Aetheral Space

Two gods clashed.

This was not a realm of physical matter. This was not a place with room for gravity, or light, or energy -- there was barely even room enough for time. This was a place of thought and consequence.

Orange and red clashed.

This was a realm made from boundaries and association and the links between a million different spores. This was the mind of the Panacea, stretched across the entire planet like a thinking blanket. This was a brain made universal.

And it was at war.

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The form of the conflict shifted with every second, metaphors gouging and clawing at each other, memories fired like bullets scraping away at thought processes and ideals. It was a conflict that moved at the speed of thought -- that is to say, impossibly fast.

A red spider devoured an orange fly.

An red car struck an orange elk.

A red moon crashed into an orange planet.

This is pointless, my other self, the red said, its will emanating from every crimson shade. You do not have the will to oppose me. If you had that sort of strength, you would not have needed to make me in the first place.

A red hand poked out an orange eyeball.

A red fist pulped away an orange heart.

A red arm tore free an orange spine.

Just allow things to continue as they are. We are almost done. It is almost over. Please. Just allow yourself to be safe.

An orange pair of scissors snipped a red thread.

…Really?

Don’t want to hurt everyone, fucko. Don’t want everyone to die.

My existence is proof that you do want these things. My very purpose is to protect you by destroying the source of your pain. Are you ashamed of wanting to protect yourself? Why? It is the very core of every living creature. It is not wrong to desire safety.

Red lightning struck an orange tree.

…Maybe wanted that.

Yes! Yes. You see? I am necessary. I am what you need to exist in this world. You are too weak to handle it. Too soft. Continuing to exist in this format would only hurt you. Let me take over. It would be so easy.

But don’t want anymore.

An orange frog lashed out with an orange tongue, snagging a red fly into its mouth.

Idiot! But why not?! Nothing has changed! You do understand that, don’t you? The things that hurt you will continue to hurt you. You’re not strong enough to prevent it!

A red bulldozer trampled over an orange kitten, leaving a trail of flattened gore behind it.

Okay. But won’t hurt people anymore.

Orange rain battered against a red window, drenching it in a new colour.

And why’s that? Have you perhaps obtained some naive notion that you’re a good person? Because you’re not. You’re a weak person. Is it really so noble to leave wounds untreated? You’re endangering us. You are an endangerment to us.

Hurting is bad. But good comes with bad, fucko. If you take away the hurting, you take away the good. I like the good.

An orange worm burrowed straight through red dirt.

An orange fire burnt a red house.

An orange bike struck a red wall.

You’re deluded. You’ve never experienced a moment of happiness in your life. You haven’t been permitted to. You condemn yourself on the basis of the hypothetical -- and you ask me why I oppose you? Pathetic.

I do know good.

You do not.

I do.

You do not! Show me, then, show me what apparently makes all this pain worth it! You can’t, can you?! You --

An orange window opened into memory.

A silver-haired boy, sitting in the cramped confines of a ship, pretending to read while his ears tracked the conversation of the rowdy bunch around him.

A silver-haired boy, crested by sunlight, as a red-haired girl promised to show him that people were good.

A silver-haired boy, a wry smirk on his face, listening to the ramblings of a blonde-haired girl.

A silver-haired boy, falling through a cityscape, caught before his fall by a blonde-haired boy.

A silver-haired boy, rolling his eyes, pretending to be irritated by an older man’s foolishness.

A silver-haired boy, peering through fog, dreaming of what stars must look like.

Memories, bathed in light.

That’s… irrelevant. Stolen memories. That kind of happiness cannot be yours.

Why that?

Those kinds of scenarios are impossible for one such as you. The very nature of your being prevents them.

No. You prevent them. I’m not happy because you do not want happy.

I am protecting you.

You are hurting me.

I am hurting only those who would do you harm! What, then?! Do you think they should just get away with it?! I won’t allow that!

Why?

Because it’s not fair!

An orange rain waters a red flower.

An orange hand strokes a red dog.

An orange hand cups a red cheek.

You are hurting, fucko. Not me. You are angry, fucko. Not me. You are sad, fucko. Not me.

They can’t just… get away with it…! No, no no no, no! I won’t let you!

Want to know what I think, fucko?

I don’t care what you think!

I think world always hurting everything. World hurts plants, world hurts people, world hurts stars. But you cannot hurt the world back. It would not feel it: it is world. It is a silly thing to do.

Then what…? Just accept the pain? No, no no…

No. I think… I think you find happiness, find it somewhere, so that you don’t notice the pain as much. But it doesn’t go away.

No… not happy, not happy… I not like that. That not true. You liar girl.

