Know Thine Enemy

Know thine enemy. It’s the motto that Aleister lives by and it’s the mantra running through his head as he drives his sword through the chest of the dripping beast of ink, watching it melt into a lifeless puddle before him. Dalon fragments are nothing new to him; it’s not uncommon for bolder fragments to grow hungry for power, turned rogue by the whispers of the void. Perhaps rehabilitation is an option, but Aleister doesn’t get paid to babysit feral void creatures — he gets paid to kill them. He’s just doing his job.

His scarlet sword dissolves into a bubble of blood, crawling up his arm until it reaches a cut on his chest and seeps back into his body. The edge of dizziness to his vision doesn’t disappear immediately, but he’s used to that by now. Fighting this way uses up a lot of blood, even if it is vastly more versatile and powerful than any flimsy excuse of a weapon the Rainbow Guard could give him. Each bloodsword fits in his hand like an old friend, the perfect length, weight, and balance for his needs. He can’t afford to waste time acclimatising himself to a manmade blade that will inevitably shatter in the face of a fearsome opponent.

With a flick of his fingers, runes dance before his eyes, coaxed forth from the instrument strapped to his waist. It’s a communicator from the Guard, standard issue, although he had an acquaintance enhance it for him somewhat: it only responds to his unique magical code. Right now, he’s viewing the available missions and bounties, flicking through each one with little interest. He’s tired of cleaning up after small fry — he wants something bigger. A challenge.

Just as he’s about to disable his communicator with a sigh, a particularly bright alert pops up, exploding into prismatic colour. He reads quickly, with the twitch of suppressed impatience, and the smallest of smiles settles on his face. So small that, if you were to look at it from another angle, it could almost be a frown.

Void tear in the Boreal Mountains, it reads. Code Ultraviolet.

Some organisations use code red for emergencies. For the Rainbow Guard, ultraviolet is the highest the scale goes: outside of the visible light spectrum. So dangerous that it can’t even be seen by the average eye, let alone resolved. The Guard needs its big players for a code ultraviolet, no matter where they are.

Aleister shakes himself off roughly, the vestiges of Dalon ink dripping to the ground from his still stained forearms. He’s tired, but he’s always tired, and nothing invigorates him more than the art of the hunt. In fact, wasting time lying stiffly in a bed at some middle of nowhere hostel would only send him crawling up the walls with restlessness.

So he reaches out with his hand and, in one smooth motion, accepts the mission. The portal opens before him immediately, no doubt the work of an astral ancient; swirling location runes circle the outside rim of the spatial pool. It’s almost like a puddle of the night sky, but his logical side tells him that it’s simply a gateway, the same as every other time he’s been portalled for emergencies.

Still, it’s pretty. Prettier than most of the things Aleister spends his whole life fighting.

He reaches out an arm experimentally, watching as it disappears into the swirling mass of astral magic up to his elbow. It’s cold, and he knows what he’s feeling is just the Boreal Mountains on the other side, but he thinks to himself that this must be what space feels like, out in the abyss of purpled blues and scattered among the stars.

There’s no time for wishful thinking. He pushes through the veil of night, prepared to execute his mission once again — and execute he will.