---

There was cold steel beneath her bare feet, the stinging of the cosmos below her a secondary thought to the damnation she had come to realize. Hoarfrost clung to balled fists, and slowly she sank to her knees on the grating, looking up at the equally cold being that seemed to draw such amusement from her struggle.

"Is this not what you asked for?" The voice was bereft of any sympathy, instead the curiosity that seemed so evident in his voice slicing deep into her. She had asked for it, but.... It was wrong. Everything was wrong. She could feel the tears attempting to come, but they were competing hard against the deep-seated hatred that was slowly swelling in her heart. He had given her just a glimpse of who she really was, a taste of her memories beyond her re-creation.

She, the one who had been his Cytherea, herald of Unending, had once been nothing more than just a human. Taken from everything she had known and torn down to her base components to be re-created at will by an ancient being that only did such for his own amusement. Or at least, that's what Ba'al had said. She could feel there was something else behind it, something far deeper than just one scheme of his to take control of the Consensus for himself. Four years had passed since he had first sent her out to make contact with the surrounding civilizations of the region, and four years since she had found there were others exactly like her. And there were so many others. Thousands of exact replicas, down to the very way they thought and acted. But why?

"Such is the way of lesser beings." He mused aloud, stroking a thin manipulator across her cheek as he knelt down before her. That mask of perfect silver reflected her conflicting emotions back at her, the short unruly red hair from where she had clutched her head in agony, and her emerald eyes staring, desperately trying to make some sense of the memories that had been locked in her head this entire time.

"Wh-what..." She struggled with the words, just as she had done four years ago when she had just been awoke from deep-sleep. Searching deep in her mind, she tried to cling on to what she wanted to say, but the Enigma Cloak around Ba'al made it harder to focus on what she needed. There, deep in the recesses of her memory, there were dark spaces that if only she could put light on them, she would be able to understand. It started with a whimper, her eyes shutting tight as she tried to focus, but as she found more of a grip on her sunken memories, she snarled and struck out at Ba'al.

There was a clatter of metal skittering across the floor, and she looked up to see the face of Ba'al no longer covering the cowling that served as his head. Tiny blinking lights leered at her from a mess of loose wiring and whirring gears, but more than that, she could feel the anger that emanated from this being that had been a god to her. She, the puppet of this Precept, had dared to strike her master, and even though she felt fear at what would come of her action, she was finally able to find a grip on those hidden memories as Ba'al turned from her to retrieve the mask of carved silver.

She laughed. It was sudden, just as her previous outburst against Ba'al, but now, she had a confidence that was beyond such an animalistic reaction. All of it was clear to her now, everything. No more did the cold feel so stark against her skin, the thin robe covering her modesty an armor rivaling that of a dreadnought in her new state of being. She was the master now. She held all the power. And though Ba'al did not know to what extent she had regained her memories, she could feel something different about the construct now. Something so primal and foreign to the constructs of the Synchronicity, even to the Precepts of Amnos, it was something that brought a smile to her face and reinvigorated her.

"I know now." She said simply, the words flung like daggers into the slowly retreating Precept of Unending. "I know everything."

The robes about Ba'al flashed brilliantly in one moment, the repeating patterns of light and swirling patterns attempting to reassert dominance upon her organic mind. It might have worked, but she knew it would happen. This construct never failed to follow pattern. Of course, it could not be helped, he was designed that way.

"I know what you are, Shadow Construct. I know because I am your master. I built you. You are nothing but a tool to serve as my replacement until this body of flesh and bone could adapt to my power. Your services are no longer needed."

It howled with rage as it knew how correct she was, flying at her and striking with mechanical power far greater than her human body would be able to endure. Easily side-stepped. All was routine to her, like a dance done so many times. Next he would attempt to disembowel her where she stood, sweeping at her with out-stretched manipulators splayed like rending talons. She would duck just as she had done before, reaching up into his robes and grabbing a fistful of the constructs innards and ripping them out from his carapace. Just as before, there was that sputter of surprise, and a curse upon her.

"Now, I will take my rightful place as Ba'al, Precept of Unending." She said, as she took hold of the dying construct, cradling it slowly to the ground and lowering her voice to a whisper. "It was all part of the plan, you were just an unfortunate casualty. Such has happened before, with different bodies, but it was to happen again. I now can feel the millennia of my former lives, and every string I have ever pulled to get to this point. The stars dance to my whim, for it is I that placed them there¹. Your creation and destruction is but a footnote in what will be a masterstroke billions of years in the making."

