The throne room's silence thickened like clotting blood. Maximillian 'Maxx' Acorn's claws scraped obsidian, each stroke etching deeper into stone polished by generations of sycophants. Outside, Diamond Heights' spires clawed at poisoned skies—Jules' gaudy needle piercing clouds bruise-purple with refinery smog. Muted holograms showed Sector 7-9 ablaze, riots Jules had ignited now gnawing at Maxx's own synth-grain reserves. Convenient. A distraction.
Maxx's muzzle twitched. Wine swirled—crimson liquid catching gamma-green light from the slums below. "Appreciation," he murmured. The word hung cold as cryo-frost. Ambassador Kintobor's bronze shuttle had sliced through his surveillance nets like a scalpel through rotted silk. It insulted him, those filthy oversized Overlanders dared? Maxx's claws tightened around the goblet. Diamond stem groaned. Jules' heir was a pebble on his board, yes. But Kintobor's sanctuary? That fortress poisoned Maxx's dominion. Refugees flocked there, whispering hope. Hope eroded fear. Fear was Maxx's currency to buy power through suppression.
He gestured languidly. A servitor fox (Rosemarie if he remembered) materialized, trembling beneath velvet livery. "Fetch my wife Alicia and daughter Sally," Maxx commanded, voice smooth as chilled mercury. "Ensure Sally wears her cerulean gown—the one that complements her newborn *innocence*." The fox bowed, whiskers twitching against starched collar. Maxx watched Sector 7's flames lick the skyline. Hope was vermin. It needed extermination. Kintobor's Tower would crumble not under cannon fire, but beneath the weight of manufactured despair. Refugees clawing at sanctuary gates made such... poignant optics.
Alicia entered, posture rigid as diamondwood. Sally was in her arms, swaddled in cerulean silk that deepened the cobalt of her infant eyes. Maxx's gaze lingered not on his daughter, but on Alicia's strained knuckles—white against the fabric. "Darling," he purred, extending a clawed hand toward Sally. "Ambassador Kintobor deserves our... gratitude." His smile didn't thaw the glacial calculation beneath. Alicia's muzzle tightened imperceptibly as she surrendered Sally. The infant squirmed, tiny claws catching silk. Maxx cradled her with ceremonial detachment, his claws millimeters from her fragile throat. Sally whimpered—a soft, dissonant sound in the throne room's heavy silence.
"The Overlander sheltered refugees from the Northern Baronies," Maxx continued, tracing Sally's cheek with a claw-tip. Not affection. Assessment. "Such compassion deserves reciprocation." He nodded to Rosemarie, who scurried to retrieve an ornate music box—intricate gears visible beneath crystal panels. "Ambassador Kintobor appreciates antiquities." His smile sharpened. Inside, beneath the platinum melody mechanism, micro-vials of pheromonal accelerant nestled against the clockwork. Undetectable. Unforgiving. Refugees clustered near Kintobor's ventilation intakes would inhale despair, their simmering panic erupting into contagious frenzy. Maxx admired the box's cunning craftsmanship. "Ensure it's... prominently displayed in his reception hall."
Alicia's breath hitched—subtle, swallowed swiftly. Her knuckles whitened against her gown's silver embroidery. Maxx noted her tension, relishing the fracture beneath her polished grace. He shifted Sally higher, cerulean silk brushing his royal insignia. The infant's whimpers faded into drowsy silence, lulled by the throne room's suffocating chill. "Such tranquility," Maxx murmured, claws tightening possessively. "Almost... sacrificial." Below Diamond Heights' polarized windows, Barony enforcers herded displaced hedgehog kits toward quarantine pens—fodder for his next bioweapon trial. Their whimpers were distant static. Maxx preferred orchestrating agony from sterile heights, silk-gloved hands unsullied by direct brutality. Delegation was elegance; screams were beneath aristocracy's notice.
He gestured dismissively. "Jeffrey, draft the courier's script. Emphasize... familial solidarity." Maxx's gaze lingered on Sally's sleeping form, cerulean silk shimmering under sterile palace light. "Ambassador Kintobor rescued Jules' heir," he continued, voice smooth as spilled mercury. "Such valor warrants royal recognition." Jeffrey scurried to a holographic console, claws clacking frantically. Maxx admired the music box's intricate gears—platinum coils whispering lethal potential beneath crystal. Alicia stared rigidly ahead, knuckles bone-white against silver brocade. The scent of chilled wine and ozone hung thick.
