"If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to annoy him and frustrate him."
       - Sun Tzu, The Art of War

       "It's a celebration, bitches."
       - Rick James

       Candron had found that first test, as they liked to call it, was one of the more interesting moments of his life. He was a mage, now; four years of rigorous, nearly non-stop practice made him a man who could command the elements to his every whim. And yet, there was never a second test - or a pronounced second test. If one were to ask him, of course, he would say he had a good few thousand tests since then. He had not, however, had another of those spur of the moment ones.

       When he was allowed to, he chose a strange elective. It was something few chose, though even fewer could say why: the Acquisition and Study of Items of Power. Candron had assumed it to be a lab exercise, for the most part, looking at replicas of things such as the Mana Sword, Excalibur, Mana Seeds, and so on and so forth. This was certainly a part of it, but there was another oddity to it. Apparently, Georgethor Institute of Magic's Department of the Acquisition and Study of Items of Power had a division rarely talked about, and he, being a graduate student of good physique and superb reflexes, fit right in.

       Unfortunately, he fit right into the school's Aggressive Artifact Acquisition Program (which, more or less, involved stunts that could be construed by some as being terribly illegal). To this day, he remained fairly confident a public university should generally not have such a program, but when one finds their stipend covering one's tuition, one does not question the byzantine structures of the university system. The program was usually called the Department, for short.

       He was currently in his academic advisor's office - namely, Dr. Leon Haggis. The man, a Hylian, had his arms crossed as he looked up at Candron, from his desk. He had been summoned to handle some sort of errand - if past experience was any indicator, this errand would likely include risking his life for the purpose of bringing back some trinket. The Hylian pushed a few strands of greying hair back, and sighed.

       "So, Candron," he began, "you can guess why you're here."

       "Someone lost and/or made something of great and terrible power; it's believed to be in a forbidden ruin slash in the hands of madmen slash in a stinking dirt hole somewhere, and you intend for me to run out and grab it," Candron replied, nearly mechanically, with a sigh. Why couldn't he go back to images of cute young girls and throwing semi-trucks up into the air, again?

       "Pretty much," the professor replied. He handed him a manila folder. "Want the info?"

       Candron took it and nodded his head. "Yeah. Let me see this thing."

       "Look at it on the plane," the professor said. He looked down at his watch. "You have a flight to catch, and it leaves in an hour."

       The younger man could swear that Dr. Haggis had set that up for him somehow, but his was not to complain. He resisted a grumble, and just nodded his head once. How had he become involved in this mess, anyhow? The man crossed his arms, and then looked down at the doctor. "Okay, then. Where am I going?"

       "Kupopolis."

       The first thought that Candron had, when he stepped off the plane into the City of Moogles, was why in the hell he had been sent to a Third World, rat-infested town of white, fuzzy animals, freaks on leashes, demons, and the racial rejects of the rest of the Web. The place smelled foul, and he could see two potential reasons. One was a pile of refuse, human and other species in origin, which was being allowed to attract carrion and vermin. The other was a twelve-foot tall horned demon, which was breathing out sulfur.

       His orders were suitable vague; Dr. Haggis always saw to that. Candron was left feeling a little irked. The mission was to recover some legendary vest, which was supposedly impenetrable, and to steal it from, of all things, a mercenary who had grabbed it some time ago. There was no identity on the mercenary; he was simply told to meet his partner and an "old friend," who could handle it.

       Between the stinking pile of refuse and the demon, Candron wasn't seeing someone who might be his partner.

       Fortunately, that someone tapped him on a shoulder. He turned around to find a woman clad in a white, long jacket that went over black slacks and a grey shirt. She would have been ordinary, if strikingly attractive, save for two facts. The first was that she had, buckled at her side, a sheathed, one-handed long sword. The second was, emblazoned on the side of her coat, the symbol for Georgethor Institute of Magic. She brushed a strand of blond hair back, and extended a hand.

       "Candron, right?" she asked. "I'm Alouette."

