[Preshow] The Engineering Bay / The Labs

[Karl Jak]

Flash your credentials at on the escalators or elevators marked as such, and you can head down to the massive and sprawling subbasement of Preshow Facility 23. This is an area that's potentially larger than all the other preshow areas combined, given it has to be able to house a number of enormous machines and monstrosities in the lead-up to the Event.

Down here, you'll be able to watch (or assist) with the manufacturing or creation of your Bond. Whether they're being forged in a lab, grown in a pod, or perhaps they're just being repaired and retrofitted for the competition, you can find them down here with crews of Syntech's best and brightest ensuring that they're fit for competition.

Please bear in mind that while you can observe the Bonds of other characters, you should not interact with them unless you have consent from that person. Syntech crews would kindly usher you away and tell you to mind your own business.

 

[Don Isaac]

Isaac's arms were coated up to the elbow in grease, his gauntlets set aside on a wooden crate, sleeves rolled up in a futile attempt to escape further stains. He grit his teeth as he tightened a nut, the wrench biting deep into his palm. His mind was feverish, alight with possibilities- he hadn't felt this way since his father's hands had clasped around his own around the throttle of his first helo.

He pushed off, sliding out from beneath the burgeoning chassis of his machine atop a wheeled platform as he gave a glare to the attendant mechanics. They had been setting to work, speaking of such indignities as air-to-air missiles, chaff systems, and even going so far as to discuss a damned laser system! He'd had to chase them off with a wrench and relegate them to acquiring the components he required, a steady stream of alternatively bemused and despairing engineers attempting to understand his work.

Scowling as he wiped sweat off his brow, leaving a blackened stain, he reached out towards the servant he had requisitioned for his own purposes. While they might be called an 'Intern', he knew a pageboy when he saw one. A clipboard clasped tight to his name tag, the youth offered him a clear glass, half-full with a deep crimson. With a gracious nod, he took the glass and brought it to his lips, enjoying the bouquet for a few seconds before taking a refreshing sip- only to spew it out, a spray of red wine coating the intern's face and surroundings.

"Pah! Good Lord, boy- I said the forty-three, not the forty-four! This is positively vile!" Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he had to admit that the grease was a marginal improvement over the taste of the wine. "Get me a bottle- a proper one! I'm looking to toast my victory, not drown my sorrows with that groundling swill," Isaac said, shaking his head. It wasn't easy to find good help, in this reality.

He took a step back as the youth scurried off, tears brimming in the corners of their eyes- poor lad must have tasted some of the foul vintage. Turning, he examined his progress thus far- he'd spent countless days buried in the guts of Maria or his other aerocraft in between courtly pursuits, tending to his steeds, and his experience was paying off. The components that had been made available to him were damnably under-powered for his tastes, a propeller strapped to the front of the machine rather than a jet intake. At least he'd been assured that the odds of facing Surface-To-Air missiles were low- he still felt a tremble of pride running up his spine as he recalled the strafing runs he'd undertaken, outracing the flames streaking across the sky in search of his exhaust.

His hand glided over the wings, two sets on each side bound by taut cables disappearing into the construction. He'd been forced to rely on the engineers for the complicated web of hydraulics and cabling that ran beneath the thick steel exterior, a mishmash of salvaged plates from other projects bolted together and painted a bright crimson, matching his armour. The sparkling metallic gold that marked his heraldry was still tacky, the atomic bomb wreathed in angelic wings promising equal measures Grace and Gratuitous violence.

He gave a nod, absent-mindedly rubbing his moustache, affirming its shape as grease stuck to its well-groomed curvature. Yes- the gleaming metal of the machine gun, the stalwart defiance of its steel hide, the engine protruding from the hull that positively growled at the world. This was a steed worthy of Santagria. He thumped her flank, giving another nod as he heard the impact resound through the countless mechanisms that this accursed contest demanded. There was precious little glory in scrabbling about in the soil, but damn it all, he'd not forfeit his chance for glory!

He sank down into a squat along his steed's flank, picking up a paint pot and a brush, tonguing his cheek in concentration as he started to daub the biplane's name across her surface. Just a few final touches- half of battle was preparation, and the other half was presentation. There was no room for pedestrian plainness in this tourney.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

As she exited the elevator to Syntech Corp's subbasement, Skylar found that the engineering bay was more reminiscent of an abyss than anything else, its elevated catwalks and stairwells stretching across vast stretches of cavernous darkness, little fleshies wearing hard-shelled PPE scrambling all over the place like a hive of angry ants. Huge floodlights illuminated the area, their blinding brilliance reflecting off each polymer and steel surface. The strident cacophony of power tools clattered throughout the basement as operators scrambled to finish their work, the welcome glint of cold metal reflecting in her eyes wherever she looked.

She had not yet spotted her own robotic body in any of the bays, but a few investigative pings revealed its whereabouts on the distant side of engineering. A tedious trek for a little holomatter avatar like hers, she thought— but that was the cost of pretending to pilot her (or, rather, his) own slagging body, Skywarp supposed.

With a determined exhale, Skylar surged forward, quickly ascending the nearest suspended walkway with great, lunging strides. Instinct told her to seek out higher ground, something which had been ingrained in all flyers over several millennia of cyber-evolution, and she'd learned long ago that there was simply no point in questioning this intuition. It'd saved her aft more than a few times, anyhow.

A higher vantage point granted her a better view of the colossal chamber and its present occupants, something which Skylar was quick to capitalize on. Her crimson eyes narrowed to slits as her gaze swept across the sprawling construction zone like an eagle surveying its kingdom below, searching...

Aha! There. A glint of violet-painted metal caught her eye even from several miles away, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. The stomping rhythm of her boots echoed down the metallic walkway as she marched forth with a short, clipped stride, the sound subsumed by the thunderous roar of machinery reverberating all around her.

As Skylar scanned the area far below, anticipation and excitement gripped her, thrumming within every farcical particle of her hardlight body. Other competitors had also come to face her in this contest, she knew well. If luck was on her side, she could scout and sabotage them. But if fortune truly blessed her, there might even be an opportunity to engage in what Screamer always said she did best: a bit of light mischief.

Then again, Screamer'd also always said she had a few screws knocked loose. Funny, that. The medbay scans never revealed anything amiss, so Skywarp didn't think much of her air commander's dire commentary.

Skylar was so captivated by her surroundings that she almost missed the sound of someone closing in behind her. She barely had time to turn around when the little human was already upon her, attempting to rush past like his life depended on it.

Tightly clutched in his right hand was a shivering glass bottle filled with an unfamiliar crimson liquid, neatly paired with a concave glass in the opposite hand. Before he could escape, the pilot's gaze was drawn by the container’s peculiar characteristics, immediately sparking her interest.

"Yo!" Skylar barked to be heard over the squalling of nearby power tools, reaching out to give the human a solid whack on the shoulder to garner his attention. Her target screeched to a halt, spinning around with a wild look in his eyes, much to Skylar's amusement. "Where's the fire, huh?"

The squishy hesitated, gulping loudly, and only then did his tormentor recognize that the rounded edges of his eyes seemed a bit... damp? Wait, was he leaking?! She knew organics had a tendency to leak at the slightest smidge of physical trauma, but she hadn't even DONE anything to him. Not yet, anyway.

"I'm bringing this to one of the contestants," the guy explained, hastily edging backwards. "He's, uh, not quite right in the head? Anyway, I gotta split—"

"Can I come with?" Skylar wondered breezily, stepping forward to keep pace with him. It seemed like they were headed in the same direction, anyway. Besides, this other contestant sounded interesting.

The distressed human's eyes darted around, as if expecting an invisible enemy to leap out and attack him, or perhaps like a desperate animal searching for an escape route.

"I don't know," he stammered nervously. "He's working on his Bond, you know? I'm not supposed to let other contestants bother the Bonds."

Skylar had no earthly idea what that meant. Even still, the pilot smiled innocently, lifting her hands in the air. "Oh, I'm very good at keeping my servos to myself. Promise."

Gaze ping-ponging between her and the walkway that led to his destination, the squishy seemed to be in a mental tug of war with himself for what felt like an entire eternity. Eventually, though, his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Alright, why not? Not like it's my job on the line, or anything..."

He turned and began to march along the elevated walkway again. Skylar trotted gamely a few paces behind him, pleased as punch. In a matter of minutes, they arrived at the edge of a buzzing worksite— not too far away from where her robotic form lay dormant, she noticed with some satisfaction.

Far below the metal guardrails of the walkway, a colossal flight frame lay stretched out, its crimson shell ablaze in the phosphorescent lights and an unfamiliar insignia painted upon its flank. While Skywarp was of the opinion that a purple finish was the most stylish option for aerial combat vehicles, she had to concede that a glaring red hue was a pretty sexy close second. There was just something undeniably risqué about painting yourself to be so easily sighted in battle, after all.

Scanning her companion, the hardlight pilot noticed a great trepidation creeping over him, his feet scuffling uncertainly against the floor and his face drooping into a rather morose glower. A slow grin spread across the Decepticon's face at the sight, a spark of inspiration glimmering in her gaze.

"Hey, c'mere a sec," she said as she beckoned the young human closer. Crooking her finger like a master calling to a pet, she signaled for him to relinquish his burden of bottle and glass. "Hand that over. I'll take it down."

"What?" asked the intern, seeming utterly baffled. His eyes widened in realization as he gazed between her and the candy-apple colored plane far below, evidently arriving at the conclusion that this was far too good of an opportunity to pass up. "Well, if you're sure..."

Equipped with her new alcoholic armaments, Skylar descended the metal stairs, the elevated heels of her boots clanging against the cold metal. She stared around the hangar, her eyes sweeping across the unfamiliar space, taking its measure. Technicians clad in dark jumpsuits huddled away in the corner, whispering amongst themselves like a bunch of old biddies. They fell silent at her approach, glancing up to observe her progress with owlish attention. But there was no sign of the pilot...

Clunk-thunk. Skylar's heels struck the bottom step, then the heat-slick cement floor. Just then, her eyes locked onto the shape of a pair of legs standing at the opposite side of the colossal aircraft— its girthy frame blocking out most of the person's body.

Squaring her shoulders, Skylar strutted over confidently, adopting a hopelessly intrigued expression. Curious, yet skeptical. Not quite sure what she'd find, but ready for anything. It wasn't often that a giant could see things from the perspective of an ant, and she always did wonder about how the other half— that is, the organic-manufactured flight frames —lived.