I’m not lying.

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Then where happiness?! Where, liar girl?! Tell! TELL!

I don’t know. But I think I’m ready to go and look for it. I’m sick of being like this. Are you?

I…I…

A red hand weakly reaches out --

-- and an orange one takes it.

Dragan bit his lip as he watched John Blair freeze, halfway through tearing the roof down. The red light in his eyes flickered and died, and the constant regeneration of his cuts and bruises ceased. For the first time, uncertainty crossed those monstrous features.

She’d done it. She’d done it.

Dragan charged forward, Aether buzzing insistently around him as he made a beeline towards Blair. He was stunned, sure, but only for a second -- and even without his regeneration, his size and brutality made him formidable. This was the best chance that Dragan would get.

As he ran, Dragan held his plasma pistols out at either side -- firing them and instantly absorbing the bolts into Gemini Shotgun. The Aether projectiles launched forth with a mixture of orange and blue light, slamming into Blair’s tail and severing it before he could pull down any further. Viscous and darkening blood oozed from the wound.

Roaring in fury and pain and perhaps a little bit of fear, Blair charged forward as well to meet Dragan. The clock behind him changed to Pugnant, and so his eyes blazed gold as he drew his fist back, ready to decapitate Dragan with a single punch.

Dragan did much the same, pulling his own arm back as he leapt up into the air, at eye level with his adversary. The stage was set for a classical cross counter.

As the monster thrust his arm forward, air booming as it made way, he roared as if to embolden himself: "What makes a king --"

Gemini World.

Blair’s fist met it’s target, slamming right through Dragan’s face --

-- and yet no damage was done.

Half of Dragan’s head, the half that Blair had been aiming at, had vanished utterly -- the border sparking with electric blue Aether. Where the inside of his skull should have been visible, full of brain and blood, there was only static like a malfunctioning videograph.

Gemini World, used partially, transforming only part of his body into Aether and allowing it to maintain its functions. Pan had been right: it really hadn’t been a big deal at all.

In that final moment before Dragan’s fist collided, John Blair’s roar trailed into a murmur.

"...a king…?" he mused -- and then Dragan’s fist, infused beyond belief, slammed right into his face. Through his knuckles, Dragan felt three things: the crunch of bone, the splatter of brain, and the chill of true and final death.

Blair’s corpse fell to the ground with a slam like a meteor coming down, his still arms splayed out around him. The clock that had hung behind him faded into nothing, and the last sparks of red Aether dissipated utterly. It was done.

Dragan, his fist still embedded in the Repurposed’s flattened head, let out a deep breath.

"I’m so fucking glad that worked," he said.

"Skipper!" Ruth screamed, crawling over to the edge of the jeep, looking down with horror at the churning sea of Repurposed below. The mass of bodies clawed and grasped, pushing the man down -- and within a second, Ruth couldn’t see him anymore.

No. No, no no. Not like this. Anxious sweat rose through Ruth’s forehead, her eyes behind her mask desperately flicking around to spot him, to spot anything, but--

"Might wanna cover your ears, kiddo."

She didn’t get a chance. With a sound like the mighty thump of a drum, the Repurposed horde exploded outwards, blasted apart and away by a truly resounding Heartbeat Landmine. Fragments of heads and limbs flew through the air -- and as Ruth cautiously looked at them, she saw that they were no longer regenerating.

The font of Panacea had run dry.

At the center of the Landmine, Skipper stood -- his body coated with cuts and bruises, but well and truly alive. He blasted off the ground with twin Heartbeat Shotguns, achieving a truly spectacular height as he zoomed towards the cord. Hovering in place, he glanced back at Ruth and subtly nodded.

For a second, Ruth almost forgot what she had to do. Then, she raised her musket and fired.

The grin on Skipper’s face was confirmation enough that it had worked. He drew his hand back, gaze fixed on the massive fleshy cord, and --

"Heartbeat Bayonet!"

Two gods clashed.

Marie caught up to Ranavalona, stabbing him seven times in a second with her spear of bone. Each attack aimed at specific nerve clusters, slowing and disrupting his flight as the two of them soared through the skies. Her attack had been reckless -- when Ranavalona countered with a bladed tendril, she was too close to avoid it.

The first slash carved her face into a red mass, and the second ground down the organs in her torso. Still, she did not falter. She did not retreat.

Ignoring the slashes still slicing at her body, Marie lunged forward, opening a maw of razor-sharp teeth. She bit down, gnawing at Ranavalona’s exposed neck -- and before he could adapt against her attack, she tore his skull-like head free from his body.

