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They were caught entirely unprepared. The people of Magiscolia had been taught from childhood that plagues and vast, sweeping sicknesses had gone the way of castles and knights, but within a month the Welder's Disease had torn through the lower levels of the city, killing within days anyone who did not lock himself away and avoid all human contact. Named for the particular location where the outbreak was initially observed, the industrial district, the disease was the first great plague of the modern ages. No known treatments could stand against it.

Two months after its onset, a government project that had been under production for years before the tragedy began to yield positive effects when issued to quarantined test-subjects. Called "Mediuma", it became available in pill-form immediately with little testing conducted on its side-effects. All victims who received Mediuma were cured within hours, fully recovered within days.

With the success of its "miracle drug", the government of Magiscolia pushed production to the next level, creating plants in previously undeveloped wilderness and rural lands around the city. These lands, called Uildernesse, already had been settled centuries before by those who shunned the city-life, and who were not too pleased with the government's more and more aggressive attempts to move them. Those who opposed, however, were treated to a visit by a mysterious branch of the government's secret police and immediately gave up what they had previously clung so dearly to.

As the lands seemed poised on the brink of civil war and all seemed doomed to a period of bloody conflict that had not been seen for ages, a man by the name of Marigo Despondia was elected to the mayoral office of the Magiscolian government. With his support of the citizens of Uildernesse as well as views that Mediuma production had reached its zenith, it looked like the city and the outlands had found their peacekeeper.

Two weeks after his inauguration, Despondia was assassinated. With nothing standing between the Uildernessans and their weapons, war was back on the agenda and soon broke out as first the Mediuma plants and then the city itself were attacked in small raids. The new mayor, Burgio Mivancio, well-known to be under the payroll of MedTek Industries, the corporation behind the original government project, increased the powers of the police and turned it into a small standing army to combat the threat pressed upon them from the outside.

MedTek itself has recently received a number of reports of strange side-effects brought on by Mediuma, but has kept these completely hidden from the media and continued the production of its miracle cure.

As the future of both Magiscolia and Uildernesse hangs in the balance, it is you who must determine on which side the scales will be tipped, and uncover the deep mystery behind Despondia's assassination, Mediuma and much, much more.

The events of this story take place three years after the onset of Welder's Disease.

Roland sat on the outer hull of the M.A.B Nightwind, his eyes cast down on the repair room floor, idly observing the technicians busy at work repairing his ship. His ship. A year after being put in command of a Light Destroyer, he still loved the sound of it, the sense of ownership in the term. He could never afford this ship for his own, of course, nor could he afford the ludicrous repair bills that the government covered, but as long as he did his job well and turned down any offer to move up the ladder, the M.A.B. Nightwind would be His Ship.

"Captain Darkin," came the voice of a man Roland knew vaguely to be one of the mid-level techs, probably the one in charge of these particular repairs, "There's a rip in the captain's chair. It's not strictly required, so we thought we'd check with you."

Roland -- Captain Darkin, to this man -- smirked, pivoting around to face the man standing on the ship's upper deck. "Do I pay for the repairs..." he paused a moment to scrutinize the technician's rank insignia, "...Deckman?"

The man appeared to think the question over -- not the upfront answer, that much was obvious, but perhaps to ascertain whether or not he was attempting to trick him. Finally deciding it was safe to answer, he responded. "No, Captain."

"Then I'd say repair every rip, tear and crack-stain you see in there." He had turned back to face forward as he spoke, knowing the technician would take this as a dismissal. As the footfalls of the man faded down the stairway into the ship's innards, he pulled a cigarette out of his shirt's vest pocket and lit it, watching with mild interest as the wind in the open hanger snatched the blue-gray smoke up and whipped it away before it really had a chance to form. Were he a poet, he might have reflected on the similarity between this simple act of nature and what Magiscolia was trying to do to the Uildernesse's resistance. However, not being of such an artistic mind, he did not reflect or look for a deeper meaning, merely smiled at the very thought of wiping their resistance out.

