Aetheral Space-Chapter 546 - 17.18: Monsters of Man

DAY 3

The convoy rumbles across the wasteland.

It was early that morning when they'd finally found it, spotted by a patrolling drone, so early that the day couldn't even be said to have started yet. Just like the other variants of Dragan Hadrien, their target had manifested in the vicinity of Zepan -- but unlike the others, upon manifestation it had turned and started moving in the opposite direction, into the wilderness of Nehr Müt. Whether that was the result of its own will or some random impulse, none could say.

The convoy moves in strict formation, ten armoured trucks flanked by weaving swarms of bike-riding Neo-Automatics, their frames and functions enhanced by the implantation of Temperance. Ten Seelie Rangers to a truck, with thirty Neo-Automatics in escort -- an army of a hundred-and-thirty, ready to combat this opponent.

But an army is nothing without commanders.

One Star, Supreme Commander of the Seelie Rangers and leader of the Unseelie, stands atop the head truck. His arms are crossed, and his sword and shield sheathed. Even through the barriers that are his eyelids, he can see what approaches better than anyone else. A soft smile spreads across his lips, and he taps his wrist bound script to give the signal.

Get ready.

His subordinates emerge a few seconds later, climbing onto the roof of the second truck in the convoy. Oé and Sōngshǔ -- the tiny young woman has already recovered from the fight against Atoy Muzazi, without the aid of stimulants or Panacea. Just as the Director said when he first met her, that body of hers truly is a wonder. Their remaining comrades are staying back in Auberon, their abilities unsuited to this adversary.

In the distance, their prey is now visible to all. A faint humanoid figure, walking stoically through the dust. It hasn't noticed them yet.

One Star inspects it carefully, making absolutely sure it is what the Director has been hoping for. He has never known that man to be wrong when it comes to matters like this, but there's a first time for everything. As he observes closely, though, he determines that the first time won't be today.

The version of Dragan Hadrien that trudges through the wastes is, in a word, wild. He is naked from head to toe, pale as a corpse, with his silver hair overgrown and dragging along the ground behind him. In some places, the hair even twists together into something like bone, ill-grown horns protruding threateningly from the mass. His eyes, staring straight ahead as he moves, are a glowing red. The mark of the crimson Panacea.

Just as they had hoped.

A cannon atop one of the vehicles further back moves. Not to aim at the Sagittarius Hadrien, but instead angling high up into the sky. Nehr Müt is a dark and inhospitable place. To increase their chances of a successful capture as much as possible, they need to turn the environment more to their advantage.

Bang!

The cannon belches smoke, firing Zephyr Pandershi's artificial sunspot high up into the sky. At the crest of its flight, the sphere-like device engages its repulsors, freezing in the air high above the wasteland. A second later, it activates -- a hot orange light blazing from within its structure, shining over the battlefield below.

In a second, the land they are driving through goes from a grey waste to a sun-baked desert. Each and every man in the convoy can now see the enemy they are approaching, not just One Star. And, of course, the enemy can see them too.

The creature turns to look at them, crimson eyes still blank. No human ego exists within it, no sense of self that could interfere with its directives. It is the core of the red Panacea network, nothing more. It would probably be erroneous to even call it Dragan Hadrien.

Devour. Infest. Expand.

If these base instincts can be called thoughts, then that is what it is thinking. Its body twitches as the false sunlight washes over its skin. Perhaps it perceives the new stimulus as an attack. Perhaps it would perceive any stimulus as an attack.

Its pupils shrink as it registers their approach, and it responds immediately. There is no moment of contemplation or consideration. In the manner of a machine, it registers an element and immediately reacts to it.

The ground shakes.

The convoy splits in two -- five trucks each, swarmed by bikes -- and moves to surround Dragan Hadrien on al sides. The auto-brains driving are steady, and even as Nehr Müt trembles, they maintain their ordained course -- until the shaking becomes a crash, and then two crashes, and then three. After all, Dragan Hadrien has been doing more than just walking through the darkness.

It is a vector of the red Panacea. It has been devouring. It has been infesting. It has been expanding.

The ground below Hadrien explodes upwards as massive tentacles of Panacea, each dwarfing its body, rise up from the earth. Nehr Müt is often thought of as devoid of life, but that isn't strictly true. For an organism like the red Panacea, life can be found anywhere to be absorbed and incorporated, even in its most basic forms.

A tentacle the size of a skyscraper swings towards the vehicles on the left -- but the Seelie Rangers are ready for it. Throwing their hands up into the air and coordinating their bioelectricity, they cry out as one --

"Seelie Shield!"

-- and bolts of manmade lightning converge to form a barrier that blocks the tentacle's strike.

