Chapter 3

Golden conflagrations sparkled along the silent corridors where Centurion Peacekeepers and their heavy guard waited. Echoing step taken by Anaphora and Gothalia brought to life the silent walkway. It was a rarity for them to be present in such a highly secure area.

Gothalia pulled her dark gaze from the Peacekeepers, feeling the chill of their gaze upon her as they proceeded down the hall.

The corridor echoed with their light breathing and hushed conversation.

"What exactly are you implying?" challenged Gothalia. Anaphora had ventured to the surface world yesterday but had been reticent to share about her venture. Anaphora only informed her of the Alastorian presence at the Darwin prisons and the Alastorians lurking at the outer edge of the city's suburbs.

Gothalia hadn't interrogated her further on the topic, but she had wondered if Anaphora had told her everything.

"What I'm implying, Gothalia, is undercover work—you need to head to a club tonight in Darwin's CBD. An Xzandian Scout commander has infiltrated the city and is meeting with an unknown source. You need to lure out the source without being detected."

"And if I am?"

"Fight. They'll kill you if you don't." Anaphora's convincing gaze halted Gothalia's further question and caused her to turn attention from her mentor—contemplating why the Xzandians were clustering around Australia. More importantly, around Darwin, of all places. If I continue to be observant and be patient, I will find something, she thought.

"You'll be given additional orders when we arrive at the Council Chambers." Anaphora eyed the grand door less than a meter from her, lined in elegant silver swirls and carved with dancing flames. Within the centre, upon a stagnant silver fire, a shield proudly bore the insignia of the Centurions and Military personnel.

"Aren't we already here?" Gothalia asked, with a raised brow that dared sarcasm. Anaphora displayed a sly smile.

"You were so talkative. I'd wondered if you even noticed."

"Funny."

They waited for the double doors to unlock, beneath the watchful eye of the security cameras, scrutinized by Peacekeepers on the other side.

When they entered, the doors swiftly shut behind them.

The room was a little livelier than the daunting stillness of the hall, equipped with a small bonfire in the centre of the stagnant foyer.

Stairs lined either side of the walls of the spacious room, climbing to the upper level where the Elders sat, surrounded by books in ancient languages, delicate pieces of art, and lost artefacts.

The black marble floors were the same everywhere. Regularly waxed, they smoothly mirrored Gothalia's and Anaphora's forms as they glided across the room.

Gothalia peered at their moving reflection, coloured in a golden glow from the bonfire.

She tore her eyes from the likeness beneath her boots and climbed the marble stairs.

When she entered the open room, she stopped beside her mentor, gazing upon the Grand Elders of their secret society—the Masters and Generals of the Elite Excelian Battalions.

These twelve members passed laws, advised the Royal family of the Fire Reserve of appropriate actions, judged those who committed crimes, and guarded the Land of Fire.

The members of the Grand Council were never voted in, unlike on the surface world. They were the descendants of their bloodlines, but the selection process was strict. Only those worthy of the title as Grand Elders could become Grand Elders.

Each member of the Council sat high on a balcony lining the entire room and carved into the terraces before their seats were the first twelve letters of the Greek alphabet. Beneath it were Hieroglyphics, each representing the elemental techniques their clans were well known for.

At the base of the balcony were their elite guards and those who conducted errands for the Grand Elders, the Cratians. Their powers were rumoured to have no bounds; some who displayed tremendous courage and bravery had their likeness etched into the walls of the hall of honour, a reminder for the many generations that followed to uphold their commandments on the battlefield and anywhere else they may walk.

"I see you and your pupil have returned home unharmed. Well done," proclaimed Lord Michalis Drakeus, the head of the Grand Council.

He was an older adult, with a neatly trimmed red beard peppered with silver. His dark, gentle gaze held wisdom and power as he assessed the women before him. "As for the mission, Lady Reagan?"

Both Anaphora and Gothalia kneeled. Their curled fists steadied their weight as they dropped their heads in respect.

"The mission was a success, Lord Drakeus. As predicted, the enemy is assembling around the Southern Hemisphere. No doubt, to give the rest of the world a false sense of security."

"What about their Scouts?" he questioned, his eyes observing both women with calculating curiosity.