He ran his fingers across his chin slowly, allowing each tiny blade of unshaved hair to bend under his touch and flick back into place when it had passed. He hadn't shaved in about three days. Three days was a long time, it suddenly occurred to him. During those three days each of those black hairs had slowly, undetectably pushed themselves up through small holes in his skin and covered his jaw-line with a thin mask of quarter-inch fibers. During those same three days he had counted the hours, minutes, seconds, each tick of a clock like a slap in the face, like a punch in the gut, like a needle in the vein... Only there had been no sweet and sumptuous release to follow the pain.

Aden Moltese shook the thought from his mind as a hundred others rushed to take its place. He had not touched a single one of his "pleasures" for three days. He could hardly believe it, looking back. It seemed unthinkable from the hunger he felt at that moment that he had gone all that time without giving in to the beckoning dealers on the streets, or doing himself in with the razor blade he usually used in his alchemical process of turning pills to powder. To live to him then was agony, but he had heard, somewhere, maybe in a book or something, that it wouldn't be like that forever.

Three days before he had gone home to his small, ratty apartment, pulled all his drawers from his dressers and deposited in a pile in the middle of his room all the pills, needles, powders and small bottles he'd hidden under his clothes. For hours he sat there on his bed staring at them, illuminated by what sunlight snaked through his boarded windows, the loose spring of the mattress the only reminder that he was, in fact, sitting there and not actively engaged in all the memories flashing before his eyes. Could you even call what he had memories, or hallucinations?

He had flushed it all, and as he lay bitterly beside the toilet, rolling back and forth in his palm a certain bottle of pills, it had taken every strength hidden in that weakened body to dispose of them in the same way. But he had known he had to. Too much had shown him that to ignore it now.

And now, three days later, those pills were the only thing on his mind as he paced the streets, pale grey eyes peering from their deep sockets, that tampered sense of smell taking in the brisk morning air. Clutching his jacket to him, he peered longingly at the faces that smiled at him from darkened alleys, at the hideous prostitute who would no doubt have something of a more pharmaceutical nature to ease his wary heart, his beaten mind.

But no; no no no no no. He had flushed it all. He had suffered the most agonizing lust he could have imagined in three hellish lifetimes. He had not done all that for nothing, and he could not go back to how things had been. He had come so close to... He could not go back.

Besides, they said it wouldn't be like that forever.

Callan Mentadaxes had been close to death before his first treatment with Mediuma - but now, only two weeks later, he was healthy, wealthy, and wise. Maybe too wise. After all, Mediuma wasn't the most ordinary of drugs.

It took a while to manifest, but something was different. Maybe the drug had spurred neural growth, or something? Maybe something genetic. Who knew. It stopped the Welder's Disease dead. Callan felt sharper, more focused, at least as long as the Mediuma was in his bloodstream. He'd heard rumors of side-effects, but these days, the researchers said one thing one month, and then reversed themselves the next. It was ok though. As long, of course, as the drug kept coming.

Suddenly Callan's musings cut short. Why was the cure to Welder's Disease found in a government project begun before the disease even existed?

Aden's fingers drummed impatiently on the cheap metallic table-top of the small cafe where he would be meeting his friend that morning. Every few moments those flighty eyes snatched a glimpse of the age-worn clock on the wall, only to observe that mere seconds had passed since his last. Time had become his enemy, it seemed, adjusting its pace only to increase his torment, but he would persevere. That's just what he was doing there that morning, making whatever small efforts he could to recover his life in any way possible.

The small bell above the door jingled as it opened, and Aden looked up to see an old face approaching. "Hey, Icarus," the man smiled faintly, wincing slightly when his eyes were laid on Moltese's features. Did he really look that bad? He supposed he should have shaved before coming here. "It's been a few days since I saw you around the usual dives, eh?"

"Four," Aden spoke dryly, fingers still drumming away.

"Yeah, sure," his friend mumbled, gazing out the window. "But yeah, what did you wanna see me for?" Aden considered him for a moment. This guy had been around the same stuff he had been, and yet he couldn't recall ever seeing him touch any of it. How was it that some people could refuse so easily what to him pulled on the very strings of both his heart and mind?

"I need a job," he finally answered, eyes moving around the room but never meeting his friend's. "I... yeah, I need a job. Something that's gonna keep my hands busy." There were a few moments of silence, the only sound coming from other customers or that incessant drumming of his fingers on the table.

