Chapter 42: Infiltration and Investigation

Disclaimer: Screw disclaimers, that's not what you came here for, is it? After half a year at least, I think you've got better things to do than read that. Now get going, and enjoy!

Redline Mode...

The Gilgamesh Factor...

The O-Knuckle...

The Zweihander of Dominion...

Omega, the God of Destruction resurrected into a time long past his era, leaned back in his chair, an uncharacteristically pensive look on his features as he stared up at the ceiling.

All of these strange new powers, abilities and weapons he'd never possessed before his death, now ready and waiting from the moment of his awakening.

Where had they all come from?

Who had put them there?

And perhaps most importantly, how on earth had he gone from being dead in a thermonuclear explosion, to being in hibernation in a capsule hundreds of miles beneath the surface?

He looked down at his hands, the heavy, armored white claws rustling as he turned them over.

The powerful, remote weapons that had formed the gauntlets of his Armed Phenomenon, now his real gauntlets, with the same range of abilities as the originals. The question was, how the devil had this even happened in the first place?

He remembered back to the very first true battle he'd fought in this new world, his first encounter with the Mechaniloid warlord Granz. He remembered the surge of power as he'd faced down the Hittide Hottide, every gate inside of him slamming open as energy roared forth from his core. That power, almost too much for even his monstrously tough body, had been forced through into the claws digging into the Hittide, as if going where it was most needed.

More power...more and more, until it had simply 'overloaded', his gauntlets shattering and...well, evolving, just to prevent their own destruction.

It had responded to him as well and his own preferences, of that he was certain. Otherwise, why take on this form, so familiar to him?

Flipping his hands over, he stared into the green crystal at the center of each palm, the omega-sigil engraved in both barely visible beneath the glassy surfaces. They lay quiet now, but he knew that once the fighting had begun again, they'd be burning just as brightly as he did. The God of Destruction still wasn't completely certain of how it had happened, but in creating these gauntlets, they'd eaten his Buster in the process, giving them the ranged abilities they'd had on his Armed Phenomenon.

...and PROBABLY his Buster's normal abilities as well, but he hadn't had a chance to confirm that one yet.

It'd assimilated the capabilities of the trans-servers he'd originally installed as well, though with the Gate of Babylon already raining down death on command, it seemed a bit extraneous...

Then again, the damn thing still had an actual ammunition count, he grumbled, so he'd take what he could get.

Of course, there was also the slight puzzle regarding his color change once Redline Mode switched on, as it had in his fight against Syrene, but he'd long since learned to disregard trivialities like that.

…also, he had to admit, he didn't look too bad with purple hair.

There were also the mysteries surrounding Celtis as well...who had arranged for her to get her hands on the Hades gun? How had she gotten the Demon's Eye bio-system? And who was the one that had set it all in motion, gambling on getting their hands on Model O?

These questions, and more, spun through his head as the God of Destruction stared down at his claws.

This world had seemed brighter, more clean at first...but the more he came to know it, the more Omega realized, it was every bit as dark and treacherous as Neo Arcadia.

There was a storm brewing...someone watching and waiting in the shadows for it all to come together.

They were well-hidden, but Omega had lived through the most terrible times in human memory. He knew the signs of treachery all too well, the brooding darkness on the horizon as some mastermind prepared their killing blow...

His claws clenched into fists, remembering the sheer power and malevolence of the Great, one of the so-called abominations of Cyberspace known as Dead Ends.

...He'd lain idle long enough. He knew his own strength, his limits and his powers thus far...and now he knew this world.

The God of Destruction's introduction scenes were over, and now it was time to get to the main event...!

That decided, he calmly reached down and relieved himself of the weight resting across his legs, pulling the semi-conscious figure of Vix up by the hair.

"Oi, Vix. Anyone home in there?"

The foxgirl gave a faint moan in response, her eyelids fluttering.

"Mmm...oh, yes, Saber...harder...faster...nn! So...good...!"

With a deadpan look, he dropped her, ignoring the thud as the shapely weapons dealer hit the ground, still mumbling and cooing to herself.

Taking a moment to admire the way her naked ass looked with Vix passed out on her face, he looked around, grumbling.

"...well, now I remember why I don't cut loose too often."

His party with all three of his harem girls last night had gotten a little crazy, he had to admit.

...which might explain why Vix was wearing a matching collar to Queenbee's, her G-string panties pulled over her head and wearing a black bikini top that looked like it should have been worn by someone with a cup size about six sizes smaller. They sure as hell weren't covering anything on Vix, he could say that for sure...

Picking his way through the debris, he wandered over to the other side of the room, where it looked like he'd made some kind of...makeshift stripper pole out of...something that looked like piece of a flagpole? How'd he even...

No, Omega decided, some things were best left unanswered.

He vaguely remembered leaving Queenbee and Syrene over here for 'team-building' or something, to settle their constant arguments...at least he thought that's what the official excuse was.

Pulling aside some of the serpentine coils blocking his view, he sighed.

Team building...riiiiight...

Queenbee and Syrene were practically wrapped around each other, the pole sandwiched firmly between both of their luscious bodies, Syrene's reflexive grip with her tail having coiled and bound them both together around it.

...he was pretty sure it was reflexive, since the matching idiotic grins on both their faces, and the way they were both drooling over their combined cleavage was probably a good sign there wasn't anyone home here either.

Ignoring the faint gasps from Queenbee whenever Syrene's coils twitched against her, he lightly slapped the serpentine Raider.

"Oi, wake up."

Syrene's eyelids flickered unsteadily, her pupils contracting irregularly as she tried to focus on him.

"Ah...s...Shaber...?" She slurred. "Are you...gonna do me more...?"

The God of Destruction groaned. See, THIS was why it didn't pay to sleep with people you needed conscious and intelligible...at least in his case. He was pretty sure it's be another two hours before the aftereffects wore off.

"No, I'm just here for access to your files."

And knowing her next statement probably wasn't going to be any use either, he wordlessly brought his left hand up, the green gem glowing before a flickering construct of data emerged, ridges and notches clicking into place in the form of a key.

Pressing his palm against the side of her head, he waited patiently as the incorporeal probe phased through physical matter and interacting directly with the electrical and digital signals of Syrene's brain, efficiently scanning and sorting through her stored memories, and filtering out the ones he'd come looking for.

The ability to manipulate Cyberspace was, he supposed, one thing he should be grateful to Weil for.

Thanks to that, he could shape it into ghostly forms like this, interfacing directly with physical storage banks to access the data inside, including Reploid brains, with no damage or aftereffects. The database could have been saved on a hard disk, built into a frame with no access ports whatsoever, and then sealed in seamless, airtight concrete, and Omega could still access it, his Cyberspace probe passing through all of it to touch the hard disk directly, the God of Destruction casually accessing it with all the speed and ease of a USB drive.

Just phase in through everything, find the files he was looking for, and then off again with merely a touch, and not a single sign to show he'd even been there at all. Of course, on Reploids, particularly female ones, it did have the short term side effect of scrambling their mindspace a bit, reducing even the most intelligent of individuals to practically a bimbo for a little less than an hour.

...though from the faint giggles coming from the still senseless Raider, and the way her smile widened at the feeling, he was pretty sure that Syrene had absolutely no problem with that. Plus, yeah, he was pretty sure she'd have been in that state for another few hours anyway. He distinctly remembered her and Queenbee declaring a truce in favor of...something else, and then going on their knees and doing something incredible with their mouths...

