Aetheral Space

Dragan did his best not to give himself away as he marched towards the main gates of the Heart Building, Ruth Blaine by his side.

Both of them were clad in the armour they'd stolen hours earlier, signs of damage covered up as much as possible. It was strange viewing the world through one of these visors: there was a very slightly red tint to everything, and a display in the corner was constantly scrolling through a list of his vitals. Most of those read 'NULL', presumably because of the damage to the suit. Either that or Dragan's heart had stopped beating at some point in the last few hours. The way his week was going he wouldn't be surprised.

Dragan winced as he moved, his broken arm bumping against the inside of his suit. He’d bundled it up as much as he could, and they’d stolen some medicine to numb the pain, but a broken arm was a broken arm. Hopefully they could make it through the infiltration before the pain became overwhelming.

He glanced up at the Heart Building itself. It really was absurdly huge, the shadow it cast covering a good portion of the city all by itself. He wasn't sure just how many floors the behemoth had, but it was probably in the high triple-digits.

It was the kind of building that made a statement: I am compensating for something.

He'd looked up the mayor of Breck Kor, Johnston Rikhail, when he had a spare moment. The fact that he'd had a wanted order put out for Dragan at the same time as the Hyena sent men after him suggested there was some kind of corruption going on there, but he wasn't sure of the exact relationship. Did the Hyena work for Rikhail, or was it the other way around?

Dragan needed to make sure he had all his cards straight before he could start playing.

He folded up his research of Johnston Rikhail and carefully filed it away in his Archive, just under his memories about plants. He'd come back to it when he got a spare moment.

"You sure this'll work?" came Blaine's voice, crackly. With some messing around, Dragan had managed to set up a private communication channel between their two helmets. He wasn't sure just how secure that was, though, and he was loath to test it.

"Sure thing," he said, deepening his voice a little just in case anyone was listening in. "Just act normal, it's fine."

Don't say anything too specific, he told himself. If anyone is listening in, give them some reasonable doubt.

They marched through the huge courtyard at the front of the Heart Building, doing their best to stay in line with the other patrols that were coming to and fro. Dragan had gone through some basic training before getting himself reassigned to AdminCorps, so he was familiar with the etiquette, but Blaine was the one he was worried about.

Her stroll was too casual, her arms swinging too much. "You're meant to be a soldier!" he wanted to scream. "You're not heading out for a picnic!" In reality, of course, he just breathed a little louder, as if Blaine could understand his frustration just from that.

But still - surely someone would notice. Dragan glanced anxiously from person to person as they drew closer to the gates. Luckily, everyone seemed to be focused on keeping themselves in line before stopping to look at anyone else.

"You're all tense," hissed Blaine over the radio. "Loosen up, or they might figure us out."

Oh, he could kill her. He really could.

He grunted noncommittally.

"Huh?" she said.

"I said 'okay'."

"No you didn't," she said. "You just made a noise."

"Yeah," he snapped, already getting offended on behalf of his own lie. "And the noise I made was me saying 'okay'."

A heavy sigh blared over the radio, and Dragan rolled his eyes. These people really were like children. Here they were, approaching the very center of Breck Kor's security presence, and Blaine was trying to drag him into fruitless conversation.

Now that he thought about it, he really was quite close to the Heart Building's gates. They really were huge, giant constructs of steel that were obviously there more for the visual effect than any practical purpose. Indeed, the majority of the personnel coming and going were using sets of smaller doors on either sides of the main gate. But, still, it was intimidating.

Very, very intimidating.

It was strange, but the plan had seemed much more sane when he was miles away plotting in an empty apartment. Now that he was actually here, images of himself filled with plasmafire kept rising to the surface. Maybe he secretly had a great deal of self-loathing, and this whole plan was just his subconscious' way of getting him killed?

He thought about it. No, he definitely didn't hate himself, even if he was lazy, petty and stupid, so that wasn't it.

Maybe he'd just come up with a bad plan. That was much more plausible. The mystery was solved, so now they could just turn around and head home.

A moment passed. He kept walking.

Dragan glanced at his traitorous feet. Now they could just turn around and head home.

Not a change. His body seemed devoted to the plan, even as his mind panicked. He was in it for the long haul, then.

Dragan sighed, his heavy sigh distorting the communications channel, and entered the Heart Building.

-

It was really hard to hear with a bag over your head. Well, come to think of it, it would be hard to hear with anything over your head, but bags were especially bad about it. With things like buckets, there was a pretty big gap at the bottom through which the sound could sneak in, so they weren't so bad. The less of your head was covered, the easier it was to hear, generally - but then again, things like earmuffs only covered the ears, and they were very good at what they did. But then again they were specialized for that, so wouldn't they be an exception to the rule?

Skipper strained his hearing, and -

"Is he awake?" said a nearby voice, male. "I don't have all day here."

The voice was nervous, but nervous in an angry way. This was a man in deep trouble. Well, Skipper could relate; he had a bag over his head, which wasn't an enviable situation either. Plus he was missing an arm. He could still feel it, but he was fairly certain it hadn't been there the last time he'd checked.

