This is how the heroes come.

Constance the Clumsy is not a popular Gene Noble, among neither his subjects nor his fellow members of the Nobility. To put it simply, he is the only Gene Noble considered to be bad at being a Gene Noble. The number of creations he's concocted that lived longer than an hour can be counted on one hand -- and if he's the one who designed said hand, it probably has less fingers than it should.

As such, his estate on Neerduport is not a very happy place, either. The city housing his subjects is surrounded by a vast boneyard, where Constance throws his failed creations -- that is to say, the majority of his creations -- to rot away. Once, he tried to create a great arboreal lifeform that would devour such waste and recycle it efficiently, but that plant spread uncontrollably and then suddenly died, so Constance threw it into the boneyard too.

After decades of this kind of idiocy, the rotten border of the city is perhaps one of the most lethal places in the galaxy. Disease is rife. To step outside the city is to invite death -- and as such, Constance's servants are terrified of being thrown out, keeping most of them firmly in line. This was a complete accident on Constance's part, though -- it's not like he's some master thinker, or even an intermediate thinker.

All of this is to say… the people of Neerduport do not like Constance the Clumsy.

Even with most of the people controlled by fear, it's no surprise that there are traitors in his ranks. 'Most of' is not 'all'. Once Constance leaves Neerduport with his entourage -- heading to watch the war-game on Mar -- they get to work. They disable security systems. They destroy Constance's most precious modification facilities. And, most importantly…

…they send out a message to those that the entire galaxy is now whispering about: the Zeilan Morhan.

This is not a spur-of-the-moment rebellion. This has been triggered by a gift Constance received not so long ago -- an Experimental Weapon, sealed and hidden within a massive steel cylinder, to be opened only at the moment of greatest need. Nobody knows what it is, but what they do know is that stealing such a weapon would surely be a boon for the rebellion.

And so this is how the heroes come.

The ship they fly in on is still called the Zeilan Morhan, but it's not the same ship that escaped Yoslof. Names change owners so easily in this world. The new Zeilan Morhan is a bulky, war-worn thing, equipped with enough weaponry to turn a forest into firewood. It breaks through the atmosphere and zooms down towards the city, weaving through clouds of acid.

The city is already in chaos. Those loyal to Constance -- through madness or terror -- are battling against the traitors, the streets filled with fire and blood as they clash. There are no better circumstances for the Zeilan Morhan to approach unnoticed -- but even with these wonderful circumstances, the manned turrets around the perimeter of the city swivel to aim at the incoming ship.

It seems everyone has been expecting the arrival of the heroes.

The turrets spit fire, great bolts of plasma that leave burning trails in the air. Just like with the acid clouds, the Zeilan Morhan moves to avoid the shots, exercising grace unsuited to its shape and structure. It's no common pilot that flies the ship now, but a young prodigy named Alec Alexander.

He doesn't know exactly how old he is, but it can't be much more than ten -- his pilot's seat is stacked with extra pillows so he can reach the controls. Previously, he served as the personal pilot of a Gene Noble's third-favourite Cogitant, and was modified immediately post-birth for such a task. His face is half-fused with the mask he's been wearing his entire life, the visor and rebreather cloaking his humanity. His metal-tipped fingers danced across the console like a master pianist.

As the Zeilan Morhan does a barrel roll over the city wall, the cargo doors slide open…

…and the first hero leaps forth.

The automatic lands with a heavy thump directly on the wall itself, sending several soldiers flying to their deaths from the impact. Those that remain lift their rifles and begin firing immediately, plasma-shots thudding against their enemy's chassis, but it shows no sign that it even noticed their assault. A lazy swing of the automatic's mace is enough to evict them from this mortal plane.

The Fool slings its mace over its shoulder, analyzes the situation near-instantly -- and it begins to move.

Thirty seconds later, the first turret is destroyed. Another turret is demolished thirty seconds after that. The engine of destruction charges along the walls of the city, disabling its defenses with brutal efficiency.

With that, the Zeilan Morhan is free to land in the streets -- and the rest of the heroes are free to disembark.

