“How dare you?!” the Second Contender cackled.

Paradise Charon grinned to herself as she seized del Sed by the back of the head, grinding their face into the ground below as she ran. The idiot's ruined arms flapped uselessly at their sides as they were brutalised, and Paradise couldn't help but laugh with glee.

Everything was going brilliantly. She was fulfilling her anger in quite an invigorating way by destroying this brat, and the portion of the Forest she'd left aboard the Tartarus was in the process of bringing the Heir back into her custody. By the time this entire idiotic operation was done with, she'd be back at the top of the food chain. One step below Supreme.

The humiliation delivered upon her here would be nothing -- not even a memory, for there would be no living witnesses to it. Paradise released del Sed from her grip as the warrior kicked towards her stomach, allowing their body to skid to a halt.

She'd half-expected del Sed to be unconscious, but they seemed to be sturdier than they looked. They rose from the ground, glaring at her, face covered in gashes and bruises, their eyes bloodshot. As they pulled their mouth away from the ground, though, the ground came with it -- forming a gargantuan stone sword, the size of a train carriage, the elongated handle gripped between Yakob's teeth.

Paradise leapt up as they swung the massive blade, the air pressure alone blasting through the area and sending molten flesh flying in every direction. As she reached the ceiling, Paradise pushed against it with her hands, sending herself hurtling back down towards the exposed blade.

Red Aether shone around her knee as she dropped down onto the sword, shattering it -- rubble striking the walls. Yakob del Sed fell to their knees again opposite her, clearly exhausted by that desperate maneuver.

Paradise smiled. That last gasp had been somewhat impressive, but it was pretty much over, anyway. No need to get her own hands dirty any further. Her face returning to its usual pristine serenity, Paradise called out to her foe.

"Any last words?" she said, as countless tendrils loomed above. "I'll be willing to remember them for you."

Yakob del Sed just glared for a moment longer before spitting blood onto the ground. Paradise's eye twitched, and the mass of wooden blades and claws began to creep closer towards her opponent.

"Fine," Paradise snarled. "Just die, then."

The Forest of Sin lunged in for the kill.

As the Forest of Sin restrained her, Aclima wept bitter tears.

She kicked and she punched at the wooden mass, but it was far too strong and durable to be affected. It didn't even notice she was attacking. Countless tiny tendrils of wood wrapped around her limbs and torso, holding her firmly in place.

This was it. She was just a puppet again. A piece to be passed along to the next ambitious player. No… she wasn't a puppet again. She'd always been a puppet, hadn't she? Since the day she was born. Since even before that.

Even if she survived this, even if she somehow saw tomorrow… all that was waiting for her there was more of this. An endless line of people waiting to exploit her. The life of the Supreme Heir.

As the branches flooded over her, Aclima screamed, holding one arm up against the mass.

For the first time, she could feel the chains binding her.

For the first time, she understood the place she'd been given in the world.

For the first time, she felt a true and unrelenting…

…hatred.

Purple Aether sparked.

Strictly speaking, a person does not need to have Aether to concoct an Aether ability. Really, an Aether ability is just a specialised way of using Aether, a way of utilising its basic principles to achieve a desired effect. So long as you understand how those principles work, you can technically come up with an ability -- even if you can't use it.

In some cases, it's even possible for this to happen subconsciously. It's possible for suppressed resentment and anger to boil in the back of your brain, slowly putting something together without you being consciously aware of it. It's possible for you to reach out, with that hand of yours, and say:

"Curse Hand."

In the instant before the branches would have struck true, they suddenly stopped. Serena, who'd braced herself for the end, looked around uncertainly. All around her, the tendrils and protrusions of the Forest of Sin had turned still -- like a paused videograph.

Um, Bruno? Serena asked. What's going on?

"Ah…" Paradise Charon moaned. "A-Ah…"

Darn! Serena had been so preoccupied with the enemy around her that she'd neglected the enemy in front of her. She looked back to the Second Contender, ready to leap back into the fight -- and her eyes widened in shock.

Paradise blinked.

Seven sinners on the edge of the horizon. The house of the little children where they toss themselves into the meat-grinder, into the world, into the meat-grinder, into the world. Bite your teeth into a rabbit’s head. Feel soft brain slide down your throat. A hell only a mother could love. Wounds bleeding vomit onto the bathroom floor. A razor wire crawling through your brain. Acid poured over your face, over your body, over your skin. You run your tongue over a nest of blades.

And…

Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked Paradise blinked

Blood ran down Paradise Charon's face from her eyes and mouth, a sinister makeup dribbling across her skin. One half of her face had fallen slack, and hollow gasps could be heard from her open red mouth. Huge and unsightly veins were protruding all across her body, blood leaking from some of them as well, as though the volume of liquid inside was too much for her skin to contain.

"Ah? Wazz?! Ah! Path?! Nuh… nuh!" Charon babbled incoherently, gasping for breath.

As Serena watched, horrified, Charon clawed at her throat, leaving deep gouges there with her sharp fingernails. Her eyes rolled back up into her head. Her red Aether -- mingled with a strange purple shade -- raged chaotically around her as she thrashed and wailed and finally…

…fell back onto the ground, twitching.