Maxx adjusted Sally's weight. Her infant warmth felt alien against his silk-clad arm—a trivial inconvenience. Conquest demanded precision. He visualized Kintobor's grand reception hall: refugees clustered near ornamental vents, inhaling despair disguised as antique melody. Their frayed nerves would ignite like tinder. Sanctuary crumbling beneath its own misplaced compassion. Jeffrey finished typing, bowing low. Maxx's smile remained glacial. "Include Alicia's personal endorsement," he commanded. "Her... maternal touch lends authenticity." Alicia flinched, a tremor betraying her polished stillness. Maxx savored it—proof his puppeteer's strings held taut.
He handed Sally back to Alicia with ceremonial detachment. "Ensure she's serene for the courier's departure," Maxx instructed, claws grazing cerulean fabric. Sally stirred, whimpering softly. Alicia clutched her daughter tighter, gaze fixed on the throne room's hematite floor. Beneath Diamond Heights' polarized windows, Barony enforcers herded shivering kits toward quarantine zones. Their muffled cries were distant percussion to Maxx's symphony. He preferred orchestrating agony from velvet heights. Delegation was elegance; screams belonged to lesser beings. Jeffrey sealed the holoscroll with Maxx's obsidian seal. The courier departed—caroling doom wrapped in gilded parchment. Alicia retreated silently, Sally's silk swaddling stark against the corridor shadows. Maxx admired Kintobor Tower's hologram—its bronze beacon defiant against smog-choked skies. Sanctuary? He'd reduce it to rubble choked with pheromone-induced madness. Conquest demanded patience. And poison.
Maxx traced Sector 7's gamma bloom on the strategic map. Jeffrey lingered, radiating smug satisfaction. "Phase One commenced flawlessly, sire," the skunk declared, adjusting diamond cufflinks. "Refugee infirmaries now distribute our... *enhanced* analgesics." Maxx offered a glacial nod. Distraction tactics flourished beneath chaos. His gaze drifted toward Jules' fractured spire. That peacock's desperation was delicious garnish. "Monitor Jules' retaliatory tantrums," Maxx commanded. "His flailing may inadvertently accelerate Kintobor's isolation." Jeffrey's smirk deepened. "Already intercepting transmissions. Jules fumes about stolen 'genetic masterpieces' while Diamond City burns." Maxx's claws tapped obsidian. Fools built pyres; kings harvested the ashes.
Jeffrey pivoted abruptly, silk suit swirling. "Shall I deploy the sonic disruptors near Kintobor's water filtration hub?" He gestured toward Sector 7-9's holographic overlay—radiation bloomed like gangrenous moss beneath shantytowns. "Let them choke on irradiated sludge while screaming for salvation." Maxx's claws brushed crystalline wineglass rim—a dissonant chime. "Patience," he murmured. "Allow hope to fester. Then rupture it." Jeffrey's smirk deepened, tail flicking dismissively—a plume of arrogance. Below Diamond Heights' vaulted windows, Barony enforcers herded skeletal kits toward quarantine pens. Jeffrey admired their terror—raw fuel for Maxx's furnace.
Maxx's glacial cordiality thawed momentarily. "Summon Mr. Prower," he commanded—a velvet-wrapped scalpel. The assassin materialized silently at the throne room's shadowed periphery, fur the color of dried blood beneath Royal Army insignia. Light brown markings framed his muzzle like smudged ash, his triangular ears twitching toward Sector 7's distant screams. A sword hung at his hip, its scabbard worn smooth by obsessive polishing. Mr. Prower's blue eyes burned with fervent devotion—the unblinking stare of a zealot tasting holy purpose. He saluted, knuckles whitening on the hilt. "Your Majesty." The words rasped, rough-edged as gravel.
"Ambassador Kintobor requires additional... persuasion," Maxx purred, gesturing toward the holographic plague-map. Jeffrey's manufactured outbreaks pulsed amber—refugee clinics drowning in synthetic psychosis. "Ensure his sanctuary understands the cost of defiance." Mr. Prower's tail-tip flickered—a coil of restrained violence. "The Overlander shelters traitors who bite the hand that feeds them," he growled, muzzle wrinkling. "Parasites." His gaze fixed on Kintobor Tower's beacon—that bronze defiance stoking his fury. Maxx noted the fox's trembling grip: not fear, but boiling indignation. Perfect.
Maxx extended a claw, tracing phantom siege-lines around Kintobor's hologram. "Discretion, Mister Prower. We shatter foundations, not windows." Mr. Prower bristled—cheek tufts flaring. "Respectfully, Sire—" His boot scuffed obsidian, grinding imaginary filth. "Rot festers in darkness." Maxx smiled—cold amusement. "Indeed. Hence your task: infiltrate their water filtration nexus. Jeffrey's disruptors await deployment." He leaned closer, wine-scented breath frosting the air. "But first... acquire leverage." Mr. Prower stiffened, nostrils flaring at the implication. Children. Softest targets.
