…and when the first three Apexbishops of the Final Church set off on their journey of discovery, the Pontifex Maximilian watched them go. Besides him, his aide snickered to himself, in the manner of the fox.

"Why do you laugh, young one?" asked the Wise Man, though he knew the answer.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" laughed the Cynical Man. "They'll never find what they're looking for. Their journeys have no destination. Their search is fruitless."

But the Wise Man only smiled, and spoke the words that made him Wise.

"Ah, but don't you know? The fruit is the search itself."

Malone's Continuations (Heretical), "On The Truemeet"

The ship shook.

Bruno and Serena plunged a sword into the ground, holding themselves in place while the tremors ravaged the area around them. Chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling, shattering upon the ground. What was going on? Some kind of explosion?

Purple and violet Aether danced across Bruno and Serena's fingers as they stared straight forward, even as the ship trembled.

Across from the singular pair, their opponent was bracing themselves against the ground as well. As the fight had progressed, their enemy had grown in size and strength -- mutating further and further until they were a chaotic mass of muscle and claws, a rabid furry mountain crawling across the ground.

At this point, the very fact that something so massive was moving seemed to defy the laws of physics.

And yet… move it did.

Jon Peak launched himself off the ground like a frog, his fur sharp as blades and his six tongues slavering at the air. His eyes were far too many to count, dotted all over his body, but as one they were fixed on Bruno and Serena. If his brain was still capable of anything but this simple strategy, he was not showing it.

In this case, as well, his tactics were obvious. He intended to leap right onto Bruno and Serena and maul them to paste.

He jumped in a straight line, screeching bestially --

-- and then, before he could hit the ground, he fell apart into blood and severed limbs.

Bruno and Serena let out a deep breath as the body parts rained down around them. To be honest, even with everything they'd observed of the enemy, they hadn't been one-hundred percent sure that was going to work. If it hadn't… that would have been the end of them.

Before Peak had leapt off the ground, Bruno and Serena had created a lattice of their invisible blades jutting out from the floor. It had formed a barrier right in the path of Peak's flight -- and when he'd gone to pounce on them, he'd sliced himself into pieces.

The adrenaline finally abandoning them, Bruno and Serena allowed themselves to collapse back on the ground, their arms spread wide in the red puddles. It had been a long fight. Both the Vox Dei they'd been standing against and the civilians they'd been protecting had fled during the chaos.

All that remained was them.

And their exhausted breathing, echoing into the dark.

The ship shook.

Neither Dragan Hadrien or Giovanni Sigma Testament paid it any mind. Instead, they simply continued to stare at each other, their gazes hard and unbreaking. It felt as if the very air was keeping itself still, so as to prevent itself from being noticed.

Until, finally, Giovanni broke the silence with the slightest sigh.

"I suppose that's how it goes, then," he said quietly, running a hand over his face. "I must've overlooked something somewhere. Some variables I… didn't anticipate. Damnit…"

Dragan said nothing. He simply continued to breathe, regaining himself.

As Giovanni threw his hands down to his sides, his red armour began to crumble away. Like melting ice, fragments of it began to fall -- dissipating into red Aether as it hit the floor. A long, cracking sigh trickled from his throat, echoing throughout the ruined bridge.

"So that's it…" he continued, nearly inaudible. "I won't have this opportunity again. That's… this is… how we conclude things."

Dragan opened his mouth to say something -- perhaps a threat, perhaps something else -- but a glare from Giovanni silenced him.

"You decided you wouldn't talk to me anymore, didn't you? That’s why you’ve been silent," he snapped. "Please don't make yourself a liar. That'd dissatisfy me, after all of this."

Fair enough. Dragan closed his mouth.

“Those that allied with me are not willing to die for me,” Giovanni continued calmly, looking up at the cold ceiling. “After what has happened here, moves will be made to remove me from power as quickly and efficiently as possible. I will not be removed from power.” His eyes flicked back down to Dragan. "It's all I have. I will not permit a moment of my consciousness where I am not the Superbian Apexbishop. Do you understand?"

It didn't take a genius to work out what he meant. Basically… win or lose, this was it.

"What a world we live in," Giovanni chuckled darkly -- and took a step forward. "First Verse."

Gemini Shotgun.