"You look like hell, Icarus," his friend spoke after a while. "Worse than that. Who do you think is going to hire you, and with your record?" The drumming stopped, those slightly bloodshot eyes turning to finally take the man in.

"I'm over that," he almost growled, barely audible. "And don't call me Icarus, I'm over that, too. Now, I need a job, and I thought you'd be able to help me." His friend sighed.

"Alright, alright," he shrugged, taking a few moments to think it over. "You got any experience in engineering or mechanics?" Aden just continued to stare at him, considering the question too stupid to answer. "Well you aren't the most marketable guy in the city, I'll tell you that. But I'll tell you what, the only job I've heard lately having openings is with an old airship engineer or mechanic or something. Work is tight, it has been since the Welder's outbreak. So many businesses closed down afterwards. The only corporation that's still doing well is MedTek, and I think that's the last place you need to be."

"I've always wanted to fly in an airship," Aden muttered, cutting him off. "Never even set foot on one. You think I have a chance at the job?"

"In all honesty? No."

"But it doesn't hurt to try, right?" he said, not really asking. He had made up his mind.

"So I guess you want the address, eh?" his friend smirked. He took a pen out of his pocket and jotted down a few lines on a napkin, sliding it over to Aden. "Don't tell them I sent you."

"Yeah, thanks," he stuffed it into his pocket.

"Hey, Aden? I'm glad you're doing this. I mean, it could be worse."

Could it really? he asked himself.

The crosshairs bobbed up and down, with every twitch of the marksman's hand.

Up...right....down...now turn...smile for the camera...

The loud crack of the rifle split the dull roar of the nighttime city. He loved that sound; what's more, he loved what it meant. For just one moment, everybody's thoughts had been forced to that sound, and then just as quickly they drifted off again...

The crooked politician drifted off as well. Drifted off to whatever awaits people after this life. Hillel didn't pretend to know what. In fact, he was decidedly not interested in that answer. Death was a tool, nothing more nothing less, and to give it an identity greater than that was to let slip control of his tool. Death was a tool, a means to an end, not an end innate of itself. Death was a tool, much like the rifle that he dealt it with. Death was a tool, and he was a master craftsman.

Smiling to himself, he let his scope linger for just one moment on the slumping body of the man dressed in a suit, and the security he employed scrambling to his side. The second round of the magazine ripped through the head of one of the well-dressed thugs, issuing another loud crack as it left the gun. He watched the confusion through the scope. Those men were surely friendly with each other. To lose their employer was one thing; to lose a friend, another thing entirely. But they knew the risk; he knew that's what the survivors would tell themselves. He died knowing full well what could happen; he died because we didn't.

He died because I had one bullet left.

He knelt down, disassembling the gun and beginning to pack it into the briefcase. He wasn't worried about detection, he was well over a kilometer away and atop a high roof. The only thing he had to be worried about was that eventually they were going to start doing ballistics on these fellows and the bullets in their brains. Eventually, even though his bullets were specially designed to be untracable, something would go wrong. And the secret police would put two and two together when they realized that it was one of their guns doing the killing.

But he wouldn't give up this gun for the world. It was the best rifle he'd ever shot, and such a thing was all he had. Death was all he had, really. A human weapon has no purpose but to kill, just like the sniper rifle. He figured they were two of a kind. He wondered if his rifle had been ready to rebel too, or whether it would rebel against him one day.

He laughed to himself. What a strange thought. He closed the briefcase and stood, walking calmly to the fire escape and beginning to descend it. Perhaps tomorrow, in the chaos of the assassination, he might be able to find a clue as to what his next move should be.

Cid lay in the cabin of his airship, The Radiance, the sound of the airships turbines echoing in his mind, his eyes slowly closed and his head filled with images of his childhood.

He recalls the first time he flew on an airship, he stood on the deck his arms held out and yelled to the sky, "I am Cid Feltus, the best pilot ever."

Cid snapped back to reality and sat up, the gentle rocking of the airship meant they had begun to move, Cid made his way to the deck, the infinite clouds stretching before the mighty ship.