She could feel the construct's final release, the lights going dim across its form as it slowly went limp in her arms, but it did not matter. Her real prize was years away, and so many more deaths would come. This was her promise to him all those years ago.

"Betray me, and I will destroy everything you love, and when it is all ashes in your hands, then I will destroy you as well."

¹: Not literally.

Dumvist System, Bvalt Dreadnought Inheritor
Bvalt Date: 11 Hadvar, 3209

Admiral Bramyl Hjalt sat in her command chair, relaxed and observant. Her crew sat in front of her, all diligently going about their assorted tasks with admirable focus. She had no such preoccupation, and simply stared at the screen in front of her, taking in every detail of the pictured shipyard, near which they were "moored". It was a massive rib-cage of steel, surrounding a half-finished warship, around which thousands of tiny autos were invisibly scurrying, the mottled hull marked with he occasional flash of welding-light. The ship under construction was a large one: fitted with the latest weapons and ready to withstand cataclysmic punishment. Bramyl knew that the diplomats had fought long and hard to get the technology that not only would power the ship on the screen but the ship beneath her feet, and she was almost giddy to see what the alien science could do when integrated from the very beginning, rather than tacked on like it had been with the Inheritor.

She sat for a few more minutes in silence. Music could be heard, ever so faintly from one of the crew stations, but Bramyl pretended not to hear it. The crew were entitled to their fun, and it was a commander's job to know when she should furtively allow it. She finally grew bored of looking at a video feed that did not change, and pulled up what reports she could, determined to keep this relaxing state of freedom from real responsibility going as long as was possible. She flicked through the short list: diplomatic tensions within the Council, new spice trade from some far-off star, an after-action report on a border pirate incident that included nothing of note besides masturbatory congratulations on the part of Captain Ustmun. Bramyl's red fur bristled under her blue naval uniform, her teeth clentching slightly at the mention of the male. He was a competent officer, but his efforts at taking her job as overall commander were as frustrating as they were blatant.

Bramyl's last notification was for a report that brought her immense joy. She had apparently been mentioned in the Council, in regards to her talks with that Cytherea. Diplo, having brushed it off as too risky, let her pick up the negotiations, and she had managed to wrangle trade agreements and declared non-aggression out of the Synchronicity's "representative". She was still galled that she had not managed to obtain any of the fantastical technology she had heard of, but she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was happy to see the words "noble", "good" and "patriotic" mixed into the speeches about her achievements, but noticed the marked absence of "hero". She didn't mind too much, however. She had many years ahead of her, and there would be plenty more opportunities.

She placed her screen to the side, and retired to her quarters, handing command of the bridge off to Lieutenant Hjelt. She deserved a nap.

On the world of Ciribac, 185 years after its unification under the Rozarrians

The Shadow Bell rang again and again, with each strike echoing across Rozarria, the capital city of the empire which shared its name. Though a faint mist blanketed the city, a massive crowd had gathered at the steps of the First Temple. A more illustrious gathering was never seen, the guests being the rich and powerful who ran the Empire, the cream of the aristocracy. They sometimes gathered in more social events, in the great parties that the nobility threw to amuse themselves, and to increase their own prestige.

There was nothing celebratory about this day, however. As a drizzle fell, complete silence enveloped the assembly, disturbed only by the loud ringing and the crashing that the synchronized marching of a hundred men caused.

The procession made its way through the crowd, thirty men in front, thirty men behind, and twenty on each side. In this way, they guarded from all directions the royal family: The Emperor himself, towering above lesser men, marching on resolute, followed by the dozen or so members of his direct family. Two men carried an ornate coffin at the centre of it all: the Crown Princes Garris Rozzaria and Armand Rozarria. As the party advanced, the crowd knelt in unison on each side of the wide street.

Finally, they reached the steps of the First Temple. The Imperial guard fanned out, making a demi-circle of uniforms around the royal party. In front of the temple was a giant stone brazier. As the princes laid the coffin down in it, His Majesty turned to the crowd.

