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Deliberation of the Paridisas Gardeners

Muzazi gulped, his mouth curiously dry. "Destroy… the Final Church?"

He had passing familiarity with the GID -- the spymasters of the Supremacy -- but even for them this operation seemed somewhat extravagant. From what he understood, their work usually involved the assassination of foreign nationals or the extraction of useful intelligence, not the destruction of enemy states outright. Was it really something that could be accomplished?

Whatever the case… orders were orders.

Lyons chuckled, raising his hands good-naturedly, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, please, don't worry about that, haha! I don't expect you to single handedly blow up the entire Final Church or anything like that. I was just hoping you could help us out here and there. Like a… part-time job or something."

Muzazi straightened up -- and once again, went to rest his hand on a sword that was no longer there.

"As a Special Officer of the Supremacy…" he mumbled, still shaking off some of the liquor. "I am duty-bound to assist. Please, what do you need?"

Please, give me something you need. Please, give me orders. Please, give me a reason to exist here. Please. Please.

He blinked blearily. How long had it been since he'd last slept?

"I'm glad you're so agreeable," Lyons said, leaning back in his seat. "As I said, it's just a few small matters we need taken care of. Prerequisite conditions that need to be cleared before the main event, if you like."

Blue light washed over him from the monitors surrounding his desk -- when Muzazi glanced at them, he saw that they were displaying video feeds from numerous cameras throughout the Truemeet. Crowds aboard the Menagerie, solemn gatherings aboard the Deus Nobiscum, empty corridors and server rooms aboard the ELIZA. There were even shots from the outer hulls of the connected ships, observing the smaller vessels keeping orbit.

One monitor, however, was completely black -- save for the golden figure standing at its centre, right at the core of the void. A figure with black armour and a one-eyed helmet, a shining sword in his hand. The man he'd seen back aboard the ruined Arrowhead.

Nigen Rush.

"Don't trust him," the long-dead swordsman said. "You mustn't trust him."

Lyons blinked, cocking his head slightly. "Do you have a query, Mr. Muzazi?"

Muzazi shook his head, rubbing his head with one hand. When he looked again, the screen was instead showing a feed from one of the Menagerie's marketplaces.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "It's been… it's been a tiring time for me recently. But it will not impact my performance -- I'm prepared to do what needs to be done."

"Excellent!" Lyons smiled, blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. The smile was short-lived, though, and his face soon fell into businesslike neutrality. "By the by, I understand your last reported activity was heading to the planet Panacea, with your partner in tow. I can't help but notice you are now alone, Mr. Muzazi."

A cold chill settled over Muzazi's back, and his hands began to shake. For a second, he could swear he still felt the grainy texture of that silent dust on his fingers.

"Yes…" he whispered, staring down at the floor. "Yes, there were circumstances… I…"

Jean Lyons did not blink. "I think it's best if you explain to me exactly what happened, Mr. Muzazi."

Slowly, Muzazi nodded, and he opened his mouth.

For a long time, Mila had assumed that the majority of pre-Thousand Revolutions history had been tainted by the efforts of the era's propagandists -- especially when it came to the Gene Tyrants.

The way she saw it, there was simply no way beings as casually cruel and eccentric as the Gene Tyrants of legend could have existed. They wouldn't have been able to form a functioning government, for one thing, and it was unlikely that people so dysfunctional would have been able to advance to the Gene Tyrants level of technology in the first place.

After meeting Dr. Cloud, however, she'd started to question that view.

"Aether," the bald man sighed passionately, his arms spread wide as he pranced throughout the laboratory. "A light of the mind. H.H. Guilford called it that in his famous memoirs -- did you know that, dear? I think it's an apt description, too, but only-at-the-surface-level."

His way of speaking, speeding up and slowing down seemingly at random, was a stark contrast to his mundane appearance -- little more than a drab sweater, some pants, and an old lab coat.

"Dear? Dear, did-you-know-that?" Dr. Cloud repeated with a sudden sense of urgency, whirling around to face Mila. His eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets. "Did you know?"

Mila nodded, holding her script up to her chest. "Yes, sir. You've explained this before."

"Oh, oh, excellent…" Dr. Cloud muttered, turning back around.

Cloud's laboratory wasn't aboard the Menagerie itself -- it required more secrecy than that -- but instead an anonymous ship flying separately, it's signatures changed hourly. Despite that fact, however, space wasn't limited in the slightest: Gertrude Hearth had spared no expense when it came to her pet genetic engineer.

The walls on one side were lined with consoles and analysis equipment, ready to receive any samples that prompted Cloud's curiosity. On the other side of the room, shelves were fully stocked with glass jars containing grotesque and short-lived specimens, brought into this world and taken out of it in this very same room.