The leader of the Zeilan Morhan, Azez Tazir, is the first one out. In one hand, he holds a portable flamethrower -- in the other, a punchpoint submachine gun. The instant he emerges, he is already firing, spraying bullets into the side of an enemy transport.

His constant companion, Bieshu del Mar, follows after him -- moving with all the grace and assurance of a gymnast. Her twin scimitars slice bullets out of the air, blades buzzing with electricity as magnets within them draw the projectiles in.

The instant Azez stops firing, she darts in and carves the side of the enemy transport open. From there, a prolonged burst from Azez's flamethrower is enough to deal with its occupants. Screaming fades into smoldering.

Troops begin to approach the Zeilan Morhan from the other side, but the devil of the battlefield is ready for them. Leaping out of the darkness, the Blind Man is among them in an instant -- his rasping mad laughter driving terror into every enemy that hears it. In one hand, an axe. In the other, a spear.

Even without his sight, Zarakhel Baras is the deadliest of warriors. Both of his weapons drink well.

It isn't all enemies around, though. There are just as many rebels who had been awaiting the arrival of the Zeilan Morhan -- and the great general Roland Nebula emerges next to lead them. Physically, he is far past his prime -- requiring a mechanical support skeleton just to keep up -- but his sense of the battlefield is as keen as ever. With barks and jabs of his fingers, he begins to turn this mere riot into a true contest of arms.

A medical team descends the ramp of the ship, led by "Holy Man" Idra, seeking out the wounded abandoned on the city streets. The work of Idra and his followers is to get the injured to safety and treat their wounds, but that is not to say they are helpless. More than one opportunistic enemy finds a burning hole between their eyes after they try and go after one of Idra's people.

No matter their reputation, people are people, and people do not last long against hails of bullets… but the Zeilan Morhan are better-equipped than most. Each of them is wearing a bulky module somewhere on their body, like a music player, the device projecting a wave-barrier to shield them from damage. It's not perfect, but it's pretty damn good. The man called Granba does good work.

And high above it all, high above the planet itself, Edgar watches.

He is not on the battlefield. He himself is the first one to admit he isn't suited for the battlefield, unlike his brother Zarakhel. He hasn't so much as thrown a punch in his entire life.

So, now that the time has come to execute this plan, there is nothing for him to do but sit and wait and watch. The tiny ship he's sitting in is not alone, though. It's one of many -- a fleet of refugees and fighters, peppering the void around Neerduport like a cloud of insects.

The Zeilan Morhan does not fly alone anymore. Perhaps every ship around Edgar is called the Zeilan Morhan. Perhaps that is the name of the fleet as a whole.

Edgar could not say. All he can do right now is look down at the chaos engulfing the planet below, through dozens of hacked surveillance feeds… and frown at the city turned to fire.

For that is how the heroes come.

By the time the battle came to an end, night had fallen upon Neerduport.

The enemy army had been utterly thrashed. Those that survived the conflict either surrendered and were taken into confinement, or chose to flee into the wastes outside the city. Edgar did not expect they'd last long.

It was cold tonight. As he stepped onto the top floor of Constance the Clumsy's palace, Edgar pulled his fluffy white cloak tighter around himself. He supposed that a Gene Tyrant didn't have to worry about things like temperature -- and as such, they usually didn't take it into account when building their residences.

As Edgar and Josephine approached, the guard stationed outside of Constance's personal quarters looked up from his writing. It was the Musca-Pugnant from Yoslof, the last survivor of that original group of escapees save Edgar. The Musca-Pugnant offered a nod as Edgar passed. In his hand, he was holding that old journal of his.

Azez had told him that the Musca-Pugnant wrote down the names of his fallen comrades in that little book. Edgar didn't see the point.

They went past him.

"Right through here, sir," Josephine grunted as she forced the mechanical doors before them open, allowing him to stride into Constance's personal chambers.

He was the last one to arrive. The other core members of the Zeilan Morhan were already gathered before the massive cylinder that contained the Experimental Weapon. Azez, Bieshu, Zarakhel, Granba, Idra, Roland, and the Fool. Roland offered a curt nod as he approached.

"We've been waiting for you," he said, voice gruff. "If you'd called ahead, I would have arranged an escort."