       He was surprised. It seemed like an awfully nice name for a girl with a sword. The brown-haired man nodded his head. "Nice to meet you. You're my partner on this one?"

       "That's right," she replied. "I can fill you in on the rest of the information." A smile spread across her pretty face. "I'm sure that, by now, you've caught onto Haggis' love affair with never telling anyone the whole story."

       "You're not kidding," Candron answered. He nodded. "Go on."

       "The deal is this. Someone from the Sivan, a region in Blaenau Gwent and the newly founded Republic of Man, says there's something in the lining of that indestructible coat," the woman explained. She began to walk as she did, which took Candron by surprise; he had to jump a little to catch up, and walk alongside her. "It's supposed to be a map. I'm not sure why the boss wants it. Probably has something valuable. But the thing's sewn into this indestructible coat, and we need to grab it."

       "From that mercenary?" he asked. "Does the mercenary know it's there?"

       "No idea. But we know where he is," she said. A frown crossed those lips. "Did you know that Naba'al has really lax gambling laws?"

       "Not really," Candron admitted with a shrug.

       "It's the kind of lax where they allow bloodsport. The guy's apparently a pro, and he's looking to earn some major geld on a bet - using, of course, the impenetrable vest," the woman stated. Candron could see where this was going. The bet would be a surefire win. "He already has a reputation, though. So they need an opponent."

       "Where do we come in?" he asked. This better not involve him becoming a gladiator, he decided. That might be enough to make him quit on the spot.

       Alouette grinned. "Our man in the city is crazy enough to fight him."

       "Who the hell is this guy of ours, then?" Candron asked, once again. He was really starting to not like this.

       "Well..." She trailed off. "He's a little different."

       A little different was not the term that Candron would have used. The swordswoman led him through the bowels of the Central District, until they reached an area best known as a slum. It was one of the few parts still inhabited by Moogles, where the little furry creatures walked about the cities. It was cute, if oddly depressing; many had fur matted with dirt and soot, and the other surefire signs of poverty. The mage tried to not think about how disturbing the Moogle prostitute he saw two streets ago was. He tried so very hard to not think about that.

       It was easy to know when they came to their destination. It was a large building, made of thick and sturdy stone, with windows that were lined and covered in cast-iron bars. The exact purpose of it was hard to tell; it was too bleak to be a home of any kind, and yet, the dˇcor was hardly suitable for even the sleaziest of businesses. The sign on it was no clue. It simply read, "MARTINEZ - El Presidente y El Revolucionario del Estado de las Bitches."

       "What the hell is this?" Candron asked.

       "Be respectful," Alouette said. "He thinks he's a head of state."

       "Thinks?"

       She sighed. "Kinda complicated."

       The woman walked forward and opened the heavy, wooden door. Inside was a Spartan room, with little but a desk in the center. Much to both of their surprises, a Moogle sat behind it. His fur was pristine white, though he wore baggy clothes suitable for desert travel in Damcyan. His teeth with bared, gritted together, and in one hand, he held a Desert Wyvern that was pointed at them.

       "Mi secretario informa me que ustedes no tienen una cita," the moogle - Martinez, undoubtably - said.

       "What the hell did he-" Candron was cut off, as a round from the Desert Wyvern blew a hole in the floor near his foot. He leapt, his mouth agape.

       "Se habla kupo, bitches," Martinez snorted.

       "Let me handle this. You have to be respectful to him, like I said," Alouette whispered sharply. Then, she looked back to Martinez and nodded her head once. "Nosotros somos tus bitches, senor Presidente." Candron didn't understand much of this strange language, but he understood that one sentence through some context. What he was certain of was that he was not a Moogle's bitch.

       "Good," Martinez said, slipping into a heavily accented common language. He placed his Desert Wyvern on the desk, and Candron saw that on the side, it had the words "El Secretario" engraved into it. "My secretary will allow you to have an immediate appointment. You are from GIM, si?"

