Warm Cat, your expertise is required once again. Black Dog appears to have gotten himself into a scrape. Please head to the veterinarian we discussed immediately and collect him. Depending on his current status and behaviour, it may be necessary to have him put down. Hopefully that will not be the case.

Wishing you the best of luck.

Owner

Intercepted Message, Context Unknown

Jean Lyons watched the carnage at his base calmly through his script, in the same way as a new father would watch videos of his child while on the job.

Judging from the security footage, he'd already lost a few low-level agents, but that was usually unavoidable in this line of work. Olga was out on her current mission in regards to Muzazi, and he'd assigned Solstice and Equinox to new tasks as well. The only concern he'd had when he'd been informed of the attack was how Helga would respond.

That was now no longer a concern.

She had done her duty, and begun eliminating those who had come after her. Lyons couldn't be more proud of how far she'd come. He really was just like a proud father.

Still, he couldn't dally. There was work for him to do as well. He adjusted his janitor's cap and returned his script to the front pocket of his uniform. He was in high spirits all the same. He whistled as he strolled down the hallway of the Humilist headquarters, his cleaning automatic following loyally behind him.

It had been such a long time since he'd done legwork. You forgot the satisfaction of the little things.

The first blow shattered Ruth's chestplate. The second broke a couple of ribs.

Ruth went flying across the room, smashing her way through a table and into the far wall -- shattering the mirror that had been hanging there. As she groaned, picking herself up from the bed of broken glass, she saw Helga stepping out of the cell, sparing Mila only a single glance.

"Run away," Helga said quietly.

Ruth doubted she'd receive the same kindness -- and to her credit, Mila did not run. She took a single step back, but who could blame her after seeing that?

Her body screamed, but Ruth ignored it as she rose to her full height. The weakness of the people guarding this place had been a little suspicious, but now she understood -- the prisoner herself escaping had never been a possibility, and she was more than capable of guarding herself.

Ruth wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. "Some thanks for the rescue," she grunted, spitting out whatever blood remained on her tongue.

Helga's eyes returned to Ruth. "I never asked you to rescue me. I don't need rescuing. The only person who put you in this situation is yourself."

Her stance was seemingly casual, hands at her sides, but Ruth could see the hidden tension in her muscles -- she was ready to burst into motion any second. The speed of those first two attacks had been horrifying. Ruth had been struck twice before the thought of blocking or using Noblesse Set could even be processed.

When Dragan had told her and Skipper the story of what had happened on Yoslof, he'd mentioned that Helga used Aether in an unusual way.

Rather than coating her entire body with it, as most people did, she poured the entirety of her Aether into a specific part of her body at the very moment she needed it. It would leave her vulnerable if Ruth could get a hit in, but it also meant that Helga's attacks would be devastatingly powerful.

Helga stepped forward --

-- and instantly, she was in Ruth's face.

The pinpoint Aether had been focused on specific muscles in her legs, right as they were needed to move. The switch from slow to fast movement was disorienting, and it slowed Ruth's reaction time further. That was no doubt part of Helga's intent. She was good at this.

Ruth Blaine had learnt how to fight, but Helga Malwarian had learnt how to kill. Efficiency in murder was baked into her very soul.

Three strikes, so quick they might as well have been simultaneous. One to the temple, one to the heart, and the third -- a kick -- right into the back of Ruth's leg.

She crumpled down like a doll.

The best thing about these gardeners, Dragan reflected, was the fact that they wore helmets.

From the information they'd managed to scrounge together, the Humilist Apexbishop -- Gertrude Hearth -- liked to make a big show of tending to her garden herself, but the fact of the matter was that such a big installation required dedicated staff. Apparently, Hearth took some kind of exception to that, and so the gardeners were required to conceal their faces when they were working.

How lucky for Dragan and Bruno -- and how unlucky for the gardeners.