"I wouldn't want to divert resources from elsewhere," Edgar smiled pleasantly. His cool blue gaze flicked back towards the cylinder. "Have we not gotten it open yet?"

Granba was working on the underside of the container like he was repairing a car, his four arms working delicately as he inspected its systems.

"Not that simple," Granba said without looking at the new arrival. "Even assuming the whole thing ain't a trap, I'd be surprised if there weren't at least some traps designed to stop folks like us from getting our hands on this thing."

Edgar cocked his head slightly. "And…?"

Granba sniffed. "Well… looks like I'm surprised. Far as I can tell, we can get this thing open with the flick of a switch."

Zarakhel, who'd been brooding at the back of the chamber, kicked himself up off the floor and began to stalk over. "Just open the fucking thing," he growled. "If there's anything in there we don't like, I'll just carve it up."

"That's easier said than done," Bieshu crossed her arms. "Especially when you have no idea what this weapon is."

If Zarakhel had eyes, he surely would have rolled them. "Listen," he growled -- but before his tirade could begin, it was immediately interrupted. Idra stepped in between Zarakhel and Bieshu, chuckling nervously as he separated them with his hands.

"Oh, come now, let's not fight," he said quickly. "This is a victory, isn't it? We won. If there's something dangerous in there, we'll just get rid of it once we know, yes? It's not like we're lacking for firepower."

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He nodded towards the Fool, who seemed to take that as its cue to move. Servos squeaking, it rose to its full height, patting the head of its mace against its hand as it faced the Experimental Weapon.

"DESTROY… IT…?" the Fool asked in its rumbling and oddly endearing voice.

"Only if you gotta," Granba replied, finally crawling out from under the cylinder. "It's all ready. I can open her up whenever you give the word."

Azez unholstered his flamethrower, his face set. "No time like the present."

Zarakhel grinned, spinning his spear in his hand. Bieshu readied her scimitars. Roland lifted his rifle. Granba boosted his shield. Even Idra flicked the safety off of his pistol.

"Opening now," Granba said.

There was a near-deafening grinding noise as the shell of the cylinder began to slide open, the front section splitting into two and parting like a pair of doors. Fog came spilling out from within the module -- at first Edgar thought it might be poison gas, but Granba lifted a hand and gave an all-clear thumbs-up. He'd never been wrong about such things before.

"Ah…"

There was more than just fog inside the cylinder, though. As Edgar watched, he saw what looked like a humanoid silhouette deep within the cold gloom -- a silhouette that took one step out, two steps out… until it became a person. Or rather, as evidenced by the pale looks on everyone bar Zarakhel's faces, what looked like a person.

The woman who stepped out of the cold smoke was impossibly beautiful, eerily symmetrical, clad in a robe of glimmering silver scales that might have just been part of her own body. Her pale blue hair curled upwards in impossible and unusual patterns, like an avant garde sculpture. Her bright blue eyes, the shade of a Cogitant, took in all the faces before her without blinking.

Nobody dared move. They all knew that moving was pointless now. The moment they'd opened this cylinder, they were all dead.

Instead, with the exception of Zarakhel, they all braced themselves for the end.

"Well," Zarakhel growled. "What is it?"

But the end did not come.

Instead, the terrible and beautiful figure before them fell down to her knees, planted her hands against the floor… and bowed her head in supplication.

"I surrender," she said.

Her Noble Fragility

MARGARETHE

The Tenderheart

Reboot of Jane

And at the sound of that voice, fury found Zarakhel once again.

"I found shame," the Gene Tyrant said. "Until Zara… until Zarakhel tried to kill me, I didn't understand what shame was. Not really."

He… I… I wasn't even angry, when he attacked me, because I didn't get it at all. It was like being struck by lightning, just random. I couldn't think of a reason for it. I'd fed him, hadn't I? Given him nice clothes and a nice place to live? So… it was like he'd just gone crazy for no reason."

I thought about it for a long time before I realized -- all that nice food, and all those nice clothes… they were just bars. The nice place to live was nothing but a cage -- no, a dollhouse. I treated another human being like my doll, to dress up and play with as I pleased."

When I figured that out… I discovered shame."