Below Diamond Heights' polarized glass, Barony enforcers prodded another kit toward quarantine—a trembling squirrel clutching a grimy doll. Mr. Prower's gaze snagged on it. His lips peeled back—silent snarl. "Weakness invites decay," he hissed, knuckles cracking around his sword's worn leather grip. The doll's button eyes stared blankly. Unacceptable. He pivoted sharply, Royal Army boots grinding ash-streaked obsidian. Ambassador Kintobor's sanctuary festered nearby—a tumor swelling with refugee stench and treasonous whispers. Leverage. Maxx's command echoed: *Acquire leverage*. Mr. Prower's muzzle tightened. Children. Soft marrow beneath brittle bones.
Sector 7-9's gamma glow painted Kintobor Tower's bronze plating sickly chartreuse. Mr. Prower melted into the alley's lee, fur bristling against synth-rain slicking his uniform's crimson epaulets. Above, ventilation shafts exhaled steam—warm, thick with boiled cabbage and desperation. His nostrils flared. Disorder. Rot. Beneath a flickering streetlamp, two hedgehog kits scrabbled in irradiated puddles, fishing for discarded nutrient tabs. Perfect bait. Mr. Prower unsheathed his blade halfway—steel rasping like a promise. "Citizen patrol!" he barked, voice slicing through the drizzle. The kits froze, eyes wide as saucers. One dropped a mud-crusted tab. "Unauthorized loitering violates curfew statute seven-delta!"
They scrambled backwards, spines rattling. Mr. Prower advanced, boots splashing viscous water. "Compliance ensures safety," he growled, feigning official concern. His sword-tip nudged the smaller kit's chest—light pressure. A whimper escaped her. "Where is Ambassador Kintobor's intake center? Confession mitigates penalty." The larger kit shoved his sibling behind him. "D-don't know!" Lie. Filth crusted their matted fur; defiance glinted in their eyes. Mr. Prower's tail lashed—a whip-crack of fury. "Treasonous concealment!" He seized the smaller kit's arm, yanking her forward. Her doll splattered into the muck. "You'll direct me. Or face re-education, if I feel merciful that is."
Above, a rusted fire escape groaned. Steam billowed from Kintobor Tower's lower vents. Mr. Prower dragged the whimpering kit toward the alley's gloom. Her sibling froze, paralyzed by terror. Leverage bloomed—pungent as Sector 7's decay. Suddenly, a shadow detached from the steam—broad-shouldered, spines bristling with militant pride even beneath synth-fiber rags. Citizen patrol? No insignia. Just cold fury radiating from cobalt fur and scarred knuckles gripping a rusted pipe. A volunteer guardian? Mr. Prower sneered. Amateur heroics. He shoved the kit aside, blade rasping fully free. "Interfere, traitor?" he spat. "Execution's penalty for obstruction!"
The guardian didn't flinch. "Let. Her. Go." Each word cracked like ice. Behind him, more shadows coalesced—ragged silhouettes clutching makeshift weapons: wrenches, shards of rebar. Refugees. Defiant. Unacceptable. Mr. Prower's muzzle twisted. Order demanded absolute submission. These vermin dared challenge Royal Authority? His sword flashed—a silver arc aimed not at the guardian, but the discarded doll sinking in irradiated sludge. Symbolism mattered. Shatter their hope first. "Weakness," he hissed, blade descending—
A brick shattered against his pauldron. Pain exploded—white-hot shards biting through royal insignia. **He snapped.** Temper shattered discipline. Leverage forgotten. Only fury remained—volcanic, righteous. This rabble spat on Maxx's divine order. They deserved annihilation. Not capture. Cleansing. He pivoted, ignoring the stunned guardian, and lunged at the kit who'd thrown the brick—a scrawny squirrel trembling near a shattered storefront. "Insolent filth!" Mr. Prower roared. Patriotism burned molten in his veins. **He swung.** Not containment. Not intimidation. Termination.
Steel met fragile collarbone. A sickening crunch echoed off wet bricks. Crimson bloomed across filthy fur—shocking, vivid against grey rain. The kit crumpled without a sound. Silence swallowed the alley. Even Sector 7's distant sirens hushed. Mr. Prower stood panting, blade dripping onto cracked asphalt. Blood swirled in oily puddles—sacrifice offered unto aristocracy's altar. Order restored through negation. Through fire. Behind him, the guardian's roar tore through the stillness—primal, shattered. Refugees surged forward, weapons raised not in defiance now, but frenzied vengeance. Mr. Prower bared his teeth. Good. Let them charge. Let Maxx's enemies reveal themselves fully. His sword thirsted for more traitor marrow. Duty demanded it.