Their Supreme Commander is the next to move. Kicking off of the truck roof like an orange bullet, he slices all the way through the tentacle with a single swing of his sword before launching himself from the flying viscera directly towards the Hadrien variant. His passage does not go unimpeded, however. A legion of further tentacles lunge upwards, blocking his path and forcing him to dodge and retaliate against their strikes.

Meanwhile, Oé holds up her Black Brush towards the severed tentacle and spins it -- a dark smoke pouring from the blade and slithering towards the squirming appendage. The red Panacea is a biohazard of the highest order. Even if they can successfully acquire its core, Oé's flesh-eating gas will be required to eradicate its remnants.

Sōngshǔ sprints through the forest of writhing tendrils, a sharp grin on her face as she weaves through their attacks before countering. Each time her fist slams into a tentacle, there's a mighty boom -- and that sound is louder each time than the last. Twin Fist Utter Destruction doubles the strength of Sōngshǔ's punch each time it successfully hits the enemy. A situation like this is practically tailor-made for it.

Dragan Hadrien remains stock-still, staring straight forward as the tentacles operate on its behalf. Its face is expressionless. Its eyes are dead. If anything approaching personality still exists within its brain, it is surely only the last traces of faint annoyance at this attack.

It takes a step forward --

-- or, at least, it tries to.

"Seelie Gun!"

A blast of lightning, fired by the Seelie Rangers on the other side of the encirclement, strikes the Hadrien variant from behind. Without Aether defenses, the damage is tremendous. The top of Hadrien's head is shaved away by the blow, leaving only its lower jaw. Charred gore sprays across the ground.

Even then, though, Hadrien does not fall. It continues to stand on legs shaking like those of a newborn deer. It makes no attempt to move, either, even as further Seelie Gun attacks slam into its body, burning holes straight through its flesh. It would be meaningless for it to move.

It is the regent of a crawling kingdom, its crown of teeth exposed to the open air. It does not fall nor does it move because the crimson Panacea does not even conceive of such superficial damage as injury. After all… there is nothing Panacea excels at more than regeneration.

New flesh bubbles into place, and within mere seconds there is no sign that the Hadrien variant was wounded at all. Tendrils whip through the air to intercept further Seelie Gun shots -- and as the horde of Neo-Automatics close in, it responds to their presence as well. Tentacles harden into spears of bone, impaling the machines from below as they approach, fleshy shields rising from below to intercept their javelins. It understands now that being hit by these things, though not injury, is inconvenience. All around it are inconveniences. As fresh eyes squirm into its sockets, it immediately prioritises one inconvenience in particular.

The girl with the brush. The damage she is inflicting with that smoke is more noteworthy than any number of blades or guns. It will eliminate her first, and the rest will follow.

For the second time, the Hadrien variant goes to take a step forward --

-- and for the second time, it finds itself unable.

"Hold a moment."

The red Panacea has no need for language, so it does not understand the noises that One Star makes -- but it does understand the fact that it is suddenly immobile. Orange sparks run across its form as it strains in place. Just as it does not understand what is happening to it, it does not understand that it has been put into checkmate.

Sōngshǔ bursts out of the tendrils besides it.

Her first punch, already charged from her bout with the tentacles, slams into the Hadrien variant's head from above and spikes it into the ground. Tendrils lunge in to intercept Sōngshǔ, but with a few bolts of orange Aether they are frozen as well. The variant goes to rise, half its skull demolished by Sōngshǔ's fist, but she's hardly finished yet.

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A second punch sends it back to the ground, shattering its ribs and carving a crater into the ground beneath it. It still twitches, still tries to rise. Before it can do so, however, Sōngshǔ takes a leisurely seat, straddling her victim with the weight of a boulder…

…and punches.

…and punches.

…and punches.

By the end, her punches are so powerful that they produce aftershocks, and the Seelie Rangers have to hold onto something to stay on their feet. The flashes of crimson Aether are so bright that they overpower the fading light of the sunspot above, turning the world a bloody red. The umbra of the vehicles stretch backwards, painting black lines upon the earth.

Punch.

Punch.

Punch.

Sōngshǔ stops there, shaking her hand and letting copious amounts of smoke rise from her knuckles. If she went any further, she has no doubt she'd obliterate the enemy entirely -- and this is a mission to capture, not to eliminate. Licking her lips and pulling her crumpled cheongsam back into place, she rises up from the ground.

All that is left of the Hadrien variant is a demolished skull and a crumbled spine, but even with just that the mass is twitching, already beginning to regenerate. If they didn't do anything, Dragan Hadrien would surely be standing before them all as good as new within the span of a few minutes. Luckily, they came prepared.

"Demiurge Territorium."

An orange barrier manifests around the remains, slowing the flow of time within to a crawl, effectively halting the Panacean resurrection. The master of the ability -- Zephyr Pandershi -- smirks as she exits the back of the nearest truck, sauntering over to take a look at her prize. She is attending this operation in Extension C, one of the oldest bodies she's created, and so it bears more than a slight resemblance to Sōngshǔ, save for the white-and-orange hair.

