misuse your power. Let us dance. Again.”

***

Becenti glanced down at his heatstone. Four pulses. Five. The air in front of him rippled, and he thrust a hand into it and began to meld the heat together into a shield. Never mind using a javelin – the forest of statues made it nearly impossible for him to maneuver for a good throw. No, this was a close-quarters battle, as terrifying as that was. The red streamers weighed him down, the ones connecting to his elbows leaden with gold, the tips turned to metal by Talrash's breath. Forming the heat into a knife, he took hold of it and cut the ribbons off, watching them flutter to the ground. Holding the dagger felt good. Despite its searing temperature, his body had long ago grown used to its warmth. It was an oven in the form of a weapon, a freshly forged blade that still rang orange from the furnace. Nearly invisible, the only indication of its existence being a slight shaking of the air and his holding it like a mime.

He heard Talrash stalking through the stone jungle like a tiger. Taking a deep breath, he went over his trap for the final time. He had torn off one of his ribbons, laying it beside a statue of Megon the Silt, tantalizingly curving a corner like a red snake. His uniform was gaudy and conspicuous. It was a mistake to wear it, and Talrash knew that. She wouldn't think twice, yes?

Hiding behind the statue opposite, he glared as Talrash prowled into view. The Breath of Midas glanced around, squinting in the green twilight, before her golden eyes landed on the ribbon. For a brief moment, she considered it.

But a moment was all that Becenti needed. Moving like a shadow, he rushed behind her, arm wrapping around her neck. It was a tried-and-true technique, one where the victim would raise up their arms up to peel Becenti off of their neck, inviting their ribcage to the knife.

But Talrash, instead, spat at Becenti's arm. He winced as he felt part of it grow cold, enough to make him lose momentum and concentration. Talrash spun, nails slashing wildly at Becenti, who ducked down and made an errant swipe of the knife, cutting through robe and flesh. The two broke off, both of them leaping back into the shadows, stalking after the other. Becenti grimaced as he stared down at his arm, tearing away parts of his uniform that had been transmuted, noting with concern that some of his skin had been caught as well, golden bumps that he prodded at for a second, keeping panic down as he glanced back up and around the room of statues.

His transformed flesh was nothing worrying. He hoped.

His dagger had bit flesh, too. He had injured Talrash, though he knew the wound would have cauterized almost immediately. Nor was it a killing blow, since he could hear her, stalking through the cavern, her footsteps like heartbeats. Becenti considered his options. He couldn't pull a trick like back there with his streamers again, Talrash would be too smart for that. But it was the only way he could think at the time to pin her down.

Unless.

His heatstone pulsed, the heat wafting into the air. Becenti began dispersing it, his stomach tightening as he pushed it out and around, past his usual limits and through his immediate surroundings.

Feeling. Searching.

***

Talrash considered the wound she had received, a nasty, burning slash across her left arm. Shimmer's dagger had cut through the fabric of her robes and deep into flesh. But it was a knife of heat, and her wound was already scorched and staunched, though she smelled the uncomfortable scent of burning flesh as she returned back to surveying the cavern and its statues.

That had been stupid. That entire trick had been amateurish and weak, the desperate ploys of an old man. But it had worked. Shimmer had almost gotten her, if she hadn't resisted her natural reactions and if he had been quicker or aimed at her back as opposed to her ribs. She would need to be more careful.

They were close now. So close. She couldn't afford any mistakes now.

As she went forward, bending down, claws at the ready and gold boiling up from her throat, she could see it. Ripples in the air. Shimmer was sending heat out, the air wrinkling ever so slightly. But only in specific places, mirage linking with mirage into tendrils that snaked down the path in front of Talrash, between the statues of Izo and T'Kali. She went behind T'Kali, noting that more of the air rippled behind the Serpentine's tail.

So Shimmer was smartening up, too. She watched as the tendrils leaked forward, taking a few steps back to get out of their way. Only the gods and the old man knew how hot these were – she suppressed a wince as the slash on her arm acted up. Both a weapon and a warning system. He was searching for her, hiding in a position away from her. His power was more versatile than hers, able to move deftly through the caverns, whereas she could only fire in a straight line.

But it was blind. The tendrils stopped at a point, the quaking air shuddering and twisting around. He was already reaching the outer limits of his power, the maximum range that he could keep the heat flowing without losing its form.

And that meant that she could, logically, find him. Follow the tendrils back. Avoid them. She would need to be quick, as she crept past and went deeper into the ring of statues. The longer this went on, the more Shimmer would be able to pump out more heat to fill out his region of the cavern.

She stepped over a few tendrils, careful not to trip them, and weaved towards their source.