"Cid, we have been called to Magiscolia" the voice was from the RADAR analyst.

"Any idea why?" Cid replied, grasping the wheel firmly and directing the ship towards their destination.

"No clue, sir, the message was mostly static and we could only make out Cid...come...Magiscolia" the analyst returned to his duties.

"Well, we needed to land anyway and refuel, Magiscolia it is" Cid spins the airship wheel back to neutral and accelerates the ship.

He had made his way back into the ship since finishing his cigarette. He was ballsy enough -- and his crew loyal enough -- to smoke inside the ship on missions, but didn't want to get chewed out for breaking a simple regulation when he was supposed to be resting. A smirk had crossed his lips when he first reentered the ship, having seen the technician crew quite literally polishing the surfaces within the ship, and had gone off to find the Deckman he had spoken with before. He had indeed wanted the rip repaired, but had not meant the rest quite so literally.

"Jackson," he began, having paused briefly now to check the last name printed on his jumpsuit, "The ship's in fine condition, get your men onto one of the more damaged ships." The technician nodded and, moving further into the ship, called something Roland couldn't decipher to his crew.

Roland had only just stepped out from the lower hull and onto the smooth, somewhat oily surface of the repair bay when he was confronted by an Engineer, one he was considerably more versed with than Deckman Jackson.

"Truth be told," he responded after a grin and a nod to Cyrus' quip, "it wasn't much of a fight. Command wanted me to bring these guys out and break 'em in. Get 'em used to killing, something like that."

He leaned back against the Nightwind, its cold, rigid metal more reassuring of a surface than even the ground he stood on, and lit another cigarette. He got his share of ribbing from the other members of the Magiscolian Air Battalion for his smoking, both young and old, but he found it passed the time, and it did wonders for calming and focusing him when he was in the air. He looked back over to Cyrus, a question on his own lips that he was sure wasn't far from Cyrus' own. "So, you hear anything about the Horizon?"

"I'm sorry sir, we can't find the records you are looking for." The woman on the other end of this phone call was clearly a lifetime bureaucrat - she sounded just sorry enough to prove it was faked and practiced.

"You mean to tell me there is NOTHING at all - not even payroll for the project?" Callan was finding this incredibly hard to buy.

"I'm sorry, we have no records. Perhaps if you contact MedTek? Or the newspapers? Some agencies maintain independent record keeping. If you would take your questions directly to the appropriate department, I am sure someone can be of assistance." The woman maintained level tone; the clearest sign that she wasn't paying attention.

"Magiscolia is not a tin pot dictatorship. I do not understand how there could be no public records. Are there any departments I could try contacting?" Callan felt confused. Everyone talks about Mediuma. But no one knows anything about it. It came, it cured the plague, and that seems to be enough. What did I let them put inside me?

"Hold while I transfer you to the Department of Informantion."

"No, no, I've been there already. There is nothing there I couldn't read in the papers!" Too late. Music was playing; he was on hold. For what seemed to be the zillionth time. Suddenly Callan felt absolutely sure the woman would be no help. He hung up the phone before more time was lost. Somebody knows something about Mediuma. I'll just have to keep digging till I reach the dirt.

Those fingers tapped impatiently on the wall of the lift as it continued its silent, upward motion, carrying him toward the location indicated on the crumpled napkin he had dug from his pocket. As soon as he had left the cafe he had gone home and shaved, gotten a good look at himself in a mirror. He did look bad.

In a last attempt to fix that, he'd taken a warm shower, which thanks to unpaid heating bills meant a short shower. As the small jets of water collided with his face he listened to each individual impact with his skull, each one reminding him that he was, in fact, still there, still alive. He had picked out his best clothes, a pair of grey pants, a white shirt and a slightly stained black tie which he left somewhat untightened, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow. If he didn't try, he'd have no one to blame but himself, and he was very tired of blaming himself.

The lift doors slowly rumbled open, exposing him to a dimmer, interior world. As he stepped into the small lobby, his eyes adjusted to the light and he walked over to a busy-looking secretary. A crooked smile on his young but tired face, his eyes never moving from her name plaque on the desk, he spoke softly and slowly, he voice breaking a few times before he cleared his throat. "Um, ma'ame? Miss?" She finally looked up, or so he thought as he peered from the corner of his eyes. "I'm here about the... err... I- I heard there was an opening?" The vague blur in his vision that was her nodded.