"A Prince has died. A paragon of his nation, Marevan Rozarria, count of Telles, served our glorious Empire his entire life," he boomed with a voice that could carry for miles. "With his death, we are much diminished. We salute you, Prince Marevan."

"We salute his memory, and mourn his passing," the assembly chanted, still kneeling, the words being tradition at royal funerals. At this, His Majesty made a sign, and two servants rushed forward, carrying torchest. These they handed to the Crown Princes, who in turn placed them in the brazier. At once, the fire caught, and a great plume of flame erupted, reaching hundreds of feet in the air. The Emperor did not even look.

"Rise," he ordered instead, and ten thousand noblemen did so in unison.

"The death of the Crown Prince, the heir to the throne of Rozarria, and my own son, was a tragedy. But do not make the mistake of thinking that it weakens our Empire. Far from it! Tragedy does not weaken! Tragedy STRENGTHENS! It is only through tragedy that we can overcome our weaknesses, both of strength, and of sentimentality."

"In this universe, there is but one law: The strong prey upon the weak. This is how weakness is purged! Those who cannot muster the strength to survive to not DESERVE to survive! Do not pity those without power; crush them, without mercy or regret."

"This is why Britannia is great. We do not deny this reality, we embrace it! And it is because we accept it that our Empire shines as it does. Greatness cannot be born without brutality. And so, I say to you, do not pity those without power; crush them, without mercy or regret. Serving death upon the weak is the kindest thing one can do."

"From Prince Marevan's brutal murder at the hands of Inferiors, we must draw strength. Some will speak against retaliation, warning that it will lead to even greater bloodshed yet. I say, let the blood flow! Violence is beauty incarnate! Fill yourselves with rage, and scour the stars of those without the will to survive!"

"Long live Rozarria! LONG LIVE THE EMPIRE!" At this, the crowd joined in.

The Emperor departed for the interior of the Temple, to pay his respects directly to the ancestors. Only he was allowed within those holy walls. As he left, Princess Lerane moved forward to adress the crowd. "Honorable citizens of the Empire," she said with an authority that defied her young age of twenty-six, "I would like to say a few words concerning my departed brother, whose death has shaken us all. He was a good man, a kind man, a..."


Shortly thereafter, within the Imperial Palace

"...a pompous ass who didn't know his right foot from his left," Lerane went on angrily, "but for some reason, we've given him the funeral of a war hero."

Armand Rozarria, second in line to the Imperial throne, raised an eyebrow and shifted in his chair. Luckily, they were alone in the room; that kind of talk was dangerous, and both their heads could end up on spikes because of it, but of course Lerane didn't care. "It doesn't matter who he was, all that matters is what he can be turned into. He'll be more useful to father as a corpse than he ever was living." He caught himself then, realizing what he had said. "But, ah, we shouldn't talk about that. That line of thought is bad for one's health."

"Please," his older sister irritatedly. "It's occured to all of us, I promise you that."

Though their brother's death had publically been blamed on an Inferior terrorist, members of the Royal family and the nobility knew better. He had been shot in the stomach at point blank range, while taking a stroll through the palace gardens. The idea of a terrorist sneaking into the most well garded mansion in the Empire, killing the heir apparent, and sneaking off without being detected, was simply ridiculous. No, Armand had no doubt that the murder was orchestrated from within, but by whom?

His Majesty could never have done it, he knew. Not out of some parental love for his son, god forbid. No, the one thing the Emperor loved was his title, and he took his responsibilities very seriously. Murdering one's heir was definitely not a seemly thing to do.

Prince Garris, then? His older brother was certainly the obvious culprit. As the new heir to the Empire, he personally benefited a great deal from their brother's tragic demise. Also, he was extremely traditional and devoted to their father's ideals. By blaming the act on Inferiors, he would be able to justify a crackdown, stripping them of even more rights, if that was possible. But something told Armand that Garris was not the one responsible; Perhaps because his brother seemed so obviously guilty of it.

In fact, it seemed as if the one responsible had planned it out so that Garris would seem to be the culprit, by virtue of benefiting the most. A plot to set the contenders against each other, perhaps. But whom would gain from that? Adeline, Armand thought without a second's hesitation. Though the second-oldest child of His Majesty, as a woman, she had no possibility of inheriting his throne. She had all the ambition of a man, however, and was as vicious as a viper in dealing with those who stood in her way. She would murder her own brother without a second's thought, he knew, if she thought it would pave her way to the throne.