And then, looking down from the ceiling, was Helga's tank. Whenever she was here, Mila avoided looking up -- for fear she'd see open eyes glaring down at her.

An irrational fear, but she still dreamed of it.

"For a long time," Dr. Cloud continued to prattle on, throwing himself back into a seat and putting his feet up. "I actually despaired when it came to my Aether research? Did you know that? I-actually-despaired. Do you know why? Because there was no visible link between Aether and biology. No-visible-link-at-all."

Mila nodded again, her eyes dull. She had the sneaking suspicion she'd heard this lecture many times before.

"For example," Dr. Cloud stuck up a single finger. "Take my Aether Core theory. It's entirely possible for someone with, let's-say, an atrophied or mutated brain to lack the ability to feel, let's-say, romantic passion. But-but-but, it's entirely possible for that same person to have romantic passion as their Aether Core. What-the-Aether-demands is entirely divorced from their biology. That's how you get people who are categorically unable to use Aether. Don't you find that vexing?"

"Quite vexing, sir," Mila replied.

What would you think of me now, Helga? I've become a lapdog. Not that you could judge me: you were a traitor, after all.

"However-then-I-thought-about-it-further," Dr. Cloud spat out all at once, springing back to his feet. "That frustrating fact actually opened up realms of new-possibilities-for-me. Doesn't that actually confirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Aether is an external resource? There is no-organ-nor-gland that produces it, and the body actively suffers from being overloaded by it. It's-a-foreign-substance. An-invader-perhaps."

"Mm-hmm."

"It is accessed via a specific emotional key, which-it-seeks even if the subject is incapable of it. It is a light of the mind, after-all, not of the brain." He rubbed his hands together as he paced back and forth, eager to release his excitement any way he could. "But doesn't this also suggest that consciousness exists in some form separate from the meat of the brain? The-very-idea-makes-my-heart-fly. What can you call that if not the soul? As-a-scientist, and of course as a Humilist, the very possibilities are…"

As usual, Dr. Cloud's rambling was gradually drowned out by a high-pitched ringing sound scraping through Mila's head. She'd served as his assistant for the better part of a year, and through that time she'd heard these same rants over and over again… sometimes they'd be delivered while he brewed up some genetic abomination in a vat, sometimes they'd be rolled off while he dissected the resultant corpse… but always the same ideas and theories, over and over again.

The repetition alone was enough to drive a person crazy.

When Mila had first started working here, she'd felt a blazing fire burning within her -- a passion to get Helga out of here, to find out what was really going on, and to put things right. Those repeated speeches, the bloodstained days she'd spent helping Cloud… they'd smothered that flame down to a simmer.

But now, today, she could feel some last little sparks leaping up.

She had no doubt that Gertrude Hearth would contrive some excuse to get her away from here before long -- her conduct at the meeting would have made it obvious she was a potential security risk. If she was to set Helga free, it would have to be before the Truemeet ended. So… a week, essentially.

Her fists tightened to such a degree that it hurt. She'd already made preliminary preparations: putting together funds for mercenaries to pull this thing off, but now that the time had actually come to put her plans into action…

…the anxiety was suffocating.

Jean Lyons listened to Muzazi's entire story without interruption or judgement, simply watching him with inquisitive unblinking eyes. Those blue irises, the only trace of colour on the Cogitant's body, observed him like the lenses of twin cameras.

And Muzazi spoke.

He spoke until his throat felt like fire. He spoke until his tears ran dry. He spoke until the shaking of his limbs had exhausted him to such a degree that all his body could do was hang limp, rendered little more than a puppet to his own speech.

As he spoke, he left nothing out. He spoke in such detail that it was like he was reliving the whole thing once more. He spoke of Dragan Hadrien, of the Repurposed, of the Gene Tyrant Ranavalona and of the battle that had taken place there.

…and, of course, he spoke of Marie.

When his story concluded, his mouth continued to move, letting out useless gasps of air. The exhaustion had gripped him utterly, and as he collapsed to his knees he felt as if he was going to fall unconscious then and there. The floodgates of his grief had opened, and it felt for all the world like he'd just be washed away.

He only remembered where he was when he felt reassuring arms wrap around him. Lyons, moving silently, had stepped over, kneeled down and gently embraced him.

"I see," Lyons said softly, his eyes closed. "That sounds like quite the horrible experience. It's been difficult, hasn't it, Mr. Muzazi?"

Muzazi swallowed, his breath shuddering. "Yes…" he whispered. "Yes, it's been… very, very difficult…"

In that dark room, with the four walls seeming to crush in towards him, the only thing Atoy Muzazi could hear was Jean Lyons' quiet, calm voice.

