There's an exquisiteness to a good aged cigar that can't be matched. It's an artform lost and found again over the course of the past thousand years, but the new ones these days aren't quite the same. It's one of Doran's few vices and hobbies, starting a collection for himself of cigars gathered all across the modern world. While it can't compare to what his father had as Prime Minister, he does think he's making good progress.
But for an occasion like this, he's pulled something out of his old man's stock; a dozen pre-Cataclysm Cuban cigars, preserved via stasis. A gift from the Atlantic Empire's former Governor of Cuba. From what he could remember, that man had taste. Shame he'd chosen to flee to the bunker in Romanche instead of somewhere more reasonable.
"Not using a lighter, Ares?" He ignores the teasing of the philistine seated next to him even as she ruins his contribution to the occasion by using a common lighter. Doran inches away from Athena as she rolls her eyes when he pulls out a match box.
Yes, it was truly an occasion worth celebrating. The first gathering of Olympus since they had reawakened in full. There were twelve of them in total seated in an observation deck, not counting the Old Man who's standing, within one of their most secure sites, surrounded by dozens of faceless mindless guards and monitors alike.
"Ares. Athena. Cease your prattle. The Selection is starting." The harsh mechanical voice of Hera silences the two of them as the sounds of whirring gates and lifts signals the approaching start of the Selection. Athena glares hatefully at their superior before settling down herself. Doran sighs, turning his attention back to the still empty arena below.
Beneath the observation deck was a facsimile of the old Coliseum in Rome, only steel instead of marble and with a digital mirage of the sky above them all. The sound of grinding gears finally comes to an end, replaced by the noise of slowly opening heavy metal doors. Twelve, for each master of Olympus and each pillar of the true Cradle.
From the gates emerge the competitors, three from each of the twelve entrances; armed in newly manufactured ZB-Types, each prepared to maul one another and delightfully color-coded so it's easier to remember which fighter is which.
Some were colored differently from others, ZB's in pure black were recently defrosted veterans and shocktroopers of the old War. A good way for them to shake off the rust of cryosleep. He watches one weave and dodge away from another rifle fire, turning around just in time to have its beam saber jab backwards to gore the grey ZB that had tried to ambush it from behind.
Athena cackles as another of their coterie in Olympus, Hermes clicks her tongue in irritation. The indignity of First Blood. Well now he knows who'll have to break the bad news to the Old Man.
Those in various shades of grey were piloted by flash cloned experiments. Minimum Pilots that had lasted through the wringer of their operations for the past year, new freakshows to be tried and tested in live combat and all around fodder for the bloodbath below. Of the casualties among the tested so far, all but one were of this stock.
Which brings Doran's attention to the star of the show, dancing around the arena grace unexpected from its lineage was a black and gold ZB armed with a beam naginata. The suit activates its thrusters, leaping over a grey ZB before landing behind the suit, and impaling it, barely missing the reactor. With a heavy heave and the sound of straining metal, the ZB throws the impaled suit at another, this one painted green and white. The thrown suit slams into them before detonating as the black and gold ZB fires at the former's exposed reactor.
The explosion rocks the arena, briefly interrupting the myriad of duels and murders occurring across it; it wasn't long before the various ZB's returned to what they'd been doing prior. The black and gold one, speeding off to murder another poor victim.
"Impressive what you've accomplished with Bradamante. Though it remains a shame that we were unable to retrieve the Princess herself." A deep, arrogant voice interjects. And of course, Zeus won't praise without including one of his classic barbs. Doran keeps his face calm and placid, the only evidence of his irritation being in the whirring of gears in his fist.
He keeps attention down below, focused only on the fighters, Bradamante's black and gold ZB, continuing to cut a bloody swath through the competition.
The last category of the contestants; the new Earthians. Strays plucked up all across the planet by their agents, either specific targets for induction or just opportune recruitments. Die-hard Scandinavian Vangists, Jaburian Exiles, Asian Royalists, South Sea Merchants, Siberian Anarchists. A bizarre coterie of the scraps they could gather. Athena apparently even found a Nusantaran Royal of all things. Each of their ZB's were painted in what personalized livery the Organization associated with them.