Still, he had no proof, so all he said was: "We may never know the one responsible, and that's probably for the best. I'm more concerned with the war with the Compact. With all the chaos our brother's death has caused, nobody seems to know what will come of it. Garris is practically fuming trying to get support from the nobles for another go at the traitors."

"He won't find any," Lerane said, taking a sip of tea as she did. "The nobles have seen what a mess last year's campaign was, and they will want no part in another one, I can promise you that. Duke Korwitz will promise his support, but as for the others..." She shuddered as she said Korwitz's name. Armand didn't blame her; Half human, half machine, Korwitz quite literally had no heart. He was the kind of man to give you nightmares just by looking at you, with his uncanny robot eye.

"At any rate, an even bigger obstacle is all the insurrections," she went on after a pause. "There are seventeen worlds that are in the midst of rebellion, and those are only the ones the Empire can't officially deny. Imperial authorities are being found murdered, our liasion offices are being firebombed, and when we chase after the terrorists, they hide back in the crowds, and its impossible to identify them again. Brute military force won't solve these conflicts."

"I disagree," Armand said with a smirk, "there is always a military option. We could simply bombard the planets from orbit, purging them of both the guilty and the innocent."

Lerane gave him an exasperated look. "That's no option, and you know it. Aside from the horrific moral burden, a massacre like that would just cause other worlds to tip into chaos. We can't solve this with a hammer: This whole mess is on our shoulders because of the excessive brutality we've treated the people with the past few years."

Armand sighed. The people, she had called the Inferiors. She had always been compassionate, and she seemed to regard them as equal in value to true-born Rozarrians. But one did not simply speak against Imperial policy. "Careful," he warned her again, "some things are simply better not said. You heard the emperor, the 'strong' must crush the 'weak'. And Imperial policy is what the Emperor says it is."

"Mph," his sister said, eying him with a curious look. "But what if there was a different Imperial policy?" As she explained herself, Armand's eyes went wide, and he nearly dropped his tea cup.

Armaggedon Station
Union Fleet Covert Deployment Base

The shuttle gently rumbled under the feet of its occupants as it flew among greater ships hanging in space around Armaggedon Station. Aboard it, one of its passengers was quietly counting the assembled force in mixed awe and skepticism of why it had been concentrated so. Admiral Gwenevere hadn't finished counting yet, but the numbers were just not adding up with what she knew of of the war with the Phoenix Empire as a whole.

"A fleet carrier, two escort carriers, and four destroyer squadrons. Torpedo frigate wing off Intemperate..." She muttered under her breath as she kept reading the display in her cabin suite, not having to adjust or amplify the digital display of what hung outside the base she was being sent to besides showing the hull names. "Damn. Mostly newbuilds. Hell of a force to add to the Third Fleet."

<<Would prefer more cruisers.>> Pointed out her traveling companion in electronic monotone. The dog-eared captain's gaze was seemingly locked on the video game he was playing on his holo-com, but he followed his Admiral's intent. <<Even with your flagship plus escorts, still not a full task force.>>

"Indeed, but you know what our industry is like Baylet." Replied Gwenevere, turning away from the display to pick up a cup of tea on the table between them. "Miracle we got this many ships here to begin with."

<<Uncovering key areas is more likely.>> The dog intoned, with the Valkyrie only able to grudgingly nod in acknowledgement. Baylet made too much sense in that regard, these ships would be useful in any number of places. Why would they be all concentrated here, on the far edge of the Union away from the Empire? <<You see the list of mech pilots they sent with us? A third veterans, the rest are rookies fresh out the vats, but a lot of first-rate hardware. I bet its the same for those ships out there.>>

"What is so much heavy metal doing out here?

<<We'll find out soon. We're coming up on the station.>>

"Amalia! Come back in! We're going to eat soon!"

That got her attention. She was having fun in her game with the other children in the appartement block, throwing balls at each other in the hallway, but she was pretty hungry, and father had said that supper was more important than game.

"If you leave, it means you lose!" Arros told her. He was pretty annoying, but there were few enough children of her own age in her appartement block, so she had to make do with what she had.

