October 24th, Waxwing Crescent outpost 7, Samah, moon of Balmut

The biting scent of practically ancient brandy filled the air as Marcen poured himself a glass of the well-aged alcohol. The Springer on the screen across from him eyed the alcohol warily, watching as Marcen took a long, slow sip of the same stuff that made up the poor creature's blood.

The Springer wiped his mouth of a trickle of his own light blue blood and swallowed, panting and looking into the camera.

"So, Fia." Marcen said, setting his glass down on his desk. "You've been busy, it would seem."

The rogue Springer just glared back at Marcen, his eyes hard and his teeth showing.

Marcen leaned back in his chair, massive, writhing auroras lighting the glass canopy above him. He lazily flicked his thumb across the computer screen on his desk, letting his eyes drift across the information. He almost chuckled, the story laid before him in the data as cliché and trite as any he'd seen before.

"Thought you could get out, did you?" Marcen asked, not glancing up. "Found yourself a new identity, a ticket off world, and even saved up enough to live off of for a while." He said.

He nodded to himself, impressed.

"I'm almost impressed." He quipped, turning his cold and iron eyes on Fia.

Fia was still only held up by the two massive men on either side of him, their arms under his. Rage and wrath filled his face, making him pant hatefully as blood dripped from his nose and lips.

Marcen leaned back again and looked up, the wispy auroras above barely obscuring his view of Balmut. The leviathan of a gas giant loomed above his airless colony, a constant reminder that he wasn't the most potent force in the universe.

But he was close.

Marcen's eyes squinted up at the planet as he thought. His employees orbited that planet, and a hundred others. They were without number. They had infiltrated everything, from business to governments, from security forces to navies. His followers, his own personal thralls, every one of them.

He may not have been as powerful as God, but he was twice as wrathful. A god of love he was not. He was a god of destruction, of greed, of war. And judgement day was near.

"Fia, Fia, Fia. What am I to do with you?" Marcen asked, swirling his bottle of brandy slowly as he placed the stopper back on top of the decanter. "I value hard work, and you've worked very hard for this. It hardly seems right to squander the efforts."

Fia remained silent.

Marcen stared at him for a while. He didn't blame the Springer for wanting to get out. He almost pitied him, in a way. The Springer wasn't built like Marcen. His affection were tied up in a family, his passions spent on a wife. He simply failed to understand the gravity that Marcen commanded. If the Springer wanted no part of it, if he wanted to throw away his slice of destiny, it was his to waste.

But that didn't mean Marcen was going to let Fia's abuse of fate ruin his chances at his destiny.

"I'll make you a deal, Fia." Marcen said after a moment. "You're trying to leave my business behind. Not wise. But you at least had enough sense to try leaving it cleanly. There is someone else I know whos intentions aren't so harmless."

The Springer listened.

"Now, I'm giving you one chance at this. Believe me you, if you try and stab me in the back, it will not end well for you. I'll give you one chance to save your wife and that unborn child I know she's bearing."

Fia's body tensed, his muscles bulging as he struggled for a moment.

"Since I know you want out of the game, here's your way out." He said, gesturing. "Quixxa. Kill her. Bring me her head, and I'll let you and your family go to wherever it is you think you can start over."

Fia just panted, staring at Marcen.

"Do you understand?" Marcen asked.

Fia panted for a moment longer, then nodded slowly. He swallowed hard.

"I do."

"Good. She'll be coming to retrieve a package from you before long. Make sure she doesn't leave alive." He said. "Don't let me down."

With that, Marcen thumbed the end call button, and the screen blanked out. For a few moments, he was left alone in his office. The hum of air filters and the distant rumble of thrusters igniting filled the room with a low groan, like the universe itself creaking under the weight of power he carried.

Marcen leaned back, swiveling slowly in his chair to face the massive gas giant of Balmut that loomed above. The streaks of color and the knots of storms that lashed her face always pleased him. Beautiful and deadly.

He swirled his glass for a moment, thinking.

Beautiful and deadly. Not unlike that hapless female he'd spoken to... Quixxa. The one close to the runt. She was brewing storms of her own.

She'd been getting bold. Doing things that she thought he wouldn't notice. She'd lost her loyalties, and she thought her false friend could protect her. She thought she could turn on him, and get away with it.

In truth, even if she hadn't turned, he would still be ending her life. She was angry. Dangerous. And she'd been too close to a way out to trust any longer.

But that way out was closing even as he sat and schemed.

The computer screen on his desk displayed an alert he'd gotten several minutes ago, moments before he'd called Quix.

His eyes traced the glorious message:

Runt checked into a hospital, according to our tracking data. Emergency care and admittance to the ICU. He's out of the game.

He smiled, tapping the screen off.

Looks like the plan is already working.

Obsidian and the Outer Planets thought they could get away with striking at him. They were wrong.

Marcen stared straight ahead, gazing out over Waxwing Crescent. The grey and silver colony glimmered, flecks of light rising skyward as ships launched. He smirked.

His army was mobilizing. The war machine was coming alive, and soon not even the Alliance, or even the Outer Planets would stand in his way. New Medina would rise again. Imbra and Pathmos would fall.

And in due time, even Earth would pay.

All at the hands of a wrathful god.