"He is, sir," said a second voice - a cold, professional one Skipper recognised. It was the devil who had put this unholy bag over his head. "The instruments confirm it."

A moment of silence passed. Skipper idly wondered what Ruth was up to - from counting the seconds, he knew that many hours had passed since he'd first been brought in. There'd been no sign of them bringing in any of his crewmates since then, so they were either still on the run or …

… no, not even to be contemplated.

The cold voice continued on as footsteps approached him: "I'd recommend against approaching him, Lord Mayor."

A third voice - the Special Officer who'd brought him in - chipped in. "I would agree with some modicum of caution, Mr. Rikhail. He's a dangerous individual."

The footsteps stopped in front of him. "If he's a danger, Crossland," he said. "It would be because your equipment isn't working."

A hand lashed out and pulled the bag off of Skipper's head, leaving him blinking blearily as his eyes adjusted to the light.

He was in a dim interrogation room, a surprisingly roomy circular space with two levels - an elevated section behind a set of rails, and the lower section in the center of the room, where Skipper was bound against a block of steel. Faint steam flowed into the room from vents in the floor. The heat was clearly meant to make him feel uncomfortable.

In front of Skipper stood the Lord Mayor of the city, Johnston Rikhail. Skipper raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had seen pictures, of course, but that hadn't quite prepared him for just how red the politician was. A lifetime of stress and indulgence would do that to a guy, he supposed.

A short distance behind him was a guy Skipper didn't recognize - tall, with a thin moustache. His eyes were concealed behind a pair of red goggles. His interrogator, maybe? He certainly had the look for it.

The swordsman Special Officer was further back still, near the back of the room on the elevated section. Next to him was another person Skipper didn't recognize - a sandy-haired young man with a constant slight smile on his lips. A liar's smile - Skipper recognised it immediately.

He glanced back towards Rikhail. "Howdy there."

The Lord Mayor whipped his arm out, striking Skipper across the face with the back of his hand. Dull pain throbbed in Skipper's cheek as his view was snapped to the side.

"Where's Hadrien?" Rikhail spat.

So his Aether wasn't working, then - otherwise Rikhail would have been more likely to break his wrist with that strike rather than inflict any real pain. They must have dosed him with something while he was unconscious, something to mess with his thought process enough to prevent him from accessing his Aether. The same substance they used in Neverwire, if he had to guess. He couldn't even try a ping to assess just how screwed he was.

Skipper grinned. "Where's Hadrien? You didn't get him, then? Nice, nice. That was an arm well-spent, at least."

"Answer the Lord Mayor's question," the interrogator barked. "Or I will not be as gentle."

Skipper grinned wider. "No clue!"

Rikhail brought his hand back for another strike, but hesitated. A moment later, he dropped his arm to his side. A strange smirk played across his lips.

"No, you don't know, do you?" he said. "You haven't a clue. How sad. Shall I tell you something interesting?"

Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Go for it."

Rikhail stepped back, a smugly satisfied expression on his face. "You see, I have a very versatile information network. Very versatile. Probably one of the best out there, I'd say, if we ignore the GID and Darkstar."

"That's a lot of qualifications, but sure," said Skipper, straining to perform a one-armed shrug.

"I've shown your face around and I've been told something interesting," the Lord Mayor purred. "Apparently, if I get into contact with Contender Avaman and let him know you're here, he'll come running. Isn't that interesting?"

Shit.

Skipper jerked at his restraints in sudden feral desperation, as if he could rip Rikhail's tongue out of his mouth before it could say any more dangerous words. The interrogator took a step backwards from his boss, mouth open. Even the Special Officer turned pale.

"Sir," said the interrogator, stepping between Rikhail and Skipper. "Lord Mayor, I think we should - ah, let's be reasonable. This is a minor matter, very minor, there isn't any need to get the Contenders involved, they are very busy people, you understand? Well, I'm sure you do, but -"

"From what I'm told," said Rikhail lightly, hands clasped behind his back. "Avaman the Announcer would only be too happy to receive this information. He may even find the time to come here personally."

The man was speaking about a Contender like it was a dog that would come when he called. He clearly hadn’t seen the number of bodies they left behind.

The Special Officer spoke up. "I must agree with Mr. Crossland on this matter. The Contenders' place is by the Supreme's side. It would be highly inappropriate for us to distract them from their purpose."

Rikhail clicked his tongue angrily - it seemed he was more intimidated by the Special Officer than this Crossland guy. It was the anger of a coward, though: he would never act on it.

"Well," he said. "Contacting Avaman won't be necessary, of course, if our friend here just speaks his mind."

Skipper gritted his teeth. The path to what he’d been dreaming of for years was finally coming into view. He couldn't afford to be caught now, especially not by a Contender. Not by Avaman.

"Well?" grinned Rikhail, cocking his head. "Do you have something to say to me?"

He closed his eyes.

Sorry, kid.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll tell you where he is."