"You only say that because I've gotten you three times already," she said derisively, before running off to her appartement like a responsible nine-year-old.



To her dismay, today supper was just half a loaf of bread and a few vegetables she didn't care for. "Couldn't we at least have some kind of meat?" she complained loudly to her parents.

"No, we can't," her mother said with a look just as disappointed as her own.

"Meat's expensive. You know that," her father said. That's what he was always saying; Chocolate is too expensive, toys are too expensive, shoes are too expensive. She didn't understand why she couldn't have all these things, though at least she knew that most of the other children were deprived in the same way. In the city of Eginberg, everyone was poor, it felt like.

"But considering what day it is today-"

"I wish we could," her father said sadly. She barely saw her father anymore because he had to work three jobs to keep them afloat. He always seemed to have a tired look on his face these days.

Amalia grimaced, and took another bite out of the bread.



That night, like many others, she found she couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned and fumed, but sleep still wouldn't come. After an hour, she gave up trying, and settled for listening to the noises of the city: The rush of cars, the distant sirens, sometimes even gunfire. Although she'd never seen one herself, her father said the gangs were responsible, and that they were everywhere in the city.

Honing in to that sound, she frowned. There was a lot of gunfire, tonight, and it sounded different, somehow; not the usual popping, but instead violent cracks and booms. It was growing louder, too, she decided as she continued to listen. She also heard footsteps outside her room; her parents were awake, it looked like. Her door opened, and her mother's face peeped in.

"Amalia, get out of bed and get dressed, quickly." She seemed scared. Amalia jumped out of bed, excited by the change of routine. By the time she was done and out of her room, she could make out what sounded like screaming, too. She realized all that noise must be coming from under her floor.

Her father spotted her, looking up from the table. It seemed as if he was filling a bad, but why, she had no idea. "Amalia, good, we need to go for a while."

"Go?" she asked, confused. "Go where? Why?"

"We don't have the time to explain this. Just do what I say, alright?"

So she helped her father gather everything that, in his words, they couldn't do without. By the end, they had only filled only two bags, which probably reflected a lot on their poverty. Her father took one, her mother the other, and then they were off. Now, the gunfire was loud as thunder.

They rushed towards the stairs, which ran all the way to the bottom floor of the block. Her father opened the door- revealing behind it a giant.

Covered in a strange black suit, his face hidden by a terrifying mask, he held a gun the kind of which she had never seen before, coal black, the same as the rest of him. Her father had just the time to let out a "What-" before the stranger brought his rifle butt to her father's head, the impact making a large crack as he fell to the floor. Her mother screamed, and she just stared dumbfoundedly. The stranger aimed his rifle and took fired a shot into her father, the sound almost deafening, and her father stopped writhing.

"Run!" her mother said finally. "Amalia, RUN!"

And she did. Without a second's thought, she bolted down the hallway, diving around a corner, running without much thought where she was going, She heard more of the thunder, and also the loud cracks of wood splintering. They were breaking into people's homes, she realized, horrified. Everything was chaos, now, and she sometimes saw other people in the hallways, families desperately trying to escape.

As she turned a corner, she saw there were three men, armed and armored in the same way as the first stranger, standing up ahead. She quickly jumped back, and peeked around the corner, hoping desperately that they hadn't seen her.

They hadn't, she saw. They were circled around Arros, who was on the ground, looking terrified. He's just eight, she thought, as one of the men kicked him with his heavy boot, the impact making a sickening crunch. "Little brat," she heard the man say, his voice rumbling from inside his helmet.

"Alright, you've had your fun," another said, and shot the boy in the face. She had never seen so much blood before; it coated the hallway, now. They then cracked open apartment doors with their rifles, and burst in. She took the opportunity to run across the hallway, not looking back to the source of the screams. Eventually, she came upon another staircase without further incident. As she started going down, though, she heard marching from under her. Panicking, she ran the other way instead, making for the rooftop.

Reaching the top, she opened the heavy metal door, and was greeted by a rush of cold, damp air. There was a light mist covering the city. She looked up, and gasped. There was a giant spaceship in the air, which seemed to go on forever. Around it flet a swarm of smaller ships, which would fly down and fire and parts of the city.