Serena was just about to step forward, to deliver the finishing blow, when the Forest of Sin began to writhe around her as well. As quickly as it had appeared on Elysian Fields, the Forest flooded back towards its master, with such speed and ferocity that Serena could do nothing but brace herself as it rushed past her. Hell passed her by in an instant.

Birds tweeted. Wind rustled. The light of a clear sky came down. It was like the planet itself was breathing a sigh of relief.

When Serena took her arm away from her face, she saw that the Forest had not completely disappeared -- but rather, coalesced. There, where the Second Contender had been standing, was a massive black tree, stretching up towards the sky. Some kind of cocoon maybe, a way for Charon to defend against whatever attack had just struck her?

Serena couldn't say. All she could do… was breathe a sigh of relief.

That was one Contender down.

The Forest of Sin dissipated around Aclima, hurriedly collapsing into red Aether as though it were running away from her. She was left lying on the floor, her breath heavy, her arm still extended where she'd grabbed at her attacker. Deep purple Aether still coursed around her hand.

Aclima looked at her Aether, dumbfounded. For a single stupid second, she was slightly disappointed -- she'd hoped her Aether would be golden, like her father's. Then, though, she just broke out into a grin and laughed.

By using her ability -- her Cursed Hand -- she'd come to understand it a little, come to understand what her subconscious had put together. It was like… a virus. An Aether virus. She'd uploaded the virus to Paradise Charon's Aether through touching the Forest of Sin, let it follow the power back to the source… and let it wreak havoc. Aclima didn't know exactly what had happened to Charon's body, but it would have been severe. It would be a wonder if she could still function as a human being.

Her hand had stopped shaking. Aclima clenched it into a victorious fist -- the fist of the Supremacy. She wasn't useless anymore. She could win. Her grin widened, and she was suddenly full of confidence.

She could help.

"Now arriving: Floor 262. Please note," said the intercom's cool, synthesised voice. "The Hall of the Body is currently under top-level infosecurity measures. All transmissions leaving the hall are subject to level-five screening procedures. All physical materials leaving the hall are subject to a search at your nearest security station. Breaches of infosecurity may incur a criminal charge with a possibility of prison time. Thank you. Doors now opening."

With that, the elevator doors smoothly slid open as promised.

Minister Grisha Mors, the Serpent of Pesh, straightened his tie as he strode out of the elevator and down the sleek white hallway, passing countless doors on either side.

He was a youthful-looking man, with tanned skin and white hair tied back into a ponytail. The black suit he was wearing was made from the skin of his namesake, and light reflected off it oddly, making it seem as though it might even be wet to the touch. His smart shoes clicked against the floor as he walked, and his grey eyes flicked to regard the aides and pages bustling through the hallway around him.

It was no surprise that things were in a panic. There was a chance they might have a new Supreme by the time the day was out, after all -- or they might have no Supreme at all. Whenever something changed in the Supremacy, it often meant months of work in the Body to make it functional.

Someone had to make sure the trains ran on time, after all -- despite the trains best efforts.

Mors reached the door he was looking for -- nondescript, just like any of the temporary offices on this floor -- and tapped in his code on the panel next to it. The second the doors slid open, he ducked inside, tapping the button on the other side that closed the door once more.

"You took your time," Eion Stenhouse, the Body Special Envoy, drawled as he looked up from his script. "Traffic bad?"

The meeting room wasn't much to speak of -- a table and a few chairs, with a water dispenser built into the wall -- but the decor wasn't what Mors was concerned with. The unit on top of the table, a bulky signal jammer, was of much more interest. Mors scanned it with his eyes, making sure it was functional. It wouldn't do for unexpected leaks to get out -- only the expected ones were welcome here.

Mors shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair before sitting down himself. His eyes flicked over to Stenhouse.

"Good to see we have the traitor among us," he said lightly, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "How much of this meeting will you leak to the Wise Men?"

Stenhouse wiggled his hand. "Just the basics, just the basics, Maizer Mors. Unless there are specific things you'd like me to leak?"

Mors smiled thinly. "We'll get to that."

The Three Wise Men: the First, Second and Third Ministers of the Body. On paper, the Body existed to facilitate the desires of the sitting Supreme -- but the current Supreme had little interest in governance, and so he'd granted the Three Wise Men unprecedented power to decide policy themselves. These days, they had spies everywhere, fingers in every pie. Little happened without their approval.

As far as Mors saw it, Aether-users could swing their swords and shoot their guns all day long… but this world really belonged to the bureaucrats.

He leaned back in his chair. "For now, I'm more concerned about the Supreme. Chizuru, any word from your Special Officers?"

Minister Chizuru Un flickered into existence in the chair across from Mors. She was a seemingly young woman with bright pink hair and eyes -- not to mention a poofy dress that was more frill than fabric. She flashed him a peace sign: "Hi, hi!"

Then again, that was only what she seemed to look like.

Chizuru's true form rested beside her chair, inside a small tank. She was an unfortunate Scurrant that looked like some kind of embryonic seahorse, capable of surviving only in a very specific liquid solution. She could only communicate with others using a hologram interface -- but with that false face, she'd built up a monolithic career in the entertainment industry before transitioning into politics.

