Snow fell.

It wasn't real snow, of course. The holo-restaurant they'd sat down in had a winter theme active, picturesque snowflakes drifting down around the diners. Children played in the fake drifts, the white mass lagging slightly as they crushed it into non-existent snowballs. A bright blue sky replaced the ceiling.

Muzazi shivered, and not just from the sight before him. Snow reminded him of Nocturnus, and that was one mission he'd really rather forget. That was the first time he'd become truly aware of his own weakness.

“So,” he said, voice low, looking across the booth. “What is it you want from me?”

The man across from him -- the man who'd eliminated the Sasquatch's user -- blinked. Now that he'd introduced himself, and now that Muzazi got a good look at him up close, it really was obvious. This was Nebula Two of the Unified Alliance of Planets. Jamilu Aguta.

Muzazi narrowed his eyes. Was it even appropriate for him to be meeting with the enemy like this?

Aguta spoke calmly, the fries and burger before him untouched. “What we want for you is for you to just keep doing as you're doing.”

Muzazi raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That's it? ‘Be myself’?”

A slight smile spread across Aguta’s lips. “That's a better way of putting it. Yes. We want you to ‘be yourself’.”

“Why?”

“Well… we've determined that ‘yourself’ would make a good Supreme. You're not a warmonger, or -- despite how I thought of you originally -- a maniac. You're someone who cares about the people, not personal glory. You're not a threat to us.”

At that last sentence, Muzazi frowned. “Are you saying I'm weak?”

“No,” Aguta replied, without missing a beat. “I'm saying you're sensible.”

Although the two of them were alone in the booth, neither of them were unguarded. The Phases who'd accompanied Muzazi to the Arena were posted in and around the diner, ready to react to any sign of betrayal. Another Nebula was here, too -- Muzazi didn't recall the number, but the red-haired fellow with the massive shield had been lurking around.

Then, of course, there was the spear. Muzazi's eyes drifted to it, resting next to Aguta in his seat.

“Interested?” Aguta asked.

“I've heard tales of the Old Demons of the Dawn,” Muzazi said. “They're supposed to be powerful.”

Aguta chose his words carefully. “They're… useful,” he admitted. “I was able to locate and eliminate the Sasquatch's user with one of Victory's abilities. Still, making use of them leaves a sick feeling in my stomach. They're a madness born of war, after all.”

“The kind of war you wish to prevent.”

Aguta looked Muzazi right in the eye. “The Supremacy and the UAP are already at war,” he said. “By definition, that will always be the case -- the UAP is nothing but a united front against Supremacy aggression. But it's a cold war, a quiet war. Don't you agree that it's best remaining that way?”

Slowly, Muzazi nodded. “Needless bloodshed goes against my ideals… so yes.”

“That fact is why we seek to support you.”

Muzazi glanced around, making sure nobody else in the diner was listening in. “Support me how? I don't want people thinking me a UAP puppet.”

Aguta nodded. “Nothing so obvious. We'd move behind the scenes, adjust events to your favour, deal with threats that aren't so easily eliminated.”

“And in exchange?”

“Like I said…” Aguta spread his hands. “Be yourself.”

Muzazi bit his lip, considering the proposition. He needed all the help he could get… but having an enemy nation support him? If he wasn't a Dawn Contestant, that would surely be considered treason. Could he justify that level of duplicity to himself?

Murderer.

He steeled himself. He'd forgotten, hadn't he? Atoy Muzazi had long since lost the right to have scruples.

The alleys of cities were North’s domain. He'd been born in them, grown up in them, conquered them. There was nowhere else he felt as much at home.

It wasn't the alleys of one particular city that welcomed him -- no, it was all of them, urban veins and arteries linking and blending together across the galaxy like a far-off macrocity. They welcomed him easily. He was the kind of bacteria that responded well to their filth. He walked from dark to dark without hesitation.

“Dragan!”

Well… perhaps just a tiny bit of hesitation.

As the shout echoed through the alleyway, North turned his head. He was just in time to see a hulking figure, clad in twisted lupine armour, crash down to the ground before him. Red Aether and burning orange hair.