***

The Domehead, to his credit, was well-trained. He dodged and avoided the sword strokes of Oliphant, keeping his distance to a near-mathematical degree, silent as night. Slight tremors twisted in the air, pulling towards the mercenary, forming into a ball behind him. Oliphant wasn't about to let him form anything funny, keeping on his attack, his strokes methodical and measured. He couldn't afford to wear himself out here. His opponent was, above all, an intelligent sort, keeping himself out of harm's way, preparing for an over-extension, a lazy swipe. Oliphant couldn't go all-in and lose his composure. One wrong move, and it would be over.

So his own assault was just as controlled as the Domehead's defense. Strike when he could, use the empty space between them to suggest attack, use his footwork to play at slashing down, when he instead would go for the side. It reminded Oliphant of his times learning the sword with the ghost of Sir Isabel de Montfort, in those days at Castle Ranahad, the back-and-forth of practice, of footwork and how one's stance was among the most important parts of swordplay.

He was just in practice. Just dancing with a ghost, sword in hand. The Domehead was practically an automaton in his responses. A computer. No passion behind his movements, no desperation. Just action and reaction.

It was after their dance had seemed to last an eternity that the Domehead changed tactics. He raised up an arm, leaping back, and tossed the ball of heat at Oliphant. But Oliphant ducked, at the last moment realizing that the Domehead was not aiming for him.

The other one. The slit-covered metahuman. The... Pocket. Oliphant dared to glance behind him, for the briefest of moments, as the woman, who had been sneaking around them, dove to the side, the statue behind her blasted to goo. Pocket spun around, gritting her teeth.

***

“Ana!” she said, “Get! Go!”

“We drew straws!” Analyza yelled back.

“Fucking go!” Pocket stalked forward, watching as the Silver Knight turned back to the Domehead, only for the mercenary to leap upwards over the statues' heads, beating his wings and flinging down towards Ana as she ran.

Hell no. Pocket rushed forward, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a knife. With a titanic effort, she jumped, foot slamming against the head of a statue, pushing herself off and grabbing the mercenary's legs, pulling him down. She could see, just before the two of them crashed into the ground, Analyza weaving through the statues, forcing her way forward. The mercenary was trying to scramble to his feet, kicking at Pocket, who bore down on the Domehead, knife in hand, plunging it downward.

The Domehead twisted, a hand pounding at Pocket's chest. As the knife stabbed down, he moved, letting it plunge down to the hilt.

But it did not burrow into flesh. Pocket blinked as she saw that it had instead broken through the mercenary's combat armor and into...

Into a pocket. Like hers. A slit that opened to another place.

The mercenary grabbed Pocket's shoulder, using it as a brace as he slammed his head into hers again. She wheeled back, feeling around as he got up and surged after Ana. There was movement to her side, the pounding of boots, of Oliphant charging forward after him.

She got back up, chasing after them, her heart skipping a beat as the Domehead got up to Ana, pounced at her, and missed. Ana went to the side, hiding behind a statue as Oliphant caught up to the pair, blade flashing, scoring a solid strike against the Domehead. Pocket was there a moment later, tackling Oliphant from behind, shoving him to the ground. She scrabbled against him, ramming an elbow into his jaw, dagger slipping forward and into his arm. The Silver Knight let out a gasp of shocked pain as Pocket rushed and grabbed hold of his sword. Flipping back up, she stopped the Domehead from advancing, blade pointed at his chest.

“Ana, stay down,” Pocket ordered. She wasn't sure if she was listening, but this wasn't a time to sneak out. Not with the Domehead still up and running. Pocket wondered if he had a hundred eyes beneath that helmet. He was willing to risk his own life to prevent Ana from slinking away.

No, better to keep her close. Eliminate what she could. Pocket tested the sword's weight in hand, one boot pressed firmly on Oliphant's chest. The Domehead watched her, pulling in the ambient heat from their exertions, forming another knife that he flipped in his hand. That was... That was Shimmer's power, wasn't it?

“You're a mimic,” Pocket spat, “A thief.”

The Domehead did not respond.

“Takes one to know one,” Oliphant grunted, “Give me... Give me back my sword.”

Pocket stomped on his chest. Oliphant gritted his teeth. His eyes went hard. Beastial.

“I said, give me back my fucking sword.”

Two hands closed over Pocket's ankle, and with a prodigious strength he twisted and pushed. Pocket went with the movement swinging her foot round into a fencer's stance as the Domehead slashed forward. She didn't have time for a swing, however, no time to keep the Domehead at bay. All she could do was raise the blade up to lock it with the mercenary's knife. The two of them remained that way, pushing against the other, the Domehead pushing her back, both of them stepping over Oliphant.

