Fiction:Realities Altered/Dysnomia

"Elimate your weakness of trust, choke on your desires and disgusts."

- Kithanan

The year is 2893. The Andromeda Galaxy was a gleaming diamond in a sea of darkness and chaos. Alien races and foreign civilizations had once come together to stabilize the political affairs of Andromeda and protect it from both external and internal threat. War had become a discouraged thought, with the heroes of Andromeda fighting for unity and peace amongst the Gigaquadrant, who had come to respect the Andromedan powers for their efforts and assistance in outside conflicts. A beautiful rose at its peak could not be compared to the stylish and traditional beauty of Andromeda's passion and devotion, as well as alien architectures and technologies. A galaxy of knights and brave warriors, dedicated to preserving all that was Andromedan and proud to die for what they believed in. Demons, criminals, rebellions, insurrections, none of it could topple the proud, united society of Andromeda. The Brood of War, a nation of proud, fearless warriors who spent their entire lives training their bodies to extend beyond the limits of normal beings and become the most powerful fighters within existence to defend what they hold dear. The Draconid Imperium, an ancient and technologically beautiful society of proud nobles who wished to bring order and prosperity to all who pledged their name under Andromeda. The Divinarium, an empire who promised death to all those who opposed the name of Spode and guaranteed assistance to all those who they saw as worthy allies and friends. These three empires were Andromeda's finest, the protectors of the Andromedan dream...

No longer.

From the dream that was once Andromeda spawned a nightmare. A former utopia, free for all nations to co-exist, has descended into a devastating spiral of carnage and destruction. Sophisticated societies have crumbled and shattered into criminal organizations and gangs that have dispersed themselves all over the galaxy. Order had been lost and broken beyond repair, stomped upon by greed and criminal warfare. Even the larger influences within Andromeda were not spared from this dystopian fate. The Brood of War, perhaps the largest military organization of old Andromeda, no longer stands and has fallen to the point where Zazane, former warriors of honour, have taken up the mantra of criminals, murderers and raiders. The Imperium stands as a struggling empire, trying to contain the plague of crime and war within the galaxy but with every one threat neutralized, another ten erupted from the ashes. The Divinarium had also suffered the wrath of this downfall, with many turning away from Spode and forming their own gangs and organizations to preserve themselves, what was once one of the most technologically powerful Andromedan influences has now become a small shadow of its former self. But it was not only the appearance of galaxy-wide crime that made this former "Garden of Eden" into the "Pit of Tartarus". Eldritch abominations, Lovecraftian monsters and chaos-seeking demons reigned as the highest authority within Andromeda, with chaotic influences such as the Mali'Nar becoming the dominant rulers over several Segmentums. It seemed as if Andromeda's light has finally blown, plunging the bright and prosperous into darkness and depression.

...

The story is just beginning.

Part 1
Within the bleak and obscure void of abyssal space, a planetoid. Nothing more than a piece of rock, lost within the darkness of the Andromedan Depression, an age of discord and chaos, where the remnants of former empires now stand as just small organizations bent on simply surviving rather than trying to improve the current state of Andromeda as a whole. Economic failure, societal collapse, environmental devastation, it was as if Andromeda was the incarnate of all things that civilization had strived to prevent. It was a living, breathing Hell, with every single miserable mortal which inhabited every single insignificant piece of rock being the cells that constantly broke down in their sadness and regenerated in their anger. The planetoid was an asteroid, or at least a dormant one. It was held inactive by outdated technology, keeping asteroid in a state of perpetful day and perpetual night on either end. Within the center of this light and dark stood a small town. It was nameless, but people lived here, usually refugees who were looking for extra resources or necessities. Nothing here was really worthy enough to be called a "luxury", everything was old and past its sell-by date. The food, the liquid, the buildings themselves. There were only so many working energy resources as well.

The local public house. A grimey place filled to the brim with odd sorts. Elders, gangsters, widows, all types of people came here, although obviously not for the company. The drinks, they were lukewarm. Nothing really deserving of praise or insult. The food, or what was left of it, was better off left alone. The staff? What staff? There was just a measley bartender and even he looked past his date of expiration. No waiters, no waitresses. Bizarre thing was that the public house wasn't even accepting new employees. There was no real business to be had here. The place was doomed anyway, it's just a matter of time until official authorities rediscover it and decide to demolish it for being useless. This place was more like a therapy group, except nobody communicated. There was no real need for it, everybody knew what each other was thinking. They had either lived long enough to experience the downfall of Andromeda's golden age, or were born into this depressing pit. It doesn't matter, the experience was shared. One could really consider this public house one of the last places in the entire galaxy that still held at least some decency outside of the Draconid Imperium, which surprisingly still stood strong as both a refuge and an empire, although unfortunately to say, it is the only rose left within Andromeda and even then it is slowly wilting.

A figure approached the public house. He was of moderate height, around 7ft. He wore a long, flowing coat over his body, with a large collar to hide his face from the crowds and public. He appeared vaguely Zazane at least, judging by his crest and tail. However, it doesn't matter much about his appearance. No organizations are racially specific anymore, they're taking all they can get. Everybody's a survivor, one way or another. However, there was something that still made the presence of the individual unsettling. The fact that Zazane had become known for brutal, incriminating acts of violence across Andromeda both before and after the Depression didn't help the situation any further, although they had fallen from the ideal of being honourable warriors into vile scum. And as he stepped into the pub, the rules of probability were definitely at play. As expected, all eyes on him, although the figure returned no such courtesy. He simply sat by the bar, alone.

Figure - Bartender, how about a drink? Bartender - ''What did you want? If you're looking for any of that fancy stuff, I'm afraid you're in the wrong pub.'' Figure - Do I appear as the fancy sort to you? Bartender - ''You're more talkative than this sad lot. It's been a while since I've seen somebody with a bit of fight. Ever since the Depression...'' Figure - Paa'go, my good man. Bartender - ''...Right. Are you sure you're okay?'' Figure - ''What sort of question is that? Ever since the Depression started, I've had the time of my life. I'm never out of a job!'' Bartender - What do you mean by that? Figure - ''Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'm just rambling on.''

Paa'go. A brand of alcoholic drink that had a similar feel to soda, although it was as strong and addictive as any other lager or beer. It was cheap and affordable, coming in a variety of colours which displayed the flavour of the product. The manufacturer for Paa'go went bust and shutdown more than 50 years ago, making the drinks within this pub antique. As the figure gripped his glass of yellow Paa'go in his hand, he looked over to a small black and white holo-screen at the counter. Coloured holo-screens were a luxury, in fact monochrome screens were a luxury these days. A news broadcast, breaking news apparently. News about the Depression had stopped long ago, mainly due to the fact nobody needed to be told twice about it. At one point, the news was so frequent about the Depression, suicide rates had been at an all-time high. It's a wonder why nobody had thought about a mass galaxy-wide suicide before.

The crowd began to move to the windows, perhaps the highest amount of synchronized activity within the last century, aside from the constant drinking and sobbing, brought on by the fact that all of the individuals who had come here had lost something dear to them, whether it'd be property, family or both. Everybody could hear it. The sound of sadness had been placed on hold, interrupted by a melody of roars and screams. The crowd of saddened residents leaped out of their seats as blood splattered against the windows, turning their sadness into horror. The figure, however, paid no attention to the ruckus outside. Instead, he drank his Paa'go casually, not a single care in the entire world given for this moment.

The doors were thrown off their rusted hinges, crashing into the wall and smashing effortlessly. The pub residents cried out in surprise and shock, jumping back away from the windows. It would have been better for them to have jumped out of them, in all honesty. They had just lost their chance for escape and survival, although there wasn't much chance of them surviving outside anyway. Within moments, the pub had gained a few new foreign visitors; they stank of corruption, chaos and evil, not to mention the secondary smell of anger and rage. Only few people referred to them by their real names now, since most people would not be able to due to the fact they had been butchered before they even had a chance. . Demonic beings fuelled by the fire of madness and driven by the mere thought of violence. The opportunity to shed blood was perhaps a Nirvana tenfold for them. One must wonder how content they were with their own existence, always at the scene of war and battle. Perhaps they lived in a constant state of ectasy, displayed through their incredibly aggressive actions towards others for more and more. Just a passing thought.

The figure didn't bat an eye. Perhaps he had not heard them, despite the amount of cackling laughter and agitated roaring that occured behind him, along with all the screaming and yelling that the pub residents decided would be a good idea to get themselves noticed. It couldn't be helped. The only real thing that got his attention was the bloodied dismembered leg that flew past and knocked the bottle of Paa'go out of his hand, shattering on the counter and spilling all over the floor, as well as the figure's long coat. A quiet sigh.

Figure - ...Another rough night on the town?

One of the Malcaeum took his brief words as a summon. It approached him, sniffing at his coat like a curious dog or some other animal. The Malcaeum appeared to be communicating, although nobody could really make out what they were saying as it consisted almost entirely of loud, bellowing groans and laughter. The language of the mad, the dialect of the angry. The figure continued to ignore this and looked down.

Figure - Indeed, the service in here is terrible.

There was no real agreement in the tone of the Malcaeum's voices, although it didn't take a demon to notice how run-down the place really was. The figure was met with roars from the beasts, as well as a strong assault across his front. The long spike that portruded from a Malcaeum's wrist was perhaps one of the most pain-inflicting melee weapons within the Gigaquadrant. A curved, organic spike dripping with Entropic energy, thrusted across or into one's body at a speed fast enough to break walls. Not many people survived direct contact with such as they were usually killed or comatosed by the experience, although you get the occasional lucky fellow. The figure was sent flying across the width of the room and smacked against the nearest wall, as well as the closest vending machine which was now bent in the center from the impact. Soon, it became more than just a slash. A mix of blood and soda now covered the floor and walls as the Malcaeum monsters repeatedly stabbed their long, impure spikes into the flesh and sinew of the figure. He attempted to stand, but was knocked down and assaulted over and over. Penetration was overrated and got old quick.