"Yes, that's true, we are currently seeking applicants with experience to fill some positions for us." The words with experience were like nailed on a chalkboard. His hands in his pockets, those fingers played around with a gum wrapper and some loose change.

"Yeah, but," he continued, still gazing at the desk, "I'm a hard worker and... I'm a hard worker and I'm... motivated... a team player..." He tried to regurgitate as many of those words he had heard from high school classes about what businesses were always looking for in new employees. He drew a blank after those three. "I need a job, Miss, and I can do... a thing good enough if I put my mind to it, you know?"

"And your experience, sir?" He got the vague notion that she was pursing her lips.

"Miss, I just..." he sighed, deeply, hand freezing in its motion. Those scared grey eyes finally looked up into her own, blue, judging ones, and she seemed taken aback, as though his gaze should have remained where it was. "Can I just speak to Mr... Mr. Telpyre, Miss? I just... can I speak to him, please?"

He really wasn't a people person.

Despite all the drama going on all around her, Obsidian could always find time to visit her hidden paradise. Today was that very day and it was with a long yawn that the lithe female extended every inch of her slender bronze form across the green covered ground. Flowers danced nearby, almost as if they were singing a precious lullaby. Above her loomed a beautiful oak tree, the green splashing against the nearly clear blue sky. The clouds that happened to dot the vast sky were shaped in special different ways, such as bunnies, cats, dogs, and horses. Lying there doing nothing was absolutely wonderful and the mage did it whenever possible. The daisy directly in front of her nose swayed exotically, its peddles blowing in the light breeze. Rolling onto her back, Fyre slid both arms behind her head, allowing her ebony eyes to hide behind her long luscious lashes. Strands of crimson streaked raven danced against her cheeks, the rest of it hidden by her back except for the few tendrils that seemed to peek out from around her shoulders. It was during this time that she found herself not asleep but in a studious thought. Those that knew Crimson well could attest that this was never a good thing. Anytime she reflected upon her previous life it either made her realize how much she had changed, or just pissed her off. It pretty much depended on her mood for the day.

“Alrighty, there aren’t any pressing matters so I’m free to kick back and relax, which is of course very much deserved.”

Stretching out, she moved both of her arms down beside her side, allowing her head to rest upon the softness of the grass. Above her, the clouds covered the sun, giving her temporary shade. Twirling a piece of her hair around her index finger, the twenty-one year old chewed on her bottom lip. A sound nearby caught her attention and part of her wondered if it was worth worrying about. Maybe if she ignored it, the stupid thing would go away. That of course sidetracked her into thinking about whether or not ignored things really did go away. It was like telling children that if they counted to five, the bogeyman would disappear. Everyone that had a brain knew that was poppycock. Counting only gave it time to get closer. No, you grabbed either a blunt object or something sharp and stab the thing, screw pretending. For the time being, Crimson was going to remain exactly where she was and enjoy nature. That was until she remembered that she needed to run a few errands.

“Well, there goes my idea of just relaxing today… oh well.”

Sitting up, she dusted off her arms and her tight fitting silky red t-shirt before moving down to the legs of her black low-rider cargo pants. Scooting back in order to lean back against the oak tree, Obsidian pulled both legs up against her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees. Setting her chin against the top of her knees, she sighed softly, which was something she had been doing often. It was about that time that she decided to head into the city and get more supplies. It was with a whistle that she called for her mode of transportation. A loud whinny sounded and as she slid to her feet, a black mare came trotting through the forest, stopping in front of her. Leaning down in order to grab the weapons that had been stowed beside her, Fyre quickly slid them into their proper locations. Sure, her vambraces were a little obvious without having something cover them up, but she rarely went anywhere without her short swords, sword, and staff. It was a habit that had often kept her from being slaughtered. Leaping upon the horse, she headed towards the city with full knowledge that she wouldn’t reach it for a while.

“I hate city folk… this will not be fun.”

