The King of Darkstar looked at Brett del Boros expectantly, his lips pursed. When no words came from the surprised host, the pale man spoke again.

“This is the first time we've met in person, isn't it?” he asked conversationally.

Despite the terror crawling through him, Brett somehow managed to shake his head, somehow managed to speak. “We've…” he said, his mouth dry. “We've met before… last time…”

“This is the first time we've met,” the King repeated -- and this time, the slight shift in his placid voice permitted no argument. “But… the last time you saw me, we did speak, didn't we? Matters were discussed.”

Memories long since dismissed as nightmares -- pushed back and repressed -- began to swell forth again. A room, much like this one. A mistake made, one that would have killed Brett's fledgling career. That man, there, waiting for him.

Those black eyes, and that white face. Untouched by time.

“I remember,” Brett croaked.

“I'm so glad,” the King's lips curled into a smile. “I was worried for a moment you'd become an amnesiac. That would have been bad, wouldn't it?”

Brett nodded his head mutely.

“I'm only joking. I know that you don't have amnesia. Did you think I was serious?”

Brett shook his head mutely.

“It seems you're a little nervous,” the King said lightly, standing up from his chair.

The shadows retreated from the seat with an ownerless sigh of pleasure, melting into the floor. Was that not just darkness, then? Was this… was this stuff alive, somehow, and following the man’s commands?

The King blinked. “You're absolutely right. The substance encompassing this room is my good friend Smith, who came here as my bodyguard. As you can imagine, I'm not in need of too much protection, but you know how the elderly worry… not that I'm one to talk, haha.”

He knows what I'm thinking, Brett thought numbly.

“I know what you're thinking,” the King nodded. “I've known for quite a while. Would you like to sit down?”

Brett deposited himself on the couch without argument. He already understood there was no point in trying to flee. The King would know about it before the idea even finished formulating. There was no point.

There never had been.

“We're all thrilled to have you here,” purred Damian Wenderhold Halcyon, sitting at the end of the table. “Just thrilled. It's a rare honour to meet a living legend… especially one with such an esteemed history.”

The CEO of Halcyon Interstellar was a thin, tall man, with slicked-back black hair and a cheesy grin. Cybernetic eyes glinted red in their sockets, and his green three-piece suit was tailored to perfection. No doubt every piece of his ensemble cost more than most people made in a decade.

Not that Mereloco cared much. As far as he was concerned, this was just another money addict. He'd seen enough of those in the fight against the Great Chain.

The two of them sat in the Halcyon board-room, at either end of the long stretching table. Holograms concealed the walls, floors and ceiling -- replacing them with a view of a false and beautiful galaxy. Stars twinkled all around as they stared at each other. Meaningless lights.

Mereloco picked some wax out of his ear. “What do you want?” he asked, voice low and apathetic.

At the insistence of his ‘patrons’, he'd dressed himself in the modern style -- a tightly-fitting white polo shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. He hadn't bothered with shoes. Anything he couldn't fight in was out of the question.

Damian's grin shone in the starlight. “I thought that was clear. We want to help you become Supreme.”

Mereloco did not look at the oligarch. Instead, he considered the glob of wax on the tip of his fingernail. It was more important.

The betrayal would come. This man was the type. What shape would it take? Didn't matter. Mereloco would overcome it when the time came. For the moment, this man was useful. Once that stopped being true, he'd just kill him and keep going.

“How will you help me?” Mereloco asked, his dull brown eyes looking up at Damian for the first time.

The tension in Damian's shoulders deflated slightly. “There's no shortage of resources we can provide you,” he said. “Weaponry, stimulants, chemical enhancements… we corner the market on each. Hell, we have an Arcana Automatic you could use as a sparring partner. Beyond that…”

Mereloco raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he grunted. “Speak plain.”

