Alongside the other Houses that took part in the Panoply Of Daemons, House Vermillion and all its subjects shall be stripped of their ranks and titles. No longer do they have the right to any of the resources and benefits that befit a House or a Prime Citizen.


    That night, we lost not just several Houses. We lost the Drowned Dragon and all his wisdom. Such is an irredeemable sin.


    They are nothing but insignificant trash, with the crumbs left alive by their Head''s sacrifice.


    <ul>


    <li>


    The condemnation of House Vermillion, Year 3969, January 1st.


    </li>


    </ul>


    A ball bounced against a cracked stone wall that hid steel beneath it—once, twice, then thrice, over and over, endlessly in the dimness. With no lights and no sense of time, a man tossed a once-white, worn-out ball stitched with red leather. It was his only amusement source in his cell’s black void.


    That, and the other inmates beyond the steel walls.


    If one could see his looks, they would be in awe. And lost in terror. His rippling muscles and fangs protruding from his lips marked him as something more than human, despite his resemblance to the foul beings. Even seated, his massive frame rivaled the standing height of the lanky Dilek on the other side of the wall.


    This man was a living weapon sculpted by genetics, chemicals, and brutal experience. Compared to the malnourished teen behind the wall at his back, the scarred giant seemed completely disparate. Yet here, in isolation, both had to fend off the crushing loneliness.


    After all, it had been the man’s choice to come here.


    “Psst. Lucius. You awake?” the young man’s voice was scratchy, carried through a tiny, handmade device. It vibrated the wall, the only way he could speak to the mountain of muscle mere feet away.


    Lucius tapped his index finger against the wall, communicating the only way he could now. Thankfully, the young man, too, knew countless hidden codes.


    With such a disability, it took a great deal of time for him to spell it all out through the simple vibrations, “Yes, Arch. Get some rest. Soon, we will be let out into general pop. There… I can’t always protect you in here.”


    Seconds of silence lingered while the young man scrambled to get his device working. He returned it to the wall, bearing his concerns to the only person he could trust, “But... Lucius. My execution. It’s coming up. I don’t know what to do. I... I don’t want to die. I haven’t seen a particle accelerator! I haven’t... I haven’t built my starship from scratch! I haven’t seen a black hole! I... I’m scared.”


    Lucius released a long sigh from his chest. The man had witnessed many die. Many. It never got easier. Every night, he dreamt of those he’d lost. Still… in this cell… there was nothing he could do.


    And it was going to happen again with Archimedes if Lucius didn’t do something. Just a boy. He was just a boy. Typically, Arch couldn’t even speak to others, let alone Lucius, but right now, he could bear his heart without his awful stammer. At least, less of it than usual. That meant more than most could realize.


    Lucius might be a Martian, engineered for warfare and feared across the stars, but he was still just one man. If given enough time, he could break out of these chains and escape this prison. Breaking things and killing those in his way was what he was trained to do.


    However, this time was an exception.


    Three hundred years, he had wandered the stars, and only now had his hair began to gray. Before he responded to Archimedes, Lucius ran his fingers through the greasy strands. The boy reminded him of Zachariah, his son.


    Oh, how Lucius wished he could cry. But no—the Wheel of Floods had stolen that from him long ago.


    This boy, too, was destined to die. There was nothing that Lucius could do. He was helpless beyond what he had already done, saving him twice from assassination attempts. Archimedes Pythagoras Isaac was too gifted for his own good. Too manipulated. Too… na?ve.


    A prodigy in fields that outshone even the greats, doomed to die in this lightless pit. Why? Why would he die? Because the stars had no mercy.


    Lucius gripped his hair, pulling with the strength only a Martian could muster. Pain shot through him, but it didn’t matter. Gasping, he released his hold.


    Born poor as shit. Forced to do countless crimes and passed around like a tool. Betrayed by those who vowed to shield him as a scapegoat. How could Arch not know? The only thing promised in these stars is that promises will be broken.


    But he didn’t. The boy was still pure. To Lucius, that meant everything, and then some.


    After an entire minute of indecision, the Martian spoke with candor, “I know, son. I know you’re terrified. As am I. My execution is soon after yours. There is much I wish to do, too.”


    Regret sat heavy in both their hearts as they wasted away in Lightjar, each for their own crimes. One received a quick death sentence for destroying millions of credits, while the other was condemned to a slow and agonizing end for an incomplete revenge.


    Archimedes shuffled in his dark cell, scratching at his skin, leaving four perfect lines on each arm—he couldn’t stand the imbalance if he only did it to one.


    No one knew how old the boy really was, somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. All anyone knew was that he was special, for even his race was vague from the malnutrition and faded scars. Unfortunately, he was not irregular enough to escape his fate.