Who rose to his feet.

“Give me back my sword!” he screamed. He grabbed the Domehead by the back and threw him off, swinging a fist at Pocket, who blocked it with the flat of the sword, pushing him away. The Domehead caught him, heat knife tearing at his side, finding a chink in the scales and burrowing it deep. Oliphant, roaring, turned around, bringing up a mailed fist that slammed against the mercenary's helmet.

Then another.

Then a shot to the side.

His roar turned into something higher. More manic. Pocket could only watch as he shoved the Domehead into a statue. As he brought another blow down on the helmet. The mercenary scrambled to his feet, tried for another stance-

And Oliphant rammed a fist into his throat. The Domehead made an uncharacteristic gagging noise, sliding to the ground.

But Oliphant was not done. With a drunken kick, he rammed a knee into the mercenary’s stomach. Then stomped his head. All the while, screaming.

He stomped again. And again. And again.

The mercenary’s helmet cracked like an egg, revealing a dazed, dark-skinned young man. Far too young. He lay still.

Oliphant turned to Pocket, who took a step back.

There was a wild look in the man's eye, a madness that followed his every step, a primal savagery that he had not possessed before. His gaze kept flickering from Pocket to the sword, and his hands shook through his gauntlets. Like a junkie pining for a high.

“Give me back my sword,” his voice was hoarse and hollow, “It's mine.”

***

Joseph's world was one of pain and mockery.

It was all he could do to keep standing, as Silicon came upon him like a storm, waves of shard and blade cutting deep into his soul, trying as it could to break the eagle. He would get a few swipes in here and there, errant, wild clubs that Silicon avoided, his blade flashing down in response each and every time.

The way the knight looked at Joseph made him want to vomit. Silicon glared at him like he was an animal, a thing to be picked apart. The methodical way he cut into the soul, prodding it and cutting it, letting plasma winnow like blood down Joseph and splatter on the floor, edged on the scientific.

But still, Joseph stood.

After what seemed to be the hundredth assault, Silicon stood back. Joseph breathed in. Breathed out. The sounds of combat, of vague, hoarse screaming from the room over, was muted and dim. They were alone, the rush of water below their only companion.

“Is that it?” Joseph coughed, “Come on, bitch. I can still go.”

Silicon did not answer. Not at first. He took a few slow steps, circling Joseph, his glass sword prodding the eagle.

“And still you have not broken,” he said, “Impressive. Tell me, what is your kingdom?”

Joseph swayed. Nearly tripped.

After a moment, the eagle surged, swiping at Silicon, who ducked out of the way, giving an answering cut in return. Joseph winced through the cold pain. They were not deep wounds, these cuts of Silicon. Not enough to break the soul, to shatter it. He realized that now. These were the wounds designed to bleed out over time.

Further testing, to see if Joseph's soul would bleed to nothing, and leave him a barren shell.

“Your kingdom, Joseph.”

“I t-told you, I don't know.”

Silicon snarled in answer, raising up his blade. Joseph reacted, his eyes wide, the soul's claws clashing with Silicon's sword, before the man's left arm broke into pieces of glass, which sang forth and burrowed into cobalt flesh.

They broke apart again. A quiet gesture, as Joseph brushed the glance off.

Deep breath. In. Out. Flow with the pain. Direct it as anger, anger at the man in front of him, for delivering him this pain. That's how he did it back home. That's how he'd do it now.

Silicon advanced once more, making for a swing. Joseph twisted his body, the eagle bringing up its arms to take the blow. Then, at the last moment, he let go, and the eagle rushed into his body. Silicon's eyes widened, watching as the glass blade cut across Joseph's chest. At the same moment, Joseph's fist rocketed and cracked against the knight's face.

Silicon’s cut was skin-deep, as Joseph stepped back. The knight looked in complete shock as he stumbled away, rubbing his jaw.

It was an advantage, as Joseph coiled up as much lightning as he could, and threw it at Silicon. The entire cavern shook as the bolt, weak as it was, ignited the knight of Hyzodriad, sending him careening against the wall.

When he got up, he was smoking. Laughing.

“Good! You use your soul, not as just a physical thing, but as energy! It is made of lightning, and you use it so. Good! Your kingdom, Joseph!”

“I don't care,” Joseph said. The air around him sparked as he brought up a hand.

“You do,” Silicon said, “I see it. In your eyes.”

Another bolt, but this one Silicon avoided, breaking into a flock of glass and flying out of harm's way. Joseph watched it fly around the cavern.

He could...

