Name: Gertrude Louise Hearth

Gender: Female

Date of Birth: 988 ATR (Age 14)

Planet of Origin: Pendulum (Paradoxia/Unified Alliance of Planets)

Ascetic Pacts Performed?: Y/N

Grace Donations Performed?: Y/N

Associated Family Members: N/A

Prior Interactions: Pendulum is known to have been host to some pockets of the Cult of Silencio during the Establishment Period, prior to their extermination by the Superbian sect. Investigations show no ancestral links to these cults.

Membership Approved

Membership Application for the Humilist Sect, Archived

Atoy Muzazi adjusted his footing.

His vision was a blur, but he could still just barely make out the enemies before him. The Apexbishop of the Humilists, Gertrude Hearth, along with four vague shapes, twitching around her. They were the same as the bandaged man he'd decapitated, no doubt. Her thralls.

He held his sword ready, willing beyond will that the weakness of his body not be mirrored by his blade. He could feel the drug spreading through his system, slowing his thoughts, dragging his consciousness down into darkness. Soon, very soon, he would become unable to stand.

The situation was not hopeless, however, never hopeless. He may not have access to his Aether, but neither did the enemy. From what he could tell, the ability that nullified Aether was an area-of-effect type, emitted by the Scurrant woman before him.

Once they came for him, they would have to do battle as men of flesh and blood. Under those circumstances, he had faith in his skills.

Mila Green had already fled. Whether she would escape this waste facility, he could not say, but he had given her the best chance possible. And if he could just…

If he could just dispatch the four that came for him… and somehow make his way towards Gertrude Hearth… he could restore his Aether. He had no doubt that would slow down the progress of this poison immeasurably.

It was a dim hope -- but it was the work of a Special Officer to turn a dim hope into a completed objective.

He adjusted his stance once again, rearing his sword back like the bite of a serpent. He narrowed his eyes, careful to resist the urge to close them entirely. He let out a breath, made visible by the cold.

"Dance with me, then," he instructed his gathered opponents.

There was a moment of silence, save for the occasional creaking and clicking of the bandaged men's bodies. Then, like a dagger, he heard the woman behind them giggle.

"Why would they do that?" she laughed, her face a blur.

Muzazi had no energy for banter, and so he did not entertain it. He simply remained fixed in place, like a statue, ready to respond to the first movement in his range. Admittedly, the drool running down the side of his mouth did diminish his dignity somewhat.

"You're acting so tough," Hearth went on, putting an amused knuckle to her lips. "And I do have to admit the way you dispatched Negative Six was surprising. But if we just stand here and wait, you'll drop all on your own, won't you?"

They would not come for him. Muzazi had failed to realize: this was a battle of attrition, and he had no method of changing that. He would have to make his way towards them for this to go anywhere.

He took a shaking step forwards…

… and his body betrayed him. His leg fell from under him as he moved, forcing him to drop to one knee, his sword only barely remaining in his grasp. He could hear his heart thudding in his chest, slowing down as it too fell into a deep sleep.

No… not like this…

There was a flash of blue light.

Muzazi's vision snapped back to him for a moment as he witnessed a flurry of bright blue shots slam into the assembled group of enemies. Hearth darted back from the attack, hissing, and snapped to one of her bodyguards: "Shield!"

The bandaged man did not hesitate. He stepped between Hearth and the incoming attacks, his arms spread wide, acting as a barrier for his master. Shot after shot thudded into his body, but he remained on his feet all the same.

Where were the attacks coming from? Muzazi couldn't see, but they were the work of an Aether-user without a doubt. A sniper, then, able to attack from outside of Gertrude Hearth's range.

An idea occurred.

If she wanted to properly defend herself, she'd have to release her ability to use her own Aether. If she did that, Muzazi was certain he could stave off this unconsciousness for at least a bit longer. But Gertrude Hearth was being cautious, caught between two dilemmas: she'd never release her ability so long as she believed Muzazi could take advantage of it.

He'd simply have to convince her otherwise, then.

Muzazi allowed his body to drop to the ground, sword slipping out of his grasp. His eyes fell closed like heavy iron gates, and he reduced his breathing to a calm and constant tempo. If he could just feign unconsciousness, feign it so that Hearth believed it, he could trick her into releasing her ability.

The only problem was preventing himself from actually falling asleep. He felt as if he was hanging off the edge of a black pit, his fingers losing hold one by one. A single moment of weakness would betray him. No matter what, he could not rest yet. No matter what, he could not rest.

Strength touched him…

…and white Aether surged.

Muzazi leapt towards the enemy group, grabbing his sword and kicking off the ground in a single explosive motion.