Shaking his head with a rueful grin at the recollection, he withdrew his hand, the virtual probe ghosting through her skull again. Casually sifting through the files he ignored the sigh of pleasure from Syrene as the Raider quivered with delight and slumped back against Queenbee's chest, joining the other girl in staring blissfully off into space, matching mindless smiles on their faces as they continued to bask in the afterglow.

Coolly leaving the signs of depravity and lust in his wake, he carefully threaded his way through the remains of the bed, heading for the door...

...and paused as something interesting popped up on his screens. The files he'd taken from Syrene's half-entranced mind had been regarding any and all Reploid and cybernetic specialists in Legion. Surprisingly, he found Kitara there, VERY low on the list, a fact which made him raise an eyebrow. As far as he was concerned, she deserved a spot QUITE a few ranks up from that!

Though on the other hand, everyone else on this list was probably some kind of overly rich, expensive bigshot, whereas she was...a crazy tinkerer sharing a warehouse with Legion's most drop-dead sexy weapons supplier.

Figuring that was enough to confirm her as the best person to go to regarding this, he was about to close it off when another name caught his eye, hidden behind Kitara's file.

"...Doctor Johann Smythe...?"

The God of Destruction's eyes narrowed, staring at the man's face for a few minutes.

"...feels like I should know him..."

He couldn't place the name, but the face looked just a bit too familiar for him to write it off as mere happenstance.

Pulling up the information on the esteemed doctor, he raised an eyebrow.

"Neurotek specialist, expert in the fields of augmentation and CNS enhancement, black market operator...well now, quite the resume you have here..."

Then he went very still.

There, in a single picture, stood Johann Smythe, smiling as cameras flashed, receiving some scientific award or the other.

But that wasn't what had caught his attention.

It was the hand gripping Smythe's the doctor's partner shaking his hand and posing as well, both of them having received the award.

He didn't know the face, as he'd never seen it before.

But he recognized the prototype gear on the table in front of them, and the inherent sense of superiority and fanatic glee in the other man to know precisely who Johann Smythe had worked with, and what they had worked on, even before the caption came up.

'The unveiling of the long awaited prototype Transfer Interface system at the 15th Annual SciTek convention has left many of the world's leading minds in approval and awe with the avenues now opened if such a technology could indeed be made feasible! Pictured here are the creators of this device, the esteemed Dr. Johann Smythe, responsible for the neural interface which allows the power of transfer technology to be used with the mind, and no longer with the complexity of a full trans-server station...and to his right is the mastermind behind this incredible revamp of transfer science-'

Steel claws slammed shut, Omega's fist clenching.

'...Professor Donovan Landeger Gates.'

Omega stood there for a moment, feeling that old uneasiness coming back, the instincts born from the hell of the Elf Wars, and the tyranny of Weil.

"..."

...Perhaps he might stop in by Kitara, just for a bit...and then pay a visit to the enigmatic Doctor Smythe.

Yanking open the nearby closet, he reached in to grab one of his coats.

Red Masque, curled up in a blanket inside of the closet, blinked drowsily up at him from under a sleeping cap.

"Oh...hello."

Omega stared into the closet for a moment.

Wordlessly closing it back, he turned and walked off. Maybe he'd just dig up one of his spares from the laundry...

Celtis hunched over on the couch, wincing as a stray ray of sunlight from the covered windows hit her in the face.

"You know..." She grumbled. "I'm not sure what's worse...the fact that the God of Destruction is having wild orgies in my rooms, or the fact that I've gotten so used to it I can sleep through the damn things."

Model O growled its' agreement. One thing it was never going to admit to was being connected in any way, shape or form to that shameless playboy.

...the fact that said playboy had utterly THRASHED it, though, was one of those things that it had decided to pointedly ignore, thanks very much.

"...well, on the bright side, at least he kept it to the bedrooms this time..." She sighed. "It took a WEEK to replace all the furniture he broke last time just because he and Vix couldn't wait to make it all the way in..."

The Biometal gave a hesitant growl.

"Eh? What do you mean, 'Not quite'..."

Turning, she trailed off at the sight of the colossal blade of the Zweihander impaled halfway through a cabinet, one of the doors hanging half off the hinges.

"..."

The corrupted Biometal cleared its throat awkwardly.

"...screw it, I'm not awake enough for this crap."

That said, Celtis promptly collapsed facefirst onto the couch with a groan.

Rolling its' eyes, Model O turned back to monitoring the orange star that symbolized Ashe's nuclear heart.

Surprisingly, the need for the Biometal's intervention had been all but circumvented over the last few days. It wasn't quite certain, but it suspected that was a result of the core 'streamlining' itself, i.e, acclimatizing to its' new body. As it synchronized more and more over time, the control and maintenance of that would fall more under Ashe's control, with Model O no longer needing to exert any external influence to manage it.

...it WAS still puzzled, though. By rights, there was no way it should have calmed down this quickly. Either something strange was going on, or the Chosen One had in fact found a way to control and manage her own ridiculous output. Personally, the Biometal was leaning more towards the former than the latter, since considering the sheer magnitude and insanity of the current situation, any kind of natural means of managing it was utterly laughable.

...but laughable or not, the fact remained that Ashe's heart was showing enough improvement that it almost didn't require attention from Model O anymore.

It growled under its' breath, looking annoyed.

Honestly...did NOTHING in this blasted world make any sense...?

Heavy footsteps resounded, Celtis cracking open one eye as the door to the bedroom was booted open, the crimson-clad God of Destruction striding out with an uncharacteristically dark look on his face.

"Wha...Omega?" She blinked, raising her head up blearily. "...huh. Usually you're not up for another three hours at least..."

"Eh." He grunted noncommittally, one free floating gauntlet drifting over to seize the hilt of the Zweihander even as he sent the other one to yank one of his less battered coats off a nearby rack.

"Wake that sorry beast of yours up, then drag your carcass outta bed." He replied shortly. "We're heading out."

Celtis pushed herself up, looking surprised.

"Going out...oh bugger, you've got that look on your face again..."

"...what look?" Omega turned, looking slightly affronted. "I do not have a 'look'!"

"Yes, you do. There's this weird stiffness in your jaw when you grind your teeth, and your eyebrows have this kind of 'tense' sort of look." She replied dryly. "Usually you get it whenever there's something you REALLY don't like...and it pisses you off."

"Oh right." Omega rolled his eyes. "And I'm sure you've become an expert in that particular field since...?"

"...since I got to watch you wear that look anytime someone brings up Dead Ends, the Great, or anything else from Ace's last talk with us all." Celtis replied casually, digging around for a change of clothes herself.

Omega stared at her for a few moments, before he gave a grunt of annoyance and turned away, pulling up his tattered collar.

"...yeah, well...you have no pants, so your argument is invalid."

Listening to the yelp of realization, and the crash that sounded from somewhere behind him, Omega allowed himself a slight smirk of victory.

But it was short-lived, the smile fading as he considered the situation.

She was right...there wasn't ANYTHING he'd liked about their last meeting with Ace, i.e the group debriefing following the events of Gemini Cyto's attack.

Dead Ends...and that rat bastard of a megalomaniac, the Great Redips...

His gauntlets clicked into place, the Zweihander glowing on his back as he unconsciously clenched his fists.

Dead Ends...Omega prided himself as being possibly the only being who, up to now, could be considered a 'master' of Cyberspace...but one clash with the Great had damn near PULVERIZED him, that one enemy possessing more sheer power and force than anything he had ever encountered in either world.