It didn't take a genius to work out he was looking at Ruth Blaine.

“Dragan,” she said again, her voice warped into ferocity by the shape of the helmet.

Well, North wasn't such a shitty Umbrant that he couldn't match the voice of a guy he'd spent the last two years around. He let his lips spread into the calm smile Dragan favoured and raised his eyebrows just a tad. The kind of forced calm you crafted to hide your surprise.

“Ruth,” he said coolly. “It's been a while.”

Another footstep -- this one from behind him. Impressive. There weren’t that many people who could sneak up on North like that. He glanced over his shoulder to see who the lucky winner was.

Ah. Blonde hair and glaring eyes. That face belonged to only one person -- well, two, technically. Or was that three?

North grinned. “Hello, Serena,” he said with Dragan's voice. “Or is that Bruno?”

Bruno's glare deepened, brow knitting together. “Who are you?” he growled. Purple Aether cracked around his shoulders menacingly.

North blinked. “Huh?”

“You're not Dragan,” Bruno said, certainty dripping from every syllable. “Who are you?”

What do you mean? It's been two years, Bruno. People change. Did you think I'd just stay as I was when I first met you? The world isn't that kind, I'm afraid.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

It kinda sounded like something Dragan would say? Would it work? It might. Skipper's crew had always been a bunch of bleeding hearts, with the exception of the man himself. Those glares, though…

Ah, well. North wasn't a sore loser. He knew when he was rumbled.

Translucent Aether surged silently, the mask of light lifting from ‘Dragan’ and revealing North's face underneath. A second later, the clothing flickered away too, business suit replaced by North's casual wear. He offered the pair a cheeky grin.

“Been a while, huh?”

There was a moment of silence, and then…

“I'm gonna fucking kill you,” Ruth promised.

“Now come on,” North teased. “Is that any way to greet an old --”

Ruth Blaine wasted no time. In one swift movement -- far too quick to be reacted to -- she seized North by the collar and slammed him hard against the brick wall. North gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs, his legs flailing in empty air as he was lifted high.

“Little too tight,” he wheezed, prying at the metal fingers around his throat.

He could see Blaine's golden eye, glaring furiously from within the recesses of the helmet. There wasn't much leniency in that gaze. The hand around his throat was a vice. Not the best situation to find oneself in.

But it could always get worse. Bruno whipped a hand out -- and pressed the tip of an invisible sword against the side of North's neck. He winced as much as was safe.

“Answer our questions,” Ruth growled. “Or I kill you. I'm not joking.”

“Get in line,” Bruno hissed.

“Sure, sure!” North gasped, lifting his hands up in surrender. “Just… I mean… come on, have a heart, guys!”

The two exchanged a glance -- and the pressure around North's neck relaxed, just a tad.

“How long have you been impersonating Dragan?” Bruno demanded, the accusation clear in his eyes. Ah. So that was where he was coming from.

“Just a couple hours now,” North said truthfully. “I’m just standing in for him at the opening ceremony. He's got better places to be. Don't worry, man. I didn't kill him and steal his identity, if that's what you're worried about.”

The chokehold returned.

“And we know that, how?” Ruth said, her voice soft.

A pained grin returned to North's face. “Because your ol’ pal North is telling ya, of course. I'm Hadrien's partner in crime!”

“Bullshit,” Bruno spat.

“Hey, it's true! You don't think your buddy Dragan would do this kind of stuff?”

“Nah,” Bruno shook his head. “I believe Dragan would do it. I just don't think you'd help. Last I checked, you and he weren't exactly best friends.”

“Well…” North chuckled. “I guess you could say we're friends with benefits.”

Ruth's eyes widened behind her helmet, and she forgot her rage for a moment. “Huh?!”

“He pays me to be his friend,” North clarified. “You know, a salary? I'm on retainer. I'm a useful guy to have around, you know. He's a smart fella, that Dragan Hadrien.”

Bruno put a hand to his chin, nodding slightly to himself. Looked like he was convinced. That was good news -- maybe they'd all get out of this situation with unsnapped necks.