The steam came, the steam left, one moment his sight was clear, but then it dimmed. And with it, came the rise, and the fall of his chest, as he breathed the pure air that his gas mask allowed him. Eleric stood there, at the very bottom of a dank back alley, peering through the thick glass windows of the contraption he wore, his gaze falling on the slums that made up the industrial district.

His hand reached to his back, fingering the stock of his sniper rifle, trying not to reminisce about the fact it had shot the bullet that had killed Marigo Despondia, and possibly plunged Magiscolia into even deeper shit. He'd lived here all his life, from brat, to kid, to trooper to assassin now, and a very rich one at the moment. The same question surged into his mind, rising and falling in tone as his booted feet started at a brisk pace into one of the abandoned flats that comprised this district. "Why did I do it ?" ... and then "Who wanted me to do it ?"

Those questions would remain unanswered for some time, it seemed. His contractor was anonymous, either working through a third party or via classified radio transmissions. In any case, his, or her, identity would have to wait, and Eleric would have to put aside his guilt. Life revolves around money, you grab some, make a stash, and don't let other people near it. He wouldn't have been the only person interested in that amount of cash. He followed the instincts that society had placed in every city-living human being, nothing less, so stop being so emotional, get over it, and you'll live, he told himself.

The abandoned apartments he was now in were a wreck. Boarded up windows, stains and other crap lining the floor, be it broken glass or rotten food. Some drug-taking equipment, dead mice, the lot. "They don't call it Scum District for nothing, especially since the plague. Indeed, the plague had brought most of this onto this sector of the city, but still, everyone wanted to know where the plague had come from, and why it had struck here. Yet more questions Eleric didn't have answers to.

Finally, he found it. A small, relatively unscathed flat that he'd been informed about. Dropping his pack to the ground, and throwing his trenchcoat on a make-shift coat hanger, the ex-soldier fell on the lice-ridden sofa, resting his weary body, and letting his mind shut off, as the minutes, hours, went by.

The massive airship approached the grand city of Magiscolia, an aura of death seemed to loom in its skies, grabbing the radio Cid dials into the hanger command frequency.

"Magiscolia Command this is Captain Cid Feltus of the Radiance requesting permission to dock."

A deep voice returned the order, "Roger, proceed through, docking station 5 is cleared for docking"

The turbines kick to life and accelerate the ship into the hanger, airships of all sizes line the sides, some badly damaged and some that look like they haven't even been used yet.

"4...5 here we are" Cid twists the airship into the dock bringing it to rest on the platform, all engines dying down to a soft hum then to silence.

"Right, standard docking procedure guys, check and repair the inside, refuel and repair outside" Cid nodded to his crew then disembarked the airship.

Cid continued along towards the entrance to the city, on his way he passed by a pilot and mechanic chatting to each other.

"So, you hear anything about the Horizon?"

Cid turned to the two curiously then continued onwards, he stopped further along and glanced back at the two.

What is this Horizon, they definetly look suspicious

Another day, another death, another step towards the truth...

He sat on the edge of his bed, musing to himself as he polished the barrel of the rifle with a rag; it was an integral part of his morning ritual. He'd often found he couldn't function properly in the morning if he hadn't cared for his weapons properly; he felt guilty for neglecting them. Perhaps he was trying to reassure them that they wouldn't suffer the same fate as he had; to be cast off, unused, unneeded, unfit. He murmured reassurances under his breath...

Never going to give you up...you'll be put to good use for as long as you live....

Some people might think he was insane, but truthfully, Hillel was barely human. He barely even acknowledged that he was human. A human weapon, to his mind, was a weapon first and human second. And a weapon can't be insane.

How odd, he thought to himself, I've been having such strange thoughts lately. He stood, tossing the rag into a corner, and walked over to the other side of the room where the briefcase was deposited carefully. He knelt down and placed the gun barrel back in its proper place, then snapped the briefcase shut, standing erect once again. He tossed the case onto the bed, then turned to his dresser, grabbing his belt off the top of it. He snapped it around his waist as he walked back to the bed, grabbing the gun holster and sheathed wakizashi off the bedside table, strapping them to the belt. He grabbed the briefcase and walked to the door, opening it, making sure it was locked from the inside, and stepping out into the hall.