    He stared down at the gadget in his hands, the device he cobbled together with the few pieces of tech he had hidden under his tongue and inside his ears before Lucius killed six prisoners to protect him.


    The piece was pitiful, forged from an electric toothbrush tossed into the trashcan and the microphone ripped out of a stand. Nevertheless, it was his, and as such, he grasped it with all his meager strength. He had few things. As such, he savored them until they were gone.


    Recalling the murders made Archimedes shiver. He could still feel the blood splattering across his face. The boy wiped at it compulsively despite nothing being there. Then he did it thrice more on the other side of his cheek.


    The cold, lifeless bodies. Isaac didn’t want to end up like them. Like all the people he’s seen die around him. Both men had graveyards of corpses left in their wakes; the only difference was that one had dug them himself.


    The strength of their wills revealed themselves as API hid in the corner of his undersized room. Trembling of a cold that had seeped into his bones, the young bones whimpered away to fitful slumber.


    Lucius, however, restored the throwing of his baseball. He would never lose it. The baseball was the only remnant of his childhood, of the labs that believed the Imperator hid in some unknown hole to return with glory. But more than that—it had also been his son’s favorite toy. Lucius had passed it down to his son, yet it had returned to him, stained with vermillion.


    Still, after only three tosses, he ceased, shifting the creases in his hand to peer at the intensely faded signature on the object. His thoughts fell to it, allowing him a momentary escape from the dingy hole.


    Babe Ruth. She must have been important in the past. Hmm… I could sit here. It would be so easy. I already have killed most of them. I could rest and take that holiday Kara always asked me for. Tour after tour, I had no choice but to provide for them how I did. I could never stop fighting. If only… I was there that day…This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    With a tight grip on the ball, the rough leather creaked under his palm. His eyes scanned the seams as if searching for an answer.


    Though, there was none. Only the shadows of his son lingered.


    That boy was hardly any older than the crying child locked away a handful of feet away. The realization brought Lucius’ teeth together with a grinding ache.


    His lips didn’t move in prayer—they hadn’t since that night—but they whispered a promise. No matter how hollow it felt to speak, “I’ll get you out, Arch. Of it all. The crime. The blood… Everything. I promise. You can take that vacation for me.”


    The Lucius stood to his full height, walking toward the lead door of his solitary confinement. His eyebrows sat at the height of the doorframe, so he had to squat to see through the tiny window out into the featureless hallway.


    Perfect alabaster teeth shined through the grate as Lucius stowed the ball. He had given up. Months ago was the last time he gazed further than his destined death. However, while he was ready for death, death was not ready for him.


    The Martian still had some life left in him yet.


    <hr>


    At the corner of 867th Street by Malcome’s Usury And Loans, the tall form of a scarlet-skinned Araki beamed just a scarce few feet from the double glass doors of the opulent bank. He stood within the dimness of an alley, hidden from sight while he admired the gem-lined windows reflecting the light of day and observed the suited patrons moving in and out with an air of wealth.


    Rejo glanced at the two beside him, the Surgeon Of Monsters herself and the paradoxical coward. He considered saying something encouraging, but soon thought better of it. Dante alone understood most of his words, anyway. To most, it was hard to comprehend half a sentence, let alone something such as inspiration.


    Joan was smart enough to pick up on a few hints, but still… Rejo often felt alone. Surrounded by people, yet isolated.


    Not too different from home.


    A mask slid over Rejo Avan Reiche Teiane Loupel’s face, tickling the tendrils that typically hide his mouth. Dante once told him he looked like the old monster that used to terrorize his people, the Predator. Every day, Rejo wore that memory with pride.


    With the mask on, an old-fashioned rifle in his palms, and a target to strike, he felt like one. Rejo cocked his weapon, making sure the shells it would fire were primed, and removed the safety. To him, this beat digging trenches and planting seeds any day.


    It got his blood running, and more than that... he was helping his captain toward their inevitable payday.


    Beside him, Sonna inhaled a long breath as Joan did the unthinkable. She turned to Sonna with a mischievous smile and asked, “Why don’t you take the lead? I tend to get... distracted when blood emerges. Plus, Rejo is... unpredictable. Don’t you want to prove yourself?”


    Joan’s offer came so casually that it stunned both of them. The idea of relinquishing control or authority was foreign, especially to Rejo. It felt wrong, even treacherous. Nonetheless, Joan seemed to give it away effortlessly, almost tauntingly, toward Sonna. She slipped on a new mask, her features morphing into those of a younger woman with smooth violet skin. Still, it could not hide her extra arms or eyes.


    Sonna hesitated, her tiny hands clenched into fists. Rejo saw her uncertainty and the fear that crept into her body language. It was something he loathed—a cowardice that reminded him too much of his own people’s subservient nature.