He was remembering things now, now that his brain had a moment to rest, as Silicon was breaking off from his constant attack. There was a reason why Silicon had not finished him. He had been given the opportunity multiple times, as he cut at Joseph like a birthday cake. Why wasn't he...?

Did he really care about his kingdom that much?

And as Joseph thought on this, as he tracked Silicon's movements through the cavern, as Silicon began bundling together, the shards melding into a great spear, he remembered words. Mordenaro's words, when he and Joseph had fought on Nesona in the ashen wastes of the Deadlands.

“I read your DNA, Meta-man. I know of your ancestors. I spoke with them.”

What had he said? They were in Becenti’s writings.

The arrow flung itself at Joseph.

“The people of Armagest. You carry the stars on your back.”

“Armagest,” he said.

And the arrow stopped. He could feel Silicon's question, now unvoiced, as the arrow floated, waiting.

“I'm from Armagest.”

And the arrow broke apart once more, re-puzzling back into Silicon's form, his face breaking into a bright, wild grin.

“Good,” he said, “Armagest! The star-stung! No wonder you can take the pain. Yours is a kingdom of war.”

The glass coalesced back into his nasty sword.

“To be metahuman is to live in conflict. Armagest was one of the kingdoms closest to the Federation. They had colonies directly within the Silver Eye.”

“And...?”

“You fight well,” Silicon said, “But not well enough. I can see that you barely have scratched the surface of what you can do.”

He pointed the sword at Joseph.

“What will scratch it a bit more?”

***

So far, nothing had pricked Becenti's tendrils of heat.

It was difficult, using his powers like this. The heat connected to his fingertips, inking out of them like water, spilling to the ground and wafting about the floor. If he concentrated, really concentrated, he could feel when something disturbed them. Nothing concrete – nothing like the sense of touch the normal human body possessed. But it had the same logic to it, heat molded in such a way as to mimic hair on skin, able to detect light vibrations and tremors, changes in the air. This system connected to his fingertips, mixed with the heat of his own body, wrapped around the hair follicles on his forearm.

Incredibly difficult. It had taken him years of study and practice to even get to the point where he was now, and even then, it was difficult to keep hold. Becenti used simple projections and shapings because they were easy to maintain. All he needed was a visual image of the object in his mind, and he could shape heat to the needed specifications. But mimicking more complex mechanisms proved to be a more daunting task. He had pored over diagrams of the metahuman's various receptors, how they interlinked and interacted, which ones would be the most useful for his own purpose. He had always liked it, this deep study of how far he could take his power.

It was a utility, more for the sake of finding and detecting than killing.

He had enough ways to do that.

Even then, even after all this study, this heat construct was just a bare whisper of what Becenti intended. And it was difficult to keep up. But it was also preventing Talrash from closing in on him. Gave him a chance to think.

He knew that he was bait. That Oliphant had already gone on. They only needed one of them to get to Visionary. He could remember recognizing her, during the days of the war, an old crone with pale skin and a thin, severe frown. Her hair was white as the moon, done up in a series of interlocking curls and a ponytail that arced up, then down like a mortar round. No fighter, with her frail, skeleton-like appearance. The Manticore had made sure she was a soothsayer, and nothing more.

So only one needed to arrive to apprehend her. He needed to trust that the Silver Knight would get the job done. Talrash was on his tail, presumably serving the same purpose.

And Becenti's tendrils still had not detected her.

Something was off.

He was relying too much on these, to the detriment of his other senses. He should have realized-

Above.

Becenti spun, eyes widening as he saw Talrash above, the woman having climbed on the statues, perched on the statue of Smallman the Giant, the boy towering over his stone companions, whose heads reached up his waist. Her eyes were like a vulture's as she locked them with Becenti's.

The heat. The tendrils. They did not rise above the floor.

His heart sank. Talrash opened her mouth.

At the same moment, Becenti ceased his tendril's receptor mimicry, swinging the heat out as a great whip that cut across the top of Smallman the Giant's head. Talrash jumped as the head began falling, dust whipping around the room, light bursting from her jaws. Becenti rushed to the side, gold coating the floor and obliterating the statue behind him. Talrash landed, running towards him, spitting balls of fire at the older man. Becenti ducked and weaved, making his way deeper into the cavern, passing ring after ring of history cast in stone.

Talrash was behind him, all pretense of stalking gone. Her breath was wildfire, gold splaying out in all directions, an eruption of light and death that splattered like rain and as Becenti went, entire globules splashing down around him.