With all the injuries Dragan was pushing out of existence, and the mental fatigue of the bloody battle, he was capable of little more than standing there and receiving the incoming attacks. Countless spears of red crystal fired towards him, fast and furious as raindrops -- and one by one, they were absorbed into his Aether and fired back.

Giovanni stepped forward.

The Apexbishop made no move to dodge or deflect. The spears thudded mercilessly into his form, running him through, grunts of pain forced out of his throat. Blood dribbled on the ground behind him like the trail of a snail as he slowly, slowly made his way towards Dragan.

Giovanni stepped forward.

A redirected spear rushed past him, severing his left arm and sending it flying off into the air. Even so, Giovanni did not so much as blink. Hollow, hopeless breath poured out from his ruined lips. His robes, once resplendent, hung from his thin frame as blackened rags.

Giovanni stepped forward.

Barely an inch of his body escaped the onslaught, red spikes sticking out of his form like the spines of a hedgehog. Blood poured over and into his eyes, surely blinding him. Only one leg was capable of limited movement, the other dragging behind him, bitten away to the width of a stick.

The words of the Tenth Verse remained perpetually far from his lips: he had no intention of using it now.

Giovanni stepped forward -- and Dragan faltered.

His efforts reached their limit, and in a rush of pain he felt his hold over Gemini World be relinquished. The wound on his stomach returned, agony accompanying it, and the sudden flare of sensation forced him to his knees. He gasped wordlessly, clutching his wound, chills radiating out from the injury into the furthest reaches of his limbs.

For a moment, that pain distracted him. It was only when Dragan looked up that he realized Giovanni was standing right above him, looking down with a ruined, battered face. There were so many spears in him that he resembled some kind of pincushion.

He opened his mouth to use Gemini Shotgun, but even in this state Giovanni was horrifyingly fast. His good hand lashed out and seized Dragan by the throat -- the words dying before they could reach his lips. He grasped at the fingers bound around his neck, but their grip was iron. His vision began to blur.

Despite the ravaged state of his body, Giovanni's own words were as clear as ever. Calm and quiet, with only the slightest trace of bitterness.

"I never made one decision," he murmured, as if realizing something for the first time. "Not once. Not ever in my life. Everything I've ever done… was because one string or another was pulling me in that direction, isn't it? So… all of it was meaningless. How about that?"

Dragan's voice cracked as he tried to force words out, but Giovanni's grip just tightened in response.

"Don't speak. You mustn't speak…" Giovanni whispered. "To remain silent was a decision you yourself made. Don't betray it." For a second, it seemed as if he'd undertake the natural effort -- to squeeze just a tiny bit tighter and snap Dragan's neck.

But that effort never came.

"My life meant nothing," Giovanni sighed. "My decisions meant nothing, because they never were my decisions. But… I was alive. I was here. I'll have you prove that for me… with each and every breath you take. Fifth Verse."

What strength was left in Dragan's body quickly drained away, his limbs falling limp at his sides -- but even as his energy was sapped, he could feel a different kind of strength returning. It took everything he had, but he managed to look down at his own body.

His wounds were filling in and closing up as if they were never even there. Even as Dragan watched, the hole in his stomach that had seemed so lethal disappeared, leaving smooth skin in his place. The countless scratches and bruises that had been inflicted over the course of the bout faded away, too, until it was as if Dragan had never even entered this room.

Giovanni let go of his throat.

Slowly, Dragan looked back up, at the ruin of Giovanni's face. At the red mass looking down at him. But why? he went to ask, but Giovanni spoke first.

"You are alive," he said, his voice a ragged rasp. "You are alive because I was alive… how about that?"

The slightest twist of a smile crossed his features -- and the Apexbishop of the Superbians fell backwards. The crystals inside him shattered as they struck the floor, but the young man showed no signs of discomfort. The idea of him doing so was ridiculous to begin with.

After all… he'd died long before he hit the ground.

Jean Lyons woke with a low groan, his head resting against cold metal.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. It was difficult. His whole body felt heavy and numb, like someone had bound him with heavy chains. His hair was stuck together by dried blood, hanging off one side of his head. His throat felt like it had been rubbed down with sandpaper.

