White Noise

Unregistered Lightpoint

Supremacy Space

The music was nearly deafening -- the rambling of the emcee even more so.

"Come on, party people!" the man screamed from his podium, his accent all but incomprehensible. "Let me see your beautiful muscles… and your giant brains! It's all to be a fighter is all about, man! Who's it gonna be?! It's crazy time!"

To the crowd on the dancefloor below, it clearly didn't matter what the man in the sunglasses was saying. All that mattered was that he seemed excited about it, and so they were excited as well. The cheer they let out in response nearly drowned out the blaring music all by itself.

What a headache… you think so too, right…?

Jamilu Aguta peeled his mind away from the demonic spear, ignoring its attempts at communication.

Hey, come on. Don't leave a guy all by himself. Talk to me. I'm talking to you, you little shit.

Before the spear could talk further, Jamilu's mind was fully pulled away by the person standing next to him. Rufus Von Frostburn, Nebula Five, frowned as he looked out over the venue. His red hair was tied back in a ponytail.

"It's loud," he said, his voice coming through clearly. "This really the best place to be?"

Jamilu had set up a communication channel between the two of them using his Principality, so no external sound could prevent their communication. Even if he had to cloak his red halo while they were in Supremacy territory, it was still doing good work. Jamilu sat down at a table overlooking the dance floor, sipping at the water he'd ordered at the bar.

"It is," he said, nodding. "The Ultraviolets pointed me to this place -- apparently, the proprietors managed to sneak recording equipment into the last of the Inner Melees. It may be… unpleasant, but if we stay here for a little while we'll get an early glimpse of one of the final sixteen."

Rufus furrowed his brow as he sat across from Nebula Two. "What? They just brought cameras in? It's that easy?"

Jamilu crossed his arms. "It shouldn't be. If I had to guess, I'd say someone on the Organizational Committee wants this Melee broadcast for some reason. But it works out well for us all the same."

Rufus took a mighty swig of his drink -- booze, not water. Drinking on the job… even if a Pugnant could handle alcohol better, Jamilu didn't care for it.

"So this is the last one, huh?" Rufus said, turning in his chair to look at the monitor that took up an entire wall of the club.

"That's right," Jamilu nodded. "I've already received intelligence regarding the other confirmed contestants. After this, we'll head to Azum-Ha and begin our individual investigations."

"Got your eye on anyone?"

Jamilu leaned forward, pushing a script across the table.

“There are a few,” he admitted, flicking the screen on. “Take this man, for instance.”

The glare of a barbarian was plastered onto the script -- the man from the past they called Mereloco, greasy hair hanging limp around his head. Dull brown eyes looked impassively at whoever had taken the picture. They’d probably been lucky to get out alive.

“This is the one from two-hundred years ago,” Jamilu explained. “Mereloco -- he’s being sponsored by Halcyon Interstellar, the most powerful corporation this side of the galaxy. Back in the day, he served under Damon the Devilish.”

Rufus frowned, rooting through his brain for old history classes. “Isn’t that the guy who went crazy?”

Jamilu nodded. “And this guy was alongside him through it all -- until he tried to overthrow Damon and got frozen for his troubles. Mereloco was from an era where bloodlust was a pillar of communication in these parts. This is exactly the kind of guy we don’t want to become Supreme.”

“Right, right,” Rufus nodded. “But he’s being protected by Halcyon, right? So getting rid of him wouldn’t be that easy.”

Jamilu sighed. “There are more subtle ways of discouraging a contestant’s victory… but still, you’re right. So long as Halcyon has him under their protection, the two of us don’t stand much of a chance interfering with him -- at least while remaining undetected. So we’ll table him for the time being.”

Supremacy scum. You should tear his throat out with your teeth.

He brushed his finger against the script, and the image changed to the youthful face of Xander Rain -- the new First Branch of the Tree of Might.

“Here’s another bad option,” Jamilu said. “Young, eager to prove he’s strong enough to lead the Tree… but they’ve got a pretty ironclad -- and outdated -- code of honour. The general public is more realistic these days. Even if he managed to become Supreme, consolidating his power is another story entirely. I don’t think we have to worry too much about him.”

Brat. Scalp him, gut him. See him put his money where his mouth is.

“Right,” Rufus nodded.

