Chapter Text
“QUATRE!”
A sharp, desperate plea piercing a cacophony of cockpit alarms. A scream of panicked rage engulfing the contact comms of an enemy warship, as a monstrous machine of war grabs it with both hands and looms over its main camera cluster.
“WHERE HAVE YOU TAKEN HIM?!”
A second scream booms into the radio waves, cameras feeding a single, horrifying view to the unfortunate bridge crew: a blood-shot monoeye, black veins pulsing erratically as weapons discharge from surrounding vessels fruitlessly scars the war machine’s chitinous exterior.
“YOU STOLE HIM.”
In the split-second before the vessel is torn asunder, its occupants receive one final indictment. Three words, spoken at the height of a neverending blood-high by a voice that posthumous black box analysis would easily identify as that of Renard DeColde, the 4th and last ruler of the Avignon Empire.
“GIVE HIM BACK.”
Before a nearby warship can evade in time, the hull of its previous victim is driven straight into it, splitting it in two like a makeshift blade. Contact comms once again roar awake, screams of panic rising in unison from the split vessel. The war machine’s nervous system delivers a jolt of adrenaline straight into its pilot’s, ideally meant to spur him on.
It isn’t needed.
He lets the stimulants course through him for a moment, before turning his attention to the flickering lights in the corner of his eye: a formation of conventional battleframes, hovering around him like insects.
Trying to sneak up on him.
He wills it, and chitinous whips lash out from his forearm, impaling a few battleframes despite their best efforts to maneuver away. Thus the formation disperses, retreating towards their carrier ship.
He wills it, and the carrier is now in front of him, hurriedly trying to back away. A swing from the other half of the warship he’d torn apart cleaves it in two, secondary explosions rippling across its decks in a grim spectacle of chemical reactions.
Renard waits a moment, watching as fighters, battleframes and escape pods begin flying away in all directions. He extends his hand, and a flurry of whips lashes out once more. Proximity and hull integrity warnings flash in front of him with increased intensity as the sting from countless beam cannons pinches at his nervous system. He doesn't dodge, focusing instead on driving as many spikes as he can into the fleeing insects.
They had taken his treasure away from him, so they would die.
A bump on the back of his head suddenly wakes him from his sadistic trance: a larger warship had apparently just rammed him, leaving his head hanging in disbelief - mouth agape and panting as the weight of sudden exertion bore down on him all at once.
Those worthless dogs believed themselves to be like his treasure. Like his Quatre.
He’d repay their pathetic bravado with the final silence they deserved.
From the back of the war machine, another set of spikes pierces the battleship from every angle, holding it in place. He turns to face it, observing it for a moment before piercing it end-to-end with a focused stream of black blood.
They were not like his Quatre, they would never be like his Quatre, and their attempts were altogether offensive to the greatness of the only man who could stand up to him. The only man who could match him. The only man who could defeat him.
The only man who could free him.
“Please…”
A singular sob, inaudible under the chorus of warnings blaring in the darkness of his cockpit.
“Come back to me.”