He put a cautious hand to that throat, and felt the open wound there. His memories hadn't been mistaken: Atoy Muzazi had landed a serious blow. If not for Lyons' ability slowing down the blood loss, he had no doubt he would have perished already.

Even with that in mind, though… this wasn't where he'd fallen unconscious.

They'd been fighting in the hangar, he and Muzazi, when darkness had claimed him. Now, judging from the rushing lights and sounds, he was on a rooftop somewhere. The artificial environment of the Menagerie's city was raging around him.

This was not a distance he could have made by himself: he'd been brought here. But by who?

The question answered itself soon enough.

"You're awake," said Helga Malwarian.

He looked up to the source of the voice, to the woman sitting atop an air conditioning unit. She was draped in a ragged red cloak, her arms and legs concealed, looking down at him with utmost seriousness. Her blonde hair hung chaotically around her face, her green eyes piercing.

"Helga," Jean grunted, smiling faintly. "You left your confinement? Excellent initiative, and an effective extraction. You do me proud."

Helga narrowed her eyes. "You know that's not what's happening, Jean."

The smile faded as Jean adjusted his position slightly. "Then what?"

Helga did not blink. "I knew I had to be here. To watch. To make sure. It was part of my deal with Muzazi. It's the only way I would be able to move forward."

So Atoy Muzazi had been telling the truth, then -- Helga had assisted him in setting up this assault. Well, no matter. He'd known this day would come, sooner or later. Every baby bird eventually showed an inclination to leave the nest.

It was the duty of the parent to kick them back where they belonged.

"If you're intending to ensure my death, Helga," he said quietly, his eyes half-lidded. "I'd advise you to reconsider. I don't think you've considered the ramifications."

"The ramifications…" Helga echoed.

Jean's smile returned, but in its true form. The thin satisfaction of a hunter knowing he'd covered every possible escape, bloodlust pressed into a single cruel line. Human nature manifest.

"Your lovely family, for one," he purred. "They've always been so proud of your service to the Supremacy -- and to them, of course. Word of my death would travel fast. If I were you, I'd be concerned of how that news could impact them. I've always been a major figure in their lives, after all, and they're at such an impressionable age."

Helga did not move. She just continued to perch there, like a gargoyle, her expression betraying no emotion as she listened to Jean's words.

"If we're going to exchange threats," she finally replied. "Can we speak plainly? It's just annoying otherwise. If I let you die, then my family dies. That's what you mean, right?"

"Well," Jean chuckled, hauling himself up into as much of a sitting position as possible, one hand covering the dribbling wound on his neck. "That's been our basic agreement all along, hasn't it? Never formalized, but understood all the same."

Helga blinked. "I suppose it is."

"It was a good attempt at breaking free," Jean smiled. "But not an unforgivable one. I trust you've already checked the area for medical facilities? Help me deal with this scratch, and there's no reason we can't continue on as we have been. I --"

Then, for the first time, Helga Malwarian did something that would have once been unthinkable.

She interrupted him.

"Only…" she said, slowly standing from the air conditioner. "It's like you said -- word of your death would travel fast… but it wouldn't be instant, would it? If I could get to my family first, and get them out -- before anyone realizes you're lying cold on a roof -- there wouldn't be a problem. That's interesting."

Jean glared at her, the strength of his contempt increasing with each ill-considered word.

"That's an unrealistic plan, Helga," Jean hissed. "And I know you understand that. The GID has ears everywhere. You'd be dooming those siblings you claim to love so much. Is that really what you want? To murder them?"

An artificial gust of wind whistled past, and Helga's red cloak billowed in its grasp as she stood over Jean.

"What about Olga?" she asked quietly.

"Olga?" Jean snorted, wrinkling his nose. "What about her?"

"You've trained her, raised her, brought her here. Sentimentality, Jean. Not even you are immune to it. You'll have something in place to protect just her, even if I went against you. If nothing else, it'd be a waste of useful resources to get rid of her."

Despite everything -- the wound on his throat, the cold biting at his limbs -- Jean Lyons found himself laughing. His amusement echoed over the rooftop, malice barking out.

Sentimentality…?

"A useful resource?" he sneered. "If only. That girl wasn't worth the effort training her. A complete lack of initiative, an irritating level of attachment… she's a useful set of eyes and nothing else. Don't think for a moment sentimentality will make me hesitate, Helga Malwarian. I'll prove you wrong every time."