And then, a lucky strike. An improbability, but life was built on improbabilities. A molten glow arced up, then down, slamming into Becenti's left hand, the hand holding the heatstone. He felt it burn, an agonizing, searing heat that he had not felt since before he had awakened. Then, the hand went ice-cold and became leaden in his hand. Becenti dared to glance down at it, and nearly fell over at the sight of his hand, now a solid gold, the heatstone still curled up in his fingers, all of it immovable.

But still, he kept running. Now was not the time for panic.

At last, he came to the center of the room, and he stopped, eyes widening. All of the statues of the room were in a circle, almost ritual-like in their setup, all of them staring at one sculpture in the room.

Okuta Stone-and-Sky. The Metamorphic God. The Shapechanger Dragon.

The Manticore.

Carved out in detailed relief by Earthmute, an idol of the guildmaster of the Sons of Darwin. He was depicted wearing the Armor of Harad, his hands crossed over his chest like a pharaoh, one holding a shepherd's cane, the other a Dragon, the serpentine creature coiled around his fist. It was not like other depictions Becenti had seen, with the Dragon looking upwards towards the sky. No, the Manticore was squeezing the life out of it. Blood dripped from the cane. The manticore's pupil-less eyes stared at Becenti, almost alive in the half-green, more shadows than flame painting his hardened face.

And then Talrash slammed into him, nails like claws burning into his back, tearing cloth and flesh away. Gold splattered against him, parts of his body turning cold and barren. Becenti turned and swung back, using the newfound weight of his left hand to clobber Talrash in the side of the head, causing her to stumble back.

His every bone aching with exhaustion, his breathing heavy, Becenti began pulling more heat, feeling his body grow cold. There wasn't enough ambient heat in the air for him to really form anything of note.

There was only one other choice. He breathed out, forcing heat out of his body, taking hold of it.

Only for Talrash to wheel and spit gold, casting it against the club Becenti had made, turning it cold and gold. She battered it aside as she tackled Becenti, pushing him to the ground. She was over him, her eyes like a rabid animal's, golden, foaming saliva dribbling down and staining Becenti's face.

“Old dogs do bite hard,” she said, “But not hard enough.”

Panic gripped Becenti. The prospect of death was close at hand. Memories were flashing before him. Of the war. Of his friends. Of his dreams of Ludaya. Of the guild.

Of Joseph.

The boy would be alone. He would have the guild, yes, but he was already suspicious of Wakeling, wasn't he? There was a way he looked at her now. Anger defined every step he took. And it would not abate, not unless he had someone to guide him.

He would be alone.

And that could not happen.

Becenti grimaced, and put a hand against Talrash's temple.

And he began to pull heat.

All of it. From all over her body.

All of it, concentrated on her head.

It took a few moments, as the heat built up and began intensifying. Talrash's snarling, triumphant grin suddenly grew slack, and she made to snap her head away. But Becenti’s hand held firm, pulling her close. Her eyes grew wide. Liquidic. Something began bubbling up from her skin, swelling up on her forehead and cheeks. Clear liquid began oozing from her nose. She continued her vague struggling, letting out a desperate, clumsy moan, hands pawing at Becenti.

The golden flame stopped, replaced by regular spit. Becenti's hand still clutched the side of her head, holding it in place, his face contorted in concentration and a shameful sort of fury. He watched as her eyes began to bleed out their contents. The smell of cooked flesh filled the air.

Talrash went slack. Her corpse fell on Becenti, who shoved her off, rolling her to the side.

All had gone quiet.

With an exhausted grunt, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, one arm keeping him from falling down, and even that shook like a pillar in an earthquake.

All he could do was stare at her. Stare at the corpse he had created. Stare at a line that he had crossed. There was no victory or relief in Becenti's mind.

Only tired guilt.

***

The Silver Knight advanced on Pocket. Pocket simply glared, and swung the blade. If the man wanted to die, so be it.

The blade smacked against Oliphant. But it did not cut through armor. Indeed, he walked as though he felt nothing as he shot a fist at Pocket's face. It connected cleanly, cracking against her nose. Her head shot back as she fell back against the statue. Oliphant stood over her, his face caked in shadow.

Feeling her heart pounding, Pocket stabbed at Oliphant, but the point grazed off of his chest. He let her slip out from the statue, and she scrambled away, turning around to face him once more, holding the blade in both hands, re-setting her stance.

“The blade belongs to me,” Oliphant said, “It's mine. Give it back.”

Pocket didn't respond, her face set as she prepared for her next attack. Perhaps his armor was enchanted. Perhaps there was an enchantment to it that prevented it from cutting its owner. But she could still use it as a blunt-force instrument, a club to beat him over the head with.

She aimed for his head, and swung.

With one hand, Oliphant caught the blade, stopped it in its tracks entirely, all motion lost.