But what really pissed him off was the uncertainty...that niggling little doubt that, had it not been for a myriad of other factors combining to force the Dead End back into its' own world...well, If it hadn't been for them, Omega wasn't quite sure if he'd have been able to force it to retreat at all.

He wasn't used to having something out there that might be tougher than him, and the feeling irked him to no end.

Sure, Zero had been stronger than him, but that was the 'strength' of a rival, somebody who you could accept as being on or above your power level...but these Dead Ends...they fought on battlefields wholly alien to him, with powers and abilities he knew nothing of.

In a straight up fight, Omega was confident he could destroy nearly any opponent...though there were a few, like the Colonel-Commissar, Craft, or the ominous Vile that he wasn't completely sure of.

And that in itself was cause for concern.

He was Omega...Omega, the God of Destruction!

He had reigned nearly unopposed over the battlefields of the Elf Wars, though forced into bitter servitude to Weil. For Light's sake, it had taken X and Zero COMBINED to finally best him...and even then they couldn't truly destroy him!

From an era of nearly unparalleled supremacy...to this one, where he was but a legend, lost in the mists of history. It seemed simple enough at the time, to consider that as merely an invitation to take the world by storm. Ill-prepared to counter an ancient threat like himself, had he been less inclined to enjoy his newfound freedom and instead been more of an obedient dog to Weil, Omega thought it would have been chillingly easy to plunge this world back into war...

...but now, he was beginning to see things differently.

This was no utopia, pristine and pure as it had first appeared...make no mistake, this place was as treacherous as the world he had left behind.

...only here, the darkness was much, much more accomplished at hiding itself.

A world where numerous powerful figures dwelled...where great and terrible figures lurked in the boundaries between reality and Cyberspace, others who could manipulate Cyberspace themselves...

And more than that, a world seething and boiling with new, complex depths of intrigue and treachery...a world capable of actually wounding him!

He, the King of Destroyers!

The green gems of his palms flashed as he held one claw up, seeing the wild grin stretching across his features.

Oh yes...this world had indeed become TRULY interesting...!

The claws slammed shut with a flash of red power, Omega turning as Celtis stalked up behind him, pulling on her jacket and giving him a dirty look.

"Right...where are we going now?" She snapped. "SOME of us would've liked to actually catch up on some sleep!"

"She should try sharing headspace with you." Saber commented gloomily, from somewhere in the Zweihander. "I suspect miss Celtis would be a lot more appreciative of being able to sleep at ALL after bearing witness to even a fraction of half of the things you do."

"Oh shut up in there." Omega grumbled, before kicking open the front door and stepping out into the morning.

"So, you wanted to know where I've decided to drag you off to, eh...?" He flashed a grin back at Celtis.

"...we're off to visit a mad scientist!"

Watching him stride off down the street, humming that strangely signature tune he always seemed to know, Celtis' eye twitched.

"...I knew I should have just stayed in bed this morning."

And Model O, grumbling as it batted several lengths of chain out of its' hair again, was forced to agree.

"Johann Smythe...?" Aile's eyes narrowed, turning to look across at the screen. "...you can't be serious."

"Deadly so." Vent replied, drumming his fingers on the table. "I think we might finally have gotten the break we were looking for."

"Vent, do you REMEMBER what happened the last time we tried to shut down Smythe? Ace lost an arm, you got trapped in enough red tape to all but shut down the Guardians for a month, and Legion's legislative services nearly had a heart attack."

"...he was ready for us then." Vent grumbled. "And not even ACE was expecting that kind of a fight. The court battle alone took almost a year, and he STILL walked out of it without a scratch."

He was, of course, referring to the incident in which a Smythetech-augmented assassin, Syrene Nagato had attempted to ambush and take out the infamous Scarlet Commander.

That had occurred on the very day that Ace and Vent's combined efforts had finally found some pretext to bring Dr. Smythe to the courts. Officially, it was regarding some of his technology having played a key role in several recent high-profile assassinations. Unofficially, it was because he was as dirty and vicious a black-marketeer they'd ever come across, and his low-cost, high-end modifications were making some extremely dangerous capabilities available to FAR too many people for Security to feel comfortable.

The assassination attempt on Ace Phoenix on the morning of that trial by an assassin sporting extremely obvious Smythetech enhancements was all the proof they needed...or so they thought.

Until it was discovered that someone else had hired Syrene instead, and indeed, had been connected to all of the other killings. Someone with even more resources than Smythe, and with enough power and authority to grant the assassins a nearly unparalleled knowledge of the inner workings of Legion, enabling them to succeed.

Treachery and betrayal abounded in the courtroom that day, as the Guardians and Security watched, aghast, as their carefully, meticulously constructed case came crumbling down around them. Smythe walked free on that day, as no evidence in the world could have convicted him, all of it instead pointing an accusing finger at someone else.

One of the Wise Men themselves.

Master Mikhail.

At that point, none of them knew anything more. At the revelation that Mikhail had been the one behind the assassinations, Master Thomas came down HARD on them, insisting that the matter be handled discreetly. And indeed, it had, but not by them.

The Master had taken control personally, and no-one knew just what it was that had happened behind the doors of Legion's highest authorities.

Mikhail hadn't even been able to defend the accusations, as the elderly Wise Man had been severely injured in an accident on that very morning, a coincidence that still filled Vent with black suspicion. Particularly considering that Mikhail hadn't been seen in public since Ouroboros went down...

But even if he had been hale and hearty, what difference would it have made? No-one else could have given those orders, and added that level of authority to them.

No-one but a Wise Man.

And with Albert dead, there were only two suspects...and only Mikhail had no alibi, nor an explanation. Particularly damning had been the fact that many of the murdered figures had worked for Thomas, men and women that had been elevated to the inner circle of his trust.

Which naturally, built the idea that Mikhail had done it because of jealousy and envy, in revenge for the way Thomas had all but usurped power following Ouroboros, the older Wise Man having been consigned to the shadows while the jovial, red-bearded giant took the stage.

Decisive proof...decisive evidence...and a decisive judgement.

There hadn't been a need for Mikhail to even appear at all, the comatose Wise Man having simply been relegated to a medical cell in one of the most heavily guarded prisons in Legion.

A blasphemy of justice, was what Ace had called it. A man proven 100% guilty...and then who had appeared for the first time in over a year, only to be gravely injured and put into a coma by a freak accident...and as a result, never waking from it. He'd been locked into stasis, all of it a personal favor to Master Thomas.

'This is my fault,' the giant figure had said sadly. 'If only I had paid more attention, had realized what this must have been doing to him...perhaps I could have stopped him, or changed him...'

'Instead, several of my closest friends and associates now lie dead, and Legion itself has been rocked to the core by these horrible revelations...and I...I find myself put into the position of condemning one of my oldest and dearest comrades for it.'

So he had pleaded for a more humane solution. In memory of all of Mikhail's great contributions to the city, and his position as a Wise Man, he had asked only that his old comrade be placed in stasis. Already comatose, with no hope of awakening any time soon, it would be a mercy. An endless, dreamless slumber, serving his time in peace. It was a fate worse than death, but better than he deserved.

Such a plea, from the revered leader of Legion, and the one man who had been most wronged in this terrible event, had touched even the hearts of an outraged public, many of them even sympathizing with Mikhail. They understood why he had done it, and the pain that Thomas must have felt by the betrayal, and more so at the fact that it had come so soon after the treachery of Master Albert...but even so, justice had to be served.