 

[Eszter]

“Thank you again for coming, Miss Torchwood.” a mousy scientist grinned, wringing his hands nervously as he accompanied Eszter down a sterilised metal corridor, trailing a few steps behind her despite the fact that he was technically the superior here. “I’m glad the letter made it to your eh… your cave.”

“If you insist on using titles, it should be Queen Torchwood. And it’s not a cave, it’s a hideaway.” the dragonkin sighed. She was not a complete stranger to settings like this, she had seen plenty of similar hallways in sci-fi movies, but it was a strange experience to actually be in one. “This has better be worth it, Doctor…”

“Orchid. Doctor Orchid.” he responded sheepishly, receiving a nonplussed murmur of agreement, almost as if Eszter was giving him permission to use such a name. “Yes, I think you will really want to see what we’ve been working on here. Your assistance will be a fantastic addition to the competition.”

“Well, naturally.” the dragon queen smirked. Orchid silently prayed that she didn’t find out that they had really wanted to recruit King Ghidorah but had been unsuccessful, unsure of what exactly she would do to cover her damaged ego. After no small amount of walking through the surprisingly big facility, the corridor opened into a gigantic room, easily fifty metres tall and wide.

Eszter glanced around curiously, wondering what the exact purpose of the room was. It was entirely featureless except for the walls before and behind her, the latter possessing the entrance and a large observation window above it and the former condition entirely of two colossal blast doors.

“This is Doctor Sylas Orchid, engage safety protocols.” the doctor suddenly declared, enunciating clearly into a small two-way radio he pulled from his belt. At his command, the door to the corridor slammed shut behind them, sealing the room. Once the smaller doors were shut, Orchid approached the blast doors, motioning for Eszter to follow him.

The pair approached the massive doors before Orchid veered to the left, signalling for the demi-dragon to stay put as he approached a smal control panel to the side of the doors. In quick succession, he swiped a keycard, planted his hand on a touchscreen, and scanned his eyeball, promptly receiving a tinny buzzer followed “Sorry, that didn’t work. Please try again!”

Eszter waited as the cursing scientist repeated the procedure, muttering to himself with each rejected attempt. She didn’t know what lay behind the doors, but the curiosity and, though she would never admit it, anxiety was gnawing at her. “Hurry up, would you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped, sweating beading on his forehead from both embarrassment and the risk of drawing the ire of a woman who could snap his spine with her bare hands. “We really need to update the security system here…”

Finally, a cheery ‘ding!’ rung out from the machine and with a deafening hiss, the blast doors began to part. The titanic slabs of metal slowly revealed a second set behind them as the room grew noticeably warmer, giving Orchid a third reason to sweat. As soon as the first pair had stopped moving, the second pair of doors began to part.

Another wave of heat filled the room, going from ‘warm’ to ‘hot’. Magically inured against heat, Eszter was nonplussed, but the doctor took a few steps back at this stage, retreating to the back of the room as a third set of doors was uncovered. Over the din of grinding metal, the demi-dragon swore she could hear something roaring, though it could easily have been the groan of machinery.

Finally, after an agonisingly long time, the second doors stopped and the third doors began to open. The heat in the room was turned up to ‘sauna’ as yet another heatwave literally blew into the room, sending Eszter’s hair fluttering as she watched the doors part, transfixed on what was beyond them.

Beyond the last line of defence was, unquestionably, a dragon, though the dragonkin was struggling to comprehend the state that it was in. The great beast’s black and red scales were intermittently divided by vast metal plates welded into its skin, while more choice modifications had been done to certain parts of the body.

Specifically, the dragon’s jaw seemed to have been partially scoured off and repaired with a heavy artificial maw, while its underbelly had clearly been shredded open and reseated with a metal contraption not unlike the jaws of a bear trap.

The sight was positively nightmarish in any situation, the indignity of the formerly majestic creature was enough to raise Eszter’s hackles, but there was something more. Something she couldn’t quite place.

“Doctor…” she whispered, watching the poor drake struggled against the massive chains that kept it from surging across the room towards the pair. The dragon queen swallowed hard, fighting the unusual wave of nausea that was building in her gut. “What is this?”

“That is Karakul. She’s like you.”

“In what way?” Eszter gasped, tasting bile at the back of her throat.

“She’s another reincarnation of Yucatan.” he said cheerily. “And technically one of your past-”

Before he could even finish, he was cut off by a loud retch. The demi-dragon’s legs wobbled, threatening to give way as the existential implication of what she was seeing hit her. Clutching at her mouth, she tried and failed to hold back the viscous mixture of molten metal and incinerated food that came rushing from her stomach. The foul substance dripped between her fingers and onto the floor, sizzling the otherwise pristine metal as she continued to dry heave.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Eszter shrieked, turning to Orchid with death in her eyes. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER? TO- TO ME?! I-”

The queen was cut off by another dry heave, fighting to keep her breakfast down.

“Ok, ok, calm down.” The scientist said, raising his arms in a vain attempt to soothe her. “We found her in a half-dead state, a little bit of her soul clinging to her corpse through pure rage. So, we brought her here and patched her up, but we couldn’t restore her mind. That’s where you come in, we think your essence can bring her sanity back, at least enough to use her to fight the unmaking.”

Frankly, his explanation did little to call Eszter down, but she did recover her mental state enough to think about what was happening. The things they had done to Karakul were unthinkable, but the dragonkin could hardly undo them. What she could do was at least try to help her spiritual ancestor, if what Orchid was sayi was correct.

Spitting the last drops of slag from her mouth, Eszter wordlessly began to step forward, approaching the reforged dragon. Within her chains, Karakul began to thrash against her bonds as she watched Eszter approached.

But then she stopped.

In all of their experiments, Orchid had never seen the berserk dragon do anything but rage against her confinement. Now, as the beast finally stopped, he felt hope rose in his chest.

“By the arbiters… what have they done to you?” The queen murmured as she drew closer, passing the second and then third sets of doors. The gigantic dragon slowly began to lower her head, sniffing gently at her ‘descendant’. The scientists were oblivious to the emotions of a dragon, but Eszter could see Karakul’s expression clear as day. Rage gave way to curiosity which gave way to sorrow, a sorrow ufathomably deep for the vermin behind her.

Finally, the demi-dragon stopped before her fellow dragon queen. Karakul’s head was lowered all the way to the floor, her artificial jaw resting against the hot metal ground. Swallowing hard, Eszter reached out and gently stroked the resurrected dragon, feeling the heat of her scales beneath her hand. As soon as the pair made contact, the wild, bestial look in the greater dragon’s eyes gave way to intelligent clarity.

“What has become of us?” Karakul rumbled, speaking for the first time since her ‘death’. In the observation room, the team lost their collective minds, shocked that the great beast could speak at all. “We were glorious once, little sister… what happened?”

“I don’t know.” Eszter choked out, shaking her head slowly as tears began to well in her eyes. “I don’t know…”

“The vermin could not bare to see us, how beautiful, how powerful we are compared to them.” The true dragon growled, her claws casting up a shower of sparks as they scraped against the floor. “They have brought us so low… but we are not defeated. Not yet.”

The demi-dragon remained silent for a long time, just looking ar her previous incarnation and lamenting their loss.

“I could… I don’t know. I want to help you. What should I do? What do you want?”

“Why am I here? Why did they bring me back?”

“To fight in some game.” Eszter hissed, fighting back tears of rage rather than sorrow.

Karakul silently regarded her for a few minutes, the furious look slowly but surely returning to her eyes.

“Then I shall do what they wish of me. I will fight. I will kill. I will burn.” The former dragon queen spat furiously. “Everything will burn.”

Eszter nodded, grin determination of her face.

“Of course. First here, then the crossroads. Everything will burn.”

“Hmm… I am glad our fire has not yet burned out.” Karakul murmured. “Now please, little sister… leave me until it is time to fight. I cannot bare to be aware of what has become of me for longer than I need to.”

With a heavy heart, the dragonkin gave a reluctant nod, taking her hand from her former self’s jaw and turning to walk away. With every step she got further from the reforged dragon, Karakul’s sanity slipped away once more, replaced with molten, beastial rage.

Slowly, the blast doors began to slide shut once more, the berserk monster’s roaring being drowned out by mechanical whirring before being silenced all together.

“Well, it seems like that went fantastically.” Doctor Orchid chirped as he approached Eszter, wringing his hands nervously once more. “So, do we have your cooperation?”

The dragon queen briefly considered removing his torso from the rest of his body, her draconic eyes narrowing dangerously before she took a deep breath. She had to behave, or arbiter’s knew what would happen to Karakul.

“You will have your death game.” She growled, fists clenched but kept at her sides. “Rest assured. The comet will burn.”

 

[Don Isaac]

The Baron had nearly given up on the page returning with the proper vintage when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Different from before, he supposed, but perhaps the servant had been working on their poise, inspired by the Don's standards. Turning around, he reached out to seize the wine to, at last, commemorate the great success he had found with his makeshift aerocraft- only to realise as his grease-stained digits brushed the fingers of the most beautiful woman he had seen beyond the courts of Santagria.

Her hair- the same hue as the ionised air that rushed forth from a nuclear detonation, a nut-brown skin freed from the radiation burns suffered by the groundling-folk of his homeland. And most importantly- a flight jacket. A smile spread across his grease-stained face as he relinquished the wine glass to her grasp. "Ah- my sincerest apologies, my lady," he said, flashing a gleaming smile as his hand folded itself behind his back- that errant hand would have slicked his hair back, had the man not been so absolutely sure of its perfection. Certainty radiated from him, a self-assurance that ran bone-deep.

"I'd thought you were the page returning with my drink- but I can see that you're a fellow appreciator of the noblest form of combat," he said, pounding a fist against the sheet-metal that sheathed his steed. "Honestly, you'd scarcely think this reality knew what warfare truly was, with all the material they leave to slog through the mud," he chuckled, raising a hand upwards.

Hulks hung from chains from the ceiling, desiccated wrecks impaled on hooks, adhered to magnetic anchors, or simply wrapped in iron. It was a charnel house of steel, dozens of vehicles from far-off battlefields brought as salvage to be torn apart and welded to a competitor's machine. The scent of oil was cloying, pools of black oil slowly running into gutters as the lifeblood of future warfare was resigned to the same darkness as the fallen men who once piloted them.

