His eyelids closed in focus as he practiced the words and rhythm of his grandfather’s technique. One day, he would follow in the legend’s footsteps and stand proud.
“May the seas dry, the rainforests burn, and the grasslands wilt. Beneath my claws, all dragons shall drown to birth new worlds.”
- Claudius Vermillion’s isolated training.
It was the morning of a terrible, eternal winter across Habituar B, a planet settled during its one-hundred-year period of warmth, only for its inhabitants to suffer for such a mistake. The cold on the other end of the coin was ten times worse than the hottest day during its heat cycle.
Lucius lay atop a building several hundred feet away from the meeting point. Snow had built up over his body, creating a mound where he rested. The soldier had Sonna place herself similarly on the other side of the residential estate. Nearly a hundred lived below them, but the two appeared like air conditioning units covered by the falling snow.
Such machines hadn’t been turned on in decades, so there was little chance one would dig them out. That created an opportunity for the pair, one that Lucius took advantage of.
The line in their ears buzzed as they heard Dante say, “I’m walking in now. High vigilance. Lucius, permission to shoot whenever you sense a threat. Astraeus, follow his or my lead. Sonna, compress your Arido.”
Their captain gave out his orders while the ice crunched under his feet. Dante strode brazenly under the rising, chilled glare of the sun toward Cao’s Garden, a once lush block of greenery that now lingered as mere dead remains of life.
Upon Dante’s approach, another figure emerged, wearing an all-black outfit that covered his face. Lucius’ ancient, unscoped rifle shifted slightly from within the mound of snow while he adjusted to meet the newcomer.
With his sightline changing, Lucius spotted a slight bulge in Dante’s coat's back pocket. A thin smile emerged on the frosted, growing beard of the Martian. His captain wouldn’t walk into anything alone when he didn’t have to. Not even with his crew at his back.
The Rat was with him.
An iron sight leveled onto Friday’s chest as the man and Dante entered the covered pavilion. Both sat at a table as their words were broadcast to the whole crew.
Dante greeted the man, holding as much warmth as could be expected, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Federation’s hound.”
A low snicker emerged from the other man’s hood. Friday didn’t seem hurt by his words in the slightest as he waved a hand and said, “Now, now, if you were a Chosen like the rest of us in the Federation, I’d invite you myself. But, alas, the Lightsea loves not everyone. I hold no grudge for anything in the Inferose. Was simply a job to me. One that I succeeded as far as I’m concerned.”
Lucius’ finger sat on the trigger, motionless but prepared. He had done this countless times in his past, both to Seafarers, Dirge, and even the most mundane of politicians. War was war.
The preamble to their dealings didn’t bother him, but Astraeus grew annoyed on the line, “Come on! Ask him about her!”
Dante bent his neck to the side as if rubbing some powdered snow off with the movement. He then placed a glove between him and Friday on the table and cut through the facade, “Right. Let’s get to it. Is Thanaris alive?”
The Necto nodded and deliberately extended his forearm. A screen lay across his wrist, growing into a hologram of a dangling woman. Her flesh was closer to a pig in a butcher’s shop than a living being, but even from his vantage, thanks to his vision, Lucius could see signs of life.
“She is. For how long, though, depends on you. See... I have another job. Some members of my organization need help raising higher through their covers. Joseph wanted to kill Thanaris after digging out all her knowledge, but I figured we could get just a little more from her,” Friday mused as he retrieved his hand. The man seemed unbothered by the hostage situation, as if he had done this countless times.
Dante furrowed his brows, confused. He didn’t see how he could help someone rise through the ranks.
The mysterious figure nodded through his hood, spotting such a lack of understanding. He raised a finger and said, “You met with Claudius Vermillion, correct? I assume you gave him one of your crewmembers for the coming Centurion exam. The little bastard will need all the help he can get. He’s got some... persistent geriatric fucks wanting his hide.”
“How do you know that?” Dante fired back immediately. There was no way Friday should know about Claudius’ exam. The man wracked his head as his opposite shrugged, showing the corner of a smirk.
How would he know? I thought only Praetorians and Centurions like Rasa would... Fuck. He’s a Centurion.
“Why don’t you just help them yourself?” The human moved onward from his last question, knowing it wouldn’t be answered.
Friday tapped the table, saying, “Can’t. The Centurion exam isn’t being held standalone. With the rush for MDs here soon, Glaniece, Rome, and Ostacean are all doing their exams together—a once-in-a-millennium event. The Formless, Centurion, and Magister tests will all be held simultaneously.”
“And these... co-conspirators are not from Rome?” Dante said with a hint of promise. Voices rang in his head, whispers from Sonna and Astraeus of fear and anxiousness.
Friday’s head bobbed an inch. That was enough of an agreement. But he didn’t stop there, continuing onto the true purpose of their meeting, “These people won’t be genuine members unless they pass. We can get your people and you on a team for what they call the Grands. Stupid name, but gotta advertise it somehow.”