He had even pleaded for an extra two weeks, in the hope that Mikhail would awaken and tell them something, anything that might prove they were mistaken, that someone else had been the culprit all this time...

But Mikhail had not woken, and the gavel had come down.

And Ace R. Phoenix was left alone, to watch Johann Smythe walking away, the Legion power structure crashing down around him, betrayed by his own pursuit of justice.

Vent knew, even if no-one else did, that Ace still blamed himself for that. If he hadn't been so hell-bent on shutting down Smythe, on finding that man guilty...then none of this would have happened.

The truth had come out, and it had nearly broken Legion's back.

Aile had been there as well, and the smile on Smythe's hawklike features as he strolled out of the rioting courtroom had made her sick to her stomach.

'None of us knew it would have turned out like that.' She thought grimly, remembering the chaos that had followed, the acceptance speeches of Master Thomas, gravely promising to continue upholding the peace and prosperity of Legion, despite those dark, troubling times...It had rallied the City behind him like nothing else could, the people inspired by such a tragic,brave figure.

And she, Vent, Ace and Marino had been left standing on the docks, watching as Master Mikhail's slumbering form, barely visible through his capsule's translucent lid, was winched aboard a transport ship, bound for its destination hundreds of miles away in a deep, dark prison cell.

The bitter look on Vent's face told her that he was thinking of it too.

"...Ace and Mikhail were close, weren't they."

Vent shook his head.

"As much as I'd like to say that...I'm not sure. I do know for a fact that Security worked better when Mikhail was involved, so it might just be a case of Ace just getting along better with him. Cinnamon was really fond of him, though...Marino too. The said he reminded him of someone a long time ago."

That had been all too easy to figure out, as Cinnamon had locked herself in her room for almost a month after the trial, and Marino had roamed the halls of A.C.E and Legion, all but biting off heads for even the smallest of infractions.

And Ace...well, there were rumors about the sheer rage that had manifested itself in Legion Tower that night, almost an entire floor having been destroyed when Vent and he had duked it out.

After that, the fact that it had taken this long for Ace to be going after Smythe again was merely a testament to how good the neurotech scientist was at covering his tracks, and not a mark against Security's investigative prowess.

Many things had happened since, such as the mess with Model O, and everything which came with it...but all that time, Vent knew this case had never left Ace's desk.

"So you really think we have a shot at this?"

"We know what Smythe plays like now...and this time, we know how to deal with his game."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's simple...if he wants to use the rules to his advantage, then we send someone who never played by the rules in the first place." Vent grinned. "Somehow, I don't see Unit V buying the same tricks that got us, do you?"

And Aile had to admit, it was unlikely that something such as law or due process would stop Vile if his investigation turned up anything. To be honest, considering the man's vigilante tendencies, it was unlikely that the esteemed Doctor Smythe would be making out of any such encounter in one piece.

"Fighting dirty to deal with a 'clean' opponent?" She gave a rueful smile. "Well, that's a first...I thought the saying was always to fight fire with fire?"

Vent barked a laugh at that.

"Weren't you the one who said that all fighting fire with fire does is burn the whole world down?" He shrugged. "I'm just borrowing a page from your book and fighting fire with a several thousand PSI water cannon."

"Right..." Aile sighed, pressing a hand to her face. "I suppose it COULD be worse...I mean, you could have hired Saber..."

Celtis felt her eye twitching.

She and her white-haired...acquaintance, for lack of a friendlier term, were currently standing outside the gates of the research center owned by the man that the God of Destruction had dragged her off to see. Sprawling out over an area of several city blocks out on the edges of Legion's western side, it was as unassuming as every other scientific facility she had ever seen before. With, perhaps, one or two exceptions.

Namely the ABSURD levels of security involved, for one thing. She counted no less than FOUR fences, moving from metal, to barbed wire, to electrical to laser barriers, all running around the perimeter in four concentric layers. Not just that, but she could see figures wandering around between each fence, security drones no doubt, as well as the guard towers crowned off by automatic turrets.

Far, FAR more security than any such 'research facility should own-was that a SPIKE PIT?!

Celtis stared nervously as piece of the lawn slid back into place, once more innocently hiding the razor tipped spread of death that had been visible a moment ago.

"That...doesn't exactly fill me with confidence about the mental condition of this place's builder.

Which, in turn, led to the SECOND problem she had with this facility.

"...I'm sorry, did you say he OWNS this place?!"

"Not just that..." Omega grumbled. "Apparently the bastard LIVES here as well. So really, it's more like a science lab and a condo all in one. Supposedly he rents out the lower levels to other researchers, but I'm pretty sure they're unimportant."

"...to be fair, you tend to consider most things in life unimportant once they don't apply to you." Celtis deadpanned, before pausing and raising a puzzled eyebrow. "And...what are you doing?"

Omega simply hummed thoughtfully in response, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head one way, then the other.

"Typical security measures...for a bloody military-grade facility, that is." His eyes flicked through various spectrums, his advanced combat suite picking apart the impenetrable web of invisible security traps. "This is way too much, even for some kind of lab like this...then again, if that bastard Weil was any kind of reference, paranoia seems to go with the territory."

"Why are we here, again?" Celtis groaned.

"We're here because I want a look at his files, maybe see if there's anything in there I can use to figure out half of the upgrades I'm sporting now."

"...you know we could have just gone to Kitara, right? Engineering, and specifically Lost Technology, ARE her specialty, you know."

"Yup..." Omega tapped the fence speculatively with one clawtip. "Except you're forgetting, we tried that already, way, WAAAAAAAAAAY back in Chapter 10 just after we wrapped up that first job on the train, remember?"

Celtis winced. "Oh yeah, that's right...and even Kitara couldn't figure out most of it out...wait, what do you mean Chapter 10?!"

"Nothing important." Omega replied breezily. "At any rate, while even I admit your feline friend is a cut above the rest, there's another reason I'm here besides wanting a look at this guy's stuff."

Silence fell as he continued to run through the layout of the research facility.

After a few minutes of waiting patiently, she raised an eyebrow.

"Well...?"

"Hm?" Omega blinked and looked around at her, as if surprised to see the green-haired Hunter still there. "'Well' what?"

Celtis stared blankly at him.

"Well, what's the second reason?!"

"Oh! Ooooohhh, you actually expected me to tell you." He cleared his throat. "Right, sorry, I keep forgetting microbes like you have trouble with complicated things like this..."

She rolled her eyes and gave a groan.

"Yes, yes, I'm inferior, blah blah bla-" Her voice cut off, Omega's actions for the last few minutes finally taking on a worrying significance in her mind.

"...wait. Why are you scoping this place out instead of just knocking on the front door like you normally do?"

Omega simply whistled cheerfully, a 3D schematic of the facility rotating slowly above his upturned palm as he continued to poke away at it.

"..."

"..."

"...you don't have any intention of actually letting him look at you, do you."

"Fuck no." Omega snorted. "Kitara at least had you to vouch for her, plus she was hot. Besides, I believe my exact words were along the lines of me 'wanting a look at this guy's stuff'...I don't see anything there that actually involves him, do you?"

"...you're planning on breaking in."

"Well DUH." Omega rolled his eyes. "Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you keep up at all."

"...right, yep, good to know." Celtis replied with a deadpan look, turning away. "You have fun now, I'm gonna go do...something...somewhere else. Preferably something and somewhere I won't get arrested."