He continued the motion as he bent at the waist, bowing low to the woman, his shining grin almost out of place among the hydraulic fluid and soot. "Don Isaac De Metralla- The Red Baron, they said they'll call me," he chuckled. Reaching his full height once more, he wiped his fingers discretely against his flying leathers, avoiding the bright crimson of his armour and the golden heraldry upon it. He'd polished it, recently- the wing-wreathed bomb practically glowed, and that wasn't only because the paint he'd used was laced with radioactive isotopes.

"Please- do enjoy the wine. I'd be a spectacularly poor host if I stole the drink from my guest's hands," he said with a bark of laughter. He took a half-step back, leaning against the wings of his biplane, each paired set coated in armour panels ripped from half a dozen different machines and riveted together, rendered uniform beneath a bright coat of crimson. "Atom knows that this realm does all it can to ensure one forgets all they know of courtly manners," he said with a rueful grin, daring a wink at the purple-sheathed pilot.

"But, ah- it has done you a disservice, my Lady- by every right, you should have been heralded with a banner proclaiming your victories, and a full orchestra striving to simply hint at your beauty." His eyes sparkled, a flash in the brilliant green of his eyes startlingly reminiscent to the intoxicatingly close detonation of a mushroom cloud.

"But even with that tragedy inflicted upon me, My Lady, I will revel in hearing thy name from thy own lips."

 

[Arthur Morgan]

As the unfamiliar (and oddly dashing) pilot spoke, Skylar's processor raced, desperately attempting to conceal the mounting fervor of her embarrassment.

Frag, she thought, frantically suppressing the urge to blush— holomatter avatars weren't even supposed to emote that much. Why was it malfunctioning like this?! This guy's got some serious game.

It was almost as if the man had walked straight out of one of those overwrought human holodramas Thundercracker used to watch; the very same ones that Skywarp and Starscream would loudly declare their distaste for, yet secretly become invested in for all the romantic side plots, tangled affairs, and insane twists in store for the bizarrely melodramatic fleshbags on-screen.

He wasn't necessarily bad-looking, either... for a squishy! (Not that Skywarp had much of a sense for such things, most of them looked the same to him.) And he seemed to appreciate a good aircraft design. Her posture straightened into a pleased little preen at the mere notion. But then again, what lowly grounder could ever truly ignore the clear supremacy of a well-appointed flight frame?

Not even the nightmarish sight of the twisted metal carcasses hanging like scraps of meat from the high ceiling could put a damper on her good mood. Such was Skylar's preoccupation that it took her quite some time to recognize that Don Isaac De Metralla had asked after her name— which came only after a cascade of other cordialities, each one more maddening than the last.

No doubt a true organic would have quailed or faltered in the face of the man's eminent stature and, admittedly, charmingly antiquated flirtations. He was even taller than her, for Primus' sake. Fortunately, Skywarp was not susceptible to such frailties of character, though it still called upon all her fortitude to avoid succumbing to the schlocky dialogue perpetuated by TC's holodramas.

Affecting an air of complete control, the woman gently deposited the bottle of wine onto the scrap-littered surface of a nearby worktable, perhaps swaggering about with a bit more sway to her hips than was strictly necessary. Her hipbone rested lightly against the worktop's edge as she released the cork with an airy pop, expertly tipping the bottle's contents into its accompanying glass.

The glass in her grasp offered some small comfort as she slowly spun around to face the so-called Red Baron, nonchalantly crossing her shapely legs at the ankles. Her fingers constricted around the slender stem of the wineglass minutely, sharp nails grazing along its curvature, prompting a delicate shiver to pass through the ruby liquid within like a silent, glimmering ripple upon the surface of a pond.

Their eyes locked— yet still, she refused to take a single sip. Indeed, it felt as if time had stopped in its tracks. Skylar's full lips quirked upwards at the corners, a barely perceptible smirk that had the potential to bewitch him in a single glance.

And then she had to go and open her mouth.

"Whoa, someone's awfully verbose," the woman drawled, her voice a pleasant purr. She batted her almond eyes at him, smirk broadening to form a crooked grin that bared a set of pearly white teeth— not to mention her suspiciously prominent canines. "You're not so bad lookin' yourself, handsome. The name’s Skylar Watari, but you can call me Warp— though I'm starting to like the sound of this 'my lady' stuff. Did you rehearse all this sweet talk, or is that just your... natural magnetism...?"

All the while, she was dimly aware of the various techies and engineers hovering around on the edges of her periphery, their jaws agape as they watched the exchange in silent bewilderment.

Cocking her head to the side, she threw them a sidelong glance, eyes narrowing to slits behind her aviators. If those scum-sucking insects had any sense, they'd be minding their own business, now wouldn't they?

 

[Don Isaac]

Isaac had long since filtered the mechanics from his perspective, the groundling technicians fading into the background in favour of focusing his attention on more pertinent, attractive matters. He cast his head back, laughing at Skylar's inquiry. "A natural talent refined through years at court," he responded, teeth glinting. "A natural inclination is one thing, but it takes effort and practice to make it an art."

He stepped away from The Red Baron, rolling a lean shoulder as he stood tall and proud before Skylar, his back as straight as an arrow. "And with all your years of practice, have your lines ever actually worked?" The woman responded, an impish grin upon her fair features. Her pearly whites had a nearly unsettling intensity to them, but the Baronies of Santagria had never favoured meekness within its bloodlines.

And so Isaac charged on, heedless of the subtle aura of danger that radiated from the near-stranger. "Why, Lady Watari- a Gentleman never kisses and tells," he laughed, waving at a mechanic he had deigned to remember to bring over a dispenser of hand-soap, the citrus-scented ooze scrubbing away the stains that had rendered his hands nearly black with the machine-blood. "Of course, when it comes to tourneys, I'm more than happy to regale you, though I'd hate to bore you with my autocannon joust records," he said with a grin.

"Autocannon joust- you don't look like you have the biceps to haul one of those around," she teased in turn, waggling a slender finger tipped with a painted purple nail. "Hah," the Don laughed, shaking his head ruefully. "Despite my best efforts, no. No, an Autocannon joust is simply two jets flying at one another, restricted to their guns and iron sights to down the opponent," he grinned. "Just the plane, the pilot, and their nerve- none of this-" he turned his head, speaking loudly so that the accursed, meddling mechanics could hear him clearly. "-laser guided, heat-seeking nonsense!" He scoffed, returning his gaze to the Lady before him.

"Chivalry seems to have died across many realities," Isaac sighed, brushing a freshly washed hand against his bright red armour, the eye-catching iron plates not quite rated to resist heavy arms fire. "I can't imagine why. More's the pity- a Lady like yourself ought to have proper handmaidens to carry your drink, rather than simply whatever… intern happens to be on hand," the baron chuckled gently.

The brief silence that the Lady Watari seemed to have been stunned into at the recollection of Isaac's martial achievements faded with a fresh cascade of compliments, the Lady answering with a grin in turn. "Well, I can hardly say I disagree- I wouldn't mind a few servants to oil me down after a long day's flight."

Something went twang within the intricate workings of Isaac's mind, a careful clockwork construct designed through generations of nobility and the natural selection of warfare slipping a gear.

The baron blushed, his cheeks turning a dark crimson as his next witty retort died on his lips, his train of thought derailed as a stammer was all that slipped out. "I-" the man blinked, the static of an antique radio filling the space between his ears.

Snorting out a peal of decidedly unladylike, but intensely passionate laughter, the pilot slapped the stunned nobleman on the back, Isaac able to do little more than stumble along in the direction she indicated. "Come on, man- let me show you my ride."

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Needless to say, Skylar had decided that she liked this particular squishy. He was so... so...

He was endearing. So endearing, in fact, that she wanted to stuff him inside her cockpit, hit Mach 10, and let him rattle around in there like a bucket of loose bolts. The little guy would lose his mind, and possibly all of his internal organs, but she figured he'd have a grand old time for all of seven seconds, at the very least.

But, first things first. The holomatter pilot positively strutted with every step as she led the way toward where she knew her mechanical frame to be located, keeping up an incessant stream of charm all the way, making sure to leave no doubt about her intentions as she brushed against and flitted about Isaac from time to time, jockeying for his attention like an amorous bird of prey. She'd surreptitiously decanted her wine glass into an oil drum while he wasn't looking— enabling her current frolicsome activity.

The poor man seemed flummoxed by her behavior, but he gamely followed along nonetheless, perhaps a bit too well-learned in courtly manners for his own good.

"I gotta admit, it's been far too quiet in this strange new universe without my brothers. We always flew together, but now I'm all on my lonesome," Skylar sighed breezily, pressing her armored frame to the stiff pilot's side, one slender arm draping across his shoulders like they were old chums. "Everyone needs a proper wingman, right?”

Her blood-red gaze sparkled with veiled delight as she tipped her head back to peer up into his face, eyelashes dusting dark shadows over her cheeks, awaiting his response.

"No doubt!" A somewhat ruffled Isaac leapt at the chance to get a word in edgewise, perhaps sensing some pathway through which to regain control of the conversation. "It appears that fate has been unkind to us both, thrusting us into this unknown reality without the slightest notice, is that not so?"

Abruptly, it appeared that Skylar was the uncomfortable one. The young woman's focus skittered away, her shoulders shifting restlessly— almost like she was trying to adjust the weight of something heavy resting there, though there was no such burden visible to the naked eye.

"You could say that. My wingmate and I were deep in the heart of enemy territory, blasting some invention they'd been working on sky-high— our stupid air commander's orders, we didn't get a say. Just when it looked like we'd come out on top, a bunch of pesky grounders got lucky and shot him clear out of the sky, right on top of the slaggin' gizmo they'd been working on! When I went to retrieve him, well. I don't know exactly how it happened, but we wound up somewhere else. That somewhere else being... here," she flapped a hand to encompass the thrumming facility around them, though her real meaning was clear enough.

The Crossroads.

She grimaced. Ever since their tumultuous arrival in the Crossroads, Skywarp hadn't clapped optics on Thundercracker even once. They had quickly gone their separate ways, as was standard protocol— each determined to search the nearest planets for a method of hailing the Decepticon flagship back on Earth. At present, Skywarp believed her fellow seeker was still out there, likely pursuing his mission with the very same passion she'd carried within her spark for the past meta-cycle.

