Dragan Hadrien did his best to ignore his conscience as he rode the elevator upwards.

Usually, it wasn't that hard: his better nature was very shy, and tended only to come out when it was most inconvenient. Now, though, it was scratching at his mind like a dog wanting to come in through a door. He'd abandoned Muzazi and Noel, it said, left them at the tender mercies of the Fifth Dead.

No. Dragan shook his head.

Muzazi was a capable warrior -- no, exemplary. As much of a pain in the ass the Special Officer's pursuit had been, he couldn't deny that. There was no doubt in his mind that he could finish off the Fifth Dead using the advantage Dragan had given him. And besides -- there'd been no obligation for Dragan to provide that assistance in the first place. By intercepting that attack for Muzazi and destroying the Fifth Dead's weapon, he'd already gone above and beyond the call of duty. It would be unreasonable for someone to expect more of him.

Well, he already knew Muzazi was fairly unreasonable, so this whole thing wouldn't really change that much between them.

Besides, he could feel that the vibrations of the engine had stopped -- the ship was still as a grave, save for the obvious and sort of horrifying feeling of descent as the Dawnhouse lost altitude. That in itself was proof that Muzazi had overcome the Fifth Dead, that he'd survived the fight. Probably Noel had survived too -- Dragan didn't really care that much for her after having plasma poured over him, but abandoning a kid to die would still leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

Isn't that what you did, though? His conscience was insistent, annoyingly so.

Dragan shook his head. Of course that wasn't what he'd done. It would only be abandoning them to die if they'd actually died, obviously. What he'd done was just regular abandonment.

The elevator dinged as it came to a stop, on the top deck of the ship. Hopefully there'd be some way of getting back up the roof from here, so he could help out Skipper and the others. He couldn't just ignore the situation up there, after all -- his friends, scratch that, his crew were in danger. He'd had no choice but to leave Muzazi behind.

That self-justification rang just a bit too pathetic for Dragan's tastes, though. He gritted his teeth as he stepped out of the lift.

In the end, there was no need to justify his actions at all. Muzazi had intended to take him back to the Supremacy -- all things considered, that path would have likely ended with Dragan's death, or at the very least a severe prison sentence. In the end, all he'd done was self-defence. He'd saved Muzazi's life -- he had no obligation to hand his over as well.

Dragan narrowed his eyes as he stepped through the hallways, banishing any lingering doubts from his mind.

"The only one who decides what happens to me," he reminded himself. "Is me."

Ruth ducked under another swing from the Chael-thing's massive fist, wind passing over her hair as the metal hand shattered against the deck.

She was beginning to get a good sense of the beings inner workings, now -- it was fragile, destroying itself as much as its surroundings, but the blades that constituted it could regenerate as many times as was needed. The copious amounts of grey Aether Chael was producing allowed that.

As the newly regrown fist moved to grab her again, Ruth kicked off the ground with her Skeletal boots, giving herself several meters of elevation off the ground. She needed time to come up with a strategy here.

Luckily, the monster's full attention wasn't on her -- Bruno had swapped with Serena, and the girl was pummeling the Chael-thing's main body with gargantuan swords formed from chunks of the Dawnhouse's hull. Most of the beast's defenses were being used to protect from Skipper's ranged assault, as well -- shields growing around the main flesh body to block the constant Heartbeat Shotguns.

That left Ruth -- the dagger that could slip through those defenses. But she wasn't seeing much in terms of gaps to maneuver through.

If she were suicidal, she could run up the side of the creature's body and attack from there, but she was not ready to risk more spikes sprouting out and running her through. She was fast, true, but not nearly fast enough to make her confident in that gambit.

As gravity pulled her back down, Ruth kicked at the steel wrist of the Chael-thing below her, shattering it and severing the steel fist from the rest of the body. It would regenerate just like the rest of the creature, but that would buy her time she could use to observe and plan.

Every idea that popped into her head seemed to run into that same impassable wall -- fear. If I do that, I'll get hurt. If I do that, we'll lose. If I do that, my friends will die.

A lashed corpse. Bones melted by plasma.

No. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing.