“It belongs to me, and it knows this,” he growled, “The blade is mine. It obeys me.”

Both hands closed over the blade now, and he folded Pocket's swing against her, twisting the blade so that it was nearly perpendicular to her chest, the tip pointing diagonal to the ceiling. He shoved against her, forcing her against another statue. He pressed a forearm against the blade, and began to push it forward. Pocket forced back, struggling against his enormous strength, the edge of the blade getting closer and closer to her chest.

It dug in, little by little, a thin wail of pain needling from the wound, one that opened further and further. Pocket began to cough and wince, her arms shaking to hold the blade back, but the cold steel pushed further and further in...

Analyza popped up behind Oliphant, her square eyes alight with fury. She swung her hammer, which connected with the side of Oliphant's head, a crack that made him stumble back. Pocket let out a gasp of pained relief as the freezing iron peeled off of her skin.

Ana advanced on the floundering knight, hammer in hand. There was murder in her step, in the way that she grasped the hammer. She raised it up.

Only for Oliphant to spin, a fist connecting with her jaw, another to her stomach. As she stumbled, he grabbed her to hold her steady, then with a single boot, he stomped at her knee.

There was a crack and a scream. Ana fell to the ground, clutching her leg, which bent at an awkward angle. Every hair on Pocket's body raised at that sound, and she struggled to rise again as Oliphant advanced towards her once more. She brought the blade to bear again, slashing at him. Oliphant, once more, caught the blade in both hands, slid them across the metal so that he was right on top of her, and cracked his elbow against her face. His other hand shot out to the hilt of the blade.

There was a moment of awkward shuffling as wrestling as Oliphant pried the blade free from her closed fists. He propped one foot against her, using it as leverage to push her away, her hands shaking as he pulled.

Then, at last, fear clutching her heart, he wrenched the blade free. She stumbled, the back of her head slamming against a statue. She let out a groan as Oliphant simply stood, his breathing heavy. His entire body shook as he clutched the blade, holding it close to him like a lover.

Then his eyes fell on Pocket. Blade now in hand, the entire thing shimmering in the darkness like the moon, he stepped forward.

Pocket looked up at him with purpled, bruised eyes, her world a mixture of darkness and stares, Oliphant's face cast more in shadow than light.

And she knew, right then, with a calm resignation, that she was going to die.

She could hear Ana screaming, though it seemed to come from across the world.

“Stop it!” she was yelling, “Stop it!”

He was over her now, eclipsing her. His hands were steady as he pointed the blade down. Behind them, Ana crawled on the ground, fingers digging into the stone, her face contorted in agony, tears running down her face.

“Don't! Please, God, don't!” she begged, “She's all I have! All I'll ever have!”

Oliphant was quiet. His blade hovered, a mere foot from Pocket. It wavered for a moment.

Time stood still.

Then, his face still set, his eyes still haunted and empty, Oliphant stepped back. Sheathed his sword.

Like an automaton, he walked. Past Pocket and Ana, who had collapsed into a puddle of coughing sobs, her entire body racked with pain. Past the statues, using one to support himself, briefly, as emotion threatened to overtake him. Pocket watched as he pulled himself together as best he could, then walked to the last door, blade dragging against the ground, cutting a line against the stone.

Without a word, he opened up the door to Visionary's room, and stepped through.

***

There was a moment where Silicon and Joseph stared each other down. Lightning welled in Joseph's stomach, ran its circuit through his body. Silicon smiled as he sniffed the air.

“Ozone,” he said, “Like I'm in the atmosphere. Your use of your powers are obvious. Flashy, like a ringmaster's theatrics.”

“You calling me a clown?”

“I'm saying you're loud,” Silicon said, “And one-note.”

“One-note.”

“A ringmaster's job on stage is to announce the performers. Wow the audience, pull them into a world of motion and exhilaration. But that is all he does. He does nothing else.”

“He does more than that,” Joseph said.

“What? He oversees the books? Directs the performers? He is a mere master of ceremonies. An accountant and a trumpet together can do his job. The other performers have multiple acts, with many tricks up their sleeves. Theirs is an art they have perfected, and they are able to adapt their talents to new situations.”

His smile dropped.

“But all the ringmaster does is yell. He is one-note.”

“Get to the point,” Joseph said.

“Around you, you have seen metahumans with a variety of fantastical abilities and talents,” Silicon said, “Many of whom surpass your own. An example stands before you.”

The glass glittered like stars around them.

“Your ability is powerful. It is loud, and draws the world in around it. But you have only used it for two things: as a glorified bouncer, and a bolt of lightning. Is that all you have? Is that all you can do?”