"Well done, well done," the Director says pleasantly, crooking a finger to bring the remains up into the air. "This is certainly just what I was hoping for."

She grabs the amber structure out of the air, turning it this way and that to admire its contents. Her jubilee is warranted -- for her plan to come to fruition, this component is absolutely essential. In fact, she's so taken with it that she barely even notices when One Star clears his throat to get her attention. It takes a full tap on the shoulder for her to look up from her prize.

"It seems we've gathered attention," One Star says mildly.

Pandershi follows his closed gaze, and sees immediately what he means. A dark cloud is pouring towards them from the horizon. Amber Aether floods to Pandershi's eyes as she inspects the incoming mass properly -- its made out of hundreds of nehrcrows, the winged pests all moving according to a single will.

She clicks her tongue in irritation.

"It'll be one of this thing's fellow participants," she mutters, waving the carcass in the air. "Get everything loaded up and ready to leave -- we'll take another route back. We can't risk losing Sagittarius. Have the temp hire greet whoever this is."

"As you say, Director," One Star nods, striding off to coordinate the return. Sōngshǔ, who has been trying with Oé's help to wash the gore off her body, groans as she's forced back into a truck. The rest of the Seelie Rangers follow soon after -- and so, before the mass of darkness can reach them, the convoy has already departed with their prize.

All they leave in their wake is one man, sitting cross-legged on the dirt. The sunspot above finally dies and smashes down into the ground before him, spraying glass and sparks, plunging the world back into night. The only replacement for its shine is the dim blue glow coming from behind the sitting man's blindfold.

The Dragon grins.

Atoy Muzazi woke with a start, nearly leaping out of his makeshift bed.

"Bad dreams?" Brother Wyrm asked, warming his hands by the bonfire they'd set up in the middle of Ward 8. The orange glow flickered over the surrounding ruins… over the ruins that Muzazi -- no, that Nigen Rush had left in his wake. The nausea that had been his constant companion for the last few hours squirmed in his stomach once more.

Slowly, he brought a hand to his face. It was coated with sweat. "Bad dream…?" he murmured. "Yes… it must have been, but I can't recall…"

"That's always the way," Wyrm turned back to the fire, its light reflected in his eye. "I'm not surprised you're not sleeping well, though. You seemed, uh… pretty affected by that story Haisley told. Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Accepting that sleep had firmly eluded his grasp, Muzazi threw the sheet off his body and pushed himself over to the fire as well. "I see no harm," he muttered.

"This Nigen Rush person…" Wyrm said cautiously. "Do you have something to do with him?"

Muzazi was silent for quite a while before he looked over at Wyrm. The others had stationed themselves elsewhere in Ward 8, so they couldn't all be caught at once if Pandershi invaded this place. Haisley, who had the knowledge of Lusifer Westmore, had assured them he wouldn't do that… but still.

That meant that, right now, nobody would hear Muzazi's words save Wyrm.

"I am Nigen Rush," said Atoy Muzazi.

Wyrm's eye widened.

"No," Muzazi shook his head, quickly correcting himself. "I'm not Nigen Rush. I… I'm a person, a mind, that was created in his body. I -- I occupy the body that formerly belonged to Nigen Rush. That's it. I'm a different person. That's how that works, isn't it? Don't you think?"

Wyrm digested Muzazi's rambling words, putting a hand to his chin. "I don't know if I fully understand," he murmured. "But you don't have this Rush person's memories, or his experiences?"

Muzazi shook his head again.

"Then I don't know how anyone could call you Nigen Rush. If you think differently, and remember differently, what does this container of flesh matter? My consciousness was stuffed into a meat puppet made by Zephyr Pandershi, but I can still assert with confidence that I am Brother Wyrm of the Final Church. Your situation is no different."

"But," Muzazi looked down at his hands. "I know that. I know that. I accepted all of that years ago, and yet coming here, and finding out about this… argh. Nigen Rush had a responsibility here that went unfulfilled -- he made that promise. He must have been killed right before he could bring the Blades back here to… to do whatever he intended. Does that responsibility pass to me now? Am I his child -- have I inherited duty from him?"

Wyrm had no immediate answer for that, but eventually he ventured: "Do you feel like you have? Do you feel an… obligation? I don't know that much about the situation, but I don't think someone who gives you nothing but burdens can be called a parent."

"There's something like guilt," Muzazi muttered, staring into the flames. "I know I shouldn't feel it… but I feel it anyway."

"Well, maybe that's something else," Wyrm said. "Maybe it's something you're mistaking for guilt."

Muzazi looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

Wyrm smiled softly, hugging his knees to his chest before the fire. "You saved me," he replied simply. "You shouldn't have had any obligation to do that. I daresay it wasn't even to your advantage."