       "That's correct, senor Presidente," Alouette replied. Candron tensed as he looked at the Moogle. One of his chubby fingers was tracing the lines on the gun. "As per Professor Haggis' orders."

       "Mi amigo, Profesor Haggis..." Martinez repeated. He nodded. "I owe him a debt, from our time in the trenches together."

       "Time in the trenches?" Candron repeated. "I won't ask."

       "It's best you don't," the Moogle replied. He stood up. "Andale, amigos. We have to move quick."

       Manta had found quite a racket in the Alter-Mana nation of Naba'al. It was one of those peculiar, "backward" planets that offered such a morally repugnant and utterly irresistible thing that the people of the Core, the people with money, just loved: gladiator bouts to the death. The black-scaled Priman had not wasted time in tracking down one of these little bloodsport arenas, one where Tasnican investors and Esperian soldiers had no inhibition about spending their hard-earned money to watch Fringe men fight and die for their entertainment.

       He was certain that there was some poetic injustice to this, but Manta did not care. He was a killer, not a philosopher, and much like a shark was drawn to blood, he was drawn to money.

       He had just about run the place dry. Between his already formidable skills with the handgun and all of the martial arts and his new, impenetrable and invincible vest, he mopped the floor with every match. This would be his last fight; the place would either try to throw him out and get killed to the last man in his psychotic, unforgiving fury, or shut down out of monetary necessity after this. The people knew it, too, and this meant that large bets were on the line.

       He had a major one, riding on himself, as well. He fully expected to win.

       Something was bothering him, however. The audience had many new faces, but there was an itch at the back of his neck and a tingling in his fingers. There was the distinct sensation that something was wrong. As he looked at the audience, he scanned those new faces, looking over them, trying to find what it is that concerned him. From behind the cage that he fought in, he had a good view of the audience.

       He couldn't put his finger on it, before the bells sounded, and the door on the opposite end of the cage was opened. The announcer began to speak. "Tonight, we bring you a special fight! A fight to the death, between two pros - one, a proven murderer, a mercenary of great skill, the Priman, the Black Shark, Manta!"

       The usual cheers erupted.

       "And the next, between a veteran of the arena and the Web's wars. A man who walked in the shadows, unknown except for his prowess..." the announcer said, trailing off. He waited until his opponent walked through: a well-groomed Moogle, who wore the clothes of a Damcyanese soldier. Strapped to his side was a Desert Wyvern. Manta stared in disbelief, as the announcer continued. "Martinez! El Presidente y el Revolucionario!"

       The crowd was too dumbfounded to cheer, at first. Then, from one of his satchels, Martinez drew out a bottle of tequila. The Moogle took it, uncorked it with one thumb, and put the bottle to his lips. He gulped down the entire thing, sucking the worm down into his belly, in a matter of seconds. He then took the bottle, and smashed it over his head. It shattered, and the crowd practically exploded with hollering and applause.

       Martinez shouted triumphantly. "Se habla kupo, bitches!"

       "I don't know what the fuck you are, who the fuck you are, or what you're doing here," Manta growled, "but this is my goddamned tea party, and a pussy little Moogle bitch like you is not, I repeat, not gonna fuck it up for me." His hand reached to his side, where his trusty modified Wondershot pistol was. The deadly firearm was drawn, and Martinez's eyes narrowed.

       "Bitch, please," he snarled in his accent. "Put that toy away, before I hurt you."

       "Now it's on, motherfucker." Manta wasted no time, quickly leveling the sidearm forward. One clean pull of the trigger should have done it; a bright blast of light hurled out, slamming into the concrete floor of the arena and burning it black. However, Martinez was long gone; time seemed to slow down, as he leapt into the air, cart wheeling in mid-jump, and latched onto the side of the cage with a paw. The Desert Wyvern was aimed down at Manta and fired.

       The round slapped into his chest, hit the invincible vest underneath, and bounced away harmlessly. "You see that shit, little fucker? I got you! I fucking got you!"