“The heist on the Providenza,” Bruno finally said. “The take from that -- that's how he's paying you, right?”

“Hey, you're pretty smart too,” North casually lied. “You're dead on the money. He came to me right before the Melees began -- offered me a whole heapin’ helpin’ of cash in exchange for my, eh, humble assistance. How could I say no?”

Ruth pulled him closer, his face inches from that warped metal visage. “A better place?”

“You what?”

“You said Dragan had somewhere better to be tonight,” she continued. “And that's why you were taking his place. But he's been preparing for the Dawn Contest all this time, right? There's no way he'd just skip out on it after all that. You're full of shit.”

North rolled his eyes. As expected of Ruth Blaine, she'd locked onto one of the only pieces of truth he'd given her, and judged it a lie. Some things never changed.

“You know where he is,” Ruth pressed on. “You know where he's going to be -- and you're telling us. We're seeing our friend.”

As he was held aloft, there in the alleyway, he spread his arms wide -- as if presenting himself to an audience.

“You're pretty dense, huh?” he said.

“Careful now.”

“No, but you are, aren'tcha? You really think all this crap means anything? Pledges and matches and friggin’ pomp and circumstance? It's all for show. Everything real happens behind the scenes. If you know what you're doing, the matches are just formalities -- the results are already determined.”

He had that thing, didn't he? That mantra? The only one who decides what happens to me is me. North liked that.

“That's what your pal Dragan's doing,” he continued, a trace of passion entering his tone. “He's determining. And I'm damned if I'm gonna let you guys distract him from that.”

Ruth's glare intensified, and her grip tightened once again. “You don't have a choice,” she rasped.

North smiled through the pain. “Oh, Ruth… I've always got a choice.”

He chose violence.

Nightmare Underground.

Cathedral at the World's End.

“So…” Muzazi said, leaning back in his leather seat. “If I'm going to believe you intend to help me, I need proof. What assistance can you give me, right here and now?”

Aguta raised an eyebrow. “What kind of assistance?”

Muzazi did not blink. “That burden is on you.”

For a moment, Aguta frowned, but the corners of his mouth slowly turned up again. “Information, for one. That's easy enough. Learning about your enemy is halfway to defeating them, don't you think?”

Slowly, Muzazi nodded. “And what information can you give me?”

“Nael Manron,” Aguta said. “The one they call the King of Killers. He's been quite active tonight, and I expect he'll continue being active for many nights to come. We've got quite a bit of information on him.”

“Go on.”

“Originally from Hexkay,” Aguta said, steepling his fingers on the table. “I don't expect you to have heard about it -- it's in UAP space, and until around two years ago it was a Lilith World anyway. They practice a rather… unique form of Aether usage there.”

“The Sasquatch?” Muzazi asked. It didn't take a genius to work it out: something like that construct had hardly been a common ability.

Aguta nodded. “They're called Guardian Entities. Gene Tyrant leftovers recorded, altered… until they're something quite a bit more formidable. We believe the Crimson Carnival came across a ship full of those leftovers and Manron taught them the method. That's how they've become so powerful so quickly.”

“And how is it you know this?”

“Our Ultraviolets are quite thorough,” Aguta replied. “The GID aren't the only intelligence agency in the galaxy. We have quite a bit more information on your other enemies, as well. Are you interested?”

Muzazi considered his next move for a good long moment, staring into his counterpart’s eyes. He'd be a fool to throw such an opportunity away… but could he really trust this man? How did he know that Nael Manron, for instance, hadn't been given the exact same pitch?

Before he could come to a decision, however, the communicator in his ear beeped. Morgan getting back in contact, no doubt. Muzazi kept his eyes on Aguta as he tapped his ear.

“This is Muzazi,” he said.

Morgan's voice was distorted -- but more than that, exhausted. “Commander,” he gasped, pain lurking in his breath.

Immediately, Muzazi sat up. “Morgan? What is it?”

The next words dragged Muzazi's heart down into his stomach.

“It's the Heir. She's gone.”