Because that was why she'd entered this whole farce of a competition in the first place. Not to pay off any debts like she'd informed the registrar, nor just for simple amusement as she intended to tell everyone else (although that did factor into it, if she was being completely honest with herself, which she very rarely was). To Skywarp, her new objective was clear. In order to fuel the war effort, she had to reach out and establish a connection with the Decepticons— so they could travel to this universe and suck up all its energy, naturally.

Besides, it wasn't like the Crossroads needed all of its worlds, right?

"Aaaanyway, enough about that," Skylar hastened to brush that particular topic of conversation aside as they rounded the corner toward her mech's berth, dismissing it with a casual flick of her hair. "Check this out!"

Her voice reverberated oddly throughout the hangar as she spoke, an eerily metallic ring echoing back with every syllable. Don Isaac strode up to the guardrail and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, both drawn to the edge of the railing. Without pause, they leaned over side-by-side, peering out into the abyss below.

An imposing shape came into view amid the concrete-swathed black, surrounded by its own halo of light.

A true menace even when not in the air, Skywarp's jet alternate mode was a sleek instrument of metal and propulsion, every part of it honed to perfection for speed and daring acrobatic maneuvers. Its midnight-black wings swept back sharply from a pointed nose cone to curved tail-fins, while its glossy violet accents shone with metallic luster in the light, the jagged insignia of the Decepticon cause glowering up at them balefully. Complementing this dusky hue were the stormy greys that ran down either side of the craft's shell in diagonal ribbons, terminating at both ends near its twin engines.

Details such as fasteners and vents only added further intricacy to the jet's design— hints of complex mechanical artistry mirroring the fern-like branches of Lichtenberg figures, all culminating in an undeniably intimidating whole.

Not a single soul occupied the hangar with the jet. In fact, it appeared that the technicians that had been crawling all over the place had quit this area of the engineering bay entirely, only the muted hum of active machinery echoing from a distant sector daring to interrupt the weighted cover of silence that blanketed the air.

Patently oblivious to all but the craft before him, Don Isaac blinked down at it, seeming momentarily lost for words. Skylar grinned at his side, a keen air of satisfaction radiating from every facet of her being.

"No laser guided, heat-seeking tech here," she sniffed superciliously, cocking a hip. "Though I can assure you, I've got plenty of other tricks up my sleeve to make up for it…”

 

[Don Isaac]

The urge to hurl himself over the precipice and inspect the jet fighter before him was nigh-overwhelming. Throughout the stroll through the engineering bay, Isaac had found himself quite charmed by Skylar- her mannerisms were certainly not that of a noblewoman, though the tale of how she had found herself cast into this realm was sympathetic. It was hardly proper for a true knight of the skies to be cast down by flak hurled by groundling peasants, after all.

But all that paled in comparison to the sight before him. Sleek curves, angular wings- oh, and to say nothing of the intricate patterning, the stark, royal purple heraldry. It was a thing of aesthetic perfection, designed for excellence, rather than a brutal machine made beautiful by the dignity of years well-cared for.

It took all his effort to stop himself from drooling as he leaned over the railing. "She's magnificent," he said breathlessly. And she truly was- an aerodynamic precision the likes of which would have taken a cloister of monks months to calculate, merged with an artistic flair that any heraldic expert would be hard-pressed to replicate. This was not a steed fashioned from the scrapyards and irradiated aerodromes of his homeland- this was a work of art given armaments and a target.

"Really now," grinned the bright-haired woman. "And here I was thinking you might not recognize anything more impressive than a biplane," she said with that devilish grin. "Bit of a shame, really- talking about aerodynamics really gets my engine running, y'know?"

The Don had regretted not keeping the wine. A courtly conversation with his fellow pilot had proven itself to be downright impossible- no demure lady of Santagria this, nor cold warhawk. But he'd be lying to himself if he tried to convince himself he'd not been enjoying the verbal sparring- it was like crossing sabres atop a minefield, every misstep resulting in a sudden explosion of innuendo that threatened to send him sprawling backwards in shock.

But he was a skilled enough duelist to offer a riposte. "Careful now, Lady Watari- if you find yourself climbing any higher in my esteem, you might risk a stall," he said with a grin and a wink in turn. Hardly the nearly-predatory shimmer of Skylar's smile and the sparkle of her eyes, but he was certain he had a charm of his own.

Laughing gently, Isaac rolled his shoulders. "But yes, I've flown many a jet, in my time- rather less… new than this model, admittedly," he said with a grin. "Fresh manufacture is a rarer thing, these days- I still fly- well, flew my grandfather's jet on hunts. The gunship I ended up crashing into this reality in was slapped together from a dozen scavenged hulks. Looking at your fighter, I can't help but think it looks…"

He stroked his chin, silently praying that the nicks he'd etched into his olive flesh during his shaving mishaps went unnoticed. "... Alien."

"Alien?" The Lady Watari asked, her response quicker than usual, clearly interested in hearing the noble's response. "What makes you say that?"

"Ah, simply a foible of my home world," Isaac chuckled, examining the advanced jet with the same intensity and besotted befuddlement that he had inspected Skylar with. "A great being descended from the stars, in ages past. It was a massive brain, encased in copper- it created creatures and… machine-creatures, wielding weapons far beyond any thought a man ever had," he said, giving a rueful smile. "It's… gone, now, but its creations remain. It reminds me a little of that," he sighed wistfully. "The last thunderbolt hurled by a dead god, screaming through the skies to smite a heathen that's long forgotten an ancient decree."

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Skylar stood still as a stone, her eyes unwavering in their deadly focus on the Don's side profile, privately thankful that he wasn't looking her way. The ardor in his gaze was unmistakable, she supposed— his green eyes practically sparkling as he expressed a very flattering and reverential fascination for her inert jet mode. Yet the story he had just recounted...

A dead god. The very thought sent a shiver of unease coursing through Skywarp's lines— the man's airily-voiced words much like shrapnel piercing her armor, seeming capable of tearing her apart from the inside.

A processor-splitting siren blared within her circuitry, running through a myriad of threat protocols and anxious subroutines in a feeble attempt to detect any veiled meaning within his words. As a result, the holopilot's visual sensors lit up in a flurry of activity, desperately scanning again and again for hidden peril within her environment to explain her unnerved state. But nothing could be found, leaving only Isaac's words suspended in the air between them that, while harmless in isolation, felt disturbingly apt all the same.

What was this squishy playing at? Skylar's analytical gaze switched to a frustrated glower, scrutinizing the Red Baron's words for any hint of deceit. Was he attempting to... manipulate her in some way? Suss her out? She hadn't been sure he'd have the ball bearings for such a thing, but maybe, just maybe...

The suspicions that lurked at the back of the Decepticon's processor reverberated in a shrill cry of warning, sounding suspiciously reminiscent of her absent air commander— screaming in her audials to watch it, you fool! You couldn't sniff out duplicity if it was within scratching distance of your nose cone!

Still, though her former comrade-in-arms may not have agreed, Skywarp was confident she had the meager intellect required to detect any treachery from this… this... easily breakable, sweet-talking squishy! There was no way he knew of her true nature. Right?

... Well. There was only one way to know for sure!

“How... interesting,” murmured Skylar softly, as the man finished his outlandish narrative. She had to stifle the incredulity in her voice, though she couldn't quite suppress the faintly brittle undercurrent of hostility to her words.

At the sound of her strained tone, the other pilot forsook his inspection of her jetcraft and lifted his gaze to her tense expression. "Lady Watari," he inquired in a delicate, yet firm voice, perfectly gallant in every sense of the word. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Nah, dude. I'm just dandy," the holopilot replied, flexing her shoulders in an attempt to physically brush off her unease. Again, the movement was markedly unusual— like there was some hidden burden there, pressing down upon her shoulder blades. "Just thinkin' about what you said."

Curious, Isaac raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Which part?"

His companion snorted indelicately, muffling the sound with the back of her hand. "Well," she began once she had regained her composure, emphasizing the word with a faint sneer, "Believe it or not, this stunning hunk of junk isn’t even close to being a newer model. He's seen more than his fair share of battles— in fact, he's... oh, at least a few million years old, give or take."

"A few million!" The baron was taken aback, his green eyes flicking rapidly between the woman and the jet parked down below. His fingers twitched above the guardrail, as if they yearned to feel the sleek surface of the aircraft. A disbelieving chuckle escaped his lips, followed by a politely indulgent smile. "Surely you jest. Why, if that were in any way true... this craft must have been passed down your family line since antiquity!"

Now it was Skylar's turn to laugh, the harsh sound echoing like the bark of a hyena inside the deserted hangar. "Oh, no, no. It's just been me," her gaze fixed upon his face, expression intent, mouth twisting into a sly little smirk. "Only me."

The baron's face contorted with slight reprimand. "Only you?" he repeated, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead, nearly to his hairline. "How in the heavens...?"

In response, Skylar's posture shifted to one of marked indifference, her only acknowledgement of his words being a casual shrug. She slid past him and down the stairwell towards her jet, heels clicking sharply on the steel steps, but paused about halfway down. Her silhouette framed against the artificial spotlights, the woman glanced back up at him with an unspoken request to follow, something like a challenge glittering in her dark eyes.

When he inevitably did, a lengthy silence descended, and for a seeming eternity, Skylar did not utter a word. Until—

"Those 'machine-creatures' you mentioned," she remarked, casting aside her earlier disquiet. "You’ve seen what they look like?"

 

[Don Isaac]

Skylar's words were curious, to say the least. Isaac was having to think, and that was something he'd not had to do in quite some time. He typically had people for that. A million years of war- well, that had to be metaphor or exaggeration, surely. Perhaps some spiritual concept, of a war waged throughout the ages, reincarnated into a new physical body to carry on the fight with an ancient foe. Yes- yes, he was familiar enough with that. A Martyrdom in a past life earned one a better station in the future- it was why he was as magnificent as he was.

He was suddenly roused from his ruminations by Skylar's voice taking on a questioning pitch- he blinked, examining his surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. The lights set into the oil-stained walls flickered, pipes and wiring hanging from above like overgrown vines and the far-reaching roots of great trees. She pressed onwards into that momentary darkness, her toothy grin shining like a predatory cat about to pounce.

What did she ask? The Machine Men! Yes!