An eccentric career path for an eccentric woman.

“Well?” Stenhouse prompted.

Her hologram twirled imaginary hair around an imaginary finger. "Well, from what my Officers tell me," she said. "The Tartarus is dead in the water. The Special Officers are split between the ship and the chaos on the planet below. The chain of command has collapsed, but there was never much of one anyway. Not lookin' good. D’oh!"

Mors scratched behind his ear. "I see, I see… and the Supreme himself?"

"Down on the planet. He's probably fighting Esmeralda already."

"And so we get to the million stator question," Mors sighed. "Who's going to win?" He looked to his two companions. "That's what we're thinking, right?"

"Personally," Eion said, sucking in air and saliva through his filed-down teeth. "I don't see the Supreme losing. He levelled the playing field before he went dormant. If someone had come along with a similar level of strength, I think we'd have heard of them, no?"

Chizuru put a finger to her cheek. "If Esmeralda had UAP backing, too, maybe he's got some of the Ten Nebula there?"

"No," Mors said firmly. "The UAP doesn't have anything to do with this -- at least, not on a governmental level. The last thing they'd want is the Supreme dead."

Chizuru blinked, looking at him as if he'd gone crazy. "Uh… are you sure?"

Mors took a pen from the table, twirling it idly between his fingers as he spoke. "Think about it. More than anything, the current Supreme is a lazy one. I mean, he doesn't do anything. The only reason the war between us and them has stayed cold is because there's nothing driving us from above. Imagine if the next Supreme was some kind of warmonger? No, no, they'll want our guy to remain in power as long as possible."

Eion snapped his fingers. "Ah, ah ah ah. Might be too late for that, though, Maizer Mors."

With a frown on his face, Mors clicked the pen. "Exactly. There's a non-zero chance that the Supreme is dead already. We don't want a revolutionary like Esmeralda to become the next Supreme -- if he didn't tear things apart, the civil wars would."

"How about that woman?" Stenhouse asked, leaning forward. "Can you get her to do something?"

Mors cast his long-time partner an unamused glance. “You know I can’t tell the Shepherdess what to do -- the best I can manage is an occasional phone call. She’ll do what’s best for the Supremacy, even if it’s not what’s best for us. She’s not an ally -- and even if she was, she’d be the most unreliable kind.”

Eion sighed, rubbing his thumbs over his temples.

His stress was understandable, but by no means unique.

Mors had no doubt that conversations very similar to this were taking place all over the Body: their civilian government lent itself to intense factionalism, small groups of Ministers and other officials allying together for scraps of additional power. Even if you didn't seek power for yourself, the fact that each controlled planet earned a Minister only a single vote meant that they had to band together just to get anything done.

Grisha Mors was seen as something of a rising star in the Body, but Pesh was still a single planet, with a single insignificant vote. If the world wouldn't give you a hammer, sometimes you had no choice but to use the knife.

"You sound like you've still got a plan," Chizuru said. "How do we play this?"

"We do nothing," Mors smiled. "I've already done it. I've dispatched the Pesh defence fleet to just outside the Elysian Fields system. The first sign of any ship taking off from the planet, and they're blasting it out of the sky. Even if Esmeralda becomes Supreme, he won't live long enough to let anyone know."

Chizuru raised her eyebrows. “Uh, sorry, but I don’t see that happening. The Elysian Fields Incident already has over a billion spins on Sfeer. Some of the Special Officers dispatched are pretty big on there -- they’ve been posting videos, pictures. Damn near live updates. The eyes of the galaxy are on this thing.”

“All the better. We blast Esmerelda out of the sky and everyone will immediately know. His Supremeship becomes a technicality, barely remembered, and we have ourselves a Dawn Contest,” Mors said simply. “From there, it’s just a matter of finding a candidate we can support. Commissioner Caesar, maybe, or Dorothy Eiro if we’re looking for a heroine -- dramaturgically, mythologically.”

“Well,” Chizuru admitted. “You’ve certainly put some thought into this, but… the Supreme gave super-explicit orders that only the Tartarus was to go to Elysian Fields. It’s that whole ‘fair fight’ sort of thing, but if he finds out you’re sending an entire fleet there -- against his orders? You’re super-dead.”

Delicately, carefully, Mors laid out the pen on the table before him -- adjusting the angle until it was a perfect and reassuring straight line. As he spoke, he looked down at it rather than his colleagues, as though there was some sort of consciousness within the object he was trying to make contact with.

“Pesh is known for our casinos,” he said softly. “Gambling dens, Thunderbolt arenas, whatever shape they take… but we gamble. That’s what we do. We understand it’s a gamble, this whole thing, life or death. Every day you go to bed without getting struck by lightning, or having a heart attack, or -- I don’t know -- spontaneous combustion… that’s you winning the bet. But the stakes are garbage in a game like that. The only thing you win is the right to keep playing.”

He looked back up, and his eyes were dark as pits.

“I have the fury of my own momentum. I say we play for real: all-in. Any objections?”

The room was silent.

“Well,” he grinned. “Let’s discuss our next Supreme, then.”