During this little game that the Malcaeum were enjoying so much, the men and women who had not been carved and dismembered into bloodied husks tried to escape via heading for the entrance. It was a pity they had been so close, if they moved a little faster perhaps they could have gotten out before it appeared. Just in front of the entrance, a crushing hope had materialized outside of the shadows; a Balanar, a Night Stalker. The vampires of the Corruptus. It's mere presence froze all within the bar, except for the figure who had become some sort of play doll for the Malcaeum. The massive beast began its feast of fears and shames, draining the survivors of all of their souls or at least what had remained after the devastating mental effect of the Depression. The Malcaeum on the other hand sniffed at the bloodied figure, curious as to whether he retained any life within his ruined, penetrated body.

Boom. A Malcaeum fell dead, its brains and other essences splattered across the ceiling of the room. This caught the other Malcaeum by surprise and they stepped back slightly as the figure slowly stood, covered in his own blood and wounds dealt by the angry beasts. A smile appeared on his face, revealing his incredibly sharp jaws and his black tongue, perhaps blacker than even the darkest of nights. The figure removed his hat, revealing his face to the Malcaeum; he was definitely a Zazane of some sort, a mix of black and red. But it wasn't his face that surprised the Malcaeum; it was his aura. A burning, darkening aura that appeared as if it came from the deepest reaches of Hell just to rise and terrify all that saw it.

Figure - I think that's enough for tonight, gentlemen.

The wall was like paper as the figure was thrown through with immense force. It wasn't always wise to pick a fight with Malcaeum, especially considering the fact they were one of the Corruptus' most aggressive and angriest soldiers. Wherever there was mass destruction, Malcaeum were usually the cause. They were a force of nature, the killers of any hope and joy one had hoped to keep with them, especially in the times of the Depression. However, today would be an exception. The figure, bloodied and riddled with wounds and deep injuries that riddled with Entropic energy, balanced himself on his own two feet, no effort spent. The fact that the Malcaeum could turn metal surfaces into shattered glass just by a strong punch made this feat all the more unbelievable and seemingly impossible. To add to his already impressive effect, he grabbed the coller of his coat and in one swift movement it flew across the room, revealing the figure's torso; three impressive pairs of portrusions appeared almost shield-like upon his chest, with a slim yet compact muscular build as his general body type. His body was covered in deep, horrifying holes, tears and rips from where the Malcaeum had assaulted him. He was definitely Zazane, yet not completely Zazane.

Figure - ''Ever thought for joining a wrestling team? A tackle like that is certainly impressive.''

The Malcaeum were less than impressed. In fact, they were angry and presumably incredibly irritated by his survival and resistance. Even after being sliced to pieces, the figure still stood and talked as if he was in perfect health. One Malcaeum stepped forward, opening its sharp jaws to speak against the figure in a rather interesting and original display of its individuality.

Malcaeum - FEAST ON SOUL!

The figure simply chuckled at the Malcaeum's remark. Nothing new, nothing original. Guess that the dialogue of the Corruptus had vanished along with the economy. The figure's smile widened as he held his left hand up to his right pec and closed his eyes. The Malcaeum gave an almost confused look for a second or so before returning to its usual angered state, although it did not suspect a small, silver and ornate dagger to appear within the figure's hand, nor was it intimidated by it in the slightest. The figure looked at the dagger within his hand; it was of Divinarium origin, crafted and built by the most advanced of machines. The blade looked astoundingly sharp yet thin, with the handle being rather decorative, with lots of curves both in the portrusions at the side and in the center, which one would use to hold the dagger. It gave off a white, pure aura, which began to irritate the Malcaeum. It was nowhere near as large as the organic blades of the Corruptus aggressors, but the figure simply shrugged at the comparison.

Figure - Well, it seems you have the bigger blade.

The group of Malcaeum charged at him, roaring and laughing in their degrading and demonic tone. To make matters somewhat worse, it wasn't just the Malcaeum who were going for him. The massive Balanar slowly made its way towards the Zazane, its massive maw stretched to reveal its grotesque and disgusting tongue as it screamed in fierce anger. The figure gave a simple smile and made a slashing gesture with the dagger. It took one unlucky Malcaeum by surprise as the blade extended from the handle on a long, glowing white chain of Essence energy and pierced itself into the side of the demon's face. With a confident pull of the handle, the Malcaeum was swung off its feet, much to the shock of the others. The unfortunate damned creature was swung in circles over the figure's head, a living wrecking ball. It only took a throw to dislodge the blade from the Malcaeum's face and have it crash into one of its demonic comrades, the resulting impact killing both of them in the process. The dagger's blade retracted back to the handle, the figure looking to the last two Malcaeum.

The Balanar got ever closer, it's dark and murderous presence approaching at a slow and patient rate. There was a look of desire within its eye, a look that told all that he wanted to do nothing more than rip this Zazane to shreds until he was nothing more than mere strips of burning, rotting flesh. Another Malcaeum approached. The figure slammed his foot down on the floorboards, sending the beast upwards towards the ceiling. Another fish has been hooked. The Malcaeum was launched by the figure to the other side of the room, dying from the Essence poisoning and assisted by the impact. The remaining Malcaeum had narrowly avoided being struck down, for now at least.

Figure - Whoops, I missed.

The remaining Malcaeum had not learned its gruesome lesson. It had a chance to run, but it refused, or rather had not noticed in its blind fury. Driven purely by its rage, it did not care for the deaths of its comrades or how they were dealt with, but the fact that this unknown figure continued to resist against the wrath of him and his allies drove it near insanity, or further into it. This was displayed by the strong headbutt it delivered against the Zazane's head crest, a somewhat useless idea due to the strength of the crest itself; pure naturally-occuring Shidium. The Malcaeum's eyes widened as it then felt striking pain to its left. Its arm twitched as it dropped to the floor, dismembered rather bloodily by the figure's second blade; a Kicathian sword of considerable length, flowing with an Essence of some kind. Before the Malcaeum could recover, the figure delivered his own headbutt against the demon's face with his incredibly powerful head crest, shattering the beast's skull.

The creature fell. Broken beyond repair, as was the way of Andromeda nowadays. The Balanar, the mighty Night Stalker, stood among the center of this massacre of demons. The vampire's hand was outstretched, with the bloodied and beaten corpses of the Malcaeum slowly dissolving into incorporeal spheres of Entropic energy, gathering within the Balanar's palm as if it had degraded the Malcaeum corpses into such a resource itself. The figure looked up at the Balanar and he simply stood in a casual stance, looking to the monster's face with a disappointed look and an amused tone in his voice.

Figure - ''Sorry, bar's closed. Come back tomorrow.'' Balanar - Wrong answer.

The figure was sent through the wall behind him by a powerful blast of Entropic energy, created from the gathered resources of the deceased Malcaeum. One could see as Entropy blasted itself through the stab wounds upon the figure's body and come out the other side, an example of how badly wounded he had been. He landed on his feet once again, although he was covered in both his blood and that of his enemies. He watched as the Balanar thrusted itself forward, its arms outstretched to grab him if it got the chance. No, not here. Fighting here would be no good. The figure ran forward, charging at the Corruptus assassin confidently. This was ridiculous, surely he wouldn't survive. The Balanar is one of the Corruptus' mightiest demonic assassins, there's no way...

The Balanar was shocked. The figure had not gone on the offensive, it had misjudged him. It was typical of Zazane nature to charge at your enemy in desperation to get a few last hits, but this was different. Instead of delivering a punch or a kick, the figure had rolled between the monster's legs. The Balanar's effort had just been wasted, its fierce reputation squandered. When the creature turned itself around, the Zazane figure could be seen within the entrance room for the pub, holding a pair of pistols; Adrasteia and Nemesis. Adrasteia was a customized plasma energy pistol of the Dei'ar Theocracy, designed to fire energy bolts at an incredibly fast pace in a similar fashion to bullets, although reloads were unnecessary as this was one of the most advanced hand-held weapons within Andromeda as of the Depression. Nemesis was a customized pistol of the Brood of War, designed to fire solid Shidium bullets at an amazingly fast pace as well as deliver an increased amount of damage from explosive rounds.

The figure turned his head to the paralyzed survivors. He could see a mix of emotions upon their faces, such as sadness and fear. Their lives had come short, or whatever lives they had anyway. There wasn't much "living" to do within Andromeda, the simple philosophy of "life's a bitch and then you die" comes into play when applied to the Andromedan Depression.

Figure - So, is this how you get so powerful? Balanar - ''My power comes your inner fears. Your hidden shames. Your past experiences. Your soul will be collected like the rest.''

The Zazane fired. The paralyzed victims of the Balanar were dispatched quickly, although there was no real mercy to be had. The Balanar's influence would only last for how long the Balanar itself survived, they would have been fine. They could have survived this nightmare. Instead, the last thing they shall ever feel is either a solid Shidium bullet burst through their body and out the other side, or feel their bodies burn intensely as rapid plasma fire assaulted their very being. The Balanar watched the massacre and let out a bellowing laugh once the last survivor was shot down. A swift bullet through the head.

Balanar - ''Is that an attempt of depowering me? Ridiculous!'' Figure - ...That wasn't my reason.

The Balanar refused to listen any further, it was tired of this fight. It wanted to end this quickly now, with the satisfaction of possessing the knowledge that it had killed this worthless pest. As it charegd, the figure sighed and shrugged his shoulders, looking down and away from the monstrous beast. As the beast was too busy roaring, its ears drowned in its own desires and thoughts, the figure stood patiently and muttered under his breath.

Figure - My reason was to spare those people from what I'm about to do to you!

The Balanar's maw wrapped itself around the figure's face. Darkness, abyssal darkness. The horrifying absence of light, except for that tongue. That corrupted, terrifying tongue, rotted and mangled from the Night Stalker's diet of fears and shames, memories and souls. It seemed to be the end. Engulfed in blackness, the light begins to die. Feel one's self slowly crawling away, escaping the fleshy vessel it has resided within for so long...