A heavy claw descended on her shoulder.

"Oh, don't say that..." Omega smiled cheerfully. "After all, you're going to be the star of the show here!"

Celtis swallowed, looking back at him.

"...you know, I think I preferred you when you weren't smiling."

Fifteen seconds later, a screaming red and green projectile cleared the Smythetech fence and pinwheeled crazily through the air.

Completing his follow through, Omega shaded his eyes with one hand, watching his throw with a critical eye.

"Let's see...cleared the motion and thermal sensing arrays..."

WHAM!

"...the first two rings of autoguns..."

CRUNCH!

"...most of the outer patrol routes..."

PAIN!

Omega winced.

"...okay, made it through only half of the laser arrays. To be fair, I forgot that tower was there..."

The half-dazed figure of Megamerged Celtis slid a few feet down, before falling away and plummeting headfirst towards the ground and the various electronic tripwires waiting to signal the alarm.

Strangely, Omega seemed entirely unbothered.

Which is why, when Celtis instead found herself slamming into the white floor next to the chained figure of Model O instead of a sensor rigged field, she simply lay facedown for a few moments, before muttering a muffled 'Thanks.'

Omega felt a smug grin cross his face.

No alarms had triggered, and a familiar spectral blue fire danced through the air.

One finger pressed lightly to the ground to support her, the Black Rock Shooter dangled upside down, looking out at the world with a mildly bemused expression, the book she'd taken off Ace lying open in one hand, and what looked like a snack of some kind still held in her mouth.

Turning her head, she saw the red figure of Omega behind the fence in the distance, the God of Destruction giving a wave and a cheerful smile. From this distance, he shouldn't have been audible, but the BRS had long since learned to lip-read.

"Yo, miss assassin...Sorry, did I call at a bad time?"

The BRS merely stared at him.

"Not one for small talk, I see." He chuckled. "Well, anyway, I suppose you've figured out what's going on by now?"

The slightly puzzled talk she was now having with a furious Celtis was indeed going a long way to explaining the BRS' peculiar situation, yes, so she nodded.

"Cool. Now, since I don't feel like going through the trouble of finding some impossibly difficult route in, I'm cheating and sending you to go punch a hole in their security for me."

Model O gave an annoyed growl in the back of the BRS' mind.

"What does he mean, he doesn't FEEL LIKE GOING THROUGH THE TROUBLE?!" Celtis snapped, before pausing. "...then again, it DOES make sense to send you..."

The Black Rock Shooter shushed them both, before pivoting on her fingers and vaulting onto the side of a nearby sentry turret, finishing off her macaroon in two quick bites, the book dissolving into blue flames.

A pity, she'd only just been getting to the good part...then again, it did still get her out of being horribly awkward at another of Chariot's tea parties.

...the macaroons were halfway decent, admittedly, but she didn't much like get-togethers with some of the other Anti-Virals.

...Unless that EMIYA man was doing the catering, in which case you couldn't pry her away from that buffet table with a crowbar.

Now in a relatively secure position, she glanced back at Omega, his face serious.

"Just get in, and sabotage two of the three generators on the second basement floor. There'll be a thirty second dip in power before the auxiliaries kick in."

...which, naturally, was all the opening he would need to get in, the Black Rock Shooter knew.

"Just handle the basement. The main building is MINE."

"...I don't suppose there's any way we could just...forget about this, and maybe go home?" Celtis tried hopefully.

The BRS thought for a moment.

Model O gave an equally hopeful growl somewhere in the background, though both girls knew it was for quite the opposite reason from Celtis.

"Shut it, you!"

As a minor brawl broke out in their shared headspace, the Black Rock Shooter's expression remained as stoic as ever. To go or not to go...she had nothing better to do, and besides, hadn't her whole reason for becoming an Anti-Viral been to do just this sort of thing anyway?

Blue fire flickered from the BRS' right eye in response, and that was all the answer Celtis and Model O needed.

"Oh noooooo..." She groaned, as next to her, Model O whooped and threw both hands up in celebration.

The Black Rock Shooter was a master of battle, after all...and though the stage might be different now, a chance to flex her muscles was always welcome.

She glided to earth again, the tip of one boot pressing against the ground, propelling her up and over the thermal tracking arrays that continued past her...and she was gone, fading into the broad daylight.

The bartender of the Black Saloon had played host to many of a rough crowd during their twenty-odd years of business.

Which is why, when the trenchcoat-clad figure, it's hat pulled low to cover the eyes, walked in through the doors, he barely batted an eye, instead setting aside the glass he had been polishing.

"A fine day to you...so, is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"..." After a moment, the stranger nodded, and tapped a finger down on the countertop screen, pulling up one of the more expensive fruit liquors the Saloon was known for, nodding slightly.

"I see..." The bartender quirked an eyebrow at that, before setting out to assemble the complicated drink. "It seems sir is a connoisseur of fine taste. This is, after all one of the Black Saloon's specialties."

Another click, and an additional credit chit slid across the counter. His elaborate mustache quirked slightly.

"...the other specialty, of course, being a watering hole for all manner of 'disreputable' figures..."

A third, and particularly final-sounding click.

"...usually with information regarding many of said figures, yes."

Pleased with himself, he slid the finished drink along the counter.

A straw disappearing into the darkness between collar and hat, there was a muffled sound of surprise, before the figure turned and gave him a renewed look of interest.

Apparently reassured by the quality of the drink, the stranger waved its' fingers over the menu, a new image appearing on it.

"Baranbull...?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow, before looking up and sighing.

"...regrettably, as much as I would like to take credit for this, I'm afraid professional pride demands I don't."

"..."

The stranger said nothing. After all, it was over said stranger that three very large shadows had fallen.

"After all, Mr. Baranbull is currently standing behind you."

An extraordinarily large man stood behind the stranger, arms folded. His expression, if there was one, was difficult to read, thanks to the source of his name as Baranbull.

Where a human head should have been, a mess of jointed metal and circuitry led up into a mechanical bull's head, bristling with two razor sharp, three-foot-long horns, crackling with energy.

The rest of his body bristling with augmented muscles and steel skin, Baranbull towered over his two bodyguards, even despite the fact that both were wearing suits of powered armor, raising them both by half a foot.

"So there I was..." Baranbull snorted, his fine business suit making faint creaking sounds as it struggled to accommodate his brawny figure."In my private room at the back of this fine establishment, when I'm interrupted in the middle of a chat with a particularly delectable lady Reploid, by the news that some 'mystery man' has been asking around town about me!"

"..." The stranger said nothing, merely taking another sip without turning around.

"In my line of business, see, that kind of thing tends to lead to...bad publicity, if you get my meaning." Two rows of tombstone teeth ground down on the cigar in Baranbull's teeth, vents on his back exhaling smoke.

"But Mr. Baranbull's a fair man." One of the armored flunkies spoke up, "So here's the deal...you tell us just why it is you wanna talk to him so bad..."

"...and MAYBE we'll kill you ourselves to save you some time!"The other chimed in, sniggering as he lowered his plasma cannon.

"..."

After a few moments, the giant bull Mutos' teeth ground down again.

"...well...? Anything you want to say, chump?" Massive fingers grated against his folded forearms as Baranbull stared down at the stranger's back.

"Hey!" One of the bodyguards growled, "Mister Baranbull is TALKING to you, jackass!"

"..."

An augmented steel fist smashed down on the counter, splintering it.