"They've all been eliminated by the upper Centurions. All that remains is the one scheduled to be assassinated tonight. As our informants discovered their appointment is with an unknown contact."

"I've read the report, Lady Reagan. This unknown contact, it's not someone that we've encountered in the past, is it?"

"No, my lord. It's confirmed that this contact may not be Human but rather a fellow Excelian." Gothalia glanced at her mentor, horrified that a member of her race was collaborating with these creatures, aliens who intended nothing more than to wipe everything and everyone off the planet.

Silence blossomed within the council chambers before Michalis Drakeus spoke, eyeing Gothalia.

"I recognise that expression you wear Gothalia. Where does this surprise come from, child?"

"Forgive me, my lord. I just . . . Never expected our enemy to be like us."

"I'm aware you are young, Lady Gothalia. I am also aware of your difficult upbringing, its struggles, and the horrors you have endured. However, I had hoped from all these trials in your short life you'd understand one thing: we may all wear the same name as Excelians, but we are not all allies. There will be multiple times when Humans or Excelians will betray each other or will work to aid each other. Human nature, like Excelian, is often unpredictable."

"Forgive me. I must have lost sight of that."

"It's not unexpected. It happens from time to time. Even your commanding officer had a similar reaction when she found out." He glanced at Lieutenant Colonel Anaphora Reagan before returning his attention to Gothalia. "We've all been created from the same need to survive. Just because our transition from Human to Excelian was necessary at the time to adapt, it doesn't mean everyone created from this or any similar source is going to fight for the idea that no one else should suffer, as we did. And in some parts of the world they still do. Some people will be ringmasters and will not care who they abuse or kill."

"Of course."

"I hereby sanction you, Lieutenant Gothalia Valdis, to return to the surface world anonymously. Find this Excelian man or woman. Determine their intention and their connection to the Xzandians. Then eliminate the source without arousing suspicion from the Law Enforcers. You're dismissed."

Both women climbed to their feet, and, with a final salute, a cupped hand over their heart and slight bow, and exited the room.

Down the stairs, they strode and out the grand doors that reminded any and every person who entered that every action conducted was judged and recorded.

Gothalia turned away to prepare for her mission before Anaphora's words stopped her.

"You'll be expected to carry out this mission alone; two Centurion officers will tail you, should anything go wrong, but they're not to interfere unless you're dead or close to death. Work as if they are not there. Your final test."

Surprised by Anaphora's words. Gothalia composed herself and accepted the computer chip her mentor handed.

"This has all the information you need. Arthur has all your tools, weapons, and transportation prepared. You leave in half an hour for the surface world."

When Gothalia arrived at the Artillery and Combat Zone, the tranquillity of the air calmed her anxiety. Often, whenever she was here, the place would buzz with the activity of other Centurions walking back and forth, carrying car parts, weapons, or gadgets. In the background, she would hear the grinding of metal, the explosion of a tested grenade in the back room. Sometimes she would listen to the pulsing of electric drills as they manufactured or repaired vehicles or gadgets.

It was during those times that a member of her clan was nearby to ensure the fire from the explosion of the grenades wouldn't spread or cause a dangerous explosion that would ruin the entire foundation of the building or the lives of those within proximity.

"There you are!" a cheery voice called, through the clatter of noises, clear as a bell.

Arthur Cicero's brown eyes shone with admiration. He was a man much older than her, but without a doubt, he was the smartest man she knew.

"Surely, you can move faster than that," he taunted, and Gothalia's smile dropped. It had been a while since she has last seen him, and she had almost forgotten his unusual sense of humour.

There were times, Gothalia knew, when his dry humour and sarcastic remarks, would almost get him burnt by members of her clan or buried alive by the quick-tempered Earth users of Regalis blood. He was brilliant, but not smart enough to know when and when not to speak.

Gothalia hastened her pace, frustration reinforcing the folds of her youthful features. Rude as ever I see, she thought.

"I've been told you have my gear and transportation ready?" Gothalia inquired, not bothering to comment on his last words. Once she reached his workstation, she watched him quickly return to a gadget he had fiddled with when she entered the room.

His workstation was covered in various contraptions, both complete and incomplete. The refurbished computer assembled behind Arthur was stacked with a pile of papers off to the side next to a printer, often forgotten and unused.