She'd been afraid, she knew, for most of her life -- afraid of losing what she had, and afraid of being hurt. It wasn't that she'd made her decisions based on that fear -- that fear had stopped her making decisions. She'd let others make choices for her, followed their leads without having the courage to decide her own path, to question, to even think.

She'd been afraid of the idea that they'd been fighting for some greater purpose -- because that would require her to think about the reason she fought. Because it would require her to admit that she didn't really know why.

Her ears twitched: both of the Chael-thing's metal hands were scraping across the deck towards her from opposite sides -- as if they were about to begin applauding, with her stuck in the middle. She'd be crushed, sliced to ribbons, reduced to a fine paste -- that idea frightened her. But not as much as the idea of always being scared.

Ruth opened her eyes.

The Skeletal gauntlets on her arms switched out in a flash of red Aether, being replaced by the arms of her Noblesse set -- and the second the metal hands made contact, the force was reflected, shattering them into yet another rain of blades. The Chael-thing roared in anger, and further tendrils of metal burst from the main mass, hurtling towards Ruth with the intent to eviscerate.

No fear.

Ruth ran forward as the biggest tendril closed in -- and jumped on top of it, her Skeletal boots giving her just enough speed to outrun the spikes that sprouted up to try and impale her. It was like running across the warping tracks of a rollercoaster, the flesh body of the Citizen growing larger in her vision as she charged across the metal body.

"Ruth!" cried Skipper, far away. He sounded alarmed -- but that only made sense. She was acting crazy, after all.

Once the tendril warped into the right angle, Ruth skidded to a halt -- and swapped out her Skeletal boots for those of the Noblesse Set as well. Instantly, blades burst up beneath her feet to try and finish her -- and the second those spikes came into contact with her new boots, the reflected force launched Ruth directly towards Chael's real body.

It was a complex, intricate thing, swapping out her armour like this. As Ruth flew through the air, red Aether concentrated on her arms, knitting together the Skeletal gauntlets she'd previously dismissed. She braced her body, claws pointing straight towards Chael as he grew closer.

Blades fired out from the monster's metal body - cutting at both Ruth's armour and skin -- but she'd come too far to let a little pain stop her. A roar escaped her throat as finally, finally, she reached Chael --

-- and planted both sets of claws right into his chest. The thrashing of the metal body and the blade-forged tendrils came to a sudden and jarring halt, like a videograph that had been put on pause. Chael himself, the real Chael, opened his mouth in a silent scream, blades vibrating inside his eye sockets in sympathy for his pain.

Ruth blinked.

Almost instantly, as if on some level the monster had been waiting for that moment of weakness, grey Aether pooled inside Chael's open mouth. There was the sheen of rushing metal, and a long, rigid spike burst out from the back of Chael's throat -- it's tip aimed right between Ruth's eyes.

Run, her body told her.

Fight, her heart said.

Chael wasn't the only one who could pull off a final gambit. Ruth gritted her teeth and focused all the Aether she had left into her head -- the rest of her armour disappeared, reduced to tendrils of red light that concentrated around her skull.

Noblesse Set.

Her mask vanished, swapping over with the pure-white helmet in an instant -- at the very instant that Chael's final spike came into contact with it. There was a resounding ding as the tip of the spike slammed into the helmet, and sparks rained down onto the ground below. For a moment, it was as if the entire rest of the world had been put on mute -- even the wind seemed subdued, waiting in anticipation.

An unstoppable force had met an immovable object -- and the spike vibrated intensely, metal singing, as the force of its blow was reflected into it. Even so, Ruth could feel the helmet buckling under the spike's advance, and for a moment she felt almost certain that the blade would keep going right into her forehead.

But the choice was already made. All she could do now was keep faith in it. She stared ahead, unblinking, at her enemy -- listened to the creaking of metal.

The creaking stopped --

-- and the spike shattered.

The Chael-thing's head snapped back as the spike exploded inside its mouth, sending shards of metal flying inside its body. It's throat opened, its jaw fell free, and the skin of its face was cut to tatters -- blood spewing out with reckless abandon, billowing onto the far-off ground like a waterfall. The blades in the beast's eyes shattered, too, and as Chael's body flopped over like a stringless puppet, Ruth knew that it's brain had surely been destroyed.