The alley choked on silence. Rain slicked crimson across cracked asphalt, swirling with irradiated sludge around the small, still form. The refugee kit's doll lay nearby, one button eye staring blankly at the dripping sky. Mr. Prower stood over the body, blade trembling not with regret, but with righteous fury unleashed. His Royal Army insignia gleamed darkly beneath synth-rain, a badge of sacred duty fulfilled. Weakness extinguished. Order asserted. Behind him, the ragged guardian's roar shattered the stillness—a raw, guttural sound of grief transmuted into wrath. Refugees surged forward, wrenches and pipes raised, faces contorted with primal outrage. Mr. Prower bared his fangs. *Good*. Let the traitors reveal themselves. His sword hungered for so much more, espicially for Overlanders.
He pivoted, meeting the charging guardian's pipe with a brutal downward slash. Steel shrieked against steel, sparks showering the wet asphalt. The guardian—an Overlander man with scars mapping decades of survival—staggered but held, knuckles white on his weapon. Behind him, refugees surged like a tide of ragged fury, their makeshift blades glinting in the flickering neon. Mr. Prower snarled, nostrils flared at the stench of unwashed desperation mingling with fresh blood. This Overlander rabble spat on Maxx's divine mandate. They deserved not capture, but eradication. Cleansing fire. His sword became a silver blur, driving the guardian back step by splashing step toward the alley wall. Each parry vibrated up his arm—a symphony of righteous indignation. These vermin fought for scraps; he fought for the very soul of Mobius' ordained hierarchy.
A wrench glanced off his pauldron. Pain flared, sharp and insulting. He whirled, ignoring the guardian's gasp of respite, and seized the offender—a trembling chipmunk refugee clutching a length of rebar. "Treason!" Mr. Prower hissed, slamming the rebel against damp brick. Mortal dust rained down. The chipmunk's eyes widened, reflecting the Royal insignia's cold gleam. "Weakness invites decay!" he roared, blade rising. But movement flickered in his periphery. The guardian lunged, pipe aimed low. Mr. Prower twisted, sacrificing the killing strike to block. The pipe connected with his shin—blinding agony. He stumbled, vision swimming. Through the haze, he saw them: kits scrambling toward Kintobor Tower's service entrance, shadows swallowed by steam. Leverage escaping. Failure. The thought ignited volcanic rage. He roared, a sound ripped from ancestral depths, and charged the guardian anew. Negation wasn't enough. Annihilation beckoned.
Blood slicked his glove—his own, dripping from a gash above his eye where the pipe had grazed him. Salt and iron stung his tongue. The guardian fought with savage, untrained ferocity, each blow fueled by the kit's crumpled form nearby. *Sacrifice recognized,* Mr. Prower thought grimly, parrying another wild swing. His own blade danced—precision honed by royal doctrine—severing tendons, not bones. Efficiency over brutality. Yet fury simmered beneath his disciplined strokes. Leverage lost. Kintobor's rats had scurried inside. Failure burned like acid in his throat. He rammed his shoulder into the Overlander's chest, driving him backward into a corroded dumpster. Metal groaned. The stench of decay intensified—rotting synth-food and wet rust.
"Royal Justice!" Mr. Prower spat, pinning the guardian's wrist against dripping metal. The Overlander's breath came in ragged gasps, eyes locked on the alley floor where crimson diluted in rainwater. "Your treason ends here." Behind him, the mob hesitated, weapons trembling. Fear bloomed, palpable as ozone before lightning. Good. They witnessed consequence. Acorn's divine order enforced. He raised his sword—a slow, ceremonial arc—ready to sever rebellion's head. But a flicker of movement caught his eye: Kintobor Tower's service door hissed shut, swallowing the last fleeing kits. *Leverage escaped*. Failure curdled his triumph. His blade faltered.
The guardian seized the hesitation. With a guttural roar, he heaved upward, throwing Mr. Prower off balance. The sword screeched against dumpster metal, sparks cascading. Pain lanced through Mr. Prower's wounded left leg—a distraction, a lapse. The Overlander scrambled sideways, grabbing the fallen squirrel kit's discarded brick. Mr. Prower snarled, pivoting, blade seeking retribution. "Heretic!" The insult tore from his muzzle, raw with righteous fury. He lunged, aiming for the guardian's exposed throat. Justice demanded swift execution.