"START! TALKING!" The Reploid howled. "WHO ARE YOU, AND HOW DID YOU FIND ME?!"

"Ho boy, the boss' temper's on the fritz again..." One bodyguard chuckled. "Better fess up, pal, or they'll be picking you up with a tweezers when this is over."

"..."

Baranbull bit through his cigar.

"YOU...!"

Steel and flesh fingers slammed shut on the stranger's coat lapel, spinning him around as Baranbull hoisted him into the air with one hand, the other drawn back in a fist.

"TALK!" He snarled, spittle flying. "TALK, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT, OR SO HELP ME, I WILL-

CLANG.

[Cue Music: The Fragrance of Dark Coffee – Phoenix Wright T&T OST]

"Well now...three against one?" A baritone voice drawled from one of the seats further back.

As the loud, heavy echoes of metal on metal faded, the few patrons still left turned their head, eager to see who the newcomer was.

"Oh great, another one..." The Mutos growled, rolling it's eyes. "Look, pal, this ain't any of your business, so if you know what's good for you, sit your ass back down and-"

"B-boss!" A panicked shout from his sidekick drew his attention, before he too turned to see the newcomer, the bodyguard's shaking finger pointing down the room at the source.

Dragging the butt of the huge cannon up from where he had struck the ground with it, a frighteningly unmistakable figure was slowly getting to his feet, teal green cloak settling about his shoulders.

"...what the hell...?!" Baranbull's eyes widened. "What...what the hell is HE doing down here?!"

Casually setting his coffee mug back down, Hadrian Craft calmly cracked his neck.

"...they make a halfway decent capuccino."

Pulling Neige up by her carrying strap, he shouldered the massive weapon with ease.

"Now...I believe you were threatening someone?"

It was, Omega decided, a bloody pleasure to watch a professional in action.

And the Black Rock Shooter was most CERTAINLY a professional of the highest caliber.

...or just really, really damn good at simply doing her job.

The only way to even keep track of her was by honest to god eyesight. Additional filters, scanners, whatever, none of them registered. Not to mention that strange...phase-walking trick of hers, where she seemed to turn incorporeal and fade from view, ghosting through any obstacle in her path without even a breath to mark her passage.

She didn't seem able to do it for long, though...the God of Destruction squinted as she 'shimmered' through a patrolling drone and reappeared a second later, leaping up onto the side of another turret station.

...he estimated it was about five or so seconds. Idly, he considered whether or not he could duplicate that ability by simply stepping back and forth through Cyberspace, but from what he'd figured, it seemed that trick only really worked in cases like the Black Thresher incident, i.e long-ranged teleportation. Instantaneous 'shifting' seemed to be a little out of his reach at the moment.

"Thank goodness for small mercies..." Saber grumbled, somewhere inside his head. "We have suffered enough damage already from one Cyberspace entity, and I would much prefer it if you did not severely damage yourself further by attempting a technique used by another."

"...low blow, miss gender confused knight."

There was an audible crackle of electricity.

"..."

"..."

"...sorry."

Celtis on the other hand, wasn't having much more luck.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHOHGODWHEREAREYOUGOINGNOW"

...one of the disadvantages of the Anti-Viral summoning abilities of the Hades, Celtis was quickly discovering, was being able to see things from the Anti-Viral's point of view.

Unfortunately, she possessed none of the BRS' judgement or knowledge of the Anti-Viral's capabilities.

Which is why every time the BRS attempted something would easily kill, or at least wouldn't be considered remotely sane by a person with a more...'conventional' mindset, such as jumping twenty feet straight up, or running across the top of a barbed wire fence without flinching, etc etc, Celtis...was essentially being pulled along for the ride.

Model O, of course, was having a ball, occasionally growling as it wordlessly urged the BRS to get down to some proper violence.

And the BRS, as she clung to the side of an exhaust vent, pointedly ignored them both as she continued her passage into the main building.

...well, save for a faint sense of apology every time Celtis had another heart attack.

But there were other things to worry about now.

The pale girl in black looked up at the thick security grill blocking her passage with a faint sense of puzzlement.

A security gate in the VENTILATION system?

She had successfully gained entry into the main building several minutes ago, and with each step forward, that instinct from centuries of battle had been tingling, warning her that something was not quite right in this place.

For one thing, the sheer level of security on this place seemed to be far more than ANY mere research facility should have possessed...an opinion reinforced by Celtis in between bouts of screaming.

"Something's...weird." She had said. "The guards that were patrolling...they were all mass-produced soldier units. Simple systems designed to attack any intruders, basically. But the sensor arrays, lasers and the turrets...those should normally cost WAY too much to be running all of them at once!"

Then the BRS had thrown herself fifty feet through the air, somersaulting over another patrol, and Celtis' explanation was...mildly derailed.

When she'd finally calmed down, she had gone on to explain further.

"Well...maybe it's not that it costs a lot, but more that it's way too much of a power drain to maintain this level of defense!" She had shivered slightly. "...I'm starting to get the feeling we're coming in on the tail end of something else here."

The BRS was beginning to agree with that suspicion. She possessed knowledge of this era and the 'setting' in general...but even by conventional standards, this had all the markings of a security lockdown. Fully automated defenses, left to their own devices, numerous security gates engaged and locked...not to mention how strangely quiet the place seemed outside of that.

Model O's eyes narrowed, the corrupted Biometal sniffing the air before it gave a disturbed rumble. The place didn't seem to have been inactive for too long, probably less than a day, judging by the condition of it. What DID bother it, however, was the faint, delicious smell of that thing it had devoured in the ruins of Black Thresher.

Delicious...but unfortunately, Celtis knew, probably also a really bad sign.

It wasn't until they had phased through this latest barrier that the moaning, lurching...'shapes' came around the corner.

"Z-ZOMBIES?!"

"Tch...you think some Security lackey scares me...?!" Baranbull growled. He still hadn't dropped the trenchcoat clad stranger.

"Allan Baranbull..." Craft said smoothly. "Two-bit mobster, known for controlling most of the small-time thefts and petty crimes for this sector. Wears an enhanced muscle suit at all times to make up for his own pitiful stature, complete with a Mutos-grade head part."

Adjusting his mantle, the commando gave him an odd look.

"Though to be honest, there's one thing I've never been able to figure out..."

"And what's that?!"

"...were you really so ugly that a Mutos headpiece was considered an improvement?"

Dead silence descended on the Saloon.

"Ghk...you...!" The mobster was almost incoherent with rage, his eyes bulging as steam hissed from vents across his body.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Hurling the stranger aside, Baranbull charged, horns extending in a move much like the animal he'd chosen as his design motif.

Dropping into a ready stance, Craft grimaced as the much larger man slammed headfirst into him, powered horns missing by mere inches as he twisted to the side, clamping his arms around the thick steel neck. His armored boots kicking up sparks, he skidded back a step, before recovering, locking Baranbull in place.

"Well now...it's been a while since I went bullfighting." He gave a dangerous smile. "But then again, I suppose it goes with the cape."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" With another bellow of fury, panels snapped open on the mobster's back, boosters flashing to life and hurling them both through the storefront with a devastating crash of shattered glass and metal.

As the noise faded, the stranger propped itself up on one elbow, wincing as it shook its head. A heavy impact sounded a second later, and looking up, was revealed to be the armored boots of one of the mobster's sidekicks, heavy weapon leveled straight at the black window between collar and hat.