Blood splattered. The maw was ruined and light returned. The figure's claws were covered in the corrosive, Entropic fluids of the Balanar, a smile upon his face. But this was no smile of happiness, no joy, no relief. It was excitement, it was arousement. The Balanar's face had become horridly distorted and twisted, it's mouth now ripped in two by the Zazane, who looked up at the beast with an expression that would perhaps anger even the most calm and patient of demonic entities. The Balanar's rage expressed itself through one action, an action it would soon regret. The beast placed its sharp, wrenching claws upon the figure's chest, digging its piercing nails into his flesh. More blood surfaced, a few more wounds. The Balanar groaned, clearly in unbearable pain and agony from having its maw ripped in half by the mysterious figure.

He had enough, he finished this. The Balanar's pained groans soon transformed themselves into a screech of agonizing fear as it was sent hurling across the pub, as if it had just been shot out of a cannon. The figure stood with his back turned, a great many wounds and holes across his body, with plenty of them reaching from the front to the back. There was blood everywhere, both his and not his. The Balanar's forced flight wrecked the counter, the seats, the tables, the walls, the corpses, everything. Nothing was spared from this monster's plentiful mass. Such a throw would not have been possible for most Andromedan natives, perhaps a good shove but nothing such as this. Silence. Everything went quiet after the devastating crash that followed, that is all aside from pitiful whimpers. He turned his head slowly to look upon his victim, it twitched like a freshly mutilated corpse. A smile spread across his face as the once great Night Stalker soon turned into nothing more than just leftover remnants of Entropy that soon disappeared into the air. What was once a place for locals and foreigners alike to visit and drown their sorrows is now a mere memory, replaced instead by a wake of destruction and death, blood and flesh.

...

A blade, a dagger. A skeletal, Entropic dagger. Such could now be seen piercing through the chest of the Zazane figure, entering from behind. He fell to his knees, the blood from his wounds forming a puddle where he kneeled. Behind him, two shadows. One of which was his own, the other was a foreign entity, although not completely unknown. Another Corruptus monster, a Garvathae. The spies and assassins of the Corruptus, a recent addition seen within the last century, although they remained absence from the sites of large battles, preferring to strike alone, as evidenced by this brutal kick in the head that took the form of a corrupted blade through the chest. The figure attempted a standing position, cut short by the fierce, merciless and honourless Garvathae. Another wound, another insult to injury. The assassin poised its blade, the back of the figure's head being the bullseye of this little game. Some fun was about to be had.

The wounds, the uncountable, corrupted wounds of Entropic weaponry completely covered the poor man's body. Blood dripped from them as if they were taps placed on full power. It was painful, it was agonizing. It would have killed any normal soul several times over. But why, why have they not yet claimed this Zazane's life? Why have they proven themselves so ineffective? The answer was simple; they no longer existed. Within an instant, the deep wounds pulled themselves together, reforming into fresh scales and flesh with not even a trace of the slightest cut. The figure looked to his assassin, a look of joy upon his face as the battle had not ended yet. An arm for a stab wound, it was easy. The Garvathae stumbled, a gross and rather disgusting wound replaced where an entire right arm should be. Instead, the arm in question was in the figure's hand.

Figure - You know, it's rather rude to approach a guy without introducing yourself.

It did not take long for the wound to seal itself. In fact, after around a minute of idleness and contemplating what the hell had just happened, the Garvathae's arm had already grew into a fleshy stump, almost ready to burst out another fully-developed skeleton-like arm. It looked upon the figure's impressive figure with utter disgust.

Figure - ''I assume that you're an assassin, that's cute. How about telling me who you work for, sweetie?''

No response. A kick was delivered to his face by the disgusted and disgraced assassin, it wouldn't take this from some mortal. The figure, however, didn't move from his position. The kick would have knocked anybody off their feet, it would have thrown even Draconis across the room. But he didn't move from his standing position. The only thing that happened was an aggressive and hostile hand wrapped itself around the Corruptus' thin throat and slammed the beast into the floorboards. The figure was no longer standing, he was now kneeling down with the demon's life within his palm.

Figure - Now that you've calmed down, who sent you here and why?

The Garvathae could have gotten out easily, it could have just teleported itself out of his palm. It could have attacked him once more. But it didn't. It was almost froze in terror as it looked into the man's eyes. The eyes, the windows of the soul. While usually a Corruptus minion would perhaps feel hunger and desire upon the sight of one's soul, it was different this time around. All it felt was fear. There was something dark within his body, deep inside his vile, beating heart, his fiery blood. The Garvathae had no choice.

Garvathae - ...The Perfectionist.

With that, the figure released his grip and the Garvathae teleported as far as it could away from the Zazane. He stood up proudly, not even turning to look at the angry and incredibly agitated demon. He could still detect its presence, he didn't need to see it to know it was there, like the depression that struck down most of Andromeda's sad inhabitants. He let a chuckle pass from his jaws, his eyes slowly returning to their usual state of normality, if there was such a thing for him.

Figure - Tell him I said hi, won't you?

In a state of anger and annoyance in the most extreme category, the Garvathae raised its Entropic dagger once more. But reality kicked in and cleared the assassin's head. It wouldn't be a good idea, at least not now. Not while this man was still at his full, aggravating strength. It would be better to run today and fight once more another day. The black fog claimed the assassin's body as it growled and grunted in anger and impatience, now safe from this mysterious man. The strength of several thousand men coursed through his very veins, an anger and violent passion burning deep within his black heart. Who was this figure, this Zazane? This killer of demons, this punisher of the damned? He goes by several names, but either way it's all the same. To gain his favour, it would be wise to address this man by the name he had chose for himself so very long ago, since the days before this Depression ever came to be. He had claimed it then and he continues to claim it proudly now.

Kithanan.

Part 2
Carnage. This was an understatement. There was no real word to describe what had happened here today. Apartments had fallen to rubble, shopping malls collapsed into piles of trash and dirt, public and social places burned to a crisp. What was once a sad, lonely and broken town had become nothing more than ruin, shattered by chaos and demonic forces. The foundations for this modern ruin were the corpses and blood of the hopeless, damned civilians. They didn't even put up much of a fight, even if they were not fighting at their puny maximum potential. Nothing could have stopped this massacre, it was already too late as soon as the demonic forces of the Corruptus arrived here. A refuge for the damned, their time had come to collect their hopeless souls and spare them from the rest of their tortured lives. It didn't matter, this place wasn't even a speck on the galactic map. Nobody would care for it if it completely disappeared into blackness, nobody would even notice its insignificance. A slaughter had gone without any official punishment, it was uncommon for it to be treated anyway.

Kithanan watched the blaze, the burning fireball that was once a town. It was nothing new, but it never got old for him. For some reason, he enjoyed this. The sight of burning, incineration, melting. It was an ecstatic feeling, a feeling that made him excited, at home. A warm emotion of maybe joy, perhaps happiness? Arousement? Nobody really knew what this feeling felt like for him, nor did they really want to know how or why. Kithanan's teeth were bared into a terrifying smile, bloodied and still dripping with whatever fluids he had exposed his fierce, powerful jaws to, most likely some unfortunate demon that hadn't ran away in time or had been too stupid to escape. In this urban inferno, Kithanan felt a rush through his spine. And then, he was brought back to reality by a voice. It was a familiar voice. Who needed communicators when you had the power of telepathy within your arsenal of casual abilities?

??? - Ah Kithanan, what happened?

Kithanan leaned his head back and his jaws opened, releasing a cackle, as if the question was a result he had been expecting and just a mere mention would provoke his humour. It was a devious cackle, as if he had just performed an evil deed.

Kithanan - ''You mean what didn't happen this time? It's like I'm always stuck on repeat.'' ??? - ''Shouldn't you, you know, take care of the survivors? They're dying around you, and you do nothing.''

Alas, amidst the corpses and the dismembered pieces of once intact bodies and flesh, hid the dying. Overcome with pain, distraught and misery, they refused to stand amongst the chaos. What had been their worthless and hopeless lives had just been shattered even further, as the only company they enjoyed was taken from this realm and claimed within the demonic clutches of the Devourer's armies. All that was left now was excruciating pain, fatal suffering. All had been taken away, aside from their lives which slowly drip until dry. Kithanan paid none of his attention to it, it didn't concern him even in the slightest. There was nothing that could be done for these people, they were already dead.

Kithanan - ''They're dead anyway, either from corruption, injury or internal bleeding. I can't save these people. Anyway, the Corruptus are bound to come again for another round.'' ??? - ''The Infernals? Again? Ugh, seems that things are only getting worse. It's an eleventh time demons showed up already... and the week is just beginning.'' Kithanan - Hah, you talk like "worse" is still possible. ??? - ''Yeah. It isn't, really.'' Kithanan - ''Even if I did save a few lives now, they'd only die later. It'd be a waste of my time, effort and energy which would be put into something far more enjoyable, such as sport.''

The voice became angrier, a sense of at least some passion in its tone. Kithanan found it amusing how some people still held onto hope, how some people believed that Andromeda could still be saved from itself. The only real way to truly ensure your safety in Andromeda is to not be in Andromeda, yet extragalactic travel had become lost in this century of technological reversal and degradation, not to mention the countless number of demonic entities and Lovecraftian monsters that patrolled the void abyss. He found it amusing that some people did not let go of the Andromeda they once knew or heard about, how they had not come to accept that Andromeda's people were just waiting to die.

??? - ''But they're the reason we're fighting, Kithanan! All I want is to make Andromeda a slightly better place to live. Why do you not care for those we are meant to protect?'' Kithanan - ''Who said it was my task to protect them? It's my job to fight demons, criminals, mercenaries and pirates, not protect the hopeless. I think you're asking a bit much.'' ??? - ''Do you remember it, Kith? The time before the Depression?''

Kithanan thought for a few moments. He often did not intend to think about the past. He suppressed his memories through his mental will, placing barriers upon the memories he refused to believe. He tried not to delve so far back, he didn't really need to nor did he like being asked about his past. After a minute or so of silence between the two, Kithanan nodded and gave a hum of acknowledgement, alongside a humble chuckle.