Damian leaned forward over the table, and the environment around them turned into pitch-black darkness. His eyes flicked over to the woman standing in the corner of the board room, then back to Mereloco. When he spoke, his voice was quiet as the grave -- yet Mereloco heard clearly, as if the man was right next to him.

“...they say the true first round of the Dawn Contest begins before the opening ceremony. Finding the other Contestants, digging up intelligence… in some cases, even eliminating them before a scheduled match. Victories by default are surprisingly common. Do you get me?”

“Yes.”

“We have the locations of ten already, including the Full Moon. The rest will be quick to follow. So… how about it? Are you interested?”

Mereloco scratched his cheek. His eyes peered out into the black. His jaw moved, as if chewing something invisible.

Finally, though, he replied, looking into Damian’s eyes for the first time.

“Make me a sandwich,” he said.

Damian blinked before exchanging another glance with the woman. His brow furrowed. “I, uh… excuse me?”

“I'm hungry,” Mereloco replied. “Make me a sandwich.”

“Uh…” Damian reached over the table, tapping the communicator there. “Ah, Janet? Can we get some food in here? Mr. Mereloco is --”

Unchained.

The table shattered, splintering into metal as it was forced down into the floor with unrelenting force. Damian recoiled backwards, his smooth shoes squeaking against the floor. The woman, over in the corner, just stiffened. She was already familiar with Mereloco's ability, after all. She’d been there when he’d woken up.

Mereloco sighed as he stood up from his chair -- and then, he hurled it into the wall, the furniture embedding itself into the glass. There was no anger or resentment on Mereloco's face or in his voice.

There was very little emotion at all… just a lethargic sort of disdain.

“No,” he said calmly. “You're not listening. I said make me a sandwich. Do it now.”

No threat spoken, but it lingered in the air all the same.

Empty brown eyes stared into flaring red ones. With a word, Damian Wenderhold Halcyon could have nearly anyone in the galaxy killed -- but no amount of money or influence could protect you from a man who simply did not care. Mereloco's story had ended long ago.

He cared nothing for the coherency of the epilogue.

“A long time ago,” the King said, sitting down on the couch next to Brett. “You met me in a room much like this one, didn't you? I'm told you were in quite a bit of trouble back then. Up to your usual antics. Only… people weren't quite as forgiving back then, weren't they?”

It felt like there was a hole in Brett's lungs, like they were slowly losing air, deflating. It was nearly all he could manage to look over to the person next to him. Those black eyes, and that kind smile. Twin gun barrels, and a blade's cruel edge.

“What do you want from me?” Brett asked, face dripping with sweat.

The King frowned as if he were genuinely surprised by the blunt question. “You were told by me at the time, weren't you? I'd make you untouchable. The epitome of ‘soft power’ within the Supremacy. No matter who your adversary was, they would never be able to bring you down.”

No. Good luck. Charisma. Brett had built his empire upon those things, not the manipulations of a demon. This place, this building, this show… it belonged to him. It was all that he had. All that he'd formed for himself out of the mud.

But… he was remembering now. That conversation, so much like this one, with a shade lingering in his mirror. An exchange so bizarre he'd written it off as a dream.

“And in exchange for my help,” the King finished. “Someday, you would do me a favor.” He leaned forward slightly, and his smile widened. “Brett del Boros… today is ‘someday’. Will you help me?”

“What do you want?” Brett rasped. “Money?”

This was not a person that needed money. Brett knew that before he opened his mouth. But… he still had to try. He still had to hope.

The King didn't even bother shaking his head.

“What I need,” he whispered, his voice so soft. “Is for you to be my friend, Mr. del Boros. For you to be my pal. Is that something you think you might be capable of?”

Brett del Boros was not a stupid man. He knew what Darkstar was, what they had done, what they were capable of. The sorts of things they would have him do. Horrors. Agreeing to the deal in the first place had been a sin, but to become the ally of people like that would be an atrocity. Brett del Boros was not a stupid man, and he knew he was not a good man either…

…but, surely, everyone had their limit.