After the initial shock had worn off, and after several dozen rounds of scorching blue bullets had reduced most of the approaching figures to scrap metal, did Celtis finally see them for what they were.

"What the..." Her eyes narrowed. "No, not zombies, more like...leftovers...?"

Model O gave a disgusted grumble of agreement.

Stuff that might once have been Reploids and assorted machines, now just ramshackle constructs of junk and skeletal metal. Had there been, perhaps more gory bits hanging off of them, Celtis might have reverted to her previous state of gibbering terror. But like this, they seemed more like...really old, really outdated scrap bodies.

The claws and electrically powered shock blades they were swinging around were all too serious, though, as were their numbers.

For every four or five that the Black Blade cleaved, or the Rock Cannon blew to dust, still more seemed to appear, crawling out of the vents and other hiding places.

...plus, Celtis had the unsettling feeling that a few of those metal corpses were actually getting back up.

The BRS, for her part, seemed as unconcerned as ever. These 'zombies' were easy enough to dispatch, with only their large numbers proving a concern. What did puzzle her though, was the means by which some of the ruined bodies were getting up again, even after her Black Blade had crushed them. The special ability of that heavy weapon was to inflict guaranteed damage on the target, regardless of how distant the connection. And that meant that those 'bodies' should have stayed dead, regardless of their...'life-challenged' nature.

Of course, further complicating matters was the fact that her more widespread moves would probably blow a hole in the facility, hence her limited use of the high-power blasts of her Cannon. Which explained why she was currently limited to her significantly less effective melee range.

Black steel carving another arc through the air, she watched dispassionately as another group of the creatures went down. Without hesitating, she swung the Blade back up and over her shoulder, shifting it back to Cannon mode and blowing off the head of another enemy behind her, her blue eyes still staring at the first group of bisected corpses.

If it hadn't been for that, even she might have missed it, the faint flicker in the air above every corpse, vanishing a second later as the metal scraps began to move once more.

"What...is that...?" Celtis muttered, eyes narrowing, before she gave a cry of surprise, Model O hurling her aside as it roared to the forefront, snarling in alarm.

Dropping to earth and whirling around, her boots crushing the old iron bodies like tinsel, the Shooter's eyes widened as she understood what the peculiar monster in her host's mind was saying. Flipping back upright, her coattails snapped apart into the miniaturized boosters and the black steel wings of her acceleration mode, hurling her straight upwards in a flash that scorched off the exterior of the closest revenants.

Ceiling and floor switched places in Celtis' view, the Shooter landing easily on the corridor roof. Glaring down at the masses below, her blue eyes flared, the world blurring into the grays of the Silent World.

"Oh my..."

She heard the green haired girl gasp in shock at what lay before them now, revealed in the gap between worlds, the crimson monster in chains snarling in bitter agreement.

There were...things, in the air.

Black and purple motes of light, seething and twisted with a horrific sense of wrongness. They simply hung there burning with a mindless sense of malevolence...until, with a sense of grim certainty, the Shooter raised her cannon and blew another scrap body apart, revealing for an instant the purple flame at the core of it. The purple-black energy flared and died, destroyed by her attack, the remains of the body clattering to the metal floor...and another flame darted into it. Another flicker of that eerie light, and the ruined shell began to pick itself up again.

"Those are the real enemies, aren't they..." Celtis spoke worriedly. "They only exist over on the immaterial side of reality...so they have to possess those bodies to interact with our side?"

The pale girl in black nodded. Like restless spirits, these peculiar things seemed untouchable and equally ineffectual on the side of reality, needing a physical shell to affect anything. Despite that, their ability to reanimate even the most ruined of frames was quite formidable.

As they were, however, they seemed incapable of interfacing with anything more complicated than empty husks. Reaching out, she effortlessly crushed one of the violet sparks in her grip, coolly noting the faint scent of corruption and rot that lingered in the dying motes of light, an unpleasant shiver running through her for a moment, before a growl of enjoyment from Model O quickly removed it, the fragmented Biometal clearly feeding on the stuff as it purged it from her system.

So then...

The cannon snapped up, blue fire shredding the dark lights in the air.

Every time she destroyed one of the bodies, she simply destroyed the thing inside them, the spark that powered them...and another would replace it.

Thus, the alternative was to simply destroy the violet flares themselves. Unfortunately, it seemed like the peculiar entities were coming from the direction of her current objective.

Celtis groaned as she felt the Shooter gathering her strength again.

"Any normal person would be going the other way now, but nooooooooo..."

As the BRS kicked off the ceiling, once more a whirling dervish of black metal death and scorching blue fire, Model O simply laughed and laughed and laughed...

Twisting as the walls of the saloon exploded around him, Craft grunted and brought his weight down on Baranbull's neck, redirecting the force of the enraged Mutos downwards. Horns ripping out a massive trench of broken asphalt as the bull continued to push him back, the commando dug his heels in and slammed Baranbull down facefirst into the floor, horns sinking up to the hilt and juddering to an instant halt.

Even as the mobster let out a yowl of shock, already beginning to flip forward under the sudden deceleration, Craft released his headlock. As the hulking mobster's horns tore free of the ground in mid pinwheel, the commando whirled around, his left knee coming up with a pneumatic hiss as the knee plating retracted.

The muzzle of the built in grenade launcher slammed straight into Baranbull's ample gut, driving the air from his lungs in an explosive wheeze.

"Concussion." Craft gritted.

The pointblank detonation blew both of them in opposite directions, hurling Baranbull away in a graceless arc that sent him plowing head over heels across the road as the concussive grenade cracked the air with invisible force.

Landing hard on his back, Craft hit the floor and rolled back to his feet, cloak billowing.

"You...bastard...!"

Raising an eyebrow, the Security commando watched Baranbull claw his way unsteadily back to his feet. The jet-powered crash had done the mobster's powered exoskeleton no good, his stretched suit hanging in tatters on the mangled frame, sparks and steam venting from breaches. One horn was gone, taking away a good portion of the metal skull as well, and the other was chipped.

Despite that, Craft knew that the damage was mostly superficial, as powered shells like this one were designed to take a pounding. Bringing Neige up as Baranbull's exhausts flared again, he readied himself for another round-

And blinked into surprise as a form hurtled out of the doorway behind the mobster, cannoning into him with enough force to send him stumbling.

"WHO THE FUCK-?!"

Craft forgotten in his rage, Baranbull whirled on the newcomer, a small man in office clothes, pale and nearly gibbering in terror.

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE?!"

"No-one! I'm no-one!" the man screamed, "I don't know anything, I just did what I was paid to do! Leave me alone! Run! I have to get out of here!"

"Oh, you're not going ANYWHERE, pal...!" One of the mobster's massive hands closed on the front of his shirt. "Do you have ANY idea who I am, you disrespectful little shit?!"

Strangely, the man started to laugh, a high pitched sobbing sound.

"No...no I don't...and it's too late now...!"

"What the hell are you-" But Craft's bionic eye had already seen the massive energy surge coming from the buildings on Baranbull's side of the street, and was already diving for cover when the explosion went off.

The entire building, an old apartment complex by the looks of it, simply ceased to exist, a towering column of flame blasting into the sky as all four walls blew out. The ferocity of the blast hurled the unfortunate mobster back across the street, and clear through the front and back walls of the Black Saloon, shockwaves setting off car alarms and breaking windows for a kilometer in every direction.

As the quaking earth subsided beneath him, Craft cautiously raised his head again, ignoring the pattering bits of gravel still raining down around him.