Kithanan - ''Ah, just barely. A full century has passed since the Depression occured. Things have hit rock bottom. It's not possible to get any worse, or any better.'' ??? - ''I do. Back then, I was a captain of the Commonwealth's fleet. I saw the era of light: I saw it ushering, I saw it thriving... and dying. We can still fix this mess, like my father did during the First War.'' Kithanan - ''People continue to die, every minute of every hour of every day. It matters not what we do, or what methods we use, or what we believe in, or how many people we kill, the galaxy will always stink of death, it always has and always will. Those who fight to save lives must focus more on saving themselves if they truly wish to make a difference. It's not that I mind it, of course. People will die and there's nothing I can do to change it. I find it strange how people can't accept that fact.'' ??? - It hasn't *always* been like that.

As if to calm itself, the voice's tone and volume lowered into nothing more than frantic, excited whispers. Kithanan listened in on the whispers, but he didn't try making any sense of them. It wasn't unusual for the voice to do this, although no matter how much it broke down into this fit of whispering, Kithanan could make no sense of what it was saying. He just found it rather amusing, really. How somebody could just randomly break down into whispering and gibberish like some insane prophet. And then it rose again, in volume and tone and boomed through Kithanan's head.

??? - I, Quendor Telnhao, hereby vow to protect Andromeda and its inhabitants by all means and at all costs; I shall never surrender and I shall know no fear for I am fear incarnate; I am the Guardian of Light. Kithanan - Guardian of Light...Heh, yet you see in darkness. Quendor - ''It was an order of warriors dedicated to defending the galaxy. After the Depression, it was dissolved; some of them fled in the Imperium, others became warlords and bounty hunters... I might be one of the few who still remember our original mission.'' Kithanan - ''And what was your mission, Quendor? To protect the people of Andromeda? To exile all threats from this realm of living? To fight for a cause that would bring a greater benefit?'' Quendor - ''Indeed. Well, there was another one...''

Quendor's voice became quiet again, though not to the extent of just a mere whisper, as if he was hiding something or didn't want Kithanan to notice something. Kithanan didn't really care for what secrets Quendor held or what happened in his past. There was not much to care about now, really.

Quendor - But I'd rather not tell you about it. Kithanan - ''It probably doesn't matter much now, anyway. Save the history lessons for another time, I have a bit more info on the cause of the Corruptus infestation.'' Quendor - I'm interested.

Kithanan chuckled and looked up. Another devious, horrific smile appeared upon his jaws. His eyes closed and he spread his thin, yet muscular, arms, as if he was pretending to be uplifted into the sky. And then from his jaws, he blurted out his command.

Kithanan - Beam me up!

Within moments, Kithanan's entire body became little more than particles in the air, surrounded and engulfed in a light from above. Teleportation, the process of one's entire being seperating and dispersing to a set area only to reconnect and reform, travelling at an incredible speed and pace across distances thought unimaginable. Where was the reciever? It resided kilometers above this ruined settlement, onboard a ship. But it wasn't just any ship. It was unique. A warship, constructed from parts and pieces found only in certain civilizations and societies. Materials, weaponry, resources, all of it had been constructed from scavenged pieces from all across the Andromedan field, from core territories to the furthest reaches. This ship was formerly known as a symbol of hope and discovery to mark an age of exploration and interstellar adventure, to reach out to alien worlds and societies and uncover the hidden secrets and enigmas of Andromeda's darkness, bringing light to all. However, no longer was it a symbol of hope and peace, but an icon of survival and conflict. This single ship had become a fleet-killer, armed with some of the most powerful technology and weaponry of pre-Depression Andromeda. It was known by two names; the Eventide Sorrow by those who had come to accept their grim fate, the New Dawn by those who still retain their hopes.

Quendor - Welcome back, Kithanan.

Kithanan shrugged his shoulders as his particles reconstructed upon the ship. It wasn't his favourite method of getting around, he would have preferred to have used his own physical methods of travel, although teleportation was definitely faster. Kithanan took a few steps away from the teleportation receiver and turned his head to face Quendor. A smile appeared on his, exposing Quendor to his bloodied jaws. He had gotten used to this now and simply folded his arms.

Kithanan - You may be happy to hear that the hunt today came up with some...interesting results. Quendor - ''Good, good. What happened?'' Kithanan - ''The usual. I was just enjoying myself, ordering a drink or two while everybody sat around sobbing and then suddenly, in come these Corruptus guys looking for a fight! Oh, that reminds me.''

Kithanan reached behind and pulled out a gift, seemingly materializing from nowhere. A bottle filled with a bright blue liquid, refreshingly cold with a rather fruity scent. Kithanan launched the bottle forwards, sending it flying through the air towards Quendor as if he had thrown it with the intent to strike him. It stopped just a few mere centimeters away from the Radeon's face, the cold feel barely touching his fur. A smile appeared upon the Radeon's face as he took the bottle with his hand, plucking it from the air he had managed to suspend it in. Blue Paa'go, scavenged from that wreckage of a pub. Nobody would mind its disappearance.

Kithanan - ''Apparently, they're not just blindly charging in. They're working for a guy they called the Perfectionist.'' Quendor - ''Interesting. So the Corruptus is preparing to strike now?'' Kithanan - ''They seem to be going on the offensive rather than just random attacks. They're organized, planning their attacks. Gotta say though, their strategies aren't the best.'' Quendor - So that Perfectionist isn't that perfect after all, huh. Kithanan - ''That or his soldiers are just incompetent. A few Malcaeum and a Balanar, it feels like he wants to give me a small warm-up before the main event.'' Quendor - We must be wary then.

Quendor turned his head to Kithanan. Scars. His face was covered in scars. His cheeks, his muzzle, his forehead, his ears, all of it scarred. But perhaps the most noticeable scars were his eyes, or lack thereof. What Kithanan saw, most people would try to hide. Kithanan looked into Quendor's black, eyeless sockets as his eyebrows moved into a position of aggression. It happened many years ago, back when the New Dawn was still accepted as such. A horrific accident, an infestation. It was the victory of a conflict that cost Quendor his eyes, a battle between perhaps one of the more dangerous beasts of the late tyrannical madman known as Kol Daren, whose efforts for godhood contributed to Andromeda's catastrophic spiral downfall. He wore nothing to cover up his black sockets, he felt no shame or embarassment in them, nor any real consideration for others about it.

Quendor - The Corruptus does not come alone. Kithanan - ''Wary? Of what? They've never been a problem for us before, why would they be now?'' Quendor - ''There are... others. The Mali'Nar.'' Kithanan - ''Oh, those guys. I remember them. They proved much more of a challenge than any Corruptus demon, that's for sure. Heh, I'm hoping they join in.'' Quendor - ''Huh. "Challenge". I was once like you, Kithanan...''

A smile emerged upon Quendor's face. A century has not been good for him, a mix of aging and scarring had ruined most of his physical image. However, this did not bother him even in the slightest. He simply remembered the days of his youth, as if he was playing a movie within his head. His memory had not failed him. He was a young, devoted fighter back in those days, willing to take on even the most powerful of enemies just to prove he would fight to protect those he truly cared about. Thoughts of his mother soon came to mind, he was quick to evade in order not to ruin the mood.

Quendor - Where are we going then? Kithanan - ''Anywhere but here. I cannot be bothered to do a repeat of what just happened, it gets boring quick. How about Alkhuse Strip? You know, that place with those fancy waiters and the cyber-Radeon dancers? I hear they also have some Paa'go there, if you got the money for it.'' Quendor - ''Good idea. Let's go!'' Kithanan - ''Good. Oh and uh, take your time. I want to go have a lay down.''

The co-ordinates had been set, the destination selected. Quendor leaned back in the rather comfortable seat of the Eventide Sorrow. This seat once belonged to somebody else, an experienced captain and once his superior. However, she wasn't here anymore. It was just Quendor now, the last living member of the New Dawn crew. Generations had come and gone, Quendor was by himself once more. He didn't mind much, he liked the silence and the peace. He liked not having to live a hectic lifestyle upon this ship anymore. However, he wished it was for different circumstances, better circumstances.

Within minutes, the ghost ship vanished, a lone speck of light in the dark galaxy.

While many have given up their hopes and dreams in order to simply survive in the Andromedan wasteland, one burning candle has not yet extinguished, but instead glows brighter than ever before. Billions of people have lost their families, property and money within the first years of the Depression, yet they continue to grasp ahold of their lives dearly. What would have persuaded them not to give up the only thing they had left? What caused them to hold onto life instead of throwing it away for a perhaps better future in death?

...Religion. A common hope for salvation and redemption. A united, organized cause to carry on and fight for something other than money and survival. Refugees from all across the Andromedan fields have gathered to follow the teachings and scriptures of perhaps one of the most infamous religious factions that had ever existed within Andromedan society, a faction once dedicated to keeping the balance in their favour and doing what they believed was right, utilizing any and all methods to achieve this goal. The Grand Inquisition of Drakon, Andromeda's once most secretive and mysterious organization. The Depression had not spared them, either. They had become overwhelmed and small, although not due to the Depression itself. Many years ago, perhaps at the start of the Depression, the Inquisition faced the full fury of two entities; a demonic being, whose rage made him nigh-invincible to nearly all normal methods of death and injury, and a fallen angel, who wished for nothing more than to enlighten his kind and break the corrupt bonds of the Inquisition. In the end, the Grand Inquisition was shattered and they lost nearly everything. The Reliquary and the Realm of Absolution were lost in time and space, with no hope of access ever again. Everything was lost and forgotten.

The Inquisition still held a considerable number of worlds, hidden by advanced technologies which were scavenged from the remains of the pre-Depression Inquisition. Upon these worlds, refugees and orphans were taken care of and nourished, as well as being given a purpose in their life from the readings and tells of Drakon, the almighty deity that the Draconis race had revered to in their times of need. The Inquisition were his angels, his holy knights of fire. This tradition carried on far into the Depression, despite the breaking of the Inquisition's society and organization. A phoenix, risen from the ashes of galactic collapse. This was evident upon one thriving world, as two Inquisitors docked their ship and approached an impressive building, designed with religious architecture and sturdy structure. The grass outside was bright green, the skies were a lovely bright shade of blue and there was not a cloud to be seen for miles.