The words stopped Joseph. He blinked.

“I've been practicing,” he mumbled.

“With what?”

“I know what I can do.”

“I think you don't,” Silicon said, “Your soul, it comes from your back, yes?”

Joseph didn't answer.

“Did you ever ask why?”

“I can...” Joseph said, “I can do more than that.”

“I believe you can,” Silicon said, “But have not. Not yet. You are gifted with an incredible ability. Truly. But what separates the best of us from the average is that the greatest are not afraid to flex the muscle that is the metagene. Those who do not are destined to flounder.”

He nodded to behind Joseph, to Robber Fly's still-prone form.

“So what can you do, metahuman? What is your power? What is your soul?”

Joseph's hands became claws, cobalt light shining around him. He raised them up and took a stance.

“Let me show you, asshole.”

“A young man's fury! Good,” Silicon said, “Come at me, then.”

And Joseph leaped, claws snarling and swinging. All of his planning and posturing was gone as he rushed at Silicon like an animal. Silicon dodged, bobbing and weaving. He didn't raise a finger, nor react in pain as Joseph got under his guard, raking across the chest. All he did was smile.

“Not bad,” he said, “But I'm sure you've done that before, haven't you?”

Joseph's eye twitched. Then, settling in again, he made another assault at Silicon.

Who, this time, formed a wall of glass between them. One that Joseph ran into, his shoulder crashing against it, claws reaching out and cutting against its surface. But to no avail, as the glass re-grew with each cut, the entire construct repairing with each cut. Silicon stared at him from the other side.

“Learn, Joseph of Armagest,” he said, “Learn.”

The glass shoved forward, smacking against Joseph, part of it coming out and forming into a hand that closed around his face, pushing down. The rest followed, shoving Joseph to the floor, pressing him against the stone. Joseph gasped as the weight of the glass forced down. His soul began rocketing through his body, began spluttering out of his back-

Only for Silicon to lower a hand down. With it, the pressure and strength of the glass wall doubled, forcing the soul back into Joseph's body, plasma leaking out his back like leaking oil.

“What will you do?” Silicon said, “What will you do, Soul of Armagest?”

Joseph's mind raced as the glass pressed down. He could feel it begin cracking his rib cage. He gritted his teeth. What could he do? What was there to do?

Was this it?

Pressure, unrelenting pressure, on his chest. On his legs. On his cheek as the wall forced him to look to the side, at his outstretched arm.

He was going to die now, wasn't he?

Images in his head. His parents. Nai Nai. But they only lasted a second, replaced like an ocean by his time in the guild. Of Rosemary. Broon. Phineas with his book. Nash and their disarming smile. Wakeling, damn her, with her secrets. Becenti, with his tough exterior, one that hid a kind and hurt heart.

...Who said his entire soul had to come from his back?

His left foot was the only part of his body not being pressed down by the glass. He concentrated on it, letting his soul circuit down there.

Why did his soul come from his back?

It wasn't like there were any access points. He could overlap part of his soul with the corresponding body part well enough – head over head. Claw over hand. Shoulder and arm over shoulder and arm.

The soul didn't have feet, but Joseph supposed that he would, theoretically, be able to overlay that as well.

But why the back?

Because it was a protector. Because it was like it had always been for him. The soul protecting the body. But it was not another being. It was Joseph Zheng, protecting Joseph Zheng.

He didn't need anyone else.

With an agonizing effort, he forced the soul to well at the base of his ankle. It cried out in protest, a caw that echoed up and down his spine. It was already on the verge of shattering again, he knew, a thousand cuts scarring its form, wounds that had not yet scabbed over. His entire foot began to steam.

And then, with a final shove, Joseph manifested the eagle. It erupted, fully formed, head and claws and all, from his big toe, tearing the shoe to bits as it snarled at Silicon, just within reach with curved talons. Silicon's eyes widened, and his pace seemed glacial to the eagle's speed as it raked down across his chest and face. The glass's pressure stopped, and Joseph recalled the eagle.

A moment later, it erupted again, this time from his chest, rising up and out, great arms hefting the glass wall up and throwing it away.

It went back into Joseph again, and for a third time, his entire body screaming with the circuits and re-circuits, of the soul making its way across Joseph's body at what felt like the speed of light to get enough power to manifest again, it oiled out of his back once more, pushing him up to his feet.

Silicon was stumbling back, blood covering his armor. When he looked up, three deep red lines marred his face and burst his lip.

But he was still smiling.

“Good, Joseph of Armagest. Good. Continue to learn, child. Continue to be what you must be, if you are to survive.”

He stood up.

“I do not need a soothsayer’s vision,” he said, “I see the future before me.”