The bandaged man that had acted as a shield was in no state to intercept, but the other three lunged for him. Between their forms, he could see the shocked and horrified face of Gertude Hearth, backing away. She was no fighter herself, then: her strength was in utility, taking away the powers of her opponents so that she could overwhelm them with numbers.

Three enemies of any worth, then. These were not the kind of numbers that phased Atoy Muzazi.

He'd regained his Aether, but so had they. The first bodyguard thrust his hand forward, bloody red vines and leaves bursting out of his palm. They encircled Muzazi in mid-air, clearly preparing to slam together and crush him between their tendrils. He was no botanist, but he suspected touching those vines would be hazardous to his health.

They converged.

Muzazi moved quickly. In one smooth motion he whipped off his long coat, using it as a barrier against the vines encroaching on his left. Then, his feet planted against the fabric, he lashed out with his blade and sliced himself a small escape route through the vegetation approaching to his right. Twin thrusters on his feet gave him the mobility he needed, and he launched himself out of the vines to freedom.

As he flew through the air, he saw the second bandaged man -- heavyset, with yellow eyes -- running to intercept him. Muzazi flipped in the air, gripping the hilt of his blade with his foot to confuse the enemy's response, and used his thrusters to launch himself towards the yellow-eyed man in a straight line.

The yellow-eyed man acted too.

As Muzazi approached, the decrepit figure opened his mouth -- unhinging his jaw and tearing his bandages -- revealing the unmistakable glint of a camera lens poking out from within his throat. Muzazi had only a split-second to dodge -- using his thrusters to throw himself down at the ground -- before a beam of purple light burst out from the lens, striking the spot where Muzazi had just been and burning through the wall behind him.

The beam tapered off a second later, and the heavyset man staggered backwards, smoke rising copiously from his throat. Muzazi quickly picked himself up, but he'd lost the rapid attack he was counting on. He kicked his sword back into his hand.

There was the vine-user behind him, and the beam-user before him. There was a third bandaged man, too, and as Muzazi turned to look at him he suddenly grew in size, becoming so gargantuan he had to remain on all fours to avoid hitting the ceiling. A single punch from that hand -- the size of a car -- would no doubt suffice to shatter Muzazi's bones.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he could already feel the effects of the tranquilizer again, slowing his motions and dulling his mind.

Grim certainty settled in his stomach. Even with assistance from the unseen sniper, this was not a fight he could win.

He took a deep breath.

Dragan's script buzzed. He ignored it.

He bit his lip as he fired again and again, aiming for the Apexbishop directing this operation. If he could take her out, he had no doubt this battle would become a lot easier. Those bandaged guys seemed like her servants -- eliminating her should have some effect on them.

With his free hand, he tossed loose bricks up into the air, absorbing them into Gemini Shotgun as ammunition. He fired once more, aiming for Gertrude Hearth's head -- but once again, the human shield moved to intercept the attack.

The brick hit him in the shoulder at lightning speed, the impact gruesomely twisting his body and spraying blood behind him. Still, the man did not fall. He simply resumed his protective posture, both arms spread out as much as his crooked form would allow.

This guy surely had some kind of Aether ability that was allowing him to remain standing. There was no other explanation. Dragan was sure his attacks this far had shattered all of his limbs, and yet the human shield continued to stand up on nonfunctional legs and spread useless arms. He'd even hit him in the head a couple of times, creating sizable dents in the guy's skull, yet it had done nothing to dull his speed and reflexes.

Dragan bit his lip. If he destroyed this guy's head entirely, would that be a different story? He couldn't imagine an Aether ability that allowed someone to keep living without a brain. Even the wackiest abilities retained some tenuous connection to the laws of reality.

Only one way to find out. Dragan tossed up bricks one after the other, absorbing each, and --

"Leave!" screamed Atoy Muzazi.

Dragan's eyes flicked over to him. He was surrounded on three sides by bandaged men -- one with red vines writhing out of his hands, another with some kind of lens poking out of his mouth, and the third grown to the size of a house.

He was backing up, sword held in front of him as he kept them all in his sight -- but even he could only do so much.

Leave? Dragan wondered. What the hell does he mean?

"Whoever you may be -- I don't know if you are my ally!" Muzazi cried again, and with a start Dragan realized the swordsman was speaking to him. "But I know that right now, our interests are aligned! Mila Green is leaving this place! Once we are defeated, they will find her quickly!"

The red vines lashed at Muzazi, and he moved, clipping off the ends of them with a swipe of his sword.