One of the Inquisitors was a new recruit in comparison with his partner. This Inquisitor was young, not even reaching his first century just yet as he was around 87 years old and fresh out of training, he was equipped with standard Inquisitorial technology and weaponry. His partner and mentor was a grizzled old man, somewhere within his 200s. He had a sad expression upon his elderly face as he watched the youth and healthy adults enjoying themselves under the good weather, free from the threat of annihilation and death at the hands of demonic entities and pirates. They approached the Temple of Saint Aradensia, one of the leading figures of the Inquisition in these dark days. The temple contained several stories and many rooms to hold the refugees who needed the shelter, though only so long as they revered to the name of Drakon and promised to live under his words and promises. The veteran Inquisitor was old enough to remember the days before the Depression, when the Imperium was a mighty galactic superpower that was rivalled by only so few empires across the Gigaquadrant. But this only brought on an upsetting nostalgia, he knew the galaxy that existed a century ago was a crumbled shadow, just a mere memory of a memory. The younger recruit possessed no recollection of the time before the Depression aside from vocal stories and history books. He looked into the veteran's eyes and saw his pain, although he could not fully understand it as he had not experienced life before the Depression and was born some time after its beginning. He smiled at the refugees, who gratefully waved back at him as he passed with smiles on their faces.

Recruit - ''Mentor, what ever is the matter? It is not like you to appear sad on a report check.'' Veteran - ''It's nothing. Old memories visiting me, that's all.'' Recruit - Do they visit you often, mentor? Veteran - Sometimes, mostly it comes fom a time before you were born. Recruit - ''I have dreams sometimes, mentor. Of spires that reach into the sky, with entire cities made of gold. Was it ever like this before I was born?''

Hearing this, the old war hose was almost speechless. Out of shame, he turned himself away, looking saddened by the recruit's words. He winced as though pained, an expression upon his face that would usually signify the beginning of a bout of crying and tears. He did not like remembering the past, the time before the Depression. It distracted him, he thought, conjuring what was essentially a dream. But his student asked a question and he had an obligation.

Veteran - ''...It-- it was. Spires of glass and gold, stretching out infinitely, your every wish granted by machines...compared to now it may as well be a dream.'' Recruit - ''What happened to the Inquisition, mentor? I heard it used to be larger than now, with many more brothers and sisters at our sides. Did Drakon lower our numbers?'' Veteren - ''Our Order's task has always been dangerous but in the last century things became even more difficult. It was as though the infernal realms had opened their maw to Andromeda and flooded us with all manner of demons and corrupting forces. Even those who take shelter here were most-likely affected. But we must do what our Order has been doing since its foundation. We cannot waver, especially not in these dark times.'' Recruit - ''I heard some of the older brothers speaking about daemons the other night and a man called "Tyraz Breek" appeared in the conversation. When I asked who he was, the older brothers scolded me for being up so late and sent me to my chambers.'' Veteren - ''That's a pre-Depression name. But the less you know of him now the better. Only know that his actions have caused little other than chaos for the galaxy. One of the worse threats came directly from him.''

The young recruit lowered his head in silence and sadness, a gut feeling that the knowledge he desired was to be kept in darkness away from him, like the times of the pre-Depression were forbidden to be talked of and his dreams were a simple tease. As the two Inquisitors approached the temple, they could see a group of six guards gathered outside. They were female Inquisitors, they were obviously young judging by their size although their faces were hidden by rather intimidating and fierce helmets. They carried pole weapons, designed to utilize plasma energy as well as brutal melee techniques.

Veteran - ''Look, I'm sorry. I did not mean to tread on your dreams but...for me the less I recall of that time the better. It is in the past and we must focus on the present.'' Recruit - It is fine, mentor...After all, despite my dreams, it sounds like the place was riddled with heretical filth and scum.

The veteran chuckled at the recruit's remark. It was a similar attitude to most of the recruits that he had seen in his two centuries of life, in fact he also had this attitude back when he was the recruit's age. However, time had ran its course and the constant stench of death and suffering had transformed his cocky and confident attitude into passing thoughts of sadness and negativity, the dying embers of happy memories.

Veteran - ''It had its upsides, things were a lot more peaceful, especially after the First War. Such a glorious time it was. I'm sure there are digital books and holoprograms about it. Sadly such things are becoming rare.'' Recruit - ''But we're Inquisitors, Drakon's last battallion! We don't need things like that to keep us going. They can take everything, even our lives, and we'll keep fighting! That's an Inquisitor's way, right?''

The veteren smiled at the young recruit's fire. He was confident, a good trait for an Inquisitor as the tasks they would be facing often involved horrifying and scarring aspects. At the same time he saw something else; he realised deep-down he was tutoring another killer, another murder. That was all the Inquisition had become these days; executioners for the sake of order and decency, as well as survival. At one time they were trained in diplomacy, or as infiltrators. But now the only thing they could do reasonably was kill and hurt. The veteren himself was an ancient relic, an example of an age now lost and nearly forgotten. As he gave a pained, forced smile to the recruit, all eyes turned to another figure who emerged from the temple. He was tall, he was muscular, he was very physically imposing. The recruit looked to figure and almost immediately stopped in his tracks. Despite his courage and bravery, he felt nervous around this particular individual. He stood taller than both of the other Inquisitors, with impressive armour and a powerful atmosphere and aura around him. In fact, the female Inquisitors that guarded the entrance even felt a shiver go down their spine from the mere sight of him.

The muscular Inquisitor caught sight of the veteran and walked over with thumping footsteps. Everything about him radiated power, his body, his eyes, his armour, his weapons, his presence. He stopped, towering over both the recruit and the veteran and gave a respectful nod to the latter, a warm smile on his face as he did so.

Veteran - Afternoon brother.

The younger, far-less experienced recruit gulped. In one single motion, he swallowed his pride and submitted his confidence to this figure. He bowed, an incredibly nervous look upon his face as he did so out of politeness, respect and outright fear. The recruit couldn't help but think about him. Something was definitely off about this Inquisitor, but it wasn't completely negative. It wasn't off in the sense of demonic or treacherous aspects, but more along the lines of power and energy, perhaps even along the same lines of...holiness.

Recruit - G-Good afternoon, father! Inquisitor - A new recruit, brother?

The Inquisitor's voice echoed throughout the area, yet it didn't seem to be the work of his vocoder. It seemed as if there was even power in his voice, resonating in the form of echoes as he spoke his divine words.

Veteran - ''The elders have asked me to take him under my wing. They told me he has the neccessary effectiveness and could excel.''

The Inquisitor lowered himself towards the recruit's height and reached out his armoured hand. He pinched the recruit's unarmoured jaw and looked at him from side-to-side, tilting the recruit's head to further examine him and taking a good observational analysis of his facial structure. As the large Inquisitor examined him, the recruit could hear a low but noticeable growl comming from him, something that intimidated him further. If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed the Inquisitor was about to rip his head off.

Recruit - M-May I ask...w-what exactly are you d-doing, father?

The Inquisitor examined for a few minutes further before standing back up on his two strong, muscular legs and looking back down at the young recruit. Another smile appeared across his face as he gave an acknowledging grunt and turned his sight back towards the veteran Inquisitor, who had watched the larger figure's analysis of the recruit.

Inquisitor - ''He has fire, and potentially strength. Good.''

The young recruit rubbed his jaw once the Inquisitor had let go and looked up at him with a look of discontent, although really he just wanted to run and escape from this. He didn't want to be here any longer than he should be. This Inquisitor was definitely different to others he had seen. While he had been taught for many years to fight by his mentor personally, the recruit had never been so nervous around a fellow Inquisitor in his entire life and probably never would be again.

Inquisitor - ''He still feels fear. I hope you plan to work on that.'' Veteran - ''I am doing my best, father. He has the passion and I will do my best to temper it.''

The Inquisitor chuckled slightly, looking back to the recruit with a smile. The recruit responded by taking a step or two back, in case the Inquisitor had plans to investigate his potential further. However, it seemed the larger Inquisitor had no further plan to even lay a finger upon the recruit as he turned back to the veteran. The recruit stepped back into his original place.

Veteran - You must have business elsewhere, I apologise if I have kept you waiting. Inquisitor - ''No need. I am in no hurry.''

The Inquisitor then stepped forward, walking past both the veteran Inquisitor and his student. However, he stopped for a moment and rested his hand on the recruit's unarmoured shoulder. A grin manifested upon his face and he produced a quiet, rather intimidating chuckle.

Inquisitor - I hope he survives past his tenth mission.

The recruit's scaled eyebrow raised and he looked towards the Inquisitor with a hint of confusion. However, before he could ask, the Inquisitor wandered away calmly and waved to the refugees outside, who waved back and said their goodbyes. The veteran chuckled and began walking towards the temple once again, followed reluctantly by his young student who appeared somewhat shaken by their encounter with the Inquisitor, almost comparable to somebody who has survived a vehicle crash.

Recruit - T-Tenth mission? Veteren - ''Like I said, our task is a dangerous one. Don't mind him.''

The young recruit looked back to his elderly mentor. The veteran Inquisitor saw the nervousness and slight hints of fear upon the recruit's face and chuckled, looking to the Inquisitorial female guards and approaching the entrance once more. These Inquisitor guards were virgin girls, selected from assigned parents within the Inquisition's ranks whose marital status was null, their intent for reproduction being not for love but for dedicated and loyal soldiers. These virgins were to remain unmarried and devoid of any form of romantic or sexual relationship, to save their physical energy purely for combat. The lack of sexual intercourse or romantic interaction meant neither vital nor excess energy was wasted away. They were always prepared for when a combat situation arose in their presence. They had been trained by experienced Inquisitors to remain indifferent to any form of interaction that wasn't a superior command or order. The young recruit looked to his mentor, though not to question the origin or purpose of the females.