And then he was gone, breaking up into pieces of glass, shards of blues and reds and greens, all the colors of the rainbow that peeled away and flew past Joseph like leaves in Autumn. Back up. Out of Earthmute. Towards the sky. Once more a flock of glass, and nothing else.

Joseph watched with muted exhaustion. The soul slowly swayed its way back into his body, curling down to the nest in his stomach and curling up, utterly spent.

And he was alone.

***

The room the Visionary had placed herself in was small, compared to the vastness of the caverns before. It was Spartan, the only furniture being a round, stone table and an array of chairs. Visionary herself was sitting at the table, hands in her lap, her back straight. The crone looked expectantly at the Silver Knight as he made his way over to her in a daze. Torch sconces lined the wall, their flames orange, casting the place in a humid, uncomfortable glow.

Visionary herself seemed not to have aged a day down here. She was wearing black robes that merely emphasized how pale her skin was, so pale it was bone-white. Her white hair was tied up, the thin string that was her mouth wilting into a disapproving frown as Oliphant stopped at the table. Like a marble statue.

“So you have come at last,” she said.

Oliphant glared at her.

“You're... You're under arrest,” he said.

“You don't look to be in any shape to be arresting anyone, Antoine Martin.”

His head snapped up to her.

“How did you-”

“I am a fortune teller. A seer of the future,” Visionary said, “Your false name is but a mere veil to be parted.”

Antoine took a breath, re-settling himself. When he opened his eyes, they were hardened.

“You're under arrest, Visionary,” he said, “You're a war criminal. Responsible for too many crimes to count. I understand that you may...”

His assertions trailed off as he noted Visionary was not listening to him. She was instead considering the room around him.

“This place,” she said, “What do you call him?”

“...What?”

“This structure. The metahuman whose spirit inhabits this place. What is his name?”

“...Earthmute.”

“Ah, a misnomer,” she said, “Too many use that name. It's an... evolution of a sort. A name that-”

“That doesn't matter, ma'am.”

“That has been warped from its original meaning. The earth is not silent. Quite on the contrary, it is like a chorus, ever rumbling and shifting. If one had the ears for it, one would find that the earth is screaming.”

Antoine gave a frustrated sigh.

“Then what is it called, then?” he said.

“This place was a place for negotiation,” Visionary said, “A coming-together of metahumanity. A place to bury the hatchet. To make peace with old enemies.”

She gave a knowing look at Antoine.

“It was known as Earthmoot.”

There was a silence that rang between them. Antoine swayed. He swallowed as though he were eating a stone, and then looked at Visionary once more. So old. So disarming. The old crone had a sharp look, but one that had been blunted by time and isolation.

“I see your face,” she said, “I know you, Antoine Martin. The fear in your heart, the anger you display, the frustration in your every step.”

“That has nothing to do with-”

“The way you get up in the morning, and consider the point of your life. The way you move about your day, as though working on muscle memory alone. The way you wake up and consider not getting up ever again. The way you question the why’s, privately, when you think no one is watching. The way your heart shrivels as you speak, for you know you are merely faking passion. Faking goodness. Faking all of yourself.”

He gripped the back of one of the chairs, leaning in.

“You're under arrest, Visionary.”

“Arrest me now, arrest me later,” she said, “Earthmoot does not leave until I say he leaves. He is a servant just as much as I am.”

From out of nowhere, she flipped out a deck of cards, thin hands beginning to shuffle.

“...The coming days and months are to be filled with fire and loss. This I have seen. There will be suffering. Death.”

“I'll be here for it,” Antoine said, “Ready to face whatever your kind throws at Prime.”

“Such a superhero,” Visionary said, “Such an icon. Truly, you are a beacon.”

Antoine flinched at the subtle venom.

“Are you truly prepared?” Visionary said, “Dark days forge the strong, and break the lesser. What kind of man will you be, Antoine Martin? One who proves himself worthy of being the next Arthur, or one who fails, the world collapsing, your name a curse as it dies?”

He looked down. Comfortable darkness, darkness he was used to, clouded his world. For they were questions he asked himself, constantly. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.

Every second.

Visionary laid three cards on the table, face-down.

“Do you want to know?” she asked.

For a moment, Antoine considered throwing the deck away. Grabbing the crone by the neck and yanking her out of Earthmoot by force, a snake from the pit. But he looked at her.

And all he could see was the bloodied face of Pocket, her lover screaming and begging behind her, screams that still echoed in his mind.

Antoine sat down.

“Tell me my future,” he whispered.

Visionary smiled. She pushed a card forward, so that it was exactly between knight and seer.

She flipped it over.