After tying his hair back into a rough ponytail, Dragan knelt down and tugged the helmet off the unconscious gardener. Bruno had already taken the clothes of his unfortunate victim, standing there in full plastic garb. Dragan couldn't imagine finding these kinds of uniforms in the trash, so did that mean they were custom made? The tenets of Humilism seemed to be ignored more and more the higher up you went.

He put the helmet on, using straps to secure it against the back of his head.

The two of them were standing in an apartment, artificial cleaning rain battering against the windows outside. Bruno really was scary good at this kind of thing -- after Dragan had relayed his plan, he'd managed to track down their victims within the hour. The work he'd done for the UAP was nothing to scoff at.

"You done?" Bruno asked, voice muffled just slightly by the helmet. "The stuff I put in their tea will only keep them out for a couple of hours, so we don't wanna waste any time."

"Right," Dragan nodded, throwing the white plastic cloak over himself.

These uniforms would hopefully get them into Hearth's private quarters, but from there things would get a little more tricky. They didn't know precisely where Muzazi was being held, and investigating while keeping their cover would be difficult. Ordinarily, Dragan would use Gemini World to quickly search, but with that anti-Aether ability being a factor he was entirely unwilling.

Besides, there would probably be enemies around on the lookout -- like those bandaged men Hearth had used the night before. If possible, Dragan didn't want this to turn into an outright fight.

But only if possible.

"Let's go," he said.

Mila watched, horrified, as Ruth crumpled down to the floor, visibly bleeding from her head and chest. Those attacks had been fast enough that Mila had barely been able to perceive them, but that had surely been a kill. That had surely been a kill.

Her legs trembled beneath her -- and as Helga turned to look back at her, they trembled even more.

"I told you to run," Helga said sadly.

Mila shook her head. "I-I can't."

"I'll give you another chance. Just go through the door and leave. I'll make sure nobody comes after you anymore. I can do that much."

"I can't!" Mila repeated -- and then, before she could lose her nerve, she continued: "Helga, are you -- are you really happy with this? With ending things like this?!"

Helga sighed. "It doesn't matter if I'm happy, Mila. It matters if my actions are necessary or not. I have people relying on me."

"That's not…" Mila shook her head, but the certainty in Helga's words was enough to throw off her thoughts.

"I'm guessing you guys came here to try to 'rescue' me, right?" Helga asked, taking a dangerous step forwards. "That's just arrogance, Mila. That's deciding you're above someone else -- that they'll drop everything and accept they're a victim once you show them the light, saint that you are."

"I never… I never said that you're a victim. I just… I want to help you. You're not happy, Helga. It doesn't matter if you don't think you should be happy -- I care about you. I want good things to happen to you. I just… that's not arrogant, is it? That's just wanting to help."

Helga took another step forward. "No, that's not arrogance. That's delusion."

"What?"

"The person you care about doesn't exist, Mila. The Helga Malwarian that served as part of the Humilists was a character we made up. I remember Lyons handing me her backstory -- three pages. The thing you fell in love with was three pages on a piece of paper, Mila. That's all. It's…" she paused for a moment. "It's pathetic to pretend otherwise. I think you're pathetic."

Mila ignored the stab to the heart, and this time spoke clearly: "Then why are you crying?"

Helga frowned, and then raised a hand to her face. Indeed, her eyes were wet, tears slowly streaming down her cheeks. She looked down at them on her hand as if seeing them for the first time.

"I know there are people relying on you," Mila insisted. "But I'm sure there's a way we can help them, too. You're strong, Helga -- you can break them free. I'll help you do it. Then you can find a life of your own. Not something written for you on a piece of paper. Please. Please."

For the first time, Helga seemed to falter. She paused in the middle of her third step, the one that would have brought Mila within her range.

"I…" she began.

"Hey," growled Ruth Blaine. "Bitch."

Helga whirled around at once, reflexes no doubt honed by excessive combat training. It was a wonder she hadn't noticed Ruth getting back up already. Well, Mila hadn't noticed either, and she'd been looking in the right direction, at least.

