Aetheral Space

Chapter 240:9.31: STITCHED

My new Apexbishop,

I must thank you for my warmest of receptions. I must admit that, given the Humilists previous lack of interest in my expertise, I did not imagine much of the facilities that would be available to me. More fool me! It has surpassed my wildest imaginings!

As such, I imagine the birthday present we discussed for your noble personage will be completed in good time.

Your Negative Numbers were splendid, indeed, but I assure you that Zeroth will be an even greater masterpiece.

Archived Communication from Script "Cloud18".

Kick -- dodged. Punch -- blocked.

Leg sweep -- jumped. Palm thrust -- grabbed. Throat jab -- bitten. A scream of pain -- silenced with a headbutt.

The air pressure created by such sudden and strong movements sent Mila Green flying down to the floor, her back slamming against the brick wall behind her. She had to squint to perceive the battle going on right before her -- a thunderstorm of red Aether was raging through the room, creating spots in her vision from the sheer brightness of the spectacle.

Ruth and Helga were barely visible, two incoherent blurs locked in combat. The positions of attacker and defender seemed to switch second by second between the two -- and slowly but surely, Ruth was overpowering Helga. Every attack Helga sent at her was blocked, and every attack Ruth unleashed met its mark.

The result of the battle was already obvious.

The moment Ruth had been hit by that streak of light, the sheer difference in power between her and Helga had become starkly apparent. From what Mila could see, Helga’s techniques were specialized for quick assassination, ending the battle as quickly as possible.

Against an opponent like this powered-up Ruth, who could keep up with whatever Helga threw out, she was at a significant disadvantage. She was getting exhausted quickly, whereas Ruth was still going full force.

Mila put a hand to her forehead, keeping her hair out of her eyes -- and then she saw it. The climactic moment. The moment Helga made the final mistake afforded to her.

She thrust her fingers forward at Ruth’s eyes, clearly intending to poke them out -- and Ruth saw the attack coming from a mile away. With Aether-infused speed, she lunged to the side, avoiding the blow and leaving Helga entirely open.

Helga stared uncomprehendingly at the empty air that -- from her point of view -- had suddenly replaced Ruth. Then, she blinked.

"Oh," she said.

The kick struck her in the head, far too fast for her to see it coming and defend. She went down like a pile of bricks, her body limp, traces of Aether fading from the tips of her fingers. A low, involuntary groan trickled from her throat before trailing off entirely.

Mila picked herself up. "Is she dead?" she asked quietly, looking down at Helga.

The Aether surrounding Ruth began to clear up, and as she stepped forward she shook her head. The manic look had left her eyes, and the fatigue of the fight seemed to have finally registered in her slumped posture.

"Not unless she’s weak as shit -- I held back with that last kick," she explained, wiping some of the blood from her mouth. "I haven’t got any Neverwire, so we’ll have to find a way to keep her restrained. Help me -- help me carry her out of here, would you?"

Mila meekly nodded.

Ruth’s body was wracked with pain. Ruth’s body was exhausted. Ruth’s body, truth be told, was probably going to drop into unconsciousness sooner rather than later.

And yet her mind was racing.

The power she’d just tapped into was intoxicating. Strength born of pushing herself beyond her limits, of burning herself with her own Aether, without the pain and damage that would usually accompany it. The wear-and-tear that would usually accompany an Aether burn was diverted to her recorded Revolutionnaire Set, instead, allowing her to keep moving.

She could feel that set of armour, floating at the back of her mind, damaged yet recovering. How long would it take it to fully recover? Two minutes, three? Was there a way for her to speed up that process? If she could, did that mean she’d be able to keep using that kind of power continuously?

Her mind danced through the possibilities, excitement shaking Ruth’s body just as much as the injuries. As she and Mila got Helga out of the restaurant as quickly as possible, getting her into the stolen vehicle they’d brought here, Ruth’s eyes were on nothing but the future.

The future, and the strength she’d meet it with.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," purred Gertrude Hearth. The words cut through the last remnants of Muzazi’s unconsciousness.

He opened his eyes.

The room he was in was more than dark -- it was pitch-black, the only things visible being vague shapes. The lump standing a short distance away from him had to be Gertrude, but he could only tell that from the fact he’d heard her voice.

Then, of course, there was the thing he was strapped into.