It was done.

Chael's Aether didn't take long to dissipate. Before Ruth could even catch her breath, she found herself falling down to the ground -- the blades that had made up Chael's massive lower body had disappeared, leaving nothing between her and gravity's tender mercies.

The fall to the ground was considerable, and Ruth knew she wouldn't be landing without at least a few broken bones. There was nothing else for it, though; she'd used all she had in terms of Aether. With no other recourse, Ruth curled her body into a ball, bracing herself for impact.

She squeezed her eyes shut. This was gonna hurt.

"Now's when I come in and look cool, yeah?" chuckled Skipper, voice close.

Ruth opened her eyes -- and in that same moment, Skipper caught her. He'd shot up into the air using his Heartbeat Shotgun, and as the two of them came back down he shot more out from the soles of his feet to slow their descent.

He stumbled and almost dropped her as he landed, but it was still better than the alternative.

"I've seen cooler," chuckled Ruth, trying to ignore the pain from the various cuts all over her body.

"You're breaking my heart here."

Serena skipped up to them as Skipper skidded to a halt, still dragging one of those massive swords behind her. "Miss Ruth," she said in that sing-song voice of hers. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Ruth nodded, only to grimace when even that movement sent waves of pain throughout her body. "No. No, not really. Hurts like shit."

Skipper gulped, before glancing over his shoulder at the remnants of the battle. "Well," he said. "You're looking better than the other guy."

It was true. There'd only been half of Chael to begin with -- and now, what was left in the crater was even less than that. A broken heap of meat and skin, limbs splayed out unnaturally, entrails flowing freely out onto the deck.

As Ruth watched, doing her best to keep her lunch down, the remains of the body were finally swept away by the broiling winds -- leaving a slick red trail behind it as it plummeted off the side of the Dawnhouse.

It fell all the way down.

"Is it over?" Ruth asked quietly. She found it hard to believe. This whole nightmare had felt all-encompassing for so long -- the idea that they'd come out the other side intact seemed almost impossible.

When Skipper laughed, though -- jubilantly, victoriously -- it became much easier to believe.

"Yeah," he grinned. "Yeah, we did it. It's over."

For a moment, just a moment, despite everything -- despite the raging winds and stinging pain -- things were peaceful. It was as if the entire universe had agreed to give them just a second to catch their breath.

Then there was a deafening clang as a hatch not far away swung open, and Dragan Hadrien poked his head out. His hair and face were stained with ventilation fumes, and he blinked blearily as he looked frantically around.

"I made it," he panted, before erupting into a coughing fit -- again, probably the fumes. "Guys, guys," he blurted out once he got the coughing under control. "I have a plan to -- to deal with that thing!"

He blinked as he saw the strange, about-to-burst-into-laughter looks everyone else was giving him. To his credit, he figured it out quickly.

"Oh," he said. "It's over?"

"Yeah," chuckled Skipper. "It's over."

It had much less gravitas the second time.

Former Secretary Zhao watched, silent, as the Dawnhouse fell to earth.

He'd been drinking in a local bar -- drowning his sorrows, more like it -- when the news had come up on the videographs. The entire crowd had rushed out onto the bar's balcony, watching in a shocked hush as the seat of government plummeted like a shooting star.

It had finally come to a stop after slamming into Brink District, lodging itself through several decks and obliterating the financial sector there. Fire and debris was doubtless still raining down on the lower districts, even if it could no longer be seen from here.

"Dear Y," someone in the crowd muttered. It seemed an appropriate sentiment.

Most people were silent. Some cried. One person, down in the streets below, was laughing hysterically -- their humourless cackle echoing up. Zhao honestly couldn't say which was the right response. From every balcony on this side of Taldan, he could see crowds of people doing nothing but watching.

Watching history be made.

His script rang -- some old song from years ago -- and he shakily put it to his ear, still staring at the inferno.

The babble from the other end mostly washed over him. He caught phrases such as 'chain of succession' and 'Acting President', but they honestly didn't mean anything to him. He just nodded dumbly and occasionally offered an 'mm' of affirmation. If nothing else, one thing was clear:

There was a great deal of work to be done.