Zeilan Morhan… I surrender myself into your custody. Whatever you want to do with me, you can do it. If you want to cut me up and examine me for weaknesses, that's fine… but I think I can be more help to your cause alive."

I can make weapons just like the ones your enemy uses -- or I can help make countermeasures. If you were willing, I could modify your bodies to be stronger, able to take on the Nobility more evenly. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Even if you want me dead… I don't have the right to protest."

So long as we can put an end to this world, I'm fine with whatever happens."

The video of Margarethe's interrogation ended, having been played for what felt like the hundredth time. At the back of the bridge of the Zeilan Morhan, Zarakhel scoffed.

"Bullshit," he snarled.

They'd left Neerduport several hours ago, the majority of the rebels there joining their fleet while the rest fled into the wilderness to prepare an insurgency for Constance's return. Margarethe had gone back into that cylinder and they'd been able to transport the 'Experimental Weapon' off-planet without anyone being the wiser. Now Margarethe sat within an incinerator in the cargo hold, ready to be cremated at the first sign of danger.

"Let me down there," Zarakhel demanded of Azez, stalking forward towards their leader. "I'm fucking telling you, let me kill her right now, or it's gonna be a goddamn issue."

Bieshu stepped forward, blocking Zarakhel's path. He bumped into her before taking a step back, growling.

"Watch yourself there," she said, hands resting on her sheathed scimitars. Her voice was dangerously quiet.

Zarakhel grit his teeth. The bridge was nearly silent -- save for the four founding members of the Zeilan Morhan, it was completely empty. The grinding noise echoed.

Finally, Zarakhel spoke again.

"It's a trick," he spat, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "A trap. It has to be. They want us fucking dead -- don't forget that. Are you really naive enough to trust one of those things when it shows up saying it feels oh so bad now, I just want to fucking help? I'm talking to you, Azez, you prick!"

Azez sighed as he crossed his arms, sitting down on a deactivated console. "It's not a trick," he said, closing his eyes.

"Oh, and you're sure about that?" Zarakhel sneered.

Those golden eyes snapped back open. "I am, as a matter of fact," Azez said, a note of annoyance entering his own voice. "For whatever reason, Lord Director Eve forbade the Gene Tyrants from coming after us directly. Even if they wanted to, they physically can't disobey. The fact that Margarethe was able to show up here means she doesn't have hostile intentions towards us. Understand?"

Zarakhel's face turned a bright red, and he resumed his furious march forward. "Don't you fucking understand me, you condescending --"

"We need to use her," Edgar said calmly.

All three of them turned to look at Edgar. Up until now he'd been silent, standing before one of the bridge windows, the starlit void stretching out behind him. Zarakhel chuckled bitterly.

"You too…?" he asked, voice breaking slightly.

"We've been working together for a little while now," Edgar replied, cocking his head. "Why would you think I wouldn't want to take advantage of a resource like this?"

Zarakhel sniffed. "I thought you'd get it. Elizabeth was even worse than Margarethe. We can't… I can't… we need to get rid of her." He clenched his fists. "C'mon, man."

"I think maybe you've misunderstood something," Edgar smiled. "I didn't kill Elizabeth because I was angry at her or because I was unhappy with my treatment or anything. The goal I strive for required her to die, so I killed her. It's as simple as that."

Thump.

Zarakhel took a heavy step towards Edgar. "And what kinda goal is that, little brother?" he seethed.

"Happiness and harmony," Edgar replied pleasantly. "For as many people as possible to experience peace and joy for as long as possible. I think I already explained it when we met Azez? If the Gene Tyrants were capable of making such a world, I wouldn't have rebelled, but since they weren't --"

Thump thump thump.

Reaching Edgar with all the speed of rage, Zarakhel grabbed his brother by the collar and slammed him against the window. Edgar frowned. That was painful.

"Easy!" Azez barked, but Zarakhel wasn't listening. Bieshu went to intervene, but Azez raised a hand to stop her. Edgar, for his part, was just smiling again. The look in his blue eyes was one of utter tranquility.

He cocked his head once more.

"Would you mind letting go of me?" he asked. "There's no benefit to us fighting like this."