Some kind of chair, made of something solid and sturdy, his hands firmly bound to its arms. Cables ran out from the sides of the arms, too, terminating in transparent suction cups firmly connected to Muzazi’s own limbs. He wasn’t sure exactly what this contraption was -- but it didn’t take a genius to work out this situation would end in torture.

He reached for his Aether, and found it absent. Gertrude’s ability was in effect without a doubt.

"I like to collect these things," Gertrude said mildly -- and as she did, the faintest white light switched on from the arm of the chair. It illuminated her face just barely, enough to confirm her identity, but her features were warped and softened by the darkness. It was like she was an impression of a human being, an optical illusion looking at and speaking to him. "This antique was found on a junk-planet by some of our scavengers. Can you imagine? A piece of history like this, just lying in the trash? Do you know what it is?"

Muzazi did not answer. He understood how these situations worked. If he gave Gertrude any of his words, more and more would be pulled out until she had what she needed -- or she was satisfied with the pain she dealt him.

If Gertrude took offense at his silence, she didn’t show it. "It’s an artifact from the Supremacy," she said softly, her eyes slowly running over the device. "I don’t know if it has a special name per se, but it belonged to Henri the Glutton -- the previous Supreme. According to history, he’d have his enemies… tenderized with this before devouring them and their Aether. Charming character, really. Don’t you agree?"

A chill ran down Muzazi’s spine. As a citizen of the Supremacy, he’d naturally learnt about Henri the Glutton’s reign -- when? -- and that sort of thing certainly seemed in character for the lunatic. By all accounts, he had been among the most unworthy of Supremes.

Still, he did not move.

"Ordinarily, with your skills," Gertrude said, fishing a remote out of her pocket. "I’d want you trained as one of my Negative Numbers -- only they’re being phased out right now. Lucky you. Instead, I’ll just have you tell me what Giovanni is planning. I’m sure someone of your strength is part of that inner circle."

Still, he did not move.

"Shall we begin?" Gertrude smiled. "Feel free to confess anytime."

She tapped the remote with her index finger, and the device whirred into life.

The light on the arm changed colour -- a frigid blue, accompanied by a chill that poured through Muzazi’s insides. It felt like someone had poured freezing water into his veins, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering.

Still, he did not move.

"And after the warmup…" Gertrude said, sliding her finger across the remote again. "The main event."

The light switched to red, and excruciating pain erupted throughout Muzazi’s body. It was as if his skin had been doused with acid, his flesh poured into a grinder, his bones tossed into an inferno. To call such a sensation torture would be to make torture seem overly cruel.

Still, still, he did not move.

Atoy Muzazi did not cry out. He did not change his expression. He did not even blink. He simply continued to stare at Gertrude Hearth, his eyes boring their way into her soul.

At first, she continued to look back at him, that smug smile on her lips. But then, as long seconds passed without any response, it faded. Finally, she glanced away, and Muzazi knew that he had won.

"Whatever," she sighed, turning away and strolling off into the darkness. "We’ll see how you feel in the morning. Pardon me if I forget to turn it off."

Her voice faded too, and a second later Muzazi heard the heavy clunk of a door. She’d left the room and gone elsewhere.

Only then did Atoy Muzazi permit himself to scream.

Olga Malwarian kept to the shadows, Patriotta pulling her through the quiet spaces of the world.

The Humilist headquarters, right in the center of the Menagerie, was like a maze. Countless ships and buildings had been bound and merged together to form a chaotic jumble of architectural styles and functions. Olga didn’t doubt that people could get lost in this place, but fortunately she’d memorized the maps that Jean had given her. That had been her mission, after all.

She moved across the ceiling, Patriotta splitting into several sections and dragging her along with fabric tentacles. The scarf was an Aether Armament, responding to her thoughts directly and automatically protecting her. It had been a gift to her from Jean -- the only thing that allowed her to fight as a shadow warrior of the Supremacy.

Patriotta’s arms were supple and strong, and so they were easily capable of forcing a vent cover free from the ceiling and granting her entry. She’d always been small, and so it was no trouble for her to climb into the vents. Darkness claimed her as she slipped through the veins of the complex, slowly but surely making her way towards her objective.

Jean had trusted her with this, but Olga had known from the start -- that Atoy Muzazi didn’t have what it took for this work.

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Any fool could hold a sword and declare themself a warrior, but a real warrior was one able to do the dirty business. A real warrior was able to toss aside any notions of honour or decency and slip a knife into the back that was required of them. That was what it took to protect a nation -- knives in the dark.