Surprisingly, the stranger was still in one piece.

...well, except for the six foot long iron rod pinning his thigh to the concrete.

Craft raised an eyebrow as he realized that, despite the grievous wound, the man seemed uncaring of it, instead focusing his attention solely on madly trying to rip his leg free, clawing at the bent, sizzling metal with panic-stricken sobs.

Eyes narrowing, the commando shrugged off the dust, rising slowly to his feet. Even before the explosion, there had been something wrong with the man, but now he was beginning to realize how badly shaken this newcomer was. Add to that the explosion, characteristic of deliberately planted and carefully calibrated high explosives, and he was beginning to get the feeling that something else was going on here.

And then...

"A self-destruct mechanism. How utterly cliché."

The voice was dry in tone, but empty of compassion. At the sound of it, the man's whimpering intensified, his frantic attempts to get free redoubling. Rubble crunching underfoot, heavy, armored boots rang through the burning wreck, advancing at a slow, unhurried pace.

"I will admit, I hadn't expected it from a facility in the middle of a residential area..."

The rubble filled doorway blew out in a cloud of fire and ash as a tremendous force struck it.

"But your boss, the esteemed doctor, has never really cared much for collateral, has he."

His civilian garb still burning in places, the last True Maverick, and leader of Unit V, Vile stalked out of the ruin, his fists clenched.

"I don't know anything else! I swear!" The man screeched. "I told you everything I-AAAAAAAAGH!"

His voice broke off in a scream as the True Maverick slammed a boot down on the rod in his thigh, effortlessly driving it deeper into the ground beneath.

"You probably did." Vile continued, his tone conversational, "But considering what I saw in that hellhole your employer was running inside that place, I think you'll forgive me for perhaps being a bit more...thorough."

There was a click and a whine of powercells charging.

"...Craft."

"Vile." The commando nodded, Neige resting casually across his body and aimed pointblank at the True Maverick's skull. "I believe I would like to hear some answers as well."

"...and I'm fairly certain I know all the questions." Vile replied dryly.

Ignoring the struggling figure beneath him, the single red eye gave the commando a weary look.

"I see Baranbull wasn't enough to keep you busy."

Craft's eyes narrowed.

"What do you...?"

As the sound of rubble crunching behind him reached his ears, the older Reploid's shoulders slumped in realization.

"...of course. You knew I frequented the place, and you set up Rika here to rile up the local muscle, with the goal of dragging me into a fight long enough to let you get in and out of that place."

"Right on all counts." Vile smiled humorlessly, "Save for the fact that I hadn't counted on such a...flashy counterpoint from my target, and of course, the identity of the person who started the fight."

Blinking in surprise, Craft turned to find, of all people, Pandora shaking her green hair out as she loosened the coat she was wearing. Seeing the disbelieving look he was giving her, she gave a sheepish smile.

"I...thought I should start...earning my keep..."

Craft wordlessly looked back at Vile, who shrugged.

"She and Rika were most insistent."

As the man on the ground moaned again, Craft sighed.

"Who is he?"

"Smythetech accountant." Vile replied. "Smythe's right hand man, or as close as a snake like that is ever likely to have...keeps the books clean, and the dirty stuff out of sight. This snivelling little coward knows where all the bodies are buried, and has been responsible for his fair share of them as well."

His tone turned brittle.

"And considering Smythe's premier line of work, you don't want to know about the bodies that aren't in the ground yet."

Reaching down, Vile's hand slammed shut around the man's throat, hauling him into the air as the metal tore free of his leg with a sickening sound.

"There are over thirty corpses in the wreckage behind me...and most of them are probably enjoying the peace now, compared to what this little bastard and his employer were up to."

Vile's gaze was murderous, a cold fury that cut deeper than any fiery rage.

"I'll ask you one more time...Where. Is. SMYTHE?!"

The captive man jerked and twitched suddenly, horrific crackling sounds coming from his body, his voice nothing but insensible gurgling.

The True Maverick's eye narrowed, feeling the contortions and spasms that racked the man's body. Nearby, Craft took several steps back, pushing a reluctaant Pandora behind him as he went.

Finally, the movement stopped, the man hanging deathly still in Vile's grip.

"...where is Smythe, hmmmm?" A new voice spoke, mocking and gleeful.

The man's head snapped forward, his face slack, save for the inhumanly cold and cruel intelligence that gleefully stared back at Vile through the burning, purple-black flames that had begun to devour his prisoner from the inside out.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

And then his prisoner exploded, the cruel smile vanishing amidst the blood and gore of the Smythetech lieutenant's shattered corpse.

A/N: SURPRISE!

GUESS WHO'S NOT DEAD!

However, don't get your hopes up too high regarding a regular update schedule. Henceforth I will be marking the Chronicles as 'complete' due to the fact that it is proving extremely difficult to update it at all. In the event of a new chapter, I'll post it here, but for now I think the ride is at an end. It's unfortunate, consider the amount of background work and set up I did, only for it to peter out at this point...but it's not really something I can change. Considering the overwhelming chapter length for the Chronicles, writing one of these takes a lot more time than it used to. So while I COULD push myself, I find the quality comes out significantly better if I do it on my own time. Considering my recent graduation, and the fact that I may be starting work soon, such a writing procedure may actually fit better, since god knows what my schedule will look like.

But even I will admit, I was not prepared for the level of support the Chronicles have gathered. Even though it hasn't updated in half a year at least, every week I'm still astounded to find new people appearing to review and favorite it, starting the path many of you have already been walking along since this was just a random, crazy little story idea posted by a kid in his last years of high school five or six years ago.

The Chronicles have gone on to garner a fan following the likes of which I could never have dreamed of, appearing on TvTropes, artwork appearing on DeviantArt, a veritable legion of reviewers and watchers on FFnet, and even reaching as far as the infamous Spacebattles, with one fan actually putting together an audio drama script for it!

Not to mention there have been dozens of you messaging me, asking about the status of the Chronicles, when the next chapter will come out, and so forth. Things like this are what brought me back here, to put together this chapter, and to reassure all of you that the tale of the God of Destruction is far from dead.

Progress might be slow, as I continue to struggle with RL stuff, especially now that I've escaped the hellhole of the university, and I will also be continuing Armored Gensokyo, the tale of another badass who deserved more screentime, and even plan to reactivate the DA-exclusive fic 'Man in The Dark', for my Zero no Tsukaima fix.

Admittedly, I did consider starting this chapter in a brand new fic, like the Omega Chronicles, Part 2, or something...

But then I figured, what the hell, we've made it this far already, I think we can keep right on going, hey?

If any of you have an opinion on whether or not to start anew, just add it to your reviews and other comments. Depending on what you guys say, I might just do it anyway.

On the subject of fan opinion, though, I'd also like to ask if you guys think I should start copying the Chronicles over to DeviantArt as well, just to, you know, let it show up on the radar for people who don't use FFnet as much.

So between those two questions, and the no doubt explosive response from you guys on seeing the Chronicles updating at last, not to mention your own thoughts on the RADICAL bit of revelation I dropped in here with the Wise Men scandal, I think you'll all have a lot to comment on.

...at the very least, it'll answer one question you've all been asking: Do the Chronicles take into account the secret ending of Advent? After reading this, I think many of you will have a sneaking suspicion regarding the answer to that.

So to all of you who stuck with me this far, and kept up the encouragement and the anticipation...thank you very much.