       "Chinga tu madre," Martinez growled. Manta didn't know what it meant, but he knew for damned certain that he disliked it. The Priman spun on a heel, pivoting and grabbing his gun with both hands. Martinez hung in place for a moment, waiting as the Wondershot hummed - and then fired another column of white-hot hellfire. The Moogle spun away again, as the blast tore into the cage. It should have ripped through it.

       Instead, a shimmering barrier of light appeared and absorbed it, to protect the audience. Manta knew a few tricks about such things, and looked to see the source of the mana threads. It was a brown-haired young man, whose hand was just descending. His eyes widened, as the Priman looked right at him. "What the fuck is this shit!" he snarled. "Are you fucking playing me-"

       Martinez was not distracted. Another Desert Wyvern round was fired and this one slammed into his side. The bullet managed to hit the vest again, but the knock back of the blow was still enough to send him stumbling into the cage. He growled, glancing briefly at where the young mage had been. He and a woman with blond hair and a white coat were already gone. He looked back to Martinez. "You first, amigo. Then your little shit friends."

       "Step aside, motherfucker," Martinez said back. His voice was cold, and level.

       Manta laughed, barking it out in anger, and fired another shot. The Moogle quickly leapt aside, but Manta was ready this time. He adjusted his aim, and shot a weaker blast - right at Martinez's Desert Wyvern. The firearm was incinerated, turned into ash in but a moment, and the fur on his arm was burnt away. The Moogle dropped to the floor, and glared. The Priman smirked, and leveled his gun down at the creature's head. It was an execution, now. "You know, you fuckin' rats are really starting to annoy me."

       "I am not a rat," Martinez growled. He reached to the ground, while Manta smirked. As soon as the third Wondershot blast was fired, the Moogle launched to the side, and grabbed the bottle of tequila he used before, by the neck. He then leapt upward, as Manta snarled wordlessly. He fired a blast as the creature hurled through midair, sending one, two, three holes through the top of the cage. The Moogle cart wheeled, hitting the ceiling of the cage with his feet, and then propelled himself down at the Priman.

       "Viva la Revolucion!" he screamed, and landed on Manta's snout. The little, furry creature then slammed the jagged edge of the broken bottle into one of the fish's eyes. It filled with red, and then the vision was lost, as Manta was left with a broken tequila bottle sticking out of his head.

       His hands let go of the Wondershot pistol and grasped the bottle, while Martinez leapt away. Manta was angry, now. But even worse, the little Moogle grabbed onto the vest he wore, and yanked it open on his descent. He then swept kick, his stubby leg sending the hurting fish to the ground. After that, it was a simple process of yanking the vest off of him. Manta decided, then and there, to use the bottle to gut the Moogle, once he removed it from his eye.

       Unfortunately, he was rather distracted as his keen hearing picked up a rush of wind, and then an explosion amidst the audience.

       "What the hell was that?" Candron shouted, as he ducked to the ground and looked in the direction the explosion came from. Alouette did the same, wasting no time in glancing towards one of the entrances to the place. That was likely the source of the explosion. Fire and smoke was raging about, as people screamed and fled, but she could make a form out. The form of a man, clad in some form of uniform, and with a sword drawn, was visible through the haze of smoke and flame. Her eyes widened, as she began to recognize him.

       Candron's demands to know what was going on were pushed aside, as she drew her own sword. The long sword was torn free of the sheath with a clean, slick metal sound. She glanced once at her younger partner. Her words were spoken sharply, no longer with that casual friendliness of before. "Stay down. This is over your head, kid."

       He tried to say something, but Alouette launched into the air with a single push of her foot off the ground. It sent her soaring, twisting in midair to create a spin that let her make a twenty-foot descent closer to the figure. It was more than an ordinary human ought to be able to do, but that hardly mattered in the case of the swordswoman. Her coat trailed behind her as she landed, and met the angry, grey eyes of her opponent - a greying man, in the garb of a nobleman. His nostrils bristled, as he looked at her.

       Her intuition was correct. "Lord Sirius," she said, in a tone of respect and contempt, "of Bewahrung. I am unsurprised."