The image on the screen switched again -- to the freckled smile of Dorothy Eiro, posing with one hand on her hip in the promotional shot for some charity videograph. The other hand was giving a hearty thumbs-up.

“She’s cute,” Rufus commented.

Jamilu cast him a withering stare. "Irrelevant… still, Dorothy Eiro does look promising. She seems to be the sort of person who wouldn't seek conflict with us -- but again, whether or not she could hold on to her power is another story entirely. I'll have to observe her further before I can say for sure either way."

Your buddy’s right -- she’s a pretty girl. I’ll tear her face off.

Jamilu squeezed his eyes shut. Victory was among the more docile of the Old Demons of the Dawn… but he still had quite the unpleasant way with words. Sometimes, even with Jamilu’s training, that inner monologue became draining.

But Oba Moses had entrusted him with the spear. It was his duty. There was nothing else to be contemplated.

“What about that Atoy Muzazi?” Rufus asked, snapping Jamilu out of it. “I heard he’s meant to be strong.”

Jamilu frowned. “Did you hear his claim to fame? He executed the ruler of a planet, and the Minister whose command he was under, just because they offended him. He’s either a maniac or an ideologue -- and the only real difference between those is the name. That’s not the kind of person you want in charge of your enemies.”

"I gotcha, I gotcha…" Rufus replied, finishing off his drink with another swig. His eyes flicked over to the wall. "Hey -- it's starting."

The screen began flickering as the connection was made. This wasn't a live recording, of course -- the sheer distance would make that impossible -- but it was the best they'd be able to get without actually being there in person. The music stopped, and the crowd hushed -- the Inner Melee was cause for reverence, it seemed.

Jamilu leaned forward in his seat…

…as the battle began.

Bone Heaven

Former Gene Tyrant Facility

Supremacy Space

The planet known as Bone Heaven had once been the home and laboratory of the Gene Tyrant known as Tomyris.

The oddly childlike Tomyris had been the one who'd resurrected the paleo-beasts, ancient and strange monsters, from the annals of prehistory. As a result, the desert surrounding their experimental citadel was infested with feathered and scaled beasts of every shape and size. Ordinarily, they would be absolute terrors to foolish trespassers.

Now, though… now they were trials to be overcome by the worthy.

The area that would be serving as the battlefield consisted of three layers. At the very bottom was Tomyris' laboratory, an underground network of tunnels and chambers. Above that, the citadel where Tomyris' servants and slaves had once resided. Then, above that, there were the remains of an earlier archeological expedition -- long since torn to pieces by the paleo-beasts that roamed the surface.

And all around it were the bones. Hazmuth knew not whether the titan had once been alive or was born dead, but a mighty rib cage encircled the citadel like a great white cage. Everything that happened here happened in the shadow of a divine corpse.

Hazmuth moved through the brick tunnels like a ghost, his footsteps silent even as he ran across stagnant water. He was a lean and strong Umbrant, clad in furs, his golden pupils flicking this way and that as he made his way. A wooden bow and arrow, deceptively flimsy-looking, was strewn across his back.

To him, this Inner Melee was more than just a chance to become Supreme. It was the hunt of a lifetime. Some of the greatest fighters in the galaxy were gathered here, forming a new jungle between them, each strong enough to become the apex predator in an instant.

What connoisseur of blood could resist?

Hazmuth had already been working hard -- his belt told the story. Hanging from it were eight tiny paleo-beast corpses: Elegant Jaws, each dispatched with a blow-dart to their long neck. These kills were paltry accomplishments, but Hazmuth's ability meant the trophies were still worth holding on to.

He sniffed, drinking in deep the mingling scents of countless Aether signatures. Perfumed and rancid, lethargic and zesty, decaying and fresh… no two people's Aether was the same. Hazmuth could even smell the odour of his own, lingering around his body… the metal taste of blood.

The Melee hadn't begun yet, but he could already tell certain signatures would make fine quarries.

One that stank of mingling medicine and communion wine, with just a hint of gasoline.

Another that suggested the musty embrace of the grave -- dirt and bone and worm all intertwined.

The third was strange, a normal human scent, but concentrating and dissolving itself again and again and again. Death and rebirth, perhaps, or something else?