The captain pressed his tongue against his canine as he found a discrepancy, “What about them? Those members? Won’t we learn who they are? Aren’t you a secret organization? Sure seems either counter-intuitive or you aren’t planning on keeping us around after.”
“We are secretive. But not for long. The MDs will change everything. Our... leader decreed that long ago. You don’t have to worry about our retribution or silencing. That is all I’ll say,” Friday said as he clasped his gloved hands together.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Then, before Dante could even gather the knowledge in his head to speak, the man continued, striking while the iron was hot, “So? What do you say? We’ll give you Thanaris if you manage to get two promotions.”
Dante held the side of his head for a moment in thought. The man knew not all meets the eye, but the deal was good. Thanaris held more power than anyone else he’d ever known. Returning her to the fold would grant him a life debt with her. The woman was not one to shirk a responsibility so immense.
But this is dangerous. Will I even be able to show my face? No, but we have Joan’s Temps. She can cover us and let us partake. Plus, why are we intervening if this is meant to be a test for members?
He bit his lip as his mind spiraled further, ignoring the voices in his head. His crew could wait.
I’m looking at this all wrong. It’s a test, yes, but that’s the lesser goal. The Federation is obsessed with MDs. They know something. Something huge. If the Empires are coming together for an event like this, then why? Why are they publicizing it so much? I’d seen ads for it but thought the Grands were the typical exam name.
Dante glanced back up on Friday. The man’s hood covered his face, a countenance that he had already shown once in the Inferose. Now that the human knew Friday was a Centurion, he’d do his research and find out who.
But at this moment, he studied the man. Then, it hit him.
They are recruiting. Centurions, and I would assume Formless and Magisters, are the last rank that can be applied for out of duty. You don’t have to be a Judge; you only have to be recommended. I’m sure there are other ways too, perhaps preliminary exams. The Federation wants to slither its claws into the coming expeditions from the Empires.
“I heard the promotions will be more difficult than usual. Is there a reason for that?” Dante asked, the gears spinning at full speed in his head. He wanted to gleam any tidbit of information that he could while he was here.
However, the moment Friday opened his mouth to speak, Archimedes shouted into Dante’s ear with alarm, “Dante! Something is moving toward you! Fast! It’s sprinting across rooftops!”
Oswen. Praetors can track Centurions, and two are on this planet simultaneously. Friday didn’t know. He’s not that stupid. I need to wrap this up. This deal is good, though. I can use this as a springboard, too. If the Federation can slip into MDs, so can I.
“It will be. A lot more compe—”
Dante cut off Friday, not wasting another second, and speaking as fast as possible, “Right. We’ll take the deal. Here is my comms number. By the way, you have Praetor following your trail. Probably wanting to see what a Centurion is doing out on a planet like this without a mission.”
The Necto’s head whipped up in shock as he sputtered, “Who? I’m on medical leave!?”
With a laugh through his mask, Dante climbed from the bench and ran out of Cao’s garden toward the city. He waved toward Oswen’s coming direction and shouted, “Oswen!”
“Fuck. Not that hardass. Go! We can’t be seen together!” Friday leaped from his seat and sprinted in the other direction. Neither used a lick of the Lightsea, not daring to leave any traces behind other than footprints that would soon be covered by the falling snow.
The bitter morning air tore at Dante’s face as he sprinted into the icy streets of Habituar B, his boots crunching against the fresh snow. The city, cloaked in endless white and bathed in the harsh light of dawn, stretched out before him like a frozen graveyard. It seemed to call out to him, tell him that his death was near. The long and narrow street ballooned in size as his heart sped up.
Each step sent cold shocks through his legs, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
In the distance, a sharp, almost metallic crack echoed—a sound unlike anything natural to this dying city. Dante risked a glance over his shoulder and saw it.
No. He saw him.
Oswen, the Sole Survivor, a streak of silver against the snow. His figure was barely more than a blur, impossibly fast, a bullet in humanoid form hurtling across the rooftops straight into the center of Cao’s Garden. Dante’s stomach twisted. He knew he didn’t stand a chance in a head-to-head fight. Not against someone like that. Not even his whole crew would be enough.
They were far from being his equal. Not yet.
His instincts screamed at him, and the fleeting glance he exchanged with Oswen as he turned the corner seemed to stretch into eternity. The man’s piercing gaze locked onto Dante like a predator marking its prey, cold and absolute. The swordsman recognized him.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the two of them—an unspoken promise of death hanging in the air.
Then, a deafening gunshot shattered the frozen silence.
“Shit!” Dante cursed as the sound jolted him into action. He bolted past the icy corner, adrenaline coursing through his veins. But nothing felt fast enough.
Dante pushed himself harder, his feet slipping slightly on the road as he raced down the thin street lined with abandoned cars. Hydro flowed naturally, steadying his gait and empowering his momentum now that he was already caught. His breath came in sharp bursts, the icy air burning his lungs. While running, he spotted a car buried in the snow ahead and made a split-second decision.