Olga paused in the vents as two masked gardeners walked down the hallway below, talking quietly between themselves. This was one of the less busy parts of the building, free of the hustle and bustle that plagued the lower floors. Even as she’d hid, Olga hadn’t seen anyone else in a while.

That wasn’t what caught her attention, though. What caught her attention was what they were saying.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" one of them was muttering, voice gruff.

The other nodded. "She’ll want to keep Muzazi close to her, so she can use her ability if he tries anything. Apparently, she hangs out in the garden most of the time. We’ll start our

-- stopped.

His hand was inches away from the button to open the door, hovering there, but he couldn’t bring himself to push it. Something was wrong. There was something terrible beyond that door. His body knew that instinctively.

"Dragan," Bruno said cautiously. "Take us back down. Now."

Dragan nodded, tapping the down button. At first there was no response, but a moment later a synthesized voice spoke: "Command rejected. Reason: elevator disabled."

Bruno took in a deep breath. "Seems we haven’t got a choice, then. I’ll keep you two covered with my shields."

Before Dragan could protest any further, Bruno slapped the door button with his palm, and they slid open in response. Darkness lay on the other side, but Bruno stepped through without hesitation.

Dragan could see the faint shapes of trees and plants in the illumination available from the elevator, but it seemed that the lights in the garden proper had been turned off. Warm Cat tested the outside of the elevator with her scarf -- and when no attack came, she followed Bruno out.

Seemed they had no choice. Dragan sighed and stepped out too.

"You seem to think we’re a bunch of idiots, don’t you?" a woman’s voice -- Gertrude Hearth’s voice -- echoed throughout the garden. From the sound of it, it was coming from some kind of speaker. "That we’re incapable of reacting to any of your little schemes. Young Giovanni really must find better help."

Dragan frowned. Giovanni? Did she think they were with the Superbians, then?

"I’m sorry?" he called out, maintaining the facade of the gardener. "Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s my shift? Why are the lights off, and who’s this girl? I don’t understand."

There was derision in Gertrude’s voice. "Honestly… did you think we had no way of keeping track of those allowed to enter this area? Keeping tabs on the gardeners positions was Negative One’s job. It was easy for him to tell when they were knocked unconscious. Say hello, won’t you, Negative One?"

A single light clicked on, illuminating the center of the clearing, revealing one of the black-bandaged figures standing a few meters away. He was completely still, covered in fabric from head to toe.

No.

No, he wasn’t standing. He was kneeling. Kneeling in a puddle of his own blood.

There were corpses everywhere. Fallen on the ground, slumped beneath trees. Corpses, wrapped in black bandages, blood seeping from their wounds. Dragan swallowed.

"It seems Negative One isn’t in the mood to answer you," Gertrude said, smugness leaking out from behind her mock-sorrow. "Still, it’s good that you’ve come. The Negative Numbers have made poor test dummies for Zeroth. You young things will serve much better."

The speaker clicked off, and Dragan instinctually tensed up. The thing that was giving him this bad feeling… it was still here. It was in the garden with them.

It revealed itself.

From the darkness behind Negative One, a massive hand reached out, large enough to hold the kneeling figure’s head in its palm. With terrible strength, the hand squeezed, pulping the skull in its grip, bits of bone and brain leaking from between its fingers.

It let go, and the corpse fell to the floor.

Thud. Thud.

With thunderous footsteps, the owner of that hand stepped out of the shadows.

He was a monstrosity.

He was at least eight feet tall, and even that was being modest. His body was engorged with muscle to a grotesque degree, but that wasn’t what made him seem inhuman. No, what did that were the stitches. Just from looking at him, you could see what had brought him about -- pieces of many different people had been bound together, countless corpses combined into a single living human being.

It was like something had walked out of a horror videograph.

His skin too was a patchwork tapestry -- some dark, some pale, some grey and some -- especially the circles around his cloudy eyes - a vivid red. The only article of clothing he wore was a pair of black shorts. As he marched forward, his bare feet left cracks in the stone path beneath him. His very existence embodied brutal, unnatural strength.

A thin line of drool ran from his mouth, dripping onto the ground below.

Zeroth.

From the story Mila had told him, Gertrude Hearth had secretly been taking steps into the realm of genetic engineering. Was this thing the result of that experiment?

The speaker turned back on, one last time.

"Kill them, Zeroth."