"I will hold them off!" he continued, raising a floor panel with his thrusters -- using it to block the beam that erupted from the mouth of the lens-user. "You must get her out of here! I beg you!"

Dragan hesitated. His script buzzed.

The massive man slapped a hand down on where Muzazi was standing -- only narrowly missing when the swordsman leapt between two of his fingers. Muzazi landed on the back of the giant's hand, and began slashing furiously at his skin.

"Go!" he screamed, the intensity of his voice overpowering the giant's roar of pain.

Dragan hesitated no more. He tossed one last brick up into the air --

Gemini World.

-- and before it hit the ground, he had vanished.

Mila's lungs burned.

This place was like a maze, metal walls and machinery surrounding her on all sides, the stench stinging at her eyes. Panic confused her just as much as the architecture, and she was sure that she was no closer to the exit than when she'd started.

Behind her, in the distance, she could hear the sounds of battle. The clashing of metal, the roaring of fire, and the scream of something inhuman. If she didn't get out of here soon, those noises would be coming for her next.

Her body betrayed her, giving her no option but to take a moment to rest. She put her hands on her knees and forced air into her lungs with heavy, clumsy wheezes. Her arms and legs were shaking violently, and she could feel nauseous fear bubbling in her throat.

She was wasting time.

She had to get out of here.

She'd never get out of here.

She was going to die here.

She was done. She was done. She was done.

Her thoughts spiraled, the dim hope she'd grasped only minutes ago eroded by the terror of the situation. Mila could hold herself back no longer and found herself emptying her stomach on the floor before her. Her throat burned.

She was done. She was done. She was done.

She was --

"Mila?"

Her scream was only barely restrained into a whimper as she clamped her mouth shut, scrambling to turn around.

There, standing beneath a red light, was… Dragan Hadrien? Huh? Dragan Hadrien? The Cogitant from back on Yoslof? The one the Supremacy had come after? The one who had kicked off this entire ordeal? Dragan Hadrien? Huh? What?

Was this a joke?

If so, it was a good one -- and as Mila went to laugh hysterically, she found that she was instead falling to the floor. She crumpled down onto cold metal, and darkness claimed her vision. Thinking stopped soon after that.

It was all too much for one night and one brain.

Gertrude Hearth wiped some of the blood splatter from her face. While Negative Nine had loyally defended her body, he'd still allowed his injuries to cause her discomfort. Usually, she'd have sent him off to reconditioning, if he wasn't so obviously done for.

His body and head had been battered by the enemy's attack -- Silencio had thrown off Negative Nine's defenses -- and when he stopped using his Constant Vigilance ability, he would no doubt drop dead. His power puppeteered his body to carry out a task no matter what damage it suffered. He'd carried out his purpose as a human shield.

That crossed another off the list, she supposed.

Now that she had Zeroth, the Negative Numbers were on their way out, but it was still a shock to lose so many so quickly… and to one man, at that. She glanced out of the side of her eye at the chaos before her.

Negative Ten, the vine-user, knelt still on the ground. His neck had been thoroughly snapped. The enemy had planted one of those thrusters on the underside of his jaw, forcing his head back to such a degree that the back of his skull was now touching the small of his back.

Negative Four, the giant, wheezed and whimpered as he slowly died, shrinking to his original size. His ability had enlarged his body and his strength with it -- unfortunately, it had also enlarged his jugular, which his opponent had readily taken advantage of. Blood oozed from the cut on his massive neck as he passed from this world.

Negative Seven had gotten off a little easier, but not by much. The lens protruding from his mouth had been smashed by a lightning-fast punch, and shards of glass had rained down into his throat and innards as a result. He'd survived the battle, but he wouldn't live long.

As an Apexbishop, it was probably good to show mercy.

"Negative Seven," she said softly. "Quiet Nights and Last Stands. DB."

Obediently, his heart stopped. He dropped to the ground too.

People treated death like something so serious, but in reality it was as plentiful as air. On her home planet, Pendulum, all the settlements were located underground by necessity. With each passing of the hour, every conscious thing on the surface of the planet would instantaneously die. No reason for this phenomena was ever found, nor any way of preventing it.

Such absurdities were common in Paradoxia's Weird Space.

Gertrude clicked her tongue -- and, on cue, Negative One appeared. The first of the Negative Numbers, getting on in years, wheezed as she pointed to the unconscious swordsman.

"Bring him with us," she ordered.

In the end, it had been the tranquilizer that had finished him. His legs had been badly burnt by the beam, his right arm had been smashed by the swipe of a giant hand, and angry red bruises spread across his face where the vines had made contact. Gertrude couldn't help but notice, though…

… even as he was unconscious, he held on tight to his sword.