Zarakhel did not let go. If anything, he tightened his grip further, lifting Edgar up slightly off the floor. It seemed he really wasn't happy with what Edgar was saying.

"Listen, you fucking creep," Zarakhel hissed. "Just because you're a fucking beep-boop automatic or whatever, doesn't mean I am -- or anyone else is."

Oh, that was surprising. Edgar had been working with Zarakhel for little more than a year now, and he'd thought they got along fairly well, but it kind of seemed like his brother didn't actually like him that much. What a shame.

Zarakhel was still going. "We're in this fight because we believe in it, damn you. I don't wanna hear another goddamn word about how you would have stuck with the Gene Tyrants if --"

Azez cut in. "-- just let him down, Zarakhel --"

Bieshu flicked her scimitars from their sheaths. "-- okay. That's --"

Oh well. This was probably a good time, anyway.

"You realize you're all doomed, right?"

Once again, three heads turned to face Edgar. Even Zarakhel, who was already so close, tilted his chin up as if he could spy Edgar's face even through his blindness and his blindfold. What he couldn't see, though, and what the others could…

…was the slight wrinkle of disdain in Edgar's own gaze as he looked down on all of them.

"I hope you don't think today was a victory," he said coldly. "Let me tell you what we did today. We barely managed to burgle the most incompetent Gene Tyrant's house while he was away on vacation. That's it."

Azez took a deep breath. "No," he said firmly. "That's not it. Don't you see how many more ships are flying with us now? People are flocking to our banner. People are inspired, they have hope, they have resolve."

"If I cut you open, will your hope come pouring out?" Edgar asked. "Can I reload my pistol with my resolve? It doesn't matter how much cannon fodder we acquire -- our enemy has more cannons than we'll ever have people. We're only just managing to survive against an enemy that's barely allowed to fight back. What is there to be inspired by?"

Wrinkling his nose in disgust at Edgar's apparent pessimism, Zarakhel released his brother's collar and let him slide down the window with a long and protracted squeak.

"So what?" Zarakhel muttered. "It's all just hopeless, that's what you're saying?"

"Not at all," Edgar smiled, sitting down on the floor and looking up at the three of them. "Despite what you might think, I'm actually a very optimistic person. I truly believe that even in a situation where… let's say a man is having his head cut off by a guillotine. I truly believe that, in that moment right after his head is severed, and the man is experiencing his last second of consciousness, there exists a method by which he can turn the tables and achieve victory."

Bieshu slowly sheathed her swords. "And what method is that?"

"I have no idea," Edgar shrugged good-naturedly. "But the method exists. So long as the method exists, it can be discovered. There is such a thing as a magic bullet."

He narrowed his eyes, as if looking through the world to see something beyond it.

"Margarethe… is a key," he said slowly. "No, one key. The Fool is another, in a way. And then the third… at any rate, I have a method to discover the method."

"Did I cut off the fucking air to your brain or something?" Zarakhel said, pulling Edgar to his feet. "What are you talking about? What method?!"

Edgar addressed Azez as he spoke. In the end, this pitch was for him more than anyone else.

"Right now," he said. "The Zeilan Morhan is in its last second of consciousness. The guillotine has already fallen. The difference in strength between ourselves and our enemy is insurmountable. Up until now, we have gotten lucky again and again and again… as soon as that luck runs out, we will die. Worse, we will lose. The only thing that can save us is a miracle."

Azez's eyes flicked up and down to scan Edgar, as if he were seeing him for the first time. "What exactly are you asking me for, Edgar?" he asked cautiously.

Edgar smiled.

"Give me Margarethe," he said. "Give me a place to work, a place out of view of the war… and give me the resources I ask for, and don't ask what I do with them. If you do that… I can make it happen."

The air in the room seemed to have changed. It felt thinner, more precious, like they were nearing the peak of a mountain. Nobody bar Edgar quite understood what this moment was exactly… but they understood that it was vital.

Azez swallowed. "Make what happen?" he asked, his voice yet dry.

Edgar shifted his footing slightly -- and as the stars blazed behind him, it seemed for a moment like they were not shining upon him, but producing him. A mirage of light.

"A miracle," he replied, with all the certainty of a prophet.