Making her way to the roof's edge, she looked down, and saw a terrible sight: A massive crowd of pepole, stampeding towards the city centre, followed closely by a wave of the black-clad soldiers, who would wake potshots into the crowd now and again which only made it rush faster. She didn't understand what was going on. From somewhere, a loudspeaker was blaring the same repeated message:

"Inferiors have murdered the Crown Prince, and Inferiors must atone with their lives. Your lives belong to the Emperor; By your deaths, you do his will. Long live the Empire!"

Not wasting any more time, she hurried away from the edge, and found the large vent she had come here for. Climbing to its top, she scurried down it. It was only a meter or so deep before one encountered a heavy grating, which had made it a handy hiding spot in the past. The other children never found her when she hid here. She hoped the soldiers wouldn't either.

With some semblance of safety, she curled up and started sobbing quietly, unable to hold back the tears. Today had been the lousiest birthday ever.


Aboard the Garland-class battleship Setade, Planet Adenon, Ruthweiler System

In the Setade's control room, there was a flurry of conversations, as his officers relayed orders and requests to and from the ground units in action. Gernot Korwitz, Duke of the Verge, only watched from his end of the circular table. Although he could be personally involving himslf in the command process, in this case he accomplished more by overseeing the operation in its entirety, leaving the specifics to his commanders.

On the table's centre was a holographic representation of Eginberg, updated in real-time wih the developpements on the ground. He stared at it intensely, though he did ignore the rest of the room by doing so. His right eye, robotic, was whirling around the room, taking everything in.

"Your orders are to wipe out the Inferiors you find, lieutenant," General Falk was saying. "Your feelings on this matter are irrelevant."

"But sir," Korwitz could hear from the other end- his cerebral implants enabled him to follow radio conversations without a headset- "they have children with them."

Korwitz cut in there, pressing the side of his ear to activate his communicator. "This is Duke Korwitz, admiral of His Majesty. You WILL follow orders, seargant."

At first there was no answer. "Y-yes, my lord!" the soldier finally responded, his voice shaken with fear. Korwitz had cultivated a terrifying reputation over the years, and he knew it. He did not mind; fear made command so much easier, and it was only right that lesser men quail before him.

Personally, he found His Majesty's orders to be inefficient. A messenger ship had arrived yesterday, bringing word of the Crown Prince's murder, and an imperial command to purge the inferior population of his worlds of 1/1000s of their number. To make this order somewhat possible to carry out, he had identified cities across the planet which, combined, made up that ratio of the population, and organized military assaults on them. They would raze the cities and kill any they found within, as the Emperor commanded.

Simultaneously to this operation, twenty-one other cities across the surface of Adenon were being similarly targeted, though Eginberg was by far the largest city targeted, with a population of over two hundred thousand. They were Inferiors, though, and the Imperial Forces were having little difficulty in their extermination.

As an added bonus, this action had drawn out the terrorists as well. Unable to stand by while their people were butchered, the rebels were engaging Imperial forces across the city, in spite of being hopelessly outmatched in numbers, training, and sheer firepower. Where the rebels were too fortified for a ground assault, the Setade's guns could simply blast away. Soon, there would be nothing left of the terrorist network the Dagons had put so much effort into establishing.

Just thinking about the Pact was enough to bring back his old anger, one of the few emotions he could still feel. That it was his vassals who had proven traitor and broken off form the Empire still smarted; And in both the First and the Second Compact Wars, the systems of the Dolorous Shoals and, especially, Far Ingria, resisted all his attempts to retake. Every time he looked at a map, and saw those stars labelled "Pact Territory", it made him want to kill someone.

He was brought out of his brooding by General Bulow. "My lord, the Inferiors and rebels have centered on the city square. Should we bombard them with our guns here, or use the land forces? Either way, all escape routes are sealed."

Korwitz considered that for a moment. "Order the ground forces to advance towards the square," he decided. Orbital bombardement would make a mess of debris that the rebels could entrench themselves in, and in any case, a ground attack would be more thorough in ensuring there were no survivors. There were four main streets through the city, which convered on the square; On each one was a regiment of Imperial soldiers, who had herded the Inferiors towards the killing zone. At this point, the operation had become a simpel mop-up.

"I have other matters to attend to," Duke Korwitz announced, rising from his chair. All his officers rose too, and saluted. "General Falk, you have the command here. Serve His Majesty well."