    A moment later, however, Sonna straightened her back, meeting Rejo’s gaze before speaking with newfound resolve, “Fine. It won’t be much of a problem. I’ve led bigger operations before. We’ll do this right and do it good. Get some extra money in the process from the insurance companies.”


    Her words were sharp, and a thin smirk played on her lips. It wasn’t the most confident smile, but it was something. Joan grinned beneath her mask of flesh, and even Rejo couldn’t help but feel a spark of amusement. The insurance companies—those fat, greedy establishments—deserved to be robbed.


    “Right then,” Sonna continued, her voice steadying. “Rejo, you’re up. Let’s get this show on the street.”


    Rejo’s heart thumped loudly in his chest. He resisted the urge to correct her phrase, knowing Dante hated it when people butchered his language. However, he didn’t utter a damn word, for this wasn’t the time or place for corrections. His focus narrowed as he adjusted the grip on his rifle. The air inside the bank smelled of cold, sterile wealth. Everything glittered with gold and polished stone.


    To Rejo, it was something abominable, but also something he ironically wished to experience. The lavish interior distracted him for only a fraction of a second before his attention slid between the quiet murmur of patrons going about their business.


    Orderly like the trained soldier he was, Rejo went first and took aim with a shake of his arms. He fired rounds of his revolving rifle into the four guards at the front. They fell into a heap as their energy shields shattered with a brilliant flash. The shields saved their lives, but Rejo carried bullets specifically to incapacitate such things.


    Dante wouldn’t tolerate murder, not here, not yet. He didn’t want the heat.


    Rejo then sprinted forward, switching the rounds from lead to tranquilizer with a spin of the cylinder on his gun to avoid being charged with murder. Different grades of crimes result in various tiers of response. A bank robbery qualified them for Lake-level responses. Several murders, however, would put them square in the Sea-level.


    The Araki moved with practiced precision, efficiently knocking the guards unconscious with the sedatives before they could react. Rejo wasn’t the most skilled marksman, but on a random bank such as this, he was unlikely to find a master of any kind.


    Furthermore, Joan was with him, flinging out needles with her impossibly agile fingers, which pierced through the shields meant only to intercept high-velocity projectiles. Sonna watched it all, strolling behind them and keeping an eye out for anything unexpected.


    Bodies collapsed onto the plush, ornate carpet that lined the floor with at most a low groan. Rejo ignored the finery, keeping his eyes on the gem-encrusted staircases to either side of the main lobby. The patrons had begun to scream, the sound filling the air like a cacophony of fear. Rejo tuned it out, his focus dead set on watching for more guards.


    Sonna moved to the front as she spoke, her voice shaking but steady enough to make demands, “All the CCs. Now. Open the vaults.”


    The employees, frozen in shock, hurried to comply. Hands shaking, they began opening secure drawers and safes. The CCs—Credit Chips—were the only currency that mattered out here in the Wings. Sonna collected them with a stern readiness, her nervousness fading with each passing second. She was finding her rhythm.


    Rejo didn’t bother listening to her words. His attention instead fixed on the growing tension outside. The distant wail of police sirens echoed through the streets, their flashing lights casting eerie shadows through the bank’s windows.


    With his eyes hooked on the rail of his rifle, he waited calmly and prepared to do what it took to complete Dante’s plan.


    Their escape plan was plain yet precise, carried out through Joan’s Biotics. Rejo had heard much of the doctor’s tonics, and today, he would finally get his chance to try one. Glancing over, the Araki found Joan setting fire to the building.


    She worked with a surgeon’s apathy, using some chemical concoction from her bag that ate through wood, steel, and marble alike. The flames spread like a tsunami, licking up the walls with a hungry fervor.


    A shiver ran down Rejo’s spine. He didn’t trust Joan. Countless stories and rumors surrounded her. None were good. But Dante said she would help. So he believed it. The Araki shoved down the unease, placing his faith in the human who had never failed him.


    More guards appeared, and Rejo reacted without thinking. He fired tranquilizer rounds with practiced ease, taking out six more before they could shoot Joan. His own shield took two hits before faltering, leaving him with no more protection until it regenerated.


    Of course, his shield was expensive because of his line of work, but it wasn’t perfect. Such things worked only on high-velocity projectiles or energies. As such, he had to keep his ears open in case of an ambush. One knife to the neck would slay him like any other.


    Thankfully, no one and nothing came to attack him, even as the fires spread and the smoke wafted into the building. Sonna herded the people out of the bank, with them stumbling through the growing smoke. The woman was efficient, managing the chaos with surprising control as she collected the last of the CCs.


    Rejo stood near the entrance but out of sight from the windows, his eyes scanning for threats, “What now?” he asked, his voice low but urgent. “We’re out of hostages. There have to be forty officers out there. We can’t fight through that. Is it time?”