"Ah, yes," Isaac said, furrowing his brow as he rubbed the tip of his moustache. "The… Rygomen," he said, lacing the word with dread import. "Similar enough to men, from a distance- some of them. But they've black blood and ears like knives, to say nothing of what's done to them to make them more… efficient," he said, shuddering slightly despite himself. "Targeting systems grafted to their faces in place of eyes, heads absent and naught but cabling running from the stump- or a third arm. I've seen some of them survive a sabre severing both their legs and carry on, oozing sludge as they aimed their next shot. And that's to say nothing of the horrors they use in place of war machines," he sighed.

"Tanks with legs, mortars ambling along on a multitude of limbs- I'll spare you the worst of the nightmares, my Lady," he said, a chuckle returning to lighten the mood as they descended into the lair of Skylar's monster. "Made for the cockpit, rather than born to it- leaves them at a bit of a disadvantage, but all the... lasers and whatnot compensate, I suppose," he said reluctantly, in the manner of admitting that a hated rival had won this hand of cards, but hardly the game.

"Well, technological superiority isn't everything," Skylar grinned, her dark clothing and the unreliable lighting leaving her brilliant grin as a beacon- or perhaps, a lure- in the shaded halls. "You've also got to have spirit- some spunk, some moxie!" She declared, the lights flickering on just long enough to reveal his fellow pilot spinning about the stairwell, her gloves latched around a support rod as she twirled herself down a turn, gracefully descending down another flight.

Instinctually, Isaac followed- her beauty, her grace, he could not simply follow her along, mesmerized like some groundling oaf following a bewitching banner across the glass dunes to war! With a quiet grunt of effort, he leaped upwards, wrapping his hands around the very same pole as he sought to use his momentum to slingshot himself past Skylar-

Well, he intended to, at least.

Instead, the armoured knight careened past Skylar, clattering against the stairs in short order as he bounced off each step, the sound a close kin to a sack of saucepans being thrown into a tumble dryer as each impact scraped off a fraction of the bright crimson he had daubed his plate in. Crash after crash, the Don refused to cry out, his only exhalation coming when he slammed against the wall at the base of the flight, the air rushing out of his lungs as the unyielding concrete squeezed it from him.

Coughing, as every bruise across his battered body ached in unison, Isaac slowly clambered to a knee- a cut across his brow smearing his olive skin with noble blood as he grinned up at the approaching woman. "Well- moxie, I have in spades, though it seems the jury's arrived on acrobatics," he said with a weak laugh, just barely resisting the urge to wince as his ribs lodged a formal complaint with his recent actions.

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Whether Skylar had been about to push Don Isaac De Metralla down the stairs was between her, Primus, and the silently-blinking surveillance cameras scattered across the engineering bay recording their every move.

What she certainly hadn’t expected was for the Don to quite literally beat her to the punch and hurl himself down the remaining flight of stairs in a wildly careening fashion not unlike a Sunday morning cartoon character.

In the aftermath, her audials still ringing from the man's armor clanging about, Skylar stared down at Isaac with her eyes as wide as saucers. One hand delicately covered her mouth in a feeble attempt to hide her emotional state, twitching at just the sight of the Don sprawled at the foot of the stairs like an overturned beetle. Whether it was to conceal her expression of horror or intense amusement was anyone’s guess, though perhaps the Don would have preferred the former.

A barely audible creak rumbled from her jet as it settled forcefully back onto its landing gear. The jarring sound of metal buckling seemed almost like a maniacal cackling as its shiny black and purple plating vibrated with ill-restrained mirth.

The woman descended the remaining steps at speed, her high-heeled boots clicking against each stair in a way that was an oddly musical accompaniment to her hurried gait. When she reached the bottom it was with all the svelte grace of a puma, stooping exaggeratedly to offer a helping hand to the man on his knees, the situation made just the tiniest bit comical by their height difference.

“Falling for me already, I guess,” she chuckled lightly in rejoinder, lips curving into an impish smile as she helped the poor man regain his footing. It was only then that she spotted the gash on his head, the small dent silently oozing crimson across his noble brow. “Oh, uh, oh noooo. You're... leaking?”

She eyed the wound with some trepidation, brows furrowing in what appeared to be genuine concern. A hasty welding job wasn't gonna fix this one, she suspected.

"Am I?" asked Isaac, raising one hand to lightly brush at the wound. A beat later, he examined his blood-stained fingers with a faintly perplexed expression. "Ah. So I am!"

"Hmph. I miiiight have something for it," Skylar muttered, her gaze flitting back and forth as her mind raced a million miles ahead. Without warning, she spun on her heel and paced towards her jet, the wounded Don having little choice but to follow at a more... sedate pace behind her.

As they stepped beneath the large aircraft's shadow, Isaac approached with cautious steps, almost as if he were entering a sacred chapel— or perhaps it was simply the acute throbbing of his head wound making him a bit more prudent than usual.

Skylar, by way of comparison, none-too-gently scrambled up onto the nearest wing of her jet, the cockpit sounding off with an unsettling pneumatic hiss as it opened. She dove inside with little care for any of the mechanics within, digging ferociously inside her subspace and tossing out odd objects behind her without sparing them a second glance.

A few mostly-empty cubes clattered across the ground, laced with scant droplets of some unknown substance, the luminescent pink droplets splattering upon the concrete floor. They were followed shortly by a large spool of copper wire, several blessedly-deactivated grenades, and what appeared to be a vacant tortoise shell. Galápagos-sized.

"C'mon, don't be shy! I like you," Skylar called down to her companion, the lilting laughter in her voice only faintly muffled from within her cockpit. "And just because I like you, you have my express permission to touch!"

Isaac's eyes traveled between her hunched-over figure, the collection of items carelessly scattered across the ground, and the looming form of the jet. He licked his lips, tongue suddenly dry as a piece of parchment inside his mouth.

"Generally," he stated with a hint of feigned chastisement in his voice, "Such an invitation is accompanied by a warning of 'don't try anything funny.'"

Popping her head back out of her cockpit, Skylar beamed down at him, her crimson-tinted locks frizzing up around her head and a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, don't you worry about that, Don Isaac," she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes. "You can be as funny as you like."

And with a saucy wink that could potentially melt steel beams, she ducked back inside the depths of her jet, the distinct sound of rustling starting up once more.

Hidden from the squishy's view, Skywarp wrinkled her nose in frustration as she rummaged through her subspace, scoffing at the meager array of items before her. Her scowl deepened with every passing second, until finally her eyes widened in triumph. A wickedly delighted grin slowly crept across her face as she seized her prize, blowing a faint layer of dust from its surface.

Skylar grabbed the roll of silvery duct tape and glided down with ease, her boots hitting the concrete below with a light thunk as she landed. The woman took a few steps and presented the roll to the Don with a grand flourish, the fluorescent lighting of the hangar perfectly illuminating the good humor in her expression.

"A kiss may have done the trick, I suppose," Skylar teased airily, a definite twinkle in her eye, "but this will have to do."

 

[Don Isaac]

Shaking his head with a laugh, Isaac gently took the roll of tape from Skylar's hand, ripping off a sticky, fibrous patch with the sound of tearing fabric. "Lady Watari, you are simply too much. I fear the courts would see you barred, if only because there's enough venom in your wit to poison every glass of wine in the palace." He was familiar enough with the tape- the monasteries produced a small amount of it for essential repairs, and the salvage from Federal convoys barely managed to keep the Noble's hunger for the stuff sated.

He slapped the silvery material over his brow, wincing as it adhered itself to his olive flesh. "I wouldn't object to a kiss," he said, banishing the brief moment of weakness with a grin. "But I hardly think halfway concussing myself is enough of a feat to earn such a reward from a maiden's lips," the Noble laughed, straightening his posture as he tore his gaze away from Skylar and towards her steed instead, his hands intertwining themselves behind his back as he examined the chassis of the jet, as if to hold himself back from taking Skylar up on her invitation to get handsy with the mechanical marvel.

It was even more fascinating up close- at least the Lady Watari didn't seem to be jealous that the fighter was stealing his attention. He'd had at least one courtship fail when he spent an evening gushing over the turbine assembly of the Lady's helo, rather than the decor draped across her decolletage. Of course, that had been her fault, as a young society lady- one should know that one should never arrive in a steed more impressive than oneself unless they were ready to converse about it over the course of an evening.

His restraint snapped after a moment of intense examination and internal speculation, his hands gently gliding against the cool, dark metal. He followed the arcing, almost organic patterns of purple that ran across those armoured plates. He'd seen similar patterns wrought in the glass dunes of his home, where storms that had roiled for decades after the bombs dropped left their indelible mark upon the landscape. There was a savage, primal beauty to this jet, a beast of black metal and vicious intent that had ridden out the cruel glories of war for- well, he didn't believe Skylar's claim of aeons, but long enough to have earned the antiquity that resonated through its frame. There was a legacy, scarcely seen in that dark metal, the scars of a hundred battlefields painted over and buffed out over the years, absent to all but those given leave to know her.

"Beautiful," he murmured softly. He could scarcely feel nigh-invisible seams beneath his fingertips. The nature of this machine was self-evident by the nature of this tourney. It would shift, change- but how? Hydraulics? Cables? Some sort of sorcery? He turned his grin to the Lady Watari, giving an approving nod.

"Astounding. Simply astounding, Skylar. I know half a dozen Manufacturers who would give their first, second, and… well, likely not the third-born, but you could barter for a few bastards on top of it- point is, they'd pay well for it," he chuckled gently. "But I doubt they could pry you from the skies, in a steed like this."

He stepped back from the jet, conscious of the hidden mechanisms concealed within its fuselage. It was like one of the ancient clocks that his grandfather had collected- a delicate, beautifully etched exterior, layered atop a twisted mesh of gears that, at best, would crush your finger to a pulp. At worst, he'd have his butler belt you for taking apart his treasures- and while he, admittedly, would not mind the Lady Watari taking off her belt, he had to admit that whatever her steed would become would be more likely to be the one administering the corrective beating. "You ride a dark flower of fire and flame, my Lady. I look forward to seeing it blossom."

 

[King Shark]

He clanked down the stairs in lifted plats, thumbs in his pockets, in a jaunty gait that bespoke an undercurrent of cool or coolant. Cajoled by the sounds of banter, and witty banter at that, he swept up to the guardrail and stooped to wrap a pair of hands, gorilla hairy and well knuckled, on the supports.

Tyler leered over a familiar jet through half-moon sunnies. A wry grin slit his weathered face, pushing up a crop of five o’clock shadow that reached up over his cheekbones.