------------

"Sir, the briefcase."

He stopped in the middle of the hallway of the Department of Information. He'd been hoping he could simply stride in without being noticed. He idly remarked to himself that perhaps he was a bit more conspicuous-looking than he often realized, what with his...unorthodox appearance.

"Oh, sorry. You need to check the inside, right? I'm sure you're all very on edge after the Councilman last night. What is this world coming to, hmm?" His tone of voice was unnervingly smooth. He often surprised himself at how calm he could remain in a situation like this; it must have been the chemical therapy back at the Police Headquarters, he decided, as he handed the case to the guard. His other two weapons were hidden inside the case as well, and if the man made a proper examination, there was no way he wouldn't find them. He smirked as the man fumbled with the lock.

"Uh, sir, you're going to have to unlock it for me." He handed it back to Hillel. "And I don't know how you found out about the Councilman, but I suggest you keep it to yourself. That information wasn't supposed to be public yet."

He didn't respond as he twirled the numbers on the combination lock. 3...5...1...7...click

He whipped the case open reached inside producing a file folder that was stuffed to the brim with loose papers. "Here, this is all that's inside, have a look if you must." The guard inspected the case and found it to be the case.

"Have a nice day, sir, sorry for the hassle."

"No trouble at all..." he replied, his normal tone replacing the calm one. His voice carried on it the sinister intent of his visit. The paid muscle didn't hear it, no one would have unless they were listening for it. Hillel was lucky that he was the only one attentive to such detail.

--------

"Department of Information, this is Dani speaking. Your call was transferred here from...oh, line's dead," said the receptionist as the bullet passed through her soft brain without a sound. The silenced gunshot wouldn't have even been heard over the girl's own voice. He began to root through the files in the desk at her side. Jackpot...

Walking back that afternoon, Aden stopped at the same, familiar cafe for something to eat. Seated again at one of their cheap tables, his fingers drummed busily away as his eyes watched the corner-mounted television.

She had told him to go home, to just leave his name and a number to reach him, and Telpyre would be in touch if a job seemed to match his 'credentials'. She had told him all of that with a plastic smile on her lips, writing his information down on a scrap of paper she was sure to discard the moment he stepped back onto the lift. It would be best if he started looking elsewhere.

One of his hands combed through his ear-length black hair, pushing it out of his face as he watched a newscaster telling about a recently assassinated councilman, as if death, even violent death, in a city like this should be any surprise. He loosened his tie again. No, death for some in this city would be a welcome surprise, he thought. He had been that low before, he was still that low now. But he was rebelling against those thoughts, trying to convince himself that for most people there was a point to all of it. All he had to do was claw his way back up through the dirt and taste the fresh air, and he'd see that point in all its marvelous glory. He was trying.

"Sir?" came a feminine voice from his left. He turned to see the waitress standing there looking at him.

"What... I mean, yes?" he managed to get out in his usual slow style of speech.

"Sir, your card couldn't be processed," she said, an almost pitying layer to her voice. "Sorry, but your account's been denied." So the money'd finally dried up. "Sir, I suggest you leave." He nodded vaguely as he pushed out his chair and stood.

"I'm... sorry, I didn't know, I mean, I thought it had-" She turned from him and walked back into the kitchen.

It was time to go home.

As time flew past, his mind barely registered its passage. Eleric just stayed there, sprawled on the decrepit sofa, as he waited for the man to arrive. Well, "man", it could be a woman too, he mused ... So far, his thoughts had only settled on such trivial matters, trying to push aside the big questions that assailed him. Still, soon, it would be brought back, just as his cash would too.

At once, he sprung up; a creaking sound had come from a nearby staircase. Eleric's left hand reached for his bowie knife, as his other one reached for his pistol. You could never be too careful, and the ex-soldier would be damned if he got double-crossed without a fight. Slowly, the creaking reached closer, the footfalls themselves audible now. Booted feet lightly stepped on the damaged flooring of the rundown building, as the handle o the door of "his" flat opened.