Ruth was still bleeding from her temple and chest, one leg was still unsteady beneath her as she stood up, but the mad grin on her face was enough to dispel any notions of weakness. Crimson Aether, far brighter than Helga's, crackled inside the pits of her wounds.

"Damn that hurt," Ruth sighed, her voice raspy and hoarse. "You know what you're doing, huh?"

Helga adjusted her stance slightly, ready to retaliate against anything Ruth did. "I thought so -- I meant for that attack to kill you, though. How are you still alive?"

"How?" Ruth forcefully jabbed a finger into the wound on her temple, the grin on her face widening. Blood seeped through the gaps between her teeth. "I used my super-billion IQ, of course, my good fucker!"

The way she was speaking was bizarre, her words slurred, and she was swaying on her feet even as she taunted Helga. It was as if Ruth Blaine was drunk on her own survival.

Helga, for her part, seemed to relax slightly. She looked Ruth up and down.

"I see," she said quietly. "You're actually more hurt than when you were before. You used an Aether burn to boost your defences right when I hit you. That saved you, I'll admit, but the backlash has left you in no position to fight me."

"You think so?" Ruth taunted, Aether crackling over her body. "You really think so? Huh? Huh? I think I can fight. I think I can kick your ass, actually. I figured out your weakness."

"Her weakness?" Mila murmured, hands clasped to her chest. She hadn't intended for the question to actually be answered, but Ruth's eyes flicked over to her all the same.

"Stamina," she spat, the saliva tinged with blood as well. "It's because of the half-assed way she uses her Aether. She's not an Aetheral magical girl like me, so she can't keep fighting for ages and ages and ages. The only part of her getting Aether is the part she's attacking with, so the rest of her body gets tired like normal, so --"

Helga grew tired of the exposition. She rushed forward, closing the distance that had grown between her and Ruth, thrusting her hand forward to destroy Ruth's arm.

But Ruth Blaine did not do as one would expect. She did not dodge. She did not even block.

Instead, she left Helga's target wide open -- as she rushed forward for a punch herself.

"If you're attacking," Ruth screamed. "That means you can't defend -- riiight?!"

They hit each other simultaneously. Helga's jab mangled Ruth's right arm with a sickening crack, the broken limb swinging free on the joint. Ruth's punch struck Helga in her unprotected stomach, causing her to double over and hack up a mixture of spit and vomit.

Judging from the grin still on Ruth's face and the agony on Helga's, it was easy to judge who'd come out feeling worse.

"I'm not through," Helga hissed, seizing Ruth by the shoulder, bringing her other hand down in a devastating chop.

"Me neither," Ruth breathed -- and again, she made no move to dodge or block the incoming attack.

Instead, she raised her good arm. There was a flash of crimson light, and by the time it cleared some kind of antique musket had appeared in her hand.

"Révolutionnaire Set," she whispered.

In the second before Helga's attack made contact, Ruth pointed her new weapon -- right at the broken mirror on the other side of the room.

She pulled the trigger, and light burst forth from the barrel.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion, time dragging between one breath and the next. Between imminent defeat and absolute victory. This was the moment Ruth could fly. She watched the light from the musket zoom across the room, so slow to her eyes, her heart dancing in her chest.

Limits were such bullshit things. Best to kill them while you had the chance. Ruth had learnt that long ago, but only now did she understand it.

She was not in her right mind. She knew that, distantly, but all the same she felt a wave of confidence like nothing she’d experienced before. Her body was ravaged, her mind was delirious, and yet she felt like her success was predetermined. The world through a haze seemed so much more clear than it had before.

The streak of light struck the shard of glass, shone there for but a moment, and was reflected back towards Ruth.

The Révolutionnaire Set boosted the Aether of whoever was shot by the musket. There was absolutely no rule saying that the person shot by the musket couldn't be Ruth herself.

Power surged through her.