Whenever Gothalia arrived, she remembered he would be behind a three-dimensional screen with algorithms, shapes, and words. It was something Gothalia could not begin to describe how it worked, but it was still impressive, nonetheless. It worked like any computer just faster.

"I do. Including your outfit."

"Huh?"

Arthur's brown eyes glinted in mirth at her misunderstanding.

"Didn't they tell you; you'll be infiltrating a club to get to your target. So, you need to look the part. You can't show up looking like you want to start a fight." Arthur examined the gadget under the light before his attention returned Gothalia. He was obviously entertained. Her dark eyes glanced to the side, avoiding his beaming smile.

Gothalia did not speak; grateful Arthur held back his laughter.

"Here it is." He held up the dress he expected Gothalia to wear. She walked around the bench and gripped the ends of the dress, noticing the purposely revealing sections. It would show her stomach and back and one shoulder.

"I'm supposed to wear that?" Gothalia's eyes cautiously roamed over the dress while her mind crossed out the weapons, she would not be able to take with her into the club. "Where am I supposed to put my weapons? Why this dress?"

"Like I said you have to look the part and there are black heels over there to match."

Internally, Gothalia groaned.

Regardless, of how times she told herself it was to blend in, she could not rid herself of her irritation.

"Well, how am I supposed to get to my target if I'm fighting off weirdos?"

"You'll find a way. Women always do."

At that comment, Gothalia's irritation only intensified.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

Arthur's smile curled dangerously along his lips, and Gothalia fought the urge to throw him across the room, as she knew he did not deserve it.

"Yes, and you will not be unarmed, but you're expected not to draw your weapons on the Humans. You'll be wearing these underneath." He glanced at the short sword, two knives and an earpiece.

"That's all?"

"Yep, but no one said you couldn't use your flames. Just don't burn the entire city down. The usual light beam will transport you, but you will leave here with a standard Centurion bike. I have packed the rest of your weapons on there. Along with your uniform and armour should you need it. And this—" He tossed Gothalia leather jacket. "To cover the big fire emblem on your back when you ride to the arranged hotel room to change."

"Why didn't you just let me use one of the cars?"

"Can't. They are all currently at the disposal of other Centurions, and Anaphora said a black bike. She chose the dress. The weapons and gadgets are prepped and ready to go."

"Do I have to wear make-up too?"

"If you don't mind, it's been set aside." He smiled. Gothalia snatched the dress and jacket from his hand before collecting the make-up and striding to the assigned bike.

Placing all her items on, she mounted the bike and started the vehicle. It roared throughout the lower levels of the garage. Then, she guided it to a large teleportation pad in the centre before glancing at Arthur, who stood behind the controls. "Ready?"

"Ready," Gothalia confirmed.

"Good luck," he said earnestly. Before Gothalia knew it, she arrived at Lust-us, after leaving the hotel room she checked out from, behind. This club was expected to have the Xzandian contact, but she knew by the bouncers lingering at the door and the many people that was not all it was going to have.

Gothalia's black heels touched the ground as the engine ceased, adjusting her balance she climbed off her bike. The last thing you want to do is show too much, she thought, disgruntled by the tight dress and its habit of inconveniently rising.

She paused, noticing two figures, one stationed on the roof that provided a perfect few of the car park and the other down the road who would watch her walk into the club. If she had not known they were Centurions, she would have found them very creepy with potentially dangerous motives. That's unnecessary, she thought and parted with the bike.

Gothalia knew even after she managed to make her way inside, her comrades' interference would be limited. Too much interference would mean a failed mission, something she and her comrades aimed to ensure never happened.

Examining the items within the bag, she acknowledged their average appearance, the usual items to carry. Perfume, roll-on deodorant, lipstick, lip balm, foundation powder and a wallet with money. She knew the money was the only thing that was real. She had to use it wisely; Anaphora would not take well to the idea of her having a little too much to drink while on a mission.

She felt the weapons discreetly lining her body and trembled a little as apprehension ran through her; she feared she would be caught. Then, feared even more if she was not. "Then they'd have dodgy security," she muttered to herself.

Taking a deep breath, Gothalia joined the end of the line, listening to the drunken jokes of the men before her. Effortlessly, she ignored them when they tried to catch her attention.

She trained her eyes ahead and, on the bouncers, mentally counting the amount present, then observing their builds, and estimating their weight.