Hazmuth grinned to himself. Fine prey made fine hunters. He could feel his blood, grown stagnant over easy battles, turning hot in his veins again. He was coming back to life.

"Happy birthday," he whispered to himself, hopping onto the head of an inhuman statue.

The tunnel he'd found himself in was partially collapsed, sunlight peeking in from the hole above. One of the Elegant Jaws attached to Hazmuth's belt disintegrated as he tapped into its leaping strength -- clearing the distance between himself and the hole in one mighty jump.

This nameless ability allowed him to borrow a property from any carcass that he had killed with his own two hands, and then use it for himself. It was not something that Hazmuth had consciously developed, but instead something he'd been able to do for as long as he remembered.

It was only natural, after all, for a hunter to help himself to the spoils of his prey… wasn't it?

Hazmuth landed atop a sandstone building on the surface, keeping his body low as he moved forward. He could hear voices all around, echoing through the streets and old houses -- lambs readying themselves for the slaughter. A fanged grin tugged at his lips, and he slowly withdrew his bow and arrow from his back.

Thirty seconds until the Melee began. He did not have to check with Caravan to be sure. His body clock was never wrong. Along with the sounds clearly audible, he could smell the relative weakness of some of these nearby contestants.

He'd go for them first, acquire some useful characteristics, and use them to go after more powerful prey. Climb the vine, as it were. With that plan in mind, all he had to do was…

…was…

…w-was…

The hairs on the back of Hazmuth's neck were standing on end. His hands, usually so steady, were trembling against his bow. His throat was dry. His skin was cold. There was a pain lingering behind his eyes.

Something was wrong.

Slowly, with chattering teeth, Hazmuth found himself looking up towards the sky -- as if some invisible hand was forcing his gaze. There, far above, silhouetted against a white cloud, was an electric blue star. It flickered as Hazmuth watched, growing brighter and brighter.

His eyes widened.

There, floating in the middle of the conflagration, was a human figure.

But it gave off the sensation of something much more dangerous.

The young man stood atop the sky.

His feet had disappeared, recorded and replaced by fizzling blue Aether. That same Aether shone from his Cogitant-blue eyes, their intensity such that they were like the twin headlights of a car. He wore a red combat suit, a stark contrast to the loose silver hair that ran down to the small of his back.

From up here, everything seemed so peaceful. You couldn't hear the battles being set up below, or see the bloodshed that was about to be unleashed. It was so very quiet. Even the bones that littered the desert around the citadel just seemed like part of the landscape.

Caravan chirped from his wrist: "And… begin!"

Blue eyes scanned the battlefield below. There were some people who might be a problem, but overall… he smiled.

"Weak," said Dragan Hadrien, and then…

Bombardment.

There was no other way to describe the phenomenon. Spears of blue light fired in every direction from Dragan Hadrien's Aether, pummeling the citadel below. The ammunition was eclectic and arbitrary -- a car, a trashcan, a broken automatic, a lamppost. Anything large and sturdy enough to kill a person had been recorded in preparation for this moment…

…and, at these speeds, it didn't take very much to kill a person.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Without Aether, you would have been deafened.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Without Aether, you would have been blinded.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Without Aether -- and even with it -- you would have been pulped.

Bang.

All in all, Dragan Hadrien's attack lasted about twenty seconds. When the smoke cleared, the first two layers of Bone Heaven had been utterly decimated. Nearly every structure had been reduced to rubble, and the red pinpricks of bodies littered the ground. One of the mighty ribs toppled over, splitting the city in half.

Dragan coldly lifted the black bandage to his mouth. "Caravan," he said calmly. "Remaining contestants?"

"Twenty-seven!" the construct declared cheerfully. "Geez, you're a riot!"

Dragan ignored the comment. Twenty-seven, including him? Unfortunate. He'd hoped to clear out more with that first barrage -- especially since it meant that the survivors would make getting rid of him a priority.

Oh well. He'd known from the beginning that this wouldn't be easy.

From what his ally on the Organisational Committee had reported, this Inner Melee's gimmick was an evolving ruleset. Every hour, a new rule would be introduced that the contestants had to obey or be eliminated. It sounded annoying.

Now though, in the first hour, they were free to fight as normal. There wasn't going to be a second hour.

Gemini World.