Aetheral Space

Life was like a game, Dragan reflected, but the game was different for every player.

For your average person, the game was heavily railroaded - go here, do this, go home, sleep, do it again. It was the kind of game you wouldn't willingly play unless you had a masochistic streak. In short, it was shit.

For someone like Ruth Blaine, it was probably an action title - one of the ones where you just tap one button again and again to win. No skill or intelligence required, just cheap validation for the lowest common denominator. Oh, you beat up one-hundred guys! Here's a suit of armour you can use to kick innocent young clerks in the ribs! Something like that.

Dragan had always thought his life was like an in-depth strategy game, where you had to move your pieces around with exacting accuracy in order to achieve victory. The kind of game where boldness and intellect would see you right every time, where a simple set of steps could be followed to achieve unambiguous victory.

Clearly he'd been wrong.

In reality, his life was a shitty low-budget title designed by some gremlin in a basement somewhere to piss off the player as much as possible. It was the kind of game where, no matter how well you played, more and more infuriating nonsense would be pelted at you until you were forced into the equally humiliating path said gremlin had laid out for you. The gremlin in this case was God, and Dragan was sure the divine tormentor was having a good laugh at his expense.

These were the kinds of thoughts that went through his mind as he leaned against a street corner, staring at the black screen of his script, pretending to be busy. He had to be careful of this kind of pointless thought; it was anathema to a Cogitant. For his kind, rogue trains of thought more often than not lead to dangerous places. He'd once heard stories about a Cogitant girl who'd been locked in her bedroom with nothing to distract her for a week - when they got her out, she'd believed her bedside lamp was alive and trying to kill her.

A little bit of fruitless self-pity wasn't quite that bad, but it was still a dangerous habit to get into.

Dragan glanced up from his script. The corner he stood on was in one of Breck Kor's shopping districts, more middle-class than slum. It was the kind of place that bred moral outrage quite easily, so security wouldn't just shoot him in the head here - they'd drag him out of sight first.

Still, it made being bait a much less dangerous occupation.

Two security officers, marching down the promenade, took the bait. One of them hesitated for a second.

Is that him? Did I see that right? Dragan's Cogitant capabilities weren't on the level of people like Special Officer Kojirough, but he still felt like he could reason out the officer's thoughts fairly easily.

Barely suppressing a smirk, Dragan looked up at his surroundings again, subtly angling his face so that the officers could get a better look at it.

He watched the way the officer stiffened, nudged his partner. The body language was unmistakable. He'd got them.

As though suddenly realizing the officers were there, Dragan widened his eyes, turned on his heel and ran for it, pushing through the crowd. Not too quickly for them to follow him, but fast enough - clumsy enough - to make a good show of panic.

Still, he couldn't help but feel anxious as he charged through the maze of streets, ignoring the shouts of the officers behind him. If any unforeseen circumstances came up and slowed him down, he wasn't sure he'd be able to do much against two trained guards. They'd probably be child's play for Blaine, but Dragan had never been very fond of fighting; it was tiring, and it hurt when you got hit.

Left, right, left, alley. The directions hung as a constant process in the back of Dragan's mind, conjured up by his Archive. The parts of his mind that weren't focusing on running instead rummaged around in his memories, plucking forth half-remembered Crestpoole methods of escaping from danger. Most of them involved striking your attacker in the groin.

Dragan turned the corner and a dull despair settled in his stomach.

The road was blocked. Some kind of car accident - a collision - had occurred since he'd scouted out the area with Blaine. The middle of the street was full to bursting with the two vehicles, the arguing drivers, the people who'd run in to help, and the disgustingly large mass of people content to watch. Maneuvering his way through that chaos would slow Dragan down to an unacceptable degree.

Could he turn around and go another route? No - given the distance he'd maintained between himself and the officers, they'd be upon him any second.

Panic quickly spread through his mind, like a wildfire suddenly emerging to consume his Archive. Intricately decorated bookshelves he'd spent idle hours imagining burst into flame. Titanium chairs and tables melted into bubbling puddles. There was no way out.

Was there?

An idea occurred. An idea that was foolish to the extreme, sure, but perhaps the best way to get him out of this. A way to rise above this situation, so to speak.

He'd seen Blaine jump down half a hallway with ease, so a simple leap like this was definitely possible. Whether it was probable was another story entirely.

Oh well. Only one way to find out.

Dragan took a step back - the only retreat he'd allow himself - then charged forward at the blockage, mouth squeezed shut in an expression of utmost concentration. He tapped into that energy, his Aether, and weak blue lines of the stuff began to coil around his legs like constricting snakes. There was a sensation, too, a peculiar warmth that enveloped the limbs, like there was fire inside his bones.

Jump, jump, jump! Dragan mentally screamed at himself, trying to overcome the common sense that correctly told him that this was a terrible idea.

He'd smash right into the cars. He'd land in the middle of the crowd and be stuck. He'd be too slow and be grabbed by security.

He knew all these things were true without a doubt.

And yet, instead of all that, he jumped - and he flew.