“Well, well,” he announced, slick as oil. “The game is afoot. Outside it’s cats and dogs, but over here, it seems it’s all cat and mouse.”

A tall man tanned as leather in pilot’s regalia whipped his head around wearing the expression that belongs to those interrupted in the depths of an endeavor of intensity. And oh, he’d seen it. The way the man had run his hands over that metal - he looked as if he’d been caught in the act of something intimate and private. To his credit, he didn’t looked ashamed.

His companion, a brash looking young woman with hair like a watercolor, wore a face of defiance. A furrow knitted her brows, making her look like a cat whose hair had been brushed backwards. The demeanor she presented felt familiar, like a dream one might remember in the first few seconds after they awoke but that quickly slipped away leaving only a tugging feeling of the mind’s insistence that there was something there, but that it couldn’t quite be remembered. In spite of all of that, or maybe because of it, Tyler felt that something was wrong. People were in his brother, and they weren’t being ground up and spit out. That wasn’t right. No, that wasn’t right at all.

“Street youths,” Tyler declared, standing abruptly upright. His smirk faltered. “Oh, yeah. You think I don’t see it, but I’m hip to this. I’m down.”

The man, a gangly brute in green corduroys, a vest, and a loud button-up, reached into the pocket of his vest. He produced a cigar and a zippo with which he infused the tip of his stogie with a burning cherry. He dragged deep, then erupted in a coughing fit. He went frog legged, crouched, sputtered into his freehand, held the cigar out at length with his other, bent over double, wheezed, dry-heaved, began to billow smoke from his pants, then suddenly went still.

Then he stood with a quick look around, and resumed smoking.

“That’s not your ride.”

“It isn’t my ride,” answered the man, a tall affair whose tone bespoke aristocracy. Racker felt a quiver of subservience that he suppressed. “The ride belongs to a Lady. This lady, in fact, whose virtue you’d dare to impugn? Lady Watari need not lower herself to the accusations of a groundling. Nor do I - perhaps you’d like to rescind yourself. It isn’t the place of rabble like you to force your presence on your betters.”

“Rabble like me?” demanded Tyler, thrusting the finger of his cigarless hand forward. “Rabble like me!? Rabble like me could pump the gas out of scum like you with a single pump. And you better believe I’d pump you. I’m pump you to death. Is that what you want? You want me to pump you?”

They seemed legitimately taken aback by that, and left a chasm of silence in which only the aura of their discomfort swept through the air. He could practically smell it. On the prowl, now, he capitalized on his momentum.

“Oh, yeah. You better believe it, pal. I’d pump you until there was nothing left to pump! I will pump, and pump, and PUMP! Do you know what I’m saying to you!?”

The Lady frowned, and regarded him with cold eyes.

“Not…really. No. I don’t think that we do.”

“You’ve got your hands all over something that doesn’t belong to you, and isn’t that just like you youths? You see something fancy, and all of a sudden it’s hot to trot; you can just put your FINGERS!”

He raised up his off-hand, waggling his digits, while his sunglasses slid down a hawk-like beak of nose to reveal mud brown eyes.

“All over a thing of beauty like that. You know what? You disgust me.”

He spat on the catwalk, and the spit was dark with ash. He pushed his wire brush hair back, and it stood tall.

“That’s my BROTHER!”

Tyler C. Racker brought his cigar to his lips, inhaled, and watched their expressions. The Lordling’s mouth tightened into a thin line. The Lady’s jaw dropped.

“Yeah. That’s right. That’s my heraldry on those wings, and you’d better believe I’ll toss some fists to defend it.”

 

[Shallan Davar]

Shallan and Eszter walked side by side down the hallway leading to the bonded’s chambers. A couple of the Syntech personnel that were bustling about gave them significant glances, but nobody seemed inclined to halt their progress. Before long they had arrived at the doorway bearing the same number as Shallan’s paperwork had. The large metal blast doors however, were less yielding to their advance, remaining stubbornly shut despite Shallan’s efforts.

Eszter tapped her finger against the door thoughtfully.

“I could maybe put a dent in these, but it’ll probably cause a ruckus if I do. They tend to monitor stuff like this.”

Shallan turned to look in the direction the dragonkind woman pointed, noting a small blinking box perched from the wall nearby. Perhaps her shardblade was not the best solution to their obstacle either.

“That’s alright, we don’t need to take quite so direct an approach.”

Her stormlight was being quelled by the collar, so she couldn’t impersonate one of the Syntech scientists. But then again, she had leverage for being one of the contestants. Perhaps not all that much, but she’d been able to get away with things in more dire straits before.

With an air of affront, she stepped in front of one of the more beleaguered-looking attendants making their way down the halls. He tried to side-step her with a mumbled apology but she stepped back into his line of motion.

Now she just needed the right air, the right presence to browbeat the poor fellow. Like a lighteyes lady who’s cornered a servant over a particularly petty need. Like Radiant, if Radiant were less noble, and perhaps a little bit older and more tart.. A bit more like Jasnah.

“You there! Don’t avoid me! I need-”

“We don’t have any more wine!” The attendant blurted out in a panic, “They took the last bottle!”

Shallan frowned briefly, confused at the response, but carried on. Tyn had been insistent that you didn’t abandon an act until you were forced to. You only had one chance before you were a known con, after all.

“No, no. Listen to my words. I need entrance to the room just there.” She snapped her fingers, then pointed urgently, doing her best to stare the confused assistant down with all the fury of a thousand scorned and waiting nobles.

“Uhh, but we aren’t supposed to open those doors unless we get approval from one of the doctors. A contestant might not be prepared to deal with a bond. I need to deliver this spanwrench to the hanger.”

“Look at this outfit.” Shallan cut in, snatching the tool from the man’s hands and gesturing at his face with it. “I’m wearing your company’s colors. I know the situation, it has been properly explained to me by Doctor…”

“Orchid.” Eszter offered from the side of the corridor.

“Doctor Orchid, yes. That’s why I’m so incensed that he hasn’t approved me for entrance yet! We had an agreement and my time is not to be wasted!”

“Uh, I can check with the Doctor?”

Shallan frowned distinctly now.

“Do you have the ability to hear correctly?” She repeated, punching each syllable like a bludgeon, “My. Time. Is. Not. To. Be. Wasted.”

“We’ve come directly from Doctor Orchid.” Eszter nodded. Stepping over now that she’d caught on to Shallan’s angle.

“Indeed.” Shallan nodded with a faint sniff of offense, “The man is quite busy right now! He told me the doors would be approved for my access by the time we arrived. If we are forced to return to him and wait for him to answer us again then neither he nor we shall be pleased!”

The hapless man glanced between the two of them then coughed into his hand.

“Right, right. I’ll let you both in.”

“Let you both in, Brightness.” Shallan corrected, “I’m not about to have my titles ignored simply because I am not in my homeworld, thank you very much!”

It was important not to show a crack in the facade, even after the score had been made. Changing her mannerisms now would be suspicious.

“Uh, of course, Brightness!” The man tapped a series of digits into the keypad next to the door.

Shallan swept through the open doorway imperiously, not even glancing at the Syntech assistant. After all, this wasn’t a favor being done, this was an expectation being met.

“Brightness?” Eszter questioned as they moved through the security door locks.

“It’s a title of nobility from my homeland,” Shallan explained, gesturing towards her blue eyes with minor embarrassment. Eszter didn’t press further, just looking at Shallan with an expression that the Lightweaver couldn’t place. She convinced herself it was an impressed look, not a judgmental one.

Her thoughts were interrupted quite thoroughly when the last door opened. The heat hit her first, dry like the desert air, or perhaps the furnace of a smithy meant for giants. The heat was accompanied by a distinctive smell… but the visual splendor of the creature in front of her overwhelmed them both in short order.

Smaug was asleep. That was odd. She knew that was his name without having been told it, just like she now knew that he was merely lying there with half an eye open. Red scales shown with the luster of the golden surroundings of the chamber. A wealth beyond anything Shallan had ever seen before. Eszter seemed equally impressed for her part. Their amazement was amusing to her, well… not to her... But she felt the amusement as Smaug watched the two of them gape in wonder.

Slowly, casually, his eye slid open to behold them both fully.

“And here I expected you would find some excuse not to come and show yourself.” He chuckled, the sound reverberating around the chamber.

Shallan just stared in awe, barely remembering to blink and take an image to draw him later.

“Well then, Scribbler.” Smaug rumbled, “You’re the one who’s come to bother me. Introduce yourself!”

Two things occurred to Shallan then. Smaug was part of her mind now, and yet he did not know her name yet. And perhaps more importantly, she should not tell him what it was if she could avoid it.

“Brightness Scribbler will do for me, your magnanimousness.” She dropped into a practiced Vorin curtsey, “We came at your suggestion, I believe.”

“I do not think so.” Smaug’s expression was difficult to read, but Shallan could swear he was smiling.

This was going to be a game. She could tell already. She didn’t know all the rules, and she could only hazard a guess at the stakes, but there was no mistaking the way the wyrm talked. It was expecting her to reply in kind.

“I shouldn’t think I would want my rest disturbed mere hours before the performance.” The great dragon continued to rumble, clearly expecting an answer.

Shallan bowed again.

“Of course, not, O’ Smaug the unwearied. We would not think to disturb your rest, but that we wished to behold you with our own eyes. And to take in your splendor unfiltered by screen or deceit.”

“Hmm… and what do you make of my great wealth?” Smaug’s head slowly lifted, arcing backwards into the air above them with the ease of great power. “Quite the sight, isn’t it?”

Shallan’s flattery caught in her throat. There was a trace of something to his tone. He wanted her compliments on the hoard… not on himself? She stared at the shimmering piles of wealth that adorned the whole of the room. Such a vast amount of wealth. Surely they wouldn’t…

With a soft gesture, she tossed the wrench she had snatched from that poor man at the nearest one. It fuzzed as the wrench sailed through it, landing on metal with a dull thud.

“It’s fake?” She couldn’t stop herself from speaking.

“An OUTRAGE!” Smaug bellowed, “They think I will be placated with this façade? They will surrender to me every ounce that I am owed and they shall cower before my majesty when I am through with their little game!”

Smaug’s great tail lashed against one of the walls nearby, a thundering reverberations throughout the chamber. His eye shifted then, from Shallan to Eszter. Smaug exhaled a heated breath, twin trails of smoke rising from his nostrils in spiraling trails.