"My wish is to make a less difficult world for our Supremacy," Lyons said, rubbing Muzazi's back in comfort. "A world where our people don't encounter such sad situations. Atoy Muzazi… will you lend me your strength?"

"Yes," Muzazi breathed. "Of course."

"Thank you so much."

Lyons stood back up, helping Muzazi to his feet with a gentle hand. Muzazi let out a sigh: he didn't know why, exactly, but he felt much stronger now than he had just a few minutes ago. The opportunity to speak of everything he'd been through had done him a world of good.

But now, the time for tears had passed. Atoy Muzazi hardened his frivolous mind back into steel, and stared forward with resolute eyes.

"What would you have me do?" he asked again, crossing his arms.

Lyons threw up a holographic display with a wave of his hand, the screen flipping around to face Muzazi. On it was an image of a black woman with a worried expression, walking through a garden of some sort. She was wearing the patchwork attire typical of Humilists, with a bag slung over her shoulder.

"Mila Green," Lyons said by way of explanation, getting back into his chair and crossing his legs. "She's a medical doctor working for the Humilist branch of the Final Church."

Muzazi nodded. "What of her?"

"She's part of a group within the Humilists that have captured and detained one of our agents," Lyons explained. "I don't have all the details, but sadly it appears this agent has been subjected to human experimentation. They're making an effort to match the Superbians skill in the field of genetic engineering, it seems."

Muzazi looked down at Lyons, his eyes wide with concern. "Genetic engineering?! So, this human experimentation is…?"

Lyons nodded grimly. "It's of that variety, yes. It's a disturbing phenomenon: the further we advance, the more paths back to the time of the Gene Tyrants present themselves. Personally, it sickens me."

Memories of Ranavalona and his monstrous form bubbled up in Muzazi's brain, and his fists tightened furiously in response. No matter what, he would not allow a sight like that to exist again in this world.

"We believe the laboratory itself is on an off-site ship, but this woman occasionally travels to the main Menagerie for supplies. You and Olga will capture her and have her take you to the ship in question. An easy task, all things considered."

Muzazi furrowed his brow. "Olga?" he asked.

"Olga," spoke a high-pitched voice in monotone -- from right beside Lyons.

A jolt of alarm, a reflexive leap into a combat stance -- but a combination of Lyons' raised palm and Muzazi's lack of weapon quickly calmed him down. His eyes flicked over to the new figure.

A young girl, clearly barely into her teens, stood next to Lyons, a dull look in her dark-blue eyes. How long had she been there? Had she been there the whole time, right in the open, and Muzazi just hadn't noticed? If that was the case, she was certainly skilled at concealing her presence.

She was wearing a black raincoat, the surface of it bulky enough that it was surely concealing armour, and a bright-red scarf was wrapped around her neck, covering her mouth. The scarf was obscenely long, enough so that it was coiled several times around her throat and still had enough length to trail across the ground behind her. In contrast, the blonde ponytail that hung limp from the back of her head was barely long enough to even qualify as such.

"Olga," she repeated, nodding. "Nice to meet you."

"And you as well," Muzazi responded automatically.

By far, she was the youngest operative of the Supremacy he'd ever seen. The girl looked like she should still be in school, to be perfectly honest. But if the Supremacy had decided her being here was right and proper, he was of no mind to protest.

"Olga here is one of our best and brightest," Lyons said, with more than a hint of pride as he patted her on the shoulder. "She has some personal investment in this mission, but don't let that concern you. Her loyalty to the Supremacy is without equal."

Olga clasped her gloved hands in front of her. "I look forward to working with you," she said quietly. "Please treat me well."

It was strange, but Muzazi got the feeling that she was speaking in rehearsed phrases, little coming out of her mouth except etiquette and formality. To put it bluntly, she gave him the creeps. No doubt it was a little cruel to think that of such a young girl, but that was simply the impression she gave.

"Personal investment?" Muzazi asked, turning back to Lyons. "Of what kind?"

"That needn't concern you," Lyons said mildly -- and yet in a tone that permitted no argument. "At any rate, that is your mission. The next time Mila Green walks on the Menagerie, track her down, covertly apprehend her…"

Lyons smiled.

"...and bring her to me."

Hamashtiel took in a deep breath through his nostrils, and felt wet sand beneath his toes.

As he looked down the length of the golden beach, he saw no trace of civilization or infrastructure. There were only dunes of sand, the occasional scuttling crab, and the soft waves of water trickling past his feet. The sun hung low on the horizon, dying the planet in orange glory.

In the original memory, there had been a ship here too, but Hamashtiel had decided to erase it from this recreation. It would spoil the landscape, after all.