The wood crackled.

"Maybe you're just the sort of person who likes to help people, Atoy Muzazi."

The Dragon sat there, still cross-legged as if meditating, even as the cloud of nehrcrows reached him. Just like the Seelie Rangers had done with Sagittarius not so long ago, they encircled him, filling the air with the sound of their beating wings. The Dragon didn't so much as turn his head towards them, though.

He only moved once his counterparts appeared.

The three of them came one by one. The first, a blowhard with a fedora and golden revolver, strode right out of the darkness, an easy grin on his face. The second, a battered creature with dark hair and red eyes, crawled out a shadow, nibbling at his fingernail as he warily watched from a distance. The third, an eerily beautiful spectre, floated high above the proceedings, emitting a faint white light.

The one with the fedora raised a hand in greeting as he approached. "Hey there!" he said, voice friendly. "Glad we ran into you. You're one, too, right?"

With a low giggle, the Dragon rested his chin on his hand. "One of what?"

The other variant's eyes flicked up to the Dragon's blindfold. "Oh, of course, I'm sorry, you can't see! Well, I know this is hard to believe, but I'm also --"

"Dragan Hadrien," the Dragon completed. He turned his head towards the pitiful variant in the shadows. "He is too, huh?" His smile faded as he looked up towards the one in the sky. "Who the hell are you?"

The flying variant looked down at the Dragon with cold eyes. "I am known as Nurarihyon," he said pleasantly, if a little robotically. "A pleasure."

"I'm… um…" the feeble one mumbled. "D-Dragoon de Fleur… that's what I'm c-called…"

"Nobody asked you, freak," the hat-wearing one called over his shoulder to de Fleur, before looking back at the Dragon. "People usually call me Don Hadrien, sometimes even Boss Hadrien. Pretty silly, right? You can call me one of those if you feel like it, though. Heck, you can even call me 'friend' if you want."

Slowly, the Dragon grinned -- and Don Hadrien grinned back.

"Damn," the Dragon chuckled. "I think I kinda hate your guts!"

The smile faded from Don Hadrien's face. "Excuse me?" he said, voice low.

"Oh, you heard just fine," the Dragon said, hopping off the ground and brushing the dust from his knees. "How's the next act of this go, then, huh? You tell me you wanna team up so we can figure out what the ritual's all about, then shadow boy over there stabs me in the back? Or do you pull out the gun and start blasting? C'mon, man, has this worked for you guys once so far? You really think you can bring down the Dragon like that?"

Don Hadrien sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It seems you're from a much more suspicious world than mine," he said exasperatedly. "I feel bad that you've had to live in an environment like that, but I can promise you right now that you're wrong about us. Our goal is for everyone to make it out of this alive. Everyone. If you just --"

The smile dropped from the Dragon's face too. "Lie to me again," he said icily. "And I'll rip out your goddamn throat, 'kay?"

Don Hadrien's mouth snapped shut like a vice. Even if he were clearly some sort of idiot, going off of what Libra Imaging was showing, he seemed to have enough brains to know when he was biting off more than he could chew. The Dragon strolled past him, patting him on the shoulder as he went. Dragoon de Fleur scuttled out of the way, too, leaving the Dragon free to address the third of their number, the thing called Nurarihyon, directly.

"So," he said, hands in his pockets. "You controlling these bird things?"

"Incorrect," Nurarihyon replied. "As a Guardian Entity, I don't have the authority to control other Guardian Entities myself. I can only create them and give them to others. The creatures surrounding us right now are under the control of Don Hadrien."

"Yeah, okay," the Dragon scoffed. "Let me tell you right now, though, if you were hoping those things would work as a smokescreen or whatever? Forget about it. It's not just because I'm blind -- they're so weak, the ability I use to see barely even recognises their presence. It's a thing where one creature gets split up into loads, right? That's why they're so shit. The point is -- no matter how you guys try to hide yourselves, I'm gonna spot you just fine."

He turned on his heel playfully, very intentionally and very expertly turning his back to all three of the variants at once.

"I'm gonna level with you guys," he said, voice flat. "Right now, I'm totally soft, penily speaking. All these tricks and traps you guys are doing? Yeah, those aren't my thing at all. So how about we make things simpler?"

He took his hands out of his pockets.

A wide grin spread across the Dragon's face, and the blue light behind his blindfold intensified to such a degree that the circles of his empty sockets were visible through the fabric. Blue Aether crackled chaotically around his hands as he readied his fingers like claws, joints loudly clicking into place. As he opened his mouth, hot vapor poured from it -- in that moment, it was as if he'd truly started transforming into his namesake.

The thing that addressed the three was most certainly a Dragon.

"Come at me all at once," he growled, still grinning. "And I'll tear you fakes apart!"