“You’d refuse my generous offer?” the King asked gently, that smile still on his face. “I don’t want to impede your free choice, but to offer some context -- there will be consequences for you if you say ‘no’.”

Brett’s hands shook, clenching on his lap -- and when the King reached out, taking those hands in his own, the shaking only increased. Ice. He was holding ice -- and distantly beneath that, beneath the skin, he could feel things moving. Like maggots working their paths.

“I’m sorry,” the King whispered, right into Brett’s ear. “I don’t think you’ve given me an answer yet.”

The man had no voice left with which to speak, but the movement of his mouth -- and the thought inside his skull -- was more than enough.

No.

The King’s smile did not waver. “I see,” he said, calm as ever. “Even if your decision doesn’t benefit me, I’m proud of you for having the courage to make it. However…” His grip on Brett’s hands tightened. “I must point out that you’re breaking the deal we made all those years ago. Therefore, just as you have acted boldly, I must do the same.”

“Please…” Brett choked out.

“Please,” the King interrupted, his inexorable voice drowning all else out. “Turn around and look at my other friend.”

It was only then that Brett noticed it. The slightest, quietest breathing -- coming from right behind him, right behind the couch. The faintest green light shone from the corner of his eye. Aether. Someone else’s Aether, ready for use.

Don’t turn around, Brett begged himself.

Brett turned around.

He never saw the King’s friend. He had no time to. The instant he turned his head, a gnarled hand lashed out and grabbed him by the face, skeletal fingers covering his eyes. As he thrashed against the vice-like grip -- against the hand that could have easily crushed his skull -- he heard a ravaged voice rasp out three words.

“Forest of Sin.”

“I understood you were a man who is willing to do business,” the Primo Providenza said, his hologram an indistinct silhouette, his voice a modulated rumble. “Is this not the case, Nael Manron?”

The man they called the King of Killers looked up from his throne. He lay in the seat like it was his raft in a broiling ocean, arms and legs draped across it, wrapped around it. His gaze was dull, heavy bags pulling his eyes down. Untamed stubble ran across his chin, and his reachers stretched up chaotically.

If not for his reputation, you would think him a man who’d given up on life -- and you’d be right. The reputation was a cloak.

This was the man who’d killed Dallen Maren, after all. This was the man who’d slain the Black Tarrasque. This was the man who’d fought the Sixth Dead to a standstill. This was the man who’d formed the Crimson Carnival, the greatest band of assassins in the galaxy. This was the man.

But this was also the man who’d wandered despondent, and killed out of convenience. He had not sought out glory. He had not formed empires. He had killed when his body had deemed it expedient, and he had allowed the Carnival to form around himself -- like barnacles on a seaship. None of it was truly his design.

The Primo Providenza, on the other hand, was the opposite.

An enigmatic figure who’d risen from the ashes of the Oliphant Clan, crafting an effective successor organization in a mere two years. Nobody knew his name, his face, or even his real voice. Some people said that perhaps he was a council of equals, deliberating on the activities of the Providenza. Others said that he was some sort of auto-brain. Only a few people knew for sure -- and they were all dead. Nael Manron had killed some of them himself.

Which was why the Primo was so infuriated now.

“I know you have no desire to be Supreme, Manron,” the hologram said. “I know you have no desire for anything. Why are you participating in this Dawn Contest? Why will you not accept my contract? At the very least, give me a reason.”

Nael blinked, slowly. Nearly everything he did these days was slow.

“End transmission,” he grunted.

The hologram vanished -- and as the lights in the central chamber of the Cacophony turned back on, the assassins that had been lingering in the corners of the room turned to face their leader. Men and women of every shape and size, clutching weapons much the same -- and, of course, with the companions that Nael Manron had given them.

Those tired eyes looked around the room.

“Get ready,” he muttered, his voice echoing. “We move right after the opening ceremony. Every other Contestant…”

He sighed.

“...will be eliminated.”