Recruit - Did you sense it as well? Veteran - ''You mean his aura? I have sensed it before, we know each other in fact.'' Recruit - I have never seen a guy like him before...I may be young but I have been around many Inquisitors and none of them have ever displayed an aura like that! Veteran - ''He is a Templar. Five years ago, he agreed to partake in a special programme to make him a more capable warrior against demons and the like. That aura is part of the result.'' Recruit - ''A Templar? What sort of process did he go through? What makes him...different to everybody else? I mean, aside from his muscles, height and aura...he looks like any normal Inquisitor.'' Veteran - ''That is...classified. It is perhaps better that way. You will learn one day but for security's sake we cannot have everyone knowing how such warriors come to be. Know that if he wanted to, he could have crushed your skull as easily as you would a plastic cup. What makes him different is what he was given under this programme.''

The recruit gulped, his questions falling silent, as did his voice. He quickly turned his eyes back towards the temple, staring upon the Inquisitior entrance guards. They were around his age, but he knew they had decades-worth of experience, experience that he wouldn't be able to match as of this current moment. He nodded to them in respect, receiving nothing back, not even worth a stare. He simply walked past them with his mentor, entering the holy structure he had been assigned to check and write a report on. Inside, a great crowd was dispersing, as if they had just been gifted with a religious service, teaching or ceremony. The attendants were of both Draconis and alien origin, a few noticeable races being seated here and there. In exchange for shelter, food and hygiene, they had pledged their alleigance and beliefs in the words of the Path of Drakon, uniting under a common cause without the need to fight or conflict with one another. Not only were the agents and soldiers of the Inquisition trained to fight and kill heretical scum and daemonic monsters, they had also become beacons of hope for the lost refugees of harsh Andromeda through the teachings and stories of Drakon and his followers. In effect, the Inquisitors were Drakon's messenger angels.

The veteran stood up straight and smiled happily and positively as people filed out of the church. As they passed him and his student, the veteran offered his condolences, best-wishes and gratitudes to those who had attended to the service today. Many, if not all, of the people who had come here today had lost their families, friends and loved ones amidst the chaos the Depression, with their only hope now being in Drakon and his pure, bright faith.

Recruit - ''I never knew Inquisitors gave services like this. I thought we were simply weapons of Drakon's will.'' Veteran - ''That is one aspect of us. Another is that we must give people hope. At one time, that duty was left to the clerics that lived in monastaries like this. With so many either suffering, dying or out to war, it must fall to us to hold peoples' faith. Strength offers as much hope these days as passion and dignity. Perhaps more.'' Recruit - ''Heh, I hope I don't get shipped off to work in a monastery like this! My place is on the battlefield, crushing worthless cultists like they were paper, not standing around all day.'' Veteran - ''Inquisitors are adaptable. If you want to be useful you must tolerate being able to perform both tasks.'' Recruit - ''Well...I guess you're right, mentor. Hey, maybe one day, I could be like that Templar! Surely the process is voluntary?'' Veteran - It was when he took it, but times change so fast these days...one day it may not be.

At that point, the elder turned his head and refrained from making eye-contact with the young Inquisitor. A shudder rolled up his spine like a freezing chill and his voice became rather quiet. This was an indication that the process of Inquisitor to Templar was not an easy, appealing or attractive process, perhaps even horrifying and emotionally and physically scarring. He would rather not imagine the youngster going through such a process, it was an upsetting thought.

Recruit - ''Well, I think we should go get some rest. I wonder where the Templar guy is going though, do you think he has been called out on a mission?'' Veteran - ''Most-likely. They are one of the Inquisition's most powerful assets these days, but to become one is not easy, so they must be effectively everywhere.'' Recruit - ''Must be a pretty important mission if a Templar's being called out. I don't imagine they're used very often, especially nowadays.'' Veteran - Only when things become their most dire are they called into service.

The youngster looked up in silence. At the altar of the holy monastery, a long, fierce dragon curled itself around one of the monastery's major supporting pillars. The dragon itself was carved out of gold and other exotic materials, with diamond-encrusted eyes, bejewelled jaws of intense size and ferocity and a tongue marked with a single, significantly large, shining blue sapphire of amazing size and value. Dragons had always been symbolic in Draconid imagery and structure, considered manifestations of Drakon himself. The young Inquisitor had been brought up to believe he was an agent on a mission from Drakon himself, yet as he stood here before Drakon's golden manifest, he felt like little more than a mere insect. Just a small concept of how powerful the Templar was and what missions he had endured in his time as one of the Inquisition's greatest assets scared the young Inquisitor, the thought that he had no chance in this reality against this divine and holy sword of Drakon's sword made him feel insignificant, despite the fact him and his fellow Inquisitors were all that brought hope to the people of Andromeda in this abyssal end of days.

Part 3
Alkhuse V, an extraordinarily large gas giant that resided within the Alkhuse System, a system formerly under the protection and residence of the Divinarium, otherwise known by titles such as the Masaari Crusade or the Church of Spode for good reason. The Divinarium was constructed and guided on the foundations of religion, a zealous movement and cause to believe in. However, the bonds of Spode's faith had not lasted the Depression like the Path of Drakon. Instead, the Divinarium had become splintered and fractured into many seperate factions, nearly all of them corrupt and forsaken, blind to the comfort that Spode once offered to his worshippers. Even the purest of Spode's worshippers, the, had surrendered their fate and accepted the End of Days. There was no afterlife, there was no divine truth, there was only darkness within the deepest depths of their souls and hearts. Most Radeon now find their place not in Spodist monasteries, but within pleasure churches and brothels, their bodies corrupted and ruined by performance-enhancing drugs and machinery. The only comfort they saw was in money and enhancement, not faith or tradition. They had gone from the fanatical but proud warriors of Spode, to whores and addicts of Andromeda.

The Eventide Sorrow, alongside many other large, cruiser-class ships that had been around since before the Depression, were rendered dormant and parked within the skies of Alkhuse VB, the giant's second moon and the most colonized out of the two. The moon was covered in snow, with environmental factors placed here many eons ago by the Radeon although since the start of the Depression it has began to malfunction and transform the world from a once lush and shining forest into a cold, dead wasteland that was marked with small cities and towns across the landscape. The majority of the native population here was Radeon, their society dominated by the rules and trademarks of capitalism and gang rivalry. Sabotage was everyone's business now, especially that of the Radeons. They had become the money-grabbing plague of the Gigaquadrant, alongside pirates and mercenaries.

The snowfall was light today. Here, it was always night, never day. This world had not been touched by sunlight for a long while, lit only by large generated lights that covered the edges of streets but even they would soon die, since they required solar power to continue running. Kithanan and Quendor trudged through the snow-covered ground, it was up to their knees. Nobody had decided it would be a good idea to clear up the streets, although there really was no place to put the snow. It would have just crowded back up again after a storm or such. The grizzled duo approached a moderately-sized building, designed to withstand the cold temperature and weather. Kithanan had noticed a large amount of skycars parked nearby, most of which looked worn down and tattered although there was one there that actually looked like something somebody would be proud to own, even in pre-Depression times. It was a miracle seeing something worth owning in times like this.

Kithanan - ''Seems to be a busy night tonight. Heh, ever since the Divinarium fractured, the money has just been flowing since, at least for your people anyway.'' Quendor - ''Huh. I visited this world when I was a teen... everything has changed since then. I can feel it... well... It is hard to describe to a non-Radeon.''

Quendor stopped for a second, as if trying to remember what he had felt back then, as well as trying to figure out a way of wording it. Dual-thinking was not exactly Quendor's specialty, although he did try.

Kithanan - All I can feel is the smell of skank. Quendor - ''It's... an aura. When you came to a Divinarium city, you could feel it. The collective devotion of all its inhabitants... it compelled, compelled you to serve the Divinarium, to believe... and that aura is gone. No more cause in anyone's heart.''

Kithanan released an amused chuckle and turned his head slowly to Quendor, before placing a gentle hand on his scarred shoulder and shaking him softly for a moment as if to break him out of some sort of hypnosis or memory trance. Kithanan disliked it when Quendor dozed off into his little historical and philosophical lessons.

Kithanan - ''The old days of tradition are gone Quendor. Nobody has time for tradition anymore, or culture.'' Quendor - ''I know. Just saying.'' Kithanan - Come on, no use dwelling on something you can't see or feel anymore.

Kithanan let out another chuckle of amusement as he trudged on through the snow and approached the entrance to the Alkhuse Strip building. One could detect the vile scent of cheap perfumes and fresh, low-quality medical enhancements from miles away, burning at their nostrils with the scent of decomposing flesh around the edges of machine parts. This had what the Radeon here had been reduced to. This smell was usually associated with prostitution, sex and other hedonistic acts of pleasure that would incinerate one's nostrils and eyes. The automatic door opened upon Kithanan's presence, although it was obvious that the door not been standing against the test of time or temperature well, as displayed by its stiffness upon opening. Above the door were words written in Radeon translation, lit brightly by neon lights that had been installed into each letter.

Quendor - ''Back in my days, this place was a theater. My father liked it.'' Kithanan - I thought for an advanced society, they would've had this door fixed by now. Quendor - ''Duh. All the advanced ones had left these worlds long ago. Enjoying civilisation on their huge starships while leaving the rest of the species to rot. Disgusting.''

Kithanan and Quendor stepped forward beyond the door into a small, claustrophobic and compact space which led forward towards another interior door, which itself would lead into the main hall. Even with the door closed, the two of them could hear boistrous cheering, thumping and pounding music and cries of excitement, as if escaping from the mouths of females. The duo felt a warm breeze enter the space as the exterior door closed, trapping them inside for a few warming seconds until the interior door opened itself to reveal all the activity within this large hall. They walked through and all they could see were huge crowds of people, gathered into a single space and hording themselves around glowing platforms, all hoping to get a glance at the dancers, a majority of which consisted of mechanically-altered Radeon women. They exposed their nude, thin bodies up against cold, metal poles in rather erotic styles to provoke the male crowd beneath them. Their bodies were a whole flurry of colours, brought on by the flashing lights and lit-up platforms that they danced upon. Kithanan was not so easily distracted by this, although he did not dislike this feeling. A bar could be seen nearby through the immense horde of testosterone, selling exotic drinks that possessed a large variety of flavours, temperatures and colours.