Despite the farce of weeding out the chaff, the Foundation's veterans have the clear advantage in the battle. The flash clones and bio-constructs serve as mere fodder to chip away at the Earthians. This is the latters test to survive.
Though as Bradamante bisects another suit, this one colored a sandy brown, some of them performed better than others. Only thirty remain. It was a chaotic brawl, impromptu alliances made and discarded in a matter of minutes, both sides turning on one another as they battled for their right to live.
"Zola. Begin the report." Hermes flinches as the Old Man uses her real name to address her. Doran buries the urge to wince openly, once the Old Man of Black Cradle starts talking, you do not interrupt nor do you distract him.
Hermes rises to stand, giving a low bow as the old and utterly fuckin ancient visage turns towards her. The Head Sage of the Research Department is a small mousey thing, one could almost forget that she tears open guts and skins people for a living.
"The last of what we could salvage from THANATOS discreetly has been transferred to Sites Laconia and Pontus, any further would necessitate open long term excavation of the ruins. The most intact of them have been included among the Selection." Doran's fist involuntarily clenches, memories of that apocalyptic battle over the skies of Oakland fresh in his memories as if it'd been yesterday.
While ATLAS was where the Foundation had charted the purification of the Mother Planet, it was the foundries and auto factories at THANATOS that had made their dreams even possible. Responsible for nearly a quarter of Apocalypse Machines constructed in the conflict, it had been the arsenal of the Space
noid's doom.
Doran closes his eyes, the blinding searing light of a sun descending on the world, remaining vivid even with distance. The overwhelming heat, the feeling of boiling in his cockpit, nerves catching on fire, his screams cut off as the smoke of his burning flesh filled his lungs. The full unadulterated wrath of all twelve Inorganic Angels. A force mighty enough to devour the entire facility whole, cracking the planet's crust, proving that when it comes to the rape and destruction of Earth, the Spacenoid will always find a way to surpass itself.
Zeus raises his hand, a small nod from the Old Man giving him permission to speak and interject.
"I'm assuming no intact psy-cores were found?" Hermes glowers at him, before shaking her head. An Apocalypse Machine without a Psycore is just an A-Type. Powerful, but not enough to fulfill their needs.
"The Tomb of Kings will provide in that department. Increase focus on searching its location. We must find it before the Zodoists or the Angels." There was an irritated edge in the Old Man's voice, disappearing as quickly as it appeared.
The sound of another explosion diverts the room's attention back to the battle below. Only two dozen combatants remain. All six of the Foundation veterans remain alive cooperating openly against the flash clones and the Earthians alike. Only a handful of the former remained, a far cry from the eighteen they'd started with. Of the latter ten still remain, down two from where they'd started.
"Speaking of the Zodoists, Athena, report on the Australian situation." The Old Man waves his hand dismissing Hermes without even a word. It's Athena's turn to stand and bow, doing so in a much more graceful manner than Hermes could achieve.
"Gold and Red are taking the matter seriously at least. The Void Angels are deploying in force along with the various puppets, proxies and splinters of Therymscri. As instructed, a response force has been prepared in case the Spacenoids inevitably fail in preventing the Death Force from reaching the coast. None shall sully the planet under our aegis." Doran rolls his eyes at Athena's flourishes, he'd been the one to scrounge up the task force. He'd have scoffed if not for the fact the Old Man's attention was on him.
The master and founder of Black Cradle stares at the Son of the Federation's foremost family. He stares into the deadened eyes of the former. At the Titan's cold gaze, he flinches. It's Doran that looks away first, a light chuckle sounding like death emerges from the Old Man's mouth.
"Excellent work, you two. Status in Africa." He tries to keep the smug look of his face as Athena glares at him as she sits down. A look from Hera prevents the latter from saying or doing anything stupid in the moment. He'll regret it later but for now he'll bask in the afterglow.