Hamashtiel Nurata had come to this uninhabited planet with his son once, and now Hamashtiel took on a child's form as he walked that same shore. Everything seemed so much bigger from this small shape, every distance so much more insurmountable… he wondered if this remembered weakness was where the feeling of wonder came from.

He reached down with a small hand and scooped up some of the saltwater, enjoying the sensation of the liquid against his skin. It was simulated, of course -- just like everything in the Garden -- but Hamashtiel liked it all the same. It wasn't as if he had much else to compare it to.

Right now, he was in a private instance within the Garden -- the virtual world that was the pride and joy of the Paradisas. In truth, it was more like layers and layers of worlds piled on top of one another, designed to accommodate the whims of its inhabitants. And then, of course, there was what those layers formed a shell around…

Hamashtiel banished the thought from his mind. It would only depress him, anyway.

At any rate, that was how Hamashtiel walked a beach that no longer existed. From what he understood, an industrial accident ten years ago had reduced this place to a wasteland. This beach had become little more than a toxic reef, and yet the memory of it remained unblemished within the Garden. Improved, even.

An alert popped up in the back of his consciousness, informing him that the time to meet with Mr. Mestrilyn was approaching. He'd been conducting negotiations with the mining magnate for some time now, and was confident he'd be able to close a deal with this final meeting. Mestrilyn's product would be extremely useful in expanding the Garden's server infrastructure. The task had been assigned to him by Apexbishop Asmagius himself, and Hamashtiel had no intention of disappointing.

The logout process from the Garden began, and the beach disintegrated around him.

First chunks of the ground began to collapse in on itself, leaving black and empty voids, then even the sky began to crack and shatter, shards of it floating up into an identical darkness. In the moment before the logout was completed, Hamashtiel could see the ocean floating free, unburdened by geography or geometry, until…

…it too fell into the abyss.

"Gotta say," Ruth frowned, scratching her head. "This doesn't really feel like a religious kinda thing."

"Well," Skipper cracked his neck as he adjusted his tie. "The Paradisas like to do things their own way. I guess living inside a video game makes you lose touch with the outside world, yeah? Hey, Hadrien, how am I looking?"

"Like you've murdered that tie," Dragan replied truthfully.

"I think you look fine, Mr. Skipper," Serena smiled sweetly. "Maybe not good, but… yeah, fine!"

The four of them were in an elevator heading to the main floor of the ELIZA's welcome reception. Only a few levels of the Paradisas ship were open to visitors, so they planned to infiltrate the party and then use Gemini World to proceed to the room they actually needed.

From what Skipper had said, this party was something of a suit and tie affair. And so Dragan had spent the last few excruciating hours at a tailor on the Menagerie. He really didn't get paid enough for this, in that he didn't get paid at all.

He adjusted his own red bow tie, brushing some of the inevitable dust off his black suit. He swore that the thing was a size or so too big for him, but they hadn't exactly had the time to get anything individually fitted.

Unsurprisingly, Skipper had put a greater deal of time and effort into his own attire. If not for the green tie that he'd mangled -- and indeed, now ripped off and stuffed into his pocket -- he'd cut quite the striking figure. A black waistcoat with a green trim over a white dress shirt. With his dark hair tied back into a ponytail, he almost looked like he could have been a businessman rather than a menace.

Serena was wearing a pink-and-white dress with a smile on her face, thoroughly made up. Even with the high heels she was wearing, she was hopping up and down on the spot without any signs of difficulty. Needless to say, Bruno had made himself scarce.

Ruth, to be blunt, looked like a caveman that had been thawed out of a block of ice and stuffed into a dress. She continued to scratch her head in annoyance, slouching, and despite the fact they were meant to be in disguise she'd refused point-blank to abandon her combat boots.

"How do you know where this meeting's taking place, anyway?" Dragan asked, glancing up at Skipper.

Skipper tapped his nose. "Oh, I have my ways, Mr. Hadrien."

Ruth snorted, adjusting the strap of her dress for what felt like the fifth time that minute. "He probably broke into this Mestrilyn guys house or something, stole his schedule." She too looked up at him. "Right?"

Skipper smirked. "'Breaking in' implies I left evidence. I infiltrated."

"Fantastic," Dragan raised an eyebrow. "And without telling any of us about it, too. What if you had been caught? We'd all be screwed."

"Well," Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "I took that into account. Don't worry about it."

Dragan rolled his eyes. As per usual, Skipper was making moves without telling anyone. There were only so many times he could wave that hand of his before it got old.

But perhaps the time for that confrontation was not on an elevator in the Paradisas headquarters. For the time being, Dragan would keep his mouth shut.

There was a ding from the elevator, and the doors began to slide open. Dragan gulped.

Time for the party.