“And what of you, sputtering ember? You presumed me trussed and bereft of myself? How presumptuous you are. They entreatied me with promises, bargained for my mercy and cooperation. I was not approached with metal or machine. Not even in their arrogance would they dare to so challenge my majesty. Weakened as you are, can you even comprehend the greatness before you? The power that Syntech did not dare to disturb?”

 

[Arthur Morgan]

Skylar clacked her teeth shut and yanked off her aviators, red eyes practically sparking with fury. Her piercing gaze shot daggers at the gangly man who’d wandered up looking for smoke, not believing a single word out of his mouth. So what if this guy was sayin' he had the scoop on the Decepticons, he seemed like a total poser. Like slag was Skywarp gonna fall for that load of bunk!

For his part, Don Isaac De Metralla was already advancing on the man, his fists tightly balled and an unspoken oath to protect the honor of Lady Watari leading him forward. He was only mildly put out when said lady swept past him, a similarly vengeful glint in her eye; all hopes of being able to impress her vanishing like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

"Here," Skylar commanded, unceremoniously thrusting her sunglasses into Don Isaac's hands. "This'll only take a sec."

Isaac, being the polite chap he was, took them automatically with a bemused little frown. He observed as the woman began to aggressively roll up the sleeves of her flight jacket as if to get down to brass tacks— clearly intending to go take care of business, so to speak —and felt a surge of fresh admiration unfurl within his breast. Certainly no demure lady of the courts, this one.

“Ah, Lady Watari—” he began, but found himself instantly cut off by a fierce glare. Skylar's expression softened a beat later, but an unspoken threat still lingered like a looming storm cloud in the air.

“Look, Don. I appreciate it, and you’re very sweet. But every once in a while, a gal's gotta what a gal's gotta do," she said tenderly, giving his cheek a gentle pat. "No one— and I mean no one —gets away with threatening to pump me," her voice rose into a menacing crescendo as she spun around, snarling up at the scrawny man with his goofy-ass shades and unkempt hairdo. "Especially not some clown who's GLITCHED IN THE SLAGGIN' HEAD."

“I'll show you glitched in the head!” The hooligan hollered back with gusto, hands waving around in an erratic, completely nonsensical dance. Perhaps some primitive human threat display, Skywarp reasoned. “I'm CRAZY! I’ll take you all on and then some!”

"Very well," agreed Isaac, raising his voice a little to be heard over the din, dipping his head in acquiescence. "I humbly wish you the very best in your noble endeavor, my lady."

Growling low under her breath, Skylar threw her shoulders back and began to stalk up the stairs. Her elevated boot-heels thundered ominously with each step she took, painted lips peeled back in a menacing snarl that bore an uncanny resemblance to a hungry tiger's grin. "So you think you're some kinda big shot, huh? Get down here and let me hear it right outta your mouth!"

“Oh, is it too hard to walk up a few stairs? What are you, a tortoise? Come on, let's go! I got things to do."

"Like what?!" Skywarp wanted to know, only then seeming to realize that it was quite hard to gain enough momentum to kick someone's ass when climbing the stairs in high heels— way tougher than going down them, at any rate.

"Like puttin’ you in your place with good ol' fashioned verbal swagger!" the guy yelled back, feathering out his wire brush hair even higher before taking a haughty puff of his cigar. “What am I? A patsy? Some kind of eunuch? I don’t think so! I'm not gonna turn into a pancake for your convenience!"

Now royally steamed, Skylar trudged up another few steps, her temper rising with every word of the man's mockery. While she didn't do anything so graceless as stumble, it was still going to take her a hot minute to get within aft-kickin' range. Waaay too long, in her opinion.

"Oh, frag this," she hissed in audible fury, and in the blink of an eye, three things occurred in rapid succession.

First, Skylar’s form blinked out of existence in a crackling blaze of violet sparks, re-materializing not even a split-second later directly in front of her target, one arm positioned mid-swing and coming in hot.

Secondly, Tyler C. Cracker emitted a shrill, reedy shriek as he jumped back in alarm, lit cigar flying from his grip and spinning over the railing like a descending rocket.

And thirdly, Skylar's iron fist smashed against his jaw with a vengeance, causing a reverberating 'CLANG!' that sent the other holomatter avatar tumbling to the floor like a heap of bricks.

In the aftermath, Skylar stood frozen in place, her ears still ringing from the man's piercing shout. She glanced between him and her smarting fist, eyes stretched comically wide in disbelief.

“That unmistakable whiny yowl!” the woman exclaimed suddenly, her ruby eyes lighting up with manic delight. She guffawed sharply, unable to fight the wide, shit-eating grin that managed to worm its way across her face. “Well, if it isn't TC! What're you doing here, you sly turbofox you?!”

'TC' let out a guttural groan from his awkward sprawl on the ground, looking like a pile of spaghetti that'd managed to escape the pot. Rubbing at his sore face, he blinked up at her from behind the cracked lenses of his shades, face twisting in utter bewilderment.

“Warp?” he croaked out, in a manner much like a dying frog. “Why do you… look like..." his brain stalled out, searching for the right words and coming up with very little of use. "Uh. That?”

Skylar shot a wary glance in Don Isaac's direction, reaching up to lightly fluff her colorful hair. "Okay, so I got a trim— big deal! More importantly, what's with the 'fit YOU got going on? I didn't even recognize you!"

Without so much as a pause, she hauled TC up from the ground and slung an arm around his shoulders, chummy as anything. She frog-marched him to the edge of the guardrail and peered down at Don Isaac, still grinning excitedly.

"Hey Don, I'd like you to meet an old pal of mine. This is TC, my wing-brother from way back when! Haven't laid eyes on the guy in months, and what do ya know, he turns up right here! Small world, right?"

 

[Eszter]

With a familiar blast of heat blowing back her hair, Eszter found herself looking at the second true dragon she had come across that day. And, if she were honest, that lifetime. She gazed up at Smaug (Smaug! What a name!) reverently, as if she were a clerk looking upon the face of her god. Unlike the abominable thing that Karakul had become, he was a lively, magnificent testament to dragonkind.

Admittedly, he was a little small. Yucatan’s line, barring Eszter herself of course, were all robust, bulky dragons while Smaug was a more long, slender beast. This did little to take away from the awe he inspired in the dragonkin, though, particularly with the hoard he was seated upon, fake as it may have been.

Her starstruck attitude suddenly crumbled, however, when he turned his withering gaze to her and spat his verbal venom. Sputtering ember? Both the nature of the insult and the blatant disrespect were impossible to ignore. Degraded as she was, she was still the dragon queen. He owed her respect regardless of her current condition!

So why couldn’t she bring herself to look Smaug in the eye and reprimand him?

Shallan watched curiously as the firebrand uncharacteristically cowered beneath the true dragon’s gaze, her lower lip and knees trembling alike. The demi-dragon looked not unlike a child being scolded by their father, failing to meet his eye as she clenched her fists.

“Yes- I mean, sorry- I mean… I-I can comprehend you, greatwyrm.” she choked out, shocked to hear herself stuttering. “You are a dragon- a true dragon, greatest and most majestic of all creatures. S-Syntech would be foolish to challenge you.”

Eszter felt sick to her stomach as she heard herself spewing weak apologies and praises to the living deity before her, the force of nature named Smaug. She sorely wished Karakul was with her right now, a rock that could weather the storm that lay just across the room.

“Hmph.” Smaug snorted. The dragonkin considered herself better than most at reading draconic expressions and body language, but even she struggled to find any emotion on his reptilian visage. It wasn’t that he felt nothing (probably), but rather he was intentionally choosing to mask his feelings. He was a shrewd one, if nothing else. “...well? Speak your name, whelp.”

“Eszter Torchwood.” she replied immediately, before she even consciously recognised the question. Beside her, Shallan made an odd face, as if she knew some unspoken rule that her companion had just broken, but did not speak up. “Reincarnation of Yucatan, dragon queen, firstbo-.”

“Ah.” Smaug sighed, a thick sheet of smoke billowing from his nostrils as comprehension struck him. The dragon’s false horde glitched as he reached up with one great claw, scratching idly beneath his chin at this new information. “You are of Yucatan’s lineage, then? Curious. I had thought her spark had finally burned itself out.”

“You knew Yucatan?” Eszter asked hopefully, looking up at the wyrm with wide eyes. She knew precious little of her progenitor beyond the myths still kept alive in Arcadia, and any chance at learning more was a rare opportunity.

“I know of Yucatan.” he corrected her dispassionately, shifting back into a comfortable sitting position. “I know of many dragons in the crossroads - of varying levels of magnificence compared to myself - and their misbegotten shadows such as yourself.”

Eszter bristled with rage at his comment, but could not bring herself to snap at him, the boldness it would require simply not existing in her being. Instead, she decided to focus hopefully on something else he said.

“Other misbegotten shadows… so does that mean you’ve heard of others like me?” the demi-dragon asked, forcing herself to meet his gaze. She was fairly sure that she wasn’t the only one of her kind, but she had yet to meet another dragonkin like herself. Just to receive confirmation that she wasn’t alone would be beyond priceless. Besides her, Shallan quirked an eyebrow that silently displayed her interest in this new subject as well.

“You should have mentioned you might have been one of a kind.” she whispered to her fellow contestant. “I’d have taken a sketch if I knew I might never see one again.”

“I mean I figured I wasn’t.” Eszter hissed back. “Just, y’know… statistically.”

“Of course. Many dragons have cast themselves upon the blades of mortals enough to be reduced to your state.” Smaug sighed. “Raithoon, Curruid, Cambridis, Orikhalkos… the list goes on.”

The dragonkin was, for a moment, pleased to hear the news. Then the reality of the situation struck her and her hope melted into despair.

“They were all slain?”

“Most of them. Some have unique situations, but that’s hardly important right now.” The wyrm said, his tone leaving no room for discussion.

“Doesn’t it upset you?” Eszter asked, fists clenched tight enough to draw blood. “So many of our kind are dying-”

“So many of my kind are dying.” Smaug corrected her sharply, accented by another sharp rise in the rooms ambient temperature. “Do not presume yourself to be among our ranks, dying spark. You are but a fragment of a fragment of a dragon. And no, it does not upset me if a fool like Yucatan hurls herself into a battle she cannot win. No mortal would dare to even attempt to strike me down, why need I concern myself with the petty squabbles of my lesser kin?”