As his powerful kick against the ground sent him soaring up, over the commotion, Dragan's face of concentration was instantly replaced with one of open-mouthed wonder. One meter, two meters, three meters, four … for a horrible, wonderful second, Dragan thought he might just keep going up, rising into the sky until he left the planet entirely.

Then, of course, he reached the height of his jump and began falling just as he passed over the car accident.

The crowd that was now watching him gasped in shock and horror. The ground was quickly approaching, the grey concrete looking particularly merciless. Well, he'd expected this. All he had to do was channel that Aether into his side and land right…

… he landed wrong.

Misjudging his trajectory, Dragan crashed down to the ground on the side of his body that had absolutely no protection. There was a sickening hollow crunch from his left arm. Broken - shattered.

Dragan bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming out. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. He didn't know exactly who 'they' were in this scenario, but they still weren't getting the satisfaction.

He had no time to stop. He had no time to stop. Shaking off the hands of the well-meaning onlookers trying to keep him still until an ambulance arrived, Dragan charged onwards. He cradled his broken arm, the limb wobbling awkwardly with each and every step he took, each movement transmitting explosions of pain to his brain.

He couldn't stop. He was almost there; he could hear the officers behind him. Hear them gaining on him.

With a half-grunt, half-squeal of exertion, Dragan forced himself to turn and run into the alleyway over to the left. It was a small gap between two clothes shops, the air slightly opaque from the gathering of fumes from each property.

Just as relief finally started coming back to Dragan, it was driven away. As if slow-motion, he felt his foot catch on something unseen, some uneven floor tile or discarded can. His body lurched forward, his already unbalanced running stance thrown into chaos by the unexpected obstacle.

He was going to trip. No, scratch that - he was tripping.

Dragan landed on his broken arm, full-force. This time, he screamed - a feral howl of pain and anger that sounded more like a wild animal than a person. At the same time, he pounded his good fist against the concrete in frustration. Tiny blue sparks coated it as he brought it down, and when it came back up there were cracks in the ground.

"Right, get him up," came the voice of one of the officers behind him, voice modulated by their helmet. "Confirm his face."

There was the sound of a foot brushing against the ground. Hesitance - caution.

"What's wrong?" said the officer.

The second one spoke up: "I ain't touching him. You see him clear that car? That's Aether. I don't mess around with Aether."

"Ugh," said the first, voice coming closer. "Y-shamed."

Rough hands seized Dragan by the back and pulled him up, turning him around. Wincing, he found himself staring into the expressionless goggles of a Supremacy helmet, the officer looking him over.

"It's him!" said the officer, a sliver of excitement audible even through the voice modulation. "Call it in -"

The moment those words left his mouth, Ruth Blaine dropped down from the roof of the neighbouring building into the alleyway, red Aether already raging around her body. She landed on all fours between the two guards, already clad in her Skeletal Set, her claws digging into the concrete as a rattling breath escaped her lungs.

The officer behind her yelped, pulling up his rifle, but it was too late. A backwards kick from Blaine - she didn't even look at the poor guy - sent him flying backwards, cracks already visible in his chest plate as he slid across the ground.

Dragan winced. Idiot. How are we supposed to use these disguises if you smash them to pieces?

The other guard came in with his stun baton, swinging it with such force that it probably could have broken a skull. Dragan didn't find out for sure, though, as Blaine ducked, dodging the weapon long before it even came close.

This gap between the two buildings was thin, not ideal for fighting in the least, but Ruth Blaine seemed to be a resourceful girl. She jumped to the side, kicking off the wall with such force that it sent her flying right over the guard into his blind spot. As she flew, she turned over in mid-air, grabbing the officer by the helmet - and then, with a roar of exertion, she flipped him, slamming him into the ground like a mallet as she landed.

Dragan couldn't help but be impressed. He really wished he could help it, because he was actually about to blow a gasket.

"How exactly," he said, gingerly picking himself up from the ground. "Is this armour going to fool anyone once you've gone and smashed it all up?"

Blaine looked at him, her Skeletal Set already decomposing into red Aether. Frowning, she glanced down at the way he was holding his arm. "They get you?"

"Yeah," Dragan lied.

She spat on the back of the nearest officer. "Bastards."

"Can you answer the question, please? How're we going to sneak into the Heart Building now?"

Blaine turned the unconscious body of the nearest officer onto his back with her foot. "It's not that busted. We can put something over the cracks and paint it the same colour."

Dragan raised an eyebrow. "You think that'll stand up to close inspection?"

"Well, we don't want close inspection anyway, right? We'd be screwed already if it came to that."

He sighed, running his face over his hands. His mind was already coming up with the right shade of paint, the best materials to cover the damage, the ways they could use this situation to improve the plan. It was infuriating, but his brain seemed intent on proving Blaine right.

"Right," he said after a minute or two. "Grab them - we'll keep them in the safehouse while we're doing this."

Blaine grinned. "So we're doing it now, then?"

He glanced at her expectant expression. It seemed like he'd ended up in charge of this operation somewhere along the way. Well, that suited him just fine.

He didn't want to disappoint, then.

"Yeah," he said, not letting a sliver of his nervousness taint his voice. "We're doing it now."