Quendor - ''Wow. This place has a lot of minds within it. Mostly filled with... eh...'' Kithanan - Yep, definitely the smell of skank...Hedonism and nudity at its finest. Quendor - ''I can only sense the former. No eyes, you know.'' Kithanan - You're missing a lot of ass.

At the far end of this mass of arousement was one particular dancer. She was not of the Radeon nor cyborg sort, instead appearing near-completely organic on the exterior. She was of the Zazane race, her scales of a pinkish hue and colour which went alongside her slim, lithe, well-toned body shape, although it was evident she possessed at least a moderate amount of muscular tissue, though one could expect this from most female Zazane. This trait showed how healthy and active one was. In the eyes of both Zazane and aliens, she was beautiful, a golden prize. Around her, men were engulfed in a powerful stink of pheromones that wafted off her body as she danced against the cold steel pole, moving gracefully and fluidly as if her entire body was liquid or some other form of substance that went beyond physical. It didn't take much for her body to become the magnet for Kithanan's eyeballs, as they were drawn to her almost immediately. She had gained his attention much easier than any of the other life-wasters in the hall, they were easy bait, nothing but trash and low-quality merchandise. A short laugh escaped his jaws as he approached the bar with Quendor, shoving and pushing past people within the crowds as they launched money and other materials at the dancers, most of which consisting of undergarments and items of clothing.

The pink female turned her head for just a single moment. This was all it took for her to catch a glimpse of the rather noticeable Kithanan, he could be easily identified through the jumping and cheering crowd. She had managed to catch him off-guard, albeit slightly, as he did not expect her to turn her attention towards him for a single moment. Within the space of a second or two, eye-contact was made and a wink was passed from the unknown female. Kithanan was left speechless for just a few moments, before turning to his comrade, a smile upon his face.

Kithanan - Hey Quendor, you getting "filthy" tonight? Quendor - ''Hm... Not sure about that.'' Kithanan - I've caught myself a juicy fish tonight, looks like she's up for a bit of rough and tumble.

Kithanan turned his attention back to the bar counter and grabbed a random shot, filled with an orange-red liquid that tasted incredibly strong, a hint of citrus alongside the texture. The man who had originally bought the drink was not watching at the time, his mind distracted by a next-to-nude Radeon nearby, although even if his mind was focussed on his drink Kithanan wouldn't really have cared for it, he would have taken it anyway. He just needed something to persuade him to go through with this idea, a tribute to the old term "you only live once", often used by degenerate, street-native scum. In the corner of the hall, a large, red-scaled Draconis sat at a small table. In his hand, a glass fit for a few pints of perhaps the strongest of alcohols being sold at this pleasure resort. When he had the chance, his eyes moved to the side to take quick, short glimpses at Kithanan, who was quickly approaching a certain platform. To Quendor, the aura of this peculiar individual seemed somewhat...off, although the auras of all the other individuals in the room disrupted his senses somewhat. The Radeon's eyes were focussed on Kithanan as he approached his destination.

Quendor - That ug- oh, yes, you're a Zazane.

To Quendor, he could not help but notice something rather off-putting about not only the Draconis' aura, but also that of the pink Zazane. For one, most prostitutes or "essence thieves" didn't have much of a noticeable aura, yet the Zazane female happened to possess one of seemingly immense strength and individuality, something Quendor didn't see too often in most people. Kithanan was now just a meter or so away from her platform, he had definitely caught her eye. A smile spread across her face, revealing her long, sharp, glistening jaws and a crimson tongue, large for even a Zazane. She continued the process of her erotic and suggestive dancing ritual up against the pole, her feet stamping upon whatever materials were thrown at her, mainly money and men's underwear.

Quendor - ''Hm... For a thelramavinai... ''

Quendor coughed, slipping into his native Radessic tongue for just a moment.

Quendor - ''...She is... strong. A powerful mind.''

Kithanan budged his way through alien after alien until he managed to reach the platform, a relatively easy feat considering his natural physical strength. At the base of the platform, money, credits and underwear had gathered into puny hills. Not one to waste such an opportunity, Kithanan reached down and grabbed a pile of credits and notes, coming back up with an equivalent to around 2000 credits at least. A grin on his face, Kithanan looked up and whistled to the Zazane dancer. Her attention was instantly captured once more, as his whistle echoed over the cheering and shouting of the crowds below her.

Kithanan - And what would your name be, lady? Zazane - ''You can call me... Blossom.'' Kithanan - Not very Zazane-like, then again who is nowadays?

Kithanan quickly raised a free hand up to her, making a slow gesture for her to take it with her own and come down to his level.

Kithanan - ''How about a round of "special treatment"? I feel like I have a cold coming in.'' Blossom - Private rooms are 500 Units an hour, cutie. Kithanan - I guess we're gonna be there for a looooong time.

As the two of them talked, the large Draconis peered up from his seat. His crimson eyes shined as he watched her take Kithanan's hand before being helped off the platform by him. The crowd began to cheer and exclaim remarks at the two of them, with many of the comments being inappropriate phrases and sexual innuendo. As this was going on, Quendor sat peacefully at the counter with a bottle of Paa'go in his hands, although his head quickly lifted and he whispered to himself to escape attracting attention.

Quendor - ''Huh. Wait... what's that? The feeling... reminds me of Althron.''

Her foot stepped onto the tiled floor, which had been layered and reinforced several times before the Depression. Kithanan could hear the sound of something cracking and thus looked down as his first reaction. When Blossom lifted her foot to walk, she had left a heavy imprint of her foot upon the tiled floor, shattering inches into the ground. It appeared that despite her slim, curvy and overall attractive figure, the weight she was carrying was more than met the eye, at least to most of the people within the club anyway, including Kithanan.

Kithanan - Damn lady, you're not one of *those* types of girl, are you?

Blossom's once sultry expression turned into a look of slight offence rather quickly upon Kithanan's comment. Zazane females were the same to other females in most aspects; they hate their weight, hate being ignored and always accuse the male of the relationship that it was his fault, no matter the situation. Although, at least they don't obsess over clothes, but rather the lack thereof. In many Zazane cultures, nudity was considered rather dishonourable to oneself yet females would go out of their way to appear the most physically appealing via wearing as much revealing and skimpy clothing as possible.

Blossom - "Those" types? Kithanan - Oh, it's nothing.

Upon seeing the two approaching the private area of the club, reserved only for VIPs, highest-paying customers and certain members of staff, the large Draconis stood up and finished whatever was left of his drink in one swift gulp. You didn't have to be sitting at the table to know that the glass had more than one pint left, yet all of it vanished within the space of a second or so. A look of determination upon his face, he began to weave his way through the crowd, shoving them out of the way violently yet blending in rather well as he muttered into an earpiece attached to the side of his head. As Blossom let out a giggle as she and Kithanan walked towards the back rooms, Kithanan had realized the Draconis had gotten up, he knew instinctively he was being followed. He wasn't blind to this sort of thing, he simply did not care much for it. He didn't even look back, not giving the Draconis the satisfaction of letting him know that he was alert to his presence.

Blossom - ''I hope your account is healthy. I'm not exactly cheap.'' Kithanan - I just hope you're worth paying for. Blossom - Oh don't worry, I am...

Blossom turned her head slightly, taking a swift glimpse at the Draconis following them. A small, unnoticeable smile spread across her jaws and she looked forward once more, with Kithanan pretending not to notice it. Blossom took a quick glympse behind to see the Draocnsi following them. She smiled out of Kithanan's view.

Kithanan - Good, clean service I hope.

It would have been warm, it would have been fierce. There would have been much thrusting and much pulling, much pushing and much pulling. This was the only real excitement that Andromeda had left to offer that didn't involve the thrill of killing, massacre and bloodshed, but yet it was still primitive and basic. Then again, with foul demonic beings and monsters having almost complete domination over the galaxy, people weren't as much people anymore as they were cattle or farm animals, so they acted like animals to gain their thrills. It would have been vigorous and aggressive, degrading and messy. It would have been, if it wasn't for an interruption. As the two of them walked towards a private room, they heard a *CLANK* nearby. Kithanan looked down and noticed it almost straight away. A metal ball, neatly designed, a logo or branding on its side, similar to a dragon. Beneath this logo, there were a few words, probably detailing its origin. "PROPERTY OF THE CORE SYN--"...

There was a bright light, blinding and disorientating. Everything was white for a few moments, Kithanan didn't know whether he was standing or had fallen on the ground. Suddenly, boom! That scent was in the air again. That scent of scum, that diseased smell of insidious criminals and mercenaries. Kithanan could recognize it from a mile away, although he wasn't a mile away. The Draconis' large, muscular arm had wrapped itself around Kithanan's throat tightly, keeping him still while the Draconis breathed his rotting breath down the back of his scaled neck. Kithanan's wings stayed folded, however. All that happened was that a cringe appeared upon his face.

Kithanan - ''Urgh! Manners these days...''

Kithanan felt himself pressed tightly against the Draconis' chest, his mighty hands wrapped around his head and poised in a position that indicated he was going to attempt a swift, quick and clean kill; he was going to snap Kithanan's head off, or rather, attempt to tear his entire head off his shoulders. Kithanan's cringe soon disappeared and was substituted with a smile as his eyes rolled around within his skull. Blossom was nowhere to be found. Just as well.

Draconis - ''Your head is worth a lot, mutant! And I could do with a new estate!''

The Draconis then moved his massive arms in the way someone usually would to snap a neck. He was laughing as he did, he had managed to secure himself a generous reward and rid Andromeda of one of its biggest scumbags, one of its nuisances, one of its biggest vermin. This was what would have happened if it went as smoothly as it should have. Half-way through the fatal neck twist, it stopped. He couldn't twist anymore, yet he didn't hear a snap or crack. It was as if he was trying to snap the head of a statue constructed of some kind of unbreakable material, yet he knew this guy was just flesh and bones!

Kithanan - ''I saw what you did there. Funny.'' Draconis - What--?