Eszter wasn’t surprised at his indifference, per se. That was the way of a dragon. When you were as grand a creature as Smaug, little mattered but yourself. But that didn’t mean she could accept it. She, too, was a beast of wrath and pride beyond that of your average mortal. A reptilian hiss rising in her throat, the dragonkin bit back no less than three venomous retorts before committing to holding her tongue. Taking a shaky breath, she turned on her heels and made for the blast door, leaving a sanguine trail in her wake as blood dripped from her pierced palms.

“I’m done here.” she sniffed. “I’ll leave you two to it. I’ll be… around.”

“Oh… of course.” Shallan nodded as she watched the demi-dragon leave, giving a small wave. “Good luck finding a nice rock.”

 

[Don Isaac]

Where logic, sense, and reality faltered, courtly manners persevered. Questions about what, exactly, was happening could be postponed until he had made his proper introductions. Isaac bowed low, his duct-taped head dipping downwards as an arm swept behind him in a grand flourish. "Don Isaac De Metralla, of Holy Santiagra," he pronounced with a distinct burr, straightening up as he flashed that winning smile, competing with the band of silver across his scalp as they both shined. "You must be the Wingmate I've been told of," he said, his mind swiftly rationalizing the decidedly erratic behaviour and supernatural events that had occurred before him.

"I've been named the Red Baron, if we're exchanging our titles," he said, his arms folding behind his back- it would not do to return to his close examination of Lady Watari's vessel while there was conversation to be had. Breastplate gleaming, Isaac looked to the stairs, nodding to his erstwhile partners as he swiftly made his way upwards, abandoning the straight-backed posture of a blue-blooded nobleman as soon as he dipped out of sight, furiously scrambling up the steps as he raced towards the Lady Watari and her wingmate.

Curious company she kept, but Don Isaac had seen the likes of this before- over-bountiful loins led to heirs in excess of what a noble house could keep, scions of an honoured bloodline left without worthy steeds to ride into battle. Bereft of what dignity their own families could provide, they descended to the wastes and led mercenary companies of groundlings, seeking what glory they could earn among the mud.

A tragic fate, a dire destiny that led one to strange bedfellows, bad habits, and the utter madnesses of 'capitalism' or 'democracy' that had a habit of blossoming within the peasants that lived beneath. This 'TC' was worth pitying- at least the Lady Watari had managed to escape her misery with some degree of charm and manners intact.

Isaac rounded the corner that brought him to the landing the pair were currently occupying, good breeding and a lifetime of physical exertion fortunately preventing the embarrassment of wheezing as he came back into view, straight as an arrow and ever-smiling as he made his way to the guardrail with the grace of a ballroom dancer.

"A skilled pilot as well, are you?" Isaac inquired, affixing the disheveled TC with his radium-green eyes as he extended a gloved hand to shake. His unkempt hair, his eclectic attire, to say nothing of the way he spoke. There was a stark difference between him and the elegance of Skylar, but it would be far too impolite to simply disregard the man for the simpleton he clearly was.

"Oh yeah, Daddy-o," the man replied, slapping The Don's hand as he began some intricate, arcane ritual of fist-pumps, knuckle-bumps, and slaps from varying angles and altitudes- the chicanery only ended when TC span in a full circle, aided by a small set of wheels in his shoes, finally clasping the Don's hand with a lopsided grin. "I've been flying since before your great-great-great-great-great-not-so-great-that-one-was-just-okay-great-grandaddy was just a twinkle in your great-"

"He's very experienced," Skylar cut in with a nod, silencing the recollection. "Just has a bad habit of crashing when he shouldn't," she said, needling him in the ribs with her pointer fingers, jabbing his soft, sensitive spots as the man yelped, desperately flailing as he attempted to stave off her assault.

"Ah, well- don't we all," Isaac said by way of acceptance, nodding. The Groundlings could never muster a proper joust, and had to rely on damned flak to curb the rightful wroth of their betters.

Still- something was sticking in his mind. A flare of purple energy, Skylar dissipating as her fist and fury reappeared before her newly-reunited Wingmate. It wouldn't be too out of place to clarify that, would it? Isaac raised a finger, opening his mouth to ask his question- and found himself waiting several seconds for the terrible twosome to finish their playful sparring before their attention returned to him.

"Lady Watari- if I might be so bold- what was that… manoeuvre, there? Some kind of Sorcery?"

His people hardly had the best track record with Sorcery. Holy Santagria had been warring against the warlocks of the desert, their undead masters, and all sorts of monstrous results of such unnatural meddling for centuries.

As such, he was quite grateful when Skylar waved the question off.

"Ah, nah, just- sufficiently advanced, y'know?"

Don Isaac most certainly did not know, but he was not willing to admit that as he nodded.

"Ah, yes- I see," he said, pressing on as he stepped closer towards the pair. "But with the contest approaching, Lady Watari, your presence affords me an opportunity I did not dare to think I might come upon since arriving in this benighted land," the nobleman said with a smile.

"It is traditional to bear a Lady's favour into a tourney- and there are none others within this realm who are capable of bestowing that grand honour upon me. Would you grant me a trinket to carry into this battle, Lady Watari?"

 

[King Ghidorah]

Rory waddled purposefully along a hanging catwalk above a metal canyon lit by halogen floodights and flashing LED strips, overlooking maintenance bays aswarm with hard-hatted engineers, containment units and skyscraper-sized glass tanks filled with bubbling green liquid attended by d00ds in white lab-coats. The buzz, clatter and clang of heavy industry resounded through the massive space, the hiss and gurgle of strange biology echoing off the distant walls amidst the sounds of men and women shouting urgent instruction. Below, the penguin could see other walkways, ladders and lifts, tackle-blocks and hanging chains forming a tangled clothes-line web between walls that had to be further apart than the footprint of the entire above-ground facility: the sterile mechanical bunting of a megalomaniacs tech-expo for extreme engineering and fringe-biology.

And then there were the dark places – trenches of deep shadow with only the vague suggestion of massive metal shapes, and the cloying unlit darkness where the floodlights didn’t reach, almost purposefully overlooked, it seemed, by whoever was in charge of the LEDs.

Typically, Rory would have been very interested in the hive of activity and strange technology: One of the many things that had gotten him fired from his old job was selling inventory under the table from a place very similar to this to people who did not use it responsibly.

It was a business model that was hard to mess up. ‘Hey mang, this giant robot fell of the back of a giant space-truck that might have also been a robot: you wanna buy it for cheap?’ was a question to which the answer was only very rarely ‘maybe’, and never ‘no’ so long as you were asking the right people.

Today, however, Rory had other things on his mind – literally. The knot of occult lore fermenting in his brain was drawing him inexorably toward one of the dark spaces, a wide octagonal platform at the highest tier of the labyrinth of hanging catwalks which, in spite of its central location, remained strangely unlit.

Below, something roared, and Rory was nearly knocked off the catwalk as a group of technicians in hardhats and yellow jumpsuits hurried past carrying something that looked an awful lot like a giant syringe. The safety-rails were all waist-high on an adult human being, which made them pretty useless for a flightless bird less than a meter tall.

No matter where you were, in almost any reality, the people in charge of occupational health and safety were pretty anthropocentric. Rory was used to it, but it was still friggin’ specieist, mang.

The penguin pulled hauled himself up a metal staircase, which was also not optimized for his body-shape, muttering the whole time about the lack of proper accommodation for people who didn’t have the luxury of enormous pursuit-predator legs. He reached the top, wheezing, and finally got a look at what all the arcane fuss was about.

Accommodatingly, a single light came on, the breaker flipping with an audible ‘chunk’, heralding a cone of wan illumination at the center of the corrugated metal platform.

There was a d00d in a hooded purple robe, with a heavy iron chain around his neck and a weird medallion made of seashells. Laid out around him at the compass-points were a collection of items that Rory just instinctively knew were the Regalia of the End – the sword, the orb, the crown and the scepter: rusted and broken, cracked and riven, tarnished and battered, scorched and twisted.

“ ’Sup mang,” said Rory, leaning against one of the cables supporting the platform and breathing heavily.

“Oh, hey! You’re here. Good, good. Excellent, really. We’re screwing with the prophecy a lot, so I wasn’t sure whether or not I’d need to come find you for this to work, but I see that you read the book without anyone having to show it to you so I guess we’re still on track!”

The robed figure's voice was very cheerful, but in a kind of brittle, overtly commercial way. He sounded like an intern at a company that made cola and snack-foods.

“I’m Dave,” he continued, indicating his own chest with a hand entirely hidden by the sleeve of his robe. “I’m the resident applied eschatological thaumaturgist, and I’ll be helping you shed your mortal limitations and stride forth as an envoy of entropy and madness today.”

“Hi Dave,” said Rory. “I’m Rory, and that sounds pretty boss. I’m not usually into this kinda thing – I’m more of an entrepreneur: Gotta be on that hustle, mang. The aesthetic here is killer though – the whole beast of the apocalypse thing is, like, super marketable d00d. When the competition is over I’m going to make a friggin’ mint.”

There was a pause.

“… I’m not actually gonna destroy intergalactic civilization, right? I mean, I really, really want to, but I think that’s just the prophecy of doom rattling around in my head. I like civilization! I mean, mostly. Some of it sucks – but I’m pretty sure I couldn’t do most of my favorite things without it.”

Dave shook his head, his face hidden in the shadows of his purple hood. “Oh, no, it’ll be fine. We’re skipping the Quest, the Anointing, The Hollow Army, The Black Wedding… we’re just Crowning you straight up without any of the preparatory narrative groundwork. It’s like throwing the cake mix in the oven without adding any eggs. Your manifestation of the Emperor is going to be a lot weaker than you would have been otherwise, and the transformation probably won’t last more than a few days – perfect for this year’s competition!”

“Oh. Cool beans!”

There was another pause. Dave continued, only slightly nervous.

“And even if I’m wrong, we’re in the Crossroads – you’d still be stuck in local space. There’s at least three other destined galactic destroyers here that we know about, but life goes on. It’ll probably be fine.”

Rory stared at him for a moment. ‘It’ll probably be fine’ was practically his personal motto. He’d had a coat of arms commissioned once as part of an inheritance scam that had ended with him fleeing on dragonback from like, six different wizards, and he was pretty sure ‘It’ll probably be fine’ had been on there somewhere in French.

It was the most reassuring thing Dave could possibly have said.

“Dave, my d00d, this sounds like an amazing opportunity and I’m excited to be a part of it.”