    Sonna’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, it looked like she didn’t know what to say. Yet Joan saved her the trouble. The surgeon grinned, her voice lilting with mischief as she spoke, “That’s fine. I have a little surprise for them.”


    Rejo felt his stomach curdle at her words. He knew Joan’s reputation. She was dangerous, unpredictable—a walking nightmare. He took a step back, his instinctive fear overriding his bravado. Whatever Joan had planned, it wouldn’t end well.


    “No! You will not deliver them some monster or inferno,” Sonna stated with a raised hand. She desired no more bloodshed. “No one will die today. Well, no one but that prisoner. He deserves it, though.”


    The muscle of the group watched as Joan’s expression soured, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she shrugged and stepped back, letting Sonna take charge once more.


    “Well, then, missy, what do you propose? An Old One won’t save your hide this time,” the surgeon asked as she placed her hands on her hips, staring right at Sonna.


    Despite Joan’s possible truth, Sonna glanced at Rejo. Her hopes rested entirely on him as she gazed up at him with little puppy-dog eyes, saying, “Rejo. Please. Use your Stigma, or your Tide. It’ll make them retreat. Police aren’t equipped or allowed to handle Seafarers.”


    Rejo’s heart skipped a beat at the mere words said. The request... it felt like something had stirred inside him. Something dark and ancient. He wanted to deny it, to refuse outright, but a part of him couldn’t resist. Not that he would, for it was the leader that had told him. He followed orders. Yet…


    It wasn’t even his choice, for a pain emerged in lowers. With a sinking hand to his navel, Rejo gripped his flesh achingly as agony ensued.


    Something deep within him stirred. The moment it rumbled, the police outside grew more aggressive, shouting with their megaphones, “Exit the building slowly! Hands up! Weapons down!”


    Crime was one of the few ways one could survive if they weren’t born into a wealthy family, so Rejo had heard those words before, but never had they warped into a warbled, buzzing tone.


    He didn’t know what it was, but it felt like something was waving at him from the shadows of his soul.


    And he waved back.


    In that instant, a ripple passed through the air, and Rejo felt it. It wasn’t visible to the naked eye, but he could feel the shift as some power awoke. A second later, there were two of bodies. Unlike Dante’s shade, however, this was not another Rejo or some Araki he may have known. This was its own creature, more terrifying than his imagination.


    It was at that very instant that Rejo understood Sonna’s caution. His fury lit aflame as he realized just how foolish she was.


    Joan should have done her trick!


    With one final thought, Rejo collapsed, his strength drained in an instant. Sonna caught his heavy body as he crumpled to the ground, though she struggled to support him. Her focus lay not on the man in her arms, however. It was upon a sole, towering figure within the bank’s hall.


    It held no mercy as it spoke with simple, short words that distorted space, “Thank you for the transport. Goodbye, and merry deaths to you all.”


    The figure’s face and body perverted from a faceless and featureless humanoid to bearing millions of tiny, shifting whole black dots that caved into nothingness. The shift transpired in less than a second. None could react. All were frozen by the snowflakes that flickered off the creature’s skin.


    It raised a hand as if to strike out at Rejo, but a sudden handgun placed against its skull stopped it.


    Handgun, however, was an incorrect term. The firearm fallen to this unknown being’s head was enormous. The barrel alone would fit a baby’s head, and the one wielding it was a well-dressed man, wafting with confidence.


    A badge adorned his chest pocket, featuring a tree and revolver in a twisting balance.


    The proof of a Judge.


    Rejo’s mind spun in panic while he was powerless to move. Sonna dragged his limp form backward, closer to the fire, as he couldn’t understand why a Judge was there since it was only a small-time robbery. His brain couldn’t comprehend it, so he could only wheeze out a curse to Sonna, “Cowardly ''itch...”


    Fortune smiled upon the Araki as the Judge assuaged his worries with his grave tone, saying, “I knew I sensed an Anachronism out and about. I could smell you the instant you entered these skies. Here’s the deal. You surrender, and I find someone to tame you. You fight, and I’ll turn you into a fresh coat.”


    The fire burning behind Rejo seemed to snuff out with the Judge’s words. He didn’t care about the robbery. After all, his job didn’t deal with commoners. Instead, his fixation hedged onto the Dirge that had awakened inside Rejo.


    The warbling monster—the Anachronism—turned to face the Judge and snarled through a fabricated nose, stating, “I will not be tamed. I am—”


    “Shut it,” the Judge snapped, cutting the creature off mid-sentence. “No one cares who you are or what pit you crawled out of, Seablessed. Your funeral. My coat.”


    A moment after the Judge’s words ended, Rejo felt something transition in the air. Space seemed to shift as the bullet left the cannon’s chamber and approached the skull of the Anachronism. Then, some sort of aura detonated from the impossible being’s figure, and the Lightsea fell unto reality.