"A number of proxies and fronts have gone quiet, current working theory is that we're competing with the Zodoists in trying to scoop up unaffiliated assets. Though some of our primary ones remain, expansion has been moderately curtailed." Hera's report hides an irritation underneath the mechanical tone of the most machine among them. Though he's a little surprised that they've been conflicting that much with the old snakes.
"Unfortunate. Eschonbach, I believe you'd been assigned to help Hera in that continent?" The entire room's attention turns to Aphrodite, their head already bowed low in apology.
"This one had primarily made contacts among the financial elite of the West Africans, setting up informant networks and sources of income through investments and the occasional scam. Sincerest apologies if I had failed to support my peer adequately." This time Doran is unable to hide his disdain. They have enough gold to buy out entire states! Eschonbach's petty thievery is unneeded at best and a weakness at worst.
"Now now, Triangle. Let's hear what Eschonbach's new pets have to report." Another member of the twelve that had kept silent till then, Hespestaeus' tone was mocking, and even though Aprodite's face looked calm. Her psychic aura roiled in indignation.
"The squabbling between Ontario and Milan is likely to enter into a new stage. Talks of further ties between the Freeholds, Novgorod and the Divine Monarchy to contain the Europeans are being floated in certain circles." Doran groans in exhaustion, the Earthian right wing continuing to divide itself as the Seraphim puppets in Asia and North Africa continue to advance on all fronts. What had been an irritation is now growing to be a problem.
"That
is concerning. Though next time, Aphrodite, do cooperate with the others more. It hurts my old heart to see you younglings not get along." The Old Man smiles at Aphrodite, though it's one with a thinly veiled threat. The latter flinches and nods shakily before sitting back down. Pathetic.
"What of your end, Zeus?" The largest and tallest amongst their ranks, stands and gracefully bows to the Old Man before delivering their report.
"Contacts within the European courts and bourgeois class have reported on Paris and Milan's response to the overtures of Masada. Even with the Red's acquiescence to a peace, desperation and the Angel puppet in North Africa are pushing them to the asteroid's embrace." A low rumbling makes its way out of the Old Man's throat at Zeus' report. The former's grip on their walking cane tightens, biomechanical fingers tapping on the crooked acacia wood.
"Glaive. The immediate aftermath of the Neo-Zodo wars. The first of many of the Angel's proxies against the Zodoists and our discrete operations. Emerging fully formed from the aether? Absurd. Are the Angel's arrogant enough to think we won't remember their tricks? You know what needs to be done, Zeus." The brown noser bows low, muttering something about ensuring that there won't be a repeat of history.
There's a lull as the Old Man walks up to the wide screen monitors, showing the slaughter ongoing below. Only a dozen remain now. The last of the grey ZB's had long been wiped out. While a number of the Earthian ZB's have been destroyed, their pilots smeared on the arena floor, the black suits were increasingly in poor condition, missing arms, heads and even armor.
Of the remaining fighters, their suit's rifles and machine guns were beginning to run out empty. Stopping to scavenge from the fallen would open them up to attacks from the other side. The rest will have to be up close and personal.
"Hmm. You should really take the compliment, Ares. You've turned our consolation prize into something truly impressive. We could always dangle the promise of that Princess' rescue from some Angel black site over her. Though speaking of Princesses, how goes the Margraviate?" It was Doran's turn to report, he stands with no small amount of pride. The jealous glares of his lessers act as ambrosia for his ego.
He's careful to not mention how he'd barely done anything to actually recover Bradamante from her horrid condition in the aftermath of their augmentation. Though from the way the Old Man smiles at him, he likely suspects.
"With Bradamante's help, we've more or less recruited Condor in its entirety. About a fifth of the old agents are MIA, though they were the ones running around in Amazonia so they likely got melted by the Angels, so they're a write-off. But with what's left, we have eyes and ears all across Central America. Only some of them know who's paying their checks now though, keeping it vague on whether we're with the tin cans or with the Canucks. Current chatter claims—" An explosion cuts him off, he turns to the screen to see what caused it and he whistles. One of the vets went down. Tag teamed by Bradamante and a white and red ZB. If he remembers correctly, the latter's the Royal. That's worth keeping an eye on.