Helga's transparent hand, poking out from within her cloak, clenched into a fist. Then, she looked back up -- past Jean, onto the other side of the rooftop.

"You hear that, sis?" she said.

No.

Jean turned to look -- and sure enough, there stood Olga Malwarian, that red scarf hanging off her just like her sister's cloak. There was no rain, but tears streamed down her face all the same, shining with the neon light of the neighboring buildings.

Jean hadn't realized she was there at all. She'd completely concealed her presence.

Just as he'd taught her.

"No," he muttered, looking between the two of them. "No, no. Olga, listen to me. This woman is messing with your head. She's trying to trick you into joining her treason. You're smarter than her, you're stronger than her. Don't be fooled."

Olga's lip trembled as she looked at him. "Those things you said… are they true…?"

"Of course not," Jean lied. "We are intelligence operatives, Olga. You know that the things we must say aren't always the truth. I've kept you by my side because I trust you -- and I trust you now, too. Save me, Olga. Please. I know you can do it."

She didn't move. She didn't move.

"Olga?" he went on, hurriedly, alarm finally flaring through his brain. "Olga, what are you waiting for?"

It was Helga who answered. "You know what she's waiting for."

Jean ignored her. "Olga! Olga! Look at me!" He said that, but she was looking at him -- looking down at him with cold, analytical eyes. "Do you even understand what you're doing right now? After everything I've done for you -- both of you? You were on the streets when I found you!"

"I wish we'd stayed there," Helga murmured. "Even with how things were back then… the worst part about it was meeting you."

Jean snarled, making an effort to pick himself up -- only to slip in his spreading blood and fall back to the ground. "Do you realize where you'd be if it wasn't for me?" he demanded, nostrils flaring. "Putrid meat! Stripped of everything and left to rot! I saved you from that! I saved you! Olga!"

The trembling of Olga's lip slowed, and finally stopped. She took a deep, shaking breath, and pulled off the scarf around her neck.

"Sentimentality, Jean," she said, nearly imperceptible. She dropped the limp scarf. Then, she walked past him, joining her sister on the other side of the roof.

Jean tried to scream after her, but the strength required had already left his body. All he could do was futilely gasp, each breath coming up short, each plea coming out insufficient.

"Olga," he wheezed, failing to crawl after her. "Olga, Olga, please -- listen, there's no need for this. We can make an arrangement. You and your family can leave, we can find a way to make that happen, we can work together on this -- erase the records, save face. There's no need to let me die. The things that have happened are -- are unfortunate, but wouldn't it be a waste for anyone else to lose their lives? You're a kind girl, Olga, a good girl, I know it, I know you don't want things to end like this, so, so -- look at me. Turn this way, please. Look at me! For the love of God, Olga!"

His final request was granted. Olga and her sister did turn his way, and they did look at him. But that was the extent of it. They made no move to help him.

They just watched, and watched, and watched… until there was nothing left to see.

Mila tapped her foot against the ground anxiously, hands plunged into the pockets of her trench coat as she waited by their new -- borrowed, some would say -- ship. Fuelled up and ready to rush for Supremacy space. That was the plan, but…

When she'd started her vigil here in the budget hangar, it had been packed with civilian ships, but as the hours had gone on they had trickled away one by one. Now, it was just her and the humming of the systems.

A terrible thought occurred, just for a moment. Had she been abandoned? Had Helga just tricked her again?

No.

The doors to the hangar ground open -- and as Mila whipped around to look, an involuntary smile spread across her face. Perhaps that was a little crass, but under the circumstances she couldn't help it. After all… it finally felt like things were coming to a close.

Helga nodded to her as she strode into the hangar, the slightest smile on her own lips. Her sister Olga followed behind her, morose eyes fixed on the ground.

"I got Muzazi to the medical center. Did you do it?" Mila called out, hopefully.

Helga looked up. "Do what?" she asked. Her eyes told the whole story anyway.

"It's a long way to the GID," Mila continued as the trio reached the ship. "You all ready?"

Olga marched right up the access ramp without pausing, but Helga stopped and turned to Mila. That slight smile spreading into a grin, Helga planted a firm hand on her shoulder. Her eyes glistened in the light.

"Got everything I need," she said quietly.