The Overlander didn't dodge. He hurled the brick—not at Mr. Prower, but at the corroded dumpster lid above him. The impact echoed like a gunshot. Years of rust and fatigue gave way. The heavy steel lid, warped and jagged, sheared from its hinges with a metallic scream. It plummeted downward, a guillotine forged by Sector 7's decay. Mr. Prower saw it in his periphery—a blur of oxidised brown against the alley's gloom. Instinct screamed to leap aside. *Duty* screamed defiance. To flinch was weakness. To yield ground to rot was treason. He held his lunge, blade still outstretched toward the fleeing traitor. The Sword of the Elite did not retreat.
Impact. Agony, white-hot and absolute, obliterated his senses. Not the clean slice of steel, but a crushing, grinding devastation. The lid's jagged edge struck his extended left leg just below the knee with the brutal force of industrial collapse. Bone shattered—a sickening cacophony of splinters. Tendons snapped like frayed cables. Arteries ruptured, crimson spraying the wet brick wall in an arc of grotesque artistry. Momentum wrenched him sideways. He crashed onto the flooded asphalt, the world tilting violently. The dumpster lid pinned his ruined limb, its immense weight grinding bone fragments into pulp beneath the knee. Fiery torment consumed him, worse than any battlefield wound—a violation of his royal purpose, a desecration of his sacred form. He roared, not in pain, but in apocalyptic rage. Failure. Failure clawing him into the filth.
Silence descended again, heavier now. Rain diluted the spreading pool of scarlet mingling with irradiated sludge. The refugees froze, weapons slack. The guardian stared, pipe forgotten, face ashen. Mr. Prower lay pinned, his breath ragged gasps against the crushing agony. Cold seeped through his uniform, chilling the burning ruin below. He tried to move the leg—a reflexive command from a mind still screaming *duty*. Nothing responded below the knee except blinding, nauseating fire. Only the weight. The finality. His sword lay inches from his clawed hand, gleaming uselessly in the flickering streetlamp. He was the Sword. The Sword did not break. Yet the limb that carried him into battle, that enforced Maxx's divine order, lay crushed, severed not by enemy steel, but by Sector 7's own decaying entrails. Weakness wasn't just in the kits he hunted; it was the crumbling world itself, betraying its ordained defenders. Rage curdled into icy, disbelieving horror. His gaze locked onto the crimson stain soaking his Royal Army trousers. A patriot's sacrifice rendered grotesque. Unworthy. He had lost more than flesh and bone. He had lost his footing in the righteous hierarchy he bled to uphold. His jaw clenched, grinding teeth against a scream that couldn't escape. Failure tasted like iron and rust.
Slowly, agonizingly, he dragged his upper body forward, pushing against the slick asphalt with his elbows. Every fraction of movement sent jagged lightning up his spine from the trapped ruin. Fingers clawed at the gritty surface, seeking purchase. Rainwater mixed with sweat stung his eyes. He focused on the sword. Its worn leather grip, polished daily. Its purpose. The Sword did not retreat, but it must advance. Duty demanded he rise. He ignored the whimpering kits huddled near Kintobor's sealed door, ignored the guardian's stunned paralysis, ignored the mocking glow of Sector 7's gamma quarantine haze seeping into the alley. His world narrowed to the crawl. Forward. Toward the obsidian fortress. Toward Maxx. Each inch was a battle against gravity and agony, fueled solely by indomitable will. Royal Army insignia scraped the wet ground, silver embossing catching the sickly light. Loyalty etched in blood and filth. He wouldn't die here, broken by street debris. He *would* report. He *would* serve. Denial was his shield; fury, his failing strength. He hissed, a feral sound, spitting rainwater and bile. He would crawl back to the throne room on shattered limbs if necessary. He was the Sword. The Sword endured.
His clawed hand finally brushed cold metal. The sword hilt. He seized it, knuckles cracking from the force of his grip. Possession anchored him. The alley blurred at the edges, pain threatening oblivion. He saw Maxx's stern visage, the approving glint reserved for ultimate devotion. He pictured the traitorous Overlander ambassador cowering. His mission wasn't finished. Leverage had escaped, but he could still strike. He *would* strike. He dragged himself onward, pulling his mangled body past the discarded doll, its button eye reflecting the scene back at him—a broken weapon in the filth. The refugees watched, silent now, mesmerized by the sheer, terrifying will dragging a loyalist soldier through the muck toward retribution's distant spire. The Sword crawled. Slowly. Relentlessly. The hum of distant Barony hovercrafts grew louder, promising salvation... or judgement. His gaze remained fixed ahead, burning with unyielding purpose. Failure was not an option. Only service. Only sacrifice. Only the Sword.