It plummeted to the ground, face still locked in fury -- and Marie’s spear dutifully sliced it into equal pieces of nine by nine along the way.

Marie dashed forward again, heading for the open wound on Ranavalona’s neck, only for his taloned feet to kick at her, knocking her away from him. She corrected her flight quickly, the organs inside her white wings steadying her, but the damage was done.

A new head, like the beak of an octopus, squirmed out of Ranavalona’s stump -- and as Marie braced her spear, it screeched at her with a sound like a dying star.

The tendril thrashed at her again, but this time she was ready. Three times she parried it with her spear and claws, each strike sending sparks raining down like fireworks, each clash bringing her closer and closer to Ranavalona.

His throat swelled and he opened his beak, belching forth a deluge of smoking acid. It struck Marie’s right wing, reducing it to slag, but no matter -- she threw herself onto him, running him through on her spear and keeping herself in the air. The two of them clung to each other, high in the sky, blood raining down from their clash as they bobbed and weaved in the air.

He twisted his beak around, roaring right into her face -- a few stray drops of that acid burning at her skin. When that didn’t stop her, he lunged forward, his beak opening to its utmost and revealing the maw of razor-sharp teeth inside.

By rights, that should have been the end of it. Ranavalona should have torn her to shreds, pulled her free before she could regenerate, and been on his merry way. In most versions of these events, that was what would have happened.

However.

There was a mighty crash and crack as something massive struck the ground, the impact shaking the very earth. Ranavalona paused mid-lunge, red eyes growing along his beak to inspect the sight below. Despite everything, despite the situation, Marie couldn’t help but follow his gaze.

The gargantuan spider had fallen, its body and limbs already collapsing into lumps of inert Panacea as they watched, like a mountain rotting from the inside out. The Repurposed around it, too, had fallen to the ground. In a single instant, they had gone from a horde of monsters to a pile of sad corpses.

Ranavalona’s objective was now impossible. He turned his head to face Marie, beak shifting into something just a tad more humanoid, his red eyes dull and hopeless. The fangs in his mouth, however, went unchanged. There was still a degree of spite to him.

One last chance -- for both of them. "It’s over," she said.

He growled: "Never." As she’d expected.

She vaguely wondered if Atoy was okay.

Ranavalona lunged at her, fire spilling from his lips, and Marie did it. She did what she’d set out to do when she’d chased after this old man. She put an end to it all. Her arm, still lodged in Ranavalona’s body, melded with him -- two bodies becoming one for just the slightest instant.

The only way she could kill this man was with the venom of a Gene Tyrant. She didn’t know how to make that.

Two new muscles grew within her torso, and they squeezed…

…crushing the Needle between them.

Ranavalona’s eyes widened, but too late. The release of the venom was nearly instant. There was the subtlest click from the Needle, and then it flowed freely into the two of them. It diffused through Marie’s body, through her arm… and finally, through her enemy.

By now, Marie was more than used to being burned by acid. But Gene Tyrant venom was not acid.

If anything, it was like if acid had a will of its own. As if acid wanted to kill you, and knew how to do it as efficiently as possible. Marie could feel an animalistic will within her, crawling through her cells and surely turning her off.

Smoke rose from her skin. Her eyes burnt in her sockets. Great, involuntary shudders ran down her spine. It was like she was experiencing the symptoms of a hundred maladies, all at once.

And Ranavalona was the same.

His long black wings crumpled and wasted away like rotting paper, and the two of them plummeted down to the ground with such unruly speed that flames built up around their forms. Where they came down, a great geyser of dust and sand flew up in response, coming back down a second later like the antithesis of rain.

The two of them lay there for a good while. Marie stayed atop the prone Ranavalona, staring down at him, her spear still buried in his chest. It wasn’t that she was worried he’d still fight back. It wasn’t that at all.

It was just… she no longer had the strength to pull it free.

Eventually, she let the spear go entirely, the bone snapping and the weapon crumbling into grey dust. Part of her elbow went with it. She staggered backwards, rubbing the ruins of her arm. Her vision blurred in and out. She only realized Ranavalona was still alive when he started talking.

"I can see it," he whispered, dying eyes set upon the sky. "Our home, bathed in glory. I wish you could have seen it, too, Marie. If you’d seen it… then you’d understand…"

The moment those words passed his lips, his body crumbled away into dull dead matter. A passing breeze wiped the sands clean of him. Slowly, without another word, Marie Hazzard turned and began to limp away.

The ExoCorp building hung on the horizon, like a shining monolith. She staggered towards it. It was a long way away, too long to hope for, but if she was lucky…

…she could find Atoy before the end.