       The bearded man looked down at her, and leveled his claymore towards her. It was gripped in both hands. "Alouette, one of the Five Knights of Advent. I should have expected one of you to come here. Now, I suggest you leave," the nobleman suggested in a cold tone. His sword glowed once, flaring with a burst of flame. "Or otherwise, this may become violent."

       "Already has, Sirius," Alouette said. "Why don't you go back to your little hellhole, like a good living anachronism?"

       "The same could be said for your father," the man replied coldly.

       That insult made her bristle with rage. The soul inside of her sword felt it, and responded; the blade crackled with lightning, which sent sharp tongues of electricity that ripped at the air before receding back to her blade. "Don't speak ill of my father," she said. "He's a better man than you are or ever were."

       Sirius grunted once. It was all that was needed. The two quickly lunged for one another, trying to pass by on their jump and slash their opponent in the meantime. Their blades caught one another, exploding into a flare of light as they, and their feet hit the ground at the same time. The older man spun his claymore around him with one hand, before he quickly stepped forward and stabbed his blade at her. The girl raised her sword and caught the man's sword.

       She gritted her teeth and spun, sending a foot at him. Sirius stumbled backward as her booted heel caught him in the stomach. She then pressed that advantage, rushing in and cleaving her sword downward. As she did, the lightning came to life, sending a wave of lightning bolts at him from all angles. The man grasped the blade with both hands, quickly, and sent it to meet hers. He formed a disc of fire that shot between them and caught the lightning bombardment in an explosion of sparks.

       "Not good enough!" he shouted, and then pushed his sword through that circle of flame. It broke, fire vanishing away in patterns and lines, until a distinct pattern of runic inscriptions was left within the outline of a circle. He then snarled some word in a forgotten language, which she was too slow to pick up on. It didn't matter; the claymore slashed her upper arm deeply and sent out a spray of blood.

       A moment later, a blast of fire exploded before her, and sent her hurtling through the air and into the floor. When she hit, she groaned, and then forced herself up. The front of her coat and clothes were charred, now, and her skin stung painfully along her face and neck. She looked to see Sirius charging at her, and then quickly slammed her sword into the ground. The lightning released from it and hit the earth, causing the stone to explode in fury in a straight line. The floor was split, just as Sirius ran right into the line it began to divide on.

       The floor exploded under his feet, shredding lines along his pants, and sent him flying up into the air. His ascent was uncontrolled at first, until he twisted his body and grabbed his hilt by both hands. He then came down with the blade aimed directly for her. Alouette wasted no time, launching into another inhumanly high jump. The two passed in midair, as time seemed to slow for one long moment-

       -and then their blades met with incredible force. Lightning and fire exploded from one another, and the two fighters were thrown away from one another horizontally. She landed on the floor, not far from a Candron who was staring at her in awe.

       "Run, Can!" she shouted. "He's too strong!"

       "Right!" the mage shouted. He backed up, got to his feet, and began to flee. Sirius began to charge, screaming wordlessly as he did.

       "Do you think I'll spare him, Knight?" he shouted. "I'll have his hide! And the rat's!"

       "I'll send you back to where you belong, Sirius!" the woman shouted, as she rushed forward. Their blades were out stretched, their eyes narrowed as they looked at their target, and they met in a crash. Two streaks of blood splattered across the floor, as their blades were made unclean again, and then both came to a stop. Sirius bore a gash on his side, deep and soaking his clothes through, while Alouette was left with his claymore tearing through her shoulder and pinning her into one of the seats.

       She whimpered, once, as the pain struck her all at once.

       "Enough, lark," he glared. His sword glowed red on his command. "Today, I finally end you."

       "Get off of her!" Candron shouted. He stood near the exit, glaring down at Sirius. One of his palms was opened, and a fireball was formed. It spun around idly, and then he held the hand out towards Sirius. The fireball flared once, a corona shooting from it and landing back into it. "Get off of her, or I'll kill you right here."