A middle-aged man stepped in, draped in a light grey tuxedo, carrying a small briefcase and an AK-470, thick glasses covering his eyes as well as a respirator to deal with the infected air. "You Eleric Trancy ?", he nodded. "Pay for you, for ... Well, you can guess. Count it if you wish, it's all there."

While Eleric's gun stayed at his side, his finger was firmly poised on the trigger, his whole body taut and ready to fight. His gloved fingers undid the case's fastenings, and as he opened the lid, his pay was unveiled. Wad's of cash were pilled upon one another, forming a lovely patterned mosaic of varying shades of green. As he closed the case however, his look of glee escaped his face, and a scowl nod stood in its stead.

Two muscled thugs stood by the doorway, wearing black tuxedos and guns at their sides. And the grey-tuxedoed guy held his Kalash firmly in his hands, tip pointing at his belly. "Sorry for the betrayal, but what's the point paying a scumbag like you ? It's better to snuff you out now, to avoid you causing further damage to Magiscolia.

Nice speech, thought Eleric during this, please die, in any case ... His gun, firmly held in his right hand, shot up in the blink of an eye, firing a succession of three bullets, as Trancy threw his body to the left, bullets and shells winging him as the two other thugs opened fire. Hiding behind the rapidly-disintegrating sofa, Eleric sensed the energies that surrounded him, drawing them to him as quickly as he could. Blasting a few rounds their way, the man flung a bolt of pure heat at the two thugs, scorching them as they screamed in pain, clothes now quite literally smoking.

Getting back up, Eleric rolled to the right, finishing the two goons off with a final volley of bullets. Looking at his dust-covered body, he noticed a patch of growing red, a thin trail of blood to the left of his chest. A small pellet from one of their shotguns, had he not been wearing his armour, he'd be dead right now.

Thanking whoever cared to listen, Eleric grabbed his trenchcoat, looking at the case-full of money, blasted and now laying face down on the ground. Picking up as many unscathed bundles of cash as he could, he stuffed them into his trenchcoat, and then made his way out of the flat, to get himself a drink.

The Spirit of Magiscolia -a massive testament to military budgets everywhere- floated idly over an abandoned district of the city itself. It's Nuclear Ramjets hummed quietly, keeping the ship afloat; No one would notice the radiation from emitted from their unshielded frames -lead been had omitted to cut down on weight- and those who did would have nowhere to complain to.

For all official reasons, the Spirit was still on patrol safely outside city limits.

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"Breaker One-Five-Three, Requesting Flight Status." Said the Ground Controller over the radio in a harsh, guttural voice that sounded like the man had never cleared his throat in his life. Hmm, Jameson working Comm Duty... The world really is going to hell, Owen thought to himself with a smile, as he switched on his own Comm. "Copy that, this is Breaker One-Five-Three, Status is Clear, Location 645-345-345. 345-345-454 .005-345-305., Breaker One-Five-Three, Over." He said, relaying more than enough information to make it obvious that he was over civilian territory. Why was ground control interested about his location for? He thought... Controllers usual didn't ask why, they just sat on their asses drinking coffee and saying "Over". Lazy Bastards. If one had, god forbid, been competent, they would have noticed that Owen was over the outer city limits, but once again, he was lucky.

Owen was usually autonomous from the normal Military Hierarchy, almost never where his "Official Reported Position" was. This had it's own set of difficulties, mainly the issue of being shot down by friendly fire, and the more pressing issue of a Do-Gooder in the Military brining the wrath of a court marshal down upon him.... Hell, the Roundel on the Spirit had been sanded off and the whole thing painted black at the request of Owen.

This entire mission was currently, as harshly described by one of the Airmen: "Sit on ours asses drinking coffee and firing shit at the ground."

Currently, nothing was going on--One of the Gatling Cannons had melted during the test firing of the day, and the Techies were having a field day with it; It had really fucked up, screwing up to the point where the barrel required a metal rod and a hammer to straighten back out.

It might be noted as this point, the Spirit was a Heavy Assault Ship, designed for attacking enemy ground and aerial positions while under heavy fire. Abandoned urban zones made the perfect test area, and the city would have demolished them anyways.
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OOC: All I could think of