"Right, chatter claims that the Spacians might be plotting action in the continent. The mess on the Moon might've put a lid on that though." Doran nods his head to Hermes, who jolts back up at the attention returning to her. Never let it be said he doesn't know how to do a favor.
"Oh? This is the first I'm hearing of this. Come then Zola, tell us what you've found out."
"U-um, yes. Intercepted reports and communications from the Lunarri indicate that an unknown faction might've been using the Midori Factory in Luna to manufacture an army. Analysis indicates it might be—"
"No need. The Sons of Triton are on the move then." If ears didn't deceive him, there's almost a nostalgic tint to the Old Man's tone. As if he's glad another monster of the Cataclysm had made it out. "Good work, Hermes. Though I think it might be time to congratulate the victors of our Selection."
As if on cue, the lights all across the arena go red, a vast gravitational field activating. Set to activate when six combatants remain. The thirtieth and last kill hadn't come from a glorious melee or duel, but an ambush. One of the grey ZB's had been playing possum. Pretending to have been taken out and waiting for the opportune time to kill at the last moment. In this case the final casualty was a limping and crippled black ZB.
The final tally puts the survivors at three of the foundation's elite veterans, a humiliating defeat for all intents and purposes for them. Bradamante and the royal, the two ZB's back to back encircled by the black suits of their enemies. And finally their little survivor, Doran is almost impressed. Looks like one of Hermes' freaks actually turned out alright. The woman herself looked ecstatic that one of her experiments had survived.
With a clap, the gravity field dissipates, the screens surrounding the arena changing. Formerly showing a simulacra of the sky, now instead broadcasted a live feed of the Old Man and the other Olympians. There was a cruel smile on the Old Man's face.
"Impressive. Well and truly impressive. If you have survived until now, that means the Selection has come to an end. Those of you still standing, will now receive the privilege of gazing upon your destiny." The sound of shifting gears causes the artificial sky to open up. Descending from on high, were six suits.
"For some it is a continuation of the Old War. Soldiers cannot exist without one after all." Three A-Minors stand together in tandem, each modified for combat in land, sea and space. Planned Apocalypse Machines, though the situation had turned for the worse before they could be finalized and their Calamity psycores implanted. Until they could secure the Tomb of Kings, A-Minors is all they'll remain as.
"For some it is a chance to be something more, something greater than you had been designed for by a cruel uncaring god." It was not quite a full A-Type, but it was close. One of the last A-Minors produced, it was however more incomplete than its three other brethren. It had been hoped that once finished, it would be stronger than the Princess of Breath. Only the recent finds in THANATOS had allowed for the 'completion' of the machine. Though with no psycore, that remains doubtful.
"But for others, the greatest and most fundamental cause of our foundation calls to them. Vengeance." The last two suits were the strongest of the set. One was the Princess of Breath, a number of modifications and upgrades had been attached. The last of what they'd been able to salvage from THANATOS. He can already picture Bradmante scoffing, calling the entire battle a waste.
But it was the last suit that was the pièce de résistance. It was jagged and harsh, a singular color and barely even resembled an A-Type, more closely resembling a monster. But it was an A-Type. A full one. What could've been the masterpiece of THANATOS, something to surpass even the Turn Alpha or the King of Knive. The Emperor of Endings, it'd been mused. But the Angels had ended it before it could end them. Now only a scar remains on its chest where its psycore should be. The red and white ZB stared at it, as if entranced. A monster waiting for its master.
"Whatever your cause, you serve it under the aegis of the Cradle of Man." The Old Man snaps his fingers again, the silent guards that surrounded them moved into action. They brought with them wine glasses and ancient vintage prepared by Zeus for the occasion. As they poured all twelve of the Olypians a glass, The Old Man. the Titan of Black Cradle continued.
"And from that Cradle will the New Order be born." All twelve of them raise their glasses to toast. The motto and words are familiar, as if engraved onto his heart. Voice swelling in his throat and pride in his heart, Doran yells.
"A toast! To our Pure, Blue World!"