       "Pathetic," Sirius snorted. "If you think that a fireball can kill me, then you're in for quite a surprise."

       "You idiot," she whispered to herself.

       At that moment, though, the air in the room burnt aside as a beam of pure, white light lanced out and smashed into the nobleman's back. The man's uniform was burnt to a cinder in a moment, and then he fell forward with a groan. Alouette recognized the blast, as she yanked his blade from her body. It was from Manta's Wondershot pistol, and fortunately for them, it was in the hand of Martinez.

       "Get out of here," Martinez ordered, and tensed his finger on the trigger again. Sirius looked up at him with a glower, and reached his hand out for his claymore. It was no longer there, and instead was in the hands of his opponent just a moment ago. He noticed this with a glare, and looked back towards the Moogle. The little creature stepped towards him, and fired a blast again. It smashed into the lord of Bewahrung, and sent him sliding over the stone. Another smoking hole was left in his clothing.

       Somehow, though, he was not dead.

       "I'll have that map," he growled. His eyes looked down at the vest in Martinez's free hand. "That's the key to everything."

       "Not yours to have," Alouette interjected.

       "You should stop playing with them, Knight," Sirius growled. He looked to Alouette, and his eyes narrowed. "They won't be of much use for long." The woman held no answer for him, and instead just tensed her hand on both hilts of the swords. She was ready to bury either of them into him, but she knew he had more tricks up his sleeve even yet. "I'm done with this."

       Sirius then glowed once. A light rose around him, brilliant and white, and washed over him. It pulsed, once, nearly blindingly, and then he vanished into nothing.

       Candron's mouth hung open again. "Teleportation..." he muttered. "That's not even possible!"

       "No shit, Sherlock," a deep voice from behind the three said. They turned at once, to find Manta looking at them. The left side of his face was a bloodied mess, with cuts around it, and no sign of the eye that should have been there. There were, however, shards of glass that were both large and small. In one hand, he held a broken half of a tequila bottle. "Now, here's what we're gonna do."

       "Back up," Alouette whispered. Candron did so, as did she. Martinez did so reluctantly.

       "I'm gonna first cut off that fuckin' Moogle's head, and eat it for breakfast tomorrow," Manta said. "And if you think I'm fuckin' kiddin', then you will be horrified when you eat with me. Then, I'm gutting the kid over there-" He pointed towards Candron with the bloody, jagged end of the bottle. "And me and her are gonna have a wine dinner while we eat his guts, and then I'm gonna fuck the shit out of her."

       "Un loco bitch," Martinez growled.

       "Shut the fuck up-shut the fuck up!" Manta snarled. "You cut my fuckin' eye out, you furry little shit!" He slashed once at Martinez, who leapt backward to avoid being cut by the glass. Manta seethed, but held still. "But first of all, you're tellin' me who that motherfucker with the robes is, you got me?" He growled. "All fuckin' four of you just ruined my goddamned bet, and I don't lose bets. You hear me? Motherfuckin' Manta does not lose!"

       Candron glanced once at Alouette. His eyebrow raised; he was trying to tell her something. She stared back at him for a moment. Whatever he was getting at, she couldn't tell. The mage then looked to Manta, giving up on whatever idea he had. He cleared his throat. "Manta, right? The Professor sure didn't mention you."

       "Professor? Fuck, kid. Lemme give you a lesson," Manta said with a cold smirk. "Don't fuck with the best."

       "Let me ask you something, then." Candron sighed. "Before I die."

       "Yeah?" Manta asked. He waved the bottle once, to indicate the intent. He looked horribly amused by this.

       "Did you forget to wear your relics?"

       "Wha-" And then, Manta crumpled to the ground. Candron's hands glowed softly, as the sleep spell he cast got off. He looked to the other three, and nodded his head once to them. "Let's go, before he wakes up."

       Martinez grinned. "Good one, amigo."

       Alouette looked back at Candron, and smiled. Maybe he would make it in this business, after all.