The desire to fly had always been imagined at some point by flightless species. It had been the foundations of empire all across the Gigaquadrant, inspiring them to build spacecraft and extend their reach to the stars above their very heads. The Draconis hadn't gone quite that far but he was definitely flying, though not on his own accord. The floor was left with something of a dent, though admittedly it sustained more damage this time than before when Blossom had stepped on it. In a spastic moment of anger, he slammed the floor and looked up at Kithanan, baring his mighty teeth and snarling aggressively like some sort of rabid dog.

Kithanan - ''I suggest you get out of here and leave me alone before I show you how much your head is worth. And I'll tell you now, it won't be a lot once I'm finished with you.''

The Draconis' lips rippled as his growl intensified. It was true, he really was a dog on a short leash. A stupid dog, a worthless mutt. If he was a clever dog, he would have crawled away with his tail between his legs. Instead, he mustered his strength and stood up, saliva dripping from his knife-filled maw. Kithanan responded to his rabid growling with an annoyed sigh, shrugging his shoulders casually as he noticed something emerging from the Draconis' hands; it was black, vapour-like energy. There was a tone of annoyance within the Zazane's voice as he spoke.

Kithanan - It's gonna be one of those nights, is it?

Kithanan's chest felt the full force of the Draconis' punch. You'd have to imagine a truck driving around at full speed, with its bumper made entirely out of concrete bricks in order to get just an idea about how much force was behind this punch. Kithanan found himself colliding with a variety of objects upon being at the receiving end of this strike, such as metal and wooden tables, chairs, people. Quendor sighed and slowly turned around from the bar counter, watching as Kithanan lifted himself up from the floor, bleeding quite a bit from the mouth and taking a moment to spit it out, spilling it onto the floor. The Draconis took the opportunity to approach Kithanan, a devilish smirk across his face. It soon vanished, however, as soon as Blossom's knife was plunged into his back with immense force. This didn't really do much, aside from annoy the Draconis even further, resulting in Blossom's leg being grabbed by his mighty, Descension-fuelled hand and thrown through the air like a ragdoll, crashing through a wall or two. It was only the grace of a cold, metal dance pole that stopped her launch, though the resulting impact meant the pole was no longer usable as it had just been bent in half with very little difficulty. Kithanan watched on and chuckled, slowly turning his head back to the approaching Draconis.

Kithanan - Damn, what drugs have you been using?

There was no vocal reply, aside from a few grunts and an excited roar. Typical hound. The hulking mass of Draconis ran at full speed, as if he had gone from a simply Draconis to an actual animal, born and bred to chase and hunt. Kithanan could have avoided in the blink of an eye, he could have countered his attack and have him against the nearest wall. But he didn't do any of that. The Draconis' hand wrapped itself around Kithanan's throat tightly, not letting go. Kithanan felt the choking sensation, he didn't resist. He could feel the black Essence against his scales and flesh, indeed it was very familiar. He had not seen somebody use this Essence for a long while, it was definitely thrilling to see an enemy using it after so long. Of course, the demons used this Essence but...a mere man? He stole a moment to take in this foe's ability, to analyze the situation.

SLAM!

A crater had formed. The Draconis smirked down at Kithanan with a wide, aggressive grin. Kithanan let out a quiet gasp as the Draconis chuckled to himself, resulting in the Zazane receiving a fist against his head. And then another. And another. And another. Another. Blood spilled across the floor as the Draconis used its fist to smash against the well-defended crest upon Kithanan's face, black Essence leaking from the dragon's scales as the punches became faster, stronger, bloodier. Two minutes, that was how long the crowd had been watching for, both civilians, staff and whores alike. The bloodbath was soon filled, the Draconis stopped. Lifting his bloodied hand, he got to his feet. In the grips between his large fingers, he held Kithanan's beaten, bloodied and bruised face. The monster that had beaten the soul out of this messy pulp was so tall, Kithanan could not feel his feet touch the floor, that is if he could feel his feet at all.

Kithanan - ''Agh! Okay, okay...! Y-You beat me...''

The Draconis smiled, licking the blood from his scaled lips. He stared into Kithanan's eyes, growling proudly as he did as if to prove some sort of dominance over Kithanan. Kithanan could still feel the black energy leaking from the Draconis' hand, he could taste it, smell it. It was definitely what he thought it was. Descension, the process of sacrificing one's soul and being towards becoming a new entity, as well as gaining several benefits such as nigh-immortality, regeneration, enhanced strength. This Draconis had lost himself, he was little more than a bug, leeching off a higher source of power to sustain his own. A parasite should be treated like a parasite.

Quendor - ''Hey, hey. Forgot about me?''

The Draconis swiftly turned and observed the Radeon smirking. His hands in his pockets, Quendor could feel the corrupted presence of the Draconis, it wasn't hard to find. The Draconis glared into Quendor's empty eye sockets, surprised by the Radeon's lack of eyeballs but also amused.

Quendor - Ah, so you're the source of the echo!

Quendor looked to the Draconis attacker and smirked deviously. Before the Draconis could register what had just happened, there was another dent upon the floor. Within the last few seconds, the Draconis had just been levitated off the ground and slammed against the floor tiles, as if he was a mere toy in Quendor's grasp. But Quendor didn't even touch the attacker, or at least not physically. From his mouth, a single word was released in a rather confident tone of voice.

Quendor - Telekinesis.

Kithanan, the bloodied and beaten Zazane, rose to his feet in an instant. His face had been devastated, his chest had been almost completely obliterated, his neck snapped and broken several times, his limbs slashed and incapacitated. They had been. Now, as Kithanan stands to his feet on his two strong legs, he appeared unwounded and unscathed, as if he was fresh into the battle. It appeared as if he had sustained no injuries at all. He was completely unharmed. His wounds did not simply heal, they had vanished completely. The Zazane looked to his Radeon companion and a jaw-filled smile spread across his face, which Quendor returned with a smile of his own.

The Draconis lifted himself off the ground, growling and seething with rage at both the Radeon's attack and the Zazane's mysteriously quick recovery. With anger-filled eyes, he looked to Quendor in a bestial manner. Using his large, clawed hands, he began to go into an all-out rage and ignited the tables around himself, before swinging and throwing them towards Quendor with the intent of both burning him and knocking him over. Unprepared for such an assault, the former Guardian of Light was knocked back and slammed against a wall. While most people would have been knocked unconscious with major burns across their body, Quendor was saved by the power of his armour's inbuilt shields as he dislogded himself from the wall and landed on two feet back on the floor. His patience had been tested and his thirst for revenge had now surfaced, he returned the snarling gesture back to the Draconis. Kithanan, meanwhile, shot at whatever tables were sent his way, exploding them into mere pieces of wood and metal and sending bullets straight at the Draconis, penetrating his sclaes. As he was shot with both plasma energy and Shidium bullets, he seemed to care little for it and he gave Kithanan a sly smirk, baring his large jaws.

Draconis - ''I'm surprised the Syndicate is offering so much for your body! You fight like a child.'' Quendor - ''Now it is... the Syndicate?''

The amused Draconis took a firm hold of a sword that had been strapped to his belt and wrenched it out with immense force. The blade made Kithanan chuckle, he had seen something similar in design. The sword's blade was engulfed in fiery Descension energy, incinerating the air around it and making it appear more fierce. With a flick of his wrist, a ribbon of fire was sent through several nearby tables, igniting them quickly and effectively. The Draconis wore a smile upon his face as he held the sword. All this made Kithanan chuckle, followed by a rather devious, yet terrifying, smirk which spread across his jaws. This smirk was something Quendor had learned to fear, he had seen this before. The result of this smirk often meant not only trouble, but destruction and death.

Kithanan - ''A mercenary, sent by a joke of a military organization. All they really are is a group of glorified criminal scum!'' Draconis - ''Watch your tongue. boy.''

As the Draconis spoke, Kithanan outstretched his hand. The tips of his claws began to burn, smoke and fire quickly becoming visible as it spread from his claws to his palm. Kithanan felt his hand burning, as if it was being charred constantly over and over, although he didn't mind in the pain, he loved it. His eyes narrowed upon the second phase of this action. From the fires that burned at Kithanan's palm, everybody gasped out in shock as the fires extended at the sides, burning through the air and incinerating particles. The fire that had erupted out of his hand shaped itself into a more familiar form; a sword, an incredibly long sword. It's appearance was striking, horrifying. The blood of those nearby began to boil at the mere sight of the blade. This was no ordinary sword, this was not even an ordinary Essence-enhanced sword; this was a Firesword. The smile that the Draconis once wore soon dropped into an expression of horror and disbelief.

Quendor - Uh oh...

Quendor ran to the nearest exit, pushing past innocents and prostitutes as he did. He moved swiftly, despite not having any eyes, though it didn't matter much since he could see through the use of his psychic potential. The Draconis analyzed Kithanan's blade for a moment or two, before readying himself into a defensive stance. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to pick a fight with this one.

Draconis - I wonder how long you have been swinging that thing around... Kithanan - You know what they say, don't you...? Draconis - What? Kithanan - If you can't take the heat...

Kithanan slowly raised his right arm, his blade-holding arm. The fiery blade was now being held above Kithanan's head, the aura around the room had become immensely hot. People stood back as he held the sword up for all to see. The Draconis, however, let out a hearty laugh at Kithanan's chuckle.

Draconis - ''Boy. I've thrown people into the furnace!'' Kithanan - ...Stay out of the KITCHEN!

With a casual downwards flick, there was hell. Everything in front of Kithanan had turned to hell. Chairs were scorched, tables were roasted, poles and machinery melted, people were incinerated, everything was being reduced to little more than ash. The only way the Draconis had avoided this painful, suffering death was because he had leaped out of the way in time, although not even he emerged unscathed. The left side of his body was seared with the demonic hellfire, rather painfully. Everything in front of Kithanan was engulfed in ruinous flames. Kithanan turned his head slightly to watch as the Draconis charged at him, swing and slashing his sword in varying directions, unleashing ribbon upon ribbon of fire from his Descension-based blade. These fires were nothing compared to Kithanan's blade, perhaps mere sparks if they were hot enough.