Launching himself onto the hood, Dante raced atop the vehicle, his boots lurching against the ice-coated metal, before leaping onto a nearby terrace. His gloved hands caught the edge, fingers digging into the frost as he hauled himself up with a grunt. The water behind him brought him to his feet without another movement.
The sound of Oswen’s relentless pursuit was deafening in his ears as each step left behind booming crunches in the winter. He didn’t dare look back. Instead, Dante pulled himself onto the roof and took a deep breath. His heart pounded as he scanned the rooftops ahead, already spotting Oswen—a streak of silver leaping effortlessly between buildings, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
In just a moment, he stood over Lucius’ mound of snow. The Martian had brought the Praetor’s wrath upon himself. Sonna burst from the white just as the soldier did. A Vacuum Palm struck out at Oswen, but it was literally smacked away by his sword’s hilt.
The monster in Tianshe skin then kicked at the exploding mound behind him. Lucius caught the man’s boot, but the momentum sent him rolling across the rooftop, shattering the actual air conditioner into a heap of metal and dispersing all the snow covering it.
Dante took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, even as panic clawed at the edges of his mind. He formed a clench with his right hand’s fingers, his voice sharp and defiant as he shouted, “Hey! Fucker!”
In an instant, Matchlock activated.
The air around him exploded as a massive geyser of pressurized water erupted from beneath his fingers, a surge of raw power unlike anything he had used before. The torrent was wild and nearly uncontrollable, a deluge that roared like a caged beast finally set free. Where Slip was a carefully set up Tide, Flick was born out of death’s desperation.
On the edge of oblivion, Dante created his most potent weapon, and under the Lightsea Pact he had made, he held no regrets. His life would be short.
The sudden blast caught the Praetor completely off guard. The water struck him square in the chest, a violent crash of liquid and momentum that sent him flying. A flicker of steel found itself between him and the water, but still, for the first time, the seemingly untouchable man faltered. The flash of silver that had been Oswen was now a streak hurtling through the air, flung hundreds of feet away like a ragdoll. He smashed into the side of a distant building, the impact shattering the ice-covered stone in a spray of debris as the Praetor tunneled inside from the impact.
Legates, Praetors, and even Centurions could live centuries with their wealth and power, affording them countless opportunities. He would not have such a chance.
But he would be a candle lit at both ends, blazing bright enough for all to see. None would deny him. None would ignore him. He would be recognized. He would be... someone better than nothing. The human refused to die without touching that lofty peak, the one he idolized as a child in the textbooks he rarely got to read.
However, no matter how he dreamed, his own power was too much for him to handle. A bone jut from his right arm, the price to pay for the empowered Flick, with blood squirting out the elbow and wrist. As if to mock him, the crimson froze before reaching the ground.
Dante collapsed onto his knees, coughing as the mist from the geyser clung to the air around him. His legs trembled, threatening to give out entirely. The pain in his thighs and calves was excruciating, and he knew he’d pay for this later. But for now, he didn’t care. He’d done it. He’d bought himself time.
“GET HERE NOW, ARCH!” Dante roared into his comms, his voice duplicating across the frozen city. As he did so, a mouse scampered out of his coat pocket and injected herself with the tiny syringe stored there.
The comm crackled with static before Archimedes’ panicked voice burst through. “I-I’m already on my way! Just hold on! One minute!”
“One minute…” Dante muttered under his breath, glancing toward the direction where Oswen had disappeared. Sixty seconds might as well have been a lifetime with a Praetor on his tail.
Behind him, boots crunching against the snow drew his attention. Dante turned his head and saw Joan emerging from her transformation. Her helmet was removed and tucked under her arm, revealing her smirking face. She strode toward him with an almost casual gait, her amusement impossible to miss.
The woman had improved her Biotics further. They now managed to shrink her clothes, too, hiding them somewhere in the transfigured shape. The technology was far beyond him, but he didn’t care.
“Well, that was one hell of a light show,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She crouched beside him, her sharp eyes scanning the two bones sticking out of his arm. “You look like shit, by the way.”
Dante groaned, knees bending as he struggled to stand, as the impact more than affected his right arm, “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Joan chuckled, her gloved hands gently prodding at his legs, checking for breaks, “Impressive, though. Didn’t think you had it in you to throw a Praetor halfway across the city. Guess your little Matchlock is finally pulling its weight.”
“Yeah, well, it almost pulled my legs off. And what about your Stigmata? Haven’t seen it yet,” Dante muttered, wincing as Joan’s fingers pressed against a particularly sore spot.
“Don’t worry about me. But you’ll live,” Joan said, standing and brushing the snow off her coat. “Still, you better hope that bought us enough time because if Oswen gets back here before Arch does...” She trailed off, letting the unspoken threat hang in the air.
Lucius leaped onto their rooftop, carrying Sonna on his back, while Joan pointed out their situation. Astraeus, too, appeared, climbing up similarly to Dante.
They all looked at each other as the seconds ticked. Then, their heads turned as a distant rumble echoed through the frozen city—a sound like collapsing stone. Dante’s blood ran cold as he realized what it meant.
Oswen was coming back. Fast.