The line was slow, but not too slow that she became bored. She showed her ID with a charming smile, and the bouncer allowed her to pay the entrance fee before heading inside.

She heard the buzz of the earpiece hidden beneath her thick hair. She noticed more bouncers lining the club and mentally counted their numbers, taking in their builds before estimating their weight once more and moved to the bathroom, smiling at the drunk men and women around her as if she were having the time of her life.

When she reached a stall, she heard the earpiece ring to life.

"Do you read, Lieutenant?"

"I read," she replied in a whisper.

"Your coordinates are on track. Identify the Contact," Danteus informed her.

"That's easier said than done," she remarked. "What if he or she hasn't had anything to drink or worse . . ."

"What's worse than being sober?"

"Ha. Ha. You're so funny."

"I know, right?" Danteus muttered, equally sarcastic. "Stay on mission."

"Sure," Gothalia uttered, then did not speak on the matter any further, aware that Danteus was done with the conversation. The first question that slipped through her mind was where to find the contact, let alone how he appeared. "A picture would have been nice," she grumbled to herself, then fell silent the moment the door opened, revealing more women entering the bathroom. Fixing her makeup and hair, she vacated the bathroom without a glance back.

Music reverberated throughout the club, mingling with a cocktail of various alcohols, sweat, and perfume. Each scent unpleasantly tickled the back of Gothalia's throat like foreign spice.

Cautiously, she moved through the crowd of people, aware of the vibration of each beat, rumbling beneath her heels. Brushing by strangers, who invaded her personal space, she pressed on.

When Gothalia procured her drink, she purposely avoided eye contact with everyone except the bartender whom she ordered from.

With great lines and a thick crowd, it had taken her a long time to acquire a simple drink, not that she minded: it gave her time to think—to plan.

When she caught the eyes of someone else on her, she became conscious of her earpiece. Casually, she brushed her fingers through her hair, ensuring her earpiece was hidden. Even if it were as black as her hair, she was aware that the various coloured neon lights above would reveal its hard edges to anyone close enough to identify it.

Gothalia relaxed her features into an unreadable expression. Even if her mild anxiety peaked within proximity of others, she knew she could not expose her intentions.

"So, how's it going?" Danteus asked in her ear.

"There are fifteen male bouncers. Average height: five to six feet, plus or minus a few centimetres. Weighing approximately: eight-five to one hundred and twenty kilos. All of them, from what I've seen, are right-side dominant."

Her eyes drifted over the bouncer once more; he was looking at her accusingly. She allowed her eyes to slowly drift from his face and to the people in front of her.

Suddenly, a sharp screech pierced her ear, and she bit back a curse. Pressing her hand against the earpiece, she endeavoured to silence the noise and moved away from the bar and the bouncers, feeling their eyes following into her back.

The judgmental gaze of the others was not missed, but she dismissed it as irrelevant. There was nothing she could do about it.

Once the noise ceased, she readjusted her hair before smiling back at the strangers, whom she could tell were too drunk to notice her slight drop in character.

"What happened?" she asked after the earpiece re-connected.

"Interference, you must be close. I have relayed the hostile profiles to the trackers. Don't blow your cover."

Choosing to ignore her Squadron Commander's almost accusatory comment, she scrutinised the remainder of the club: the DJ booth, the bartenders, and their waitstaff. Her eyes were cautious of everyone and anyone in the building.

The club was smaller than she had originally expected, but big enough to fit a crowd of a few hundred. She now comprehended the need for high numbers of security. A crowd of people was often unpredictable.

Standing within the crowd, she was unaware of people pulling away from her, as they closed the space within their cliques, intentionally reminding her she was not welcome.

Her dark eyes dithered over the green neon railings above, lined in emerald lights that laced the steel poles like poisonous ivy. The lights blinded her vision for a second, but not enough to deter her. Then she caught sight of an icy gaze from the upper level, inviting confrontation.

That was enough.

She knew her target had to be on the upper level. Ignoring the crowd around her, she headed up the stairs.

She elbowed one man in the face, who intentionally slipped his hand up the hem of her dress, then disappeared into the crowd, avoiding the bouncers—she didn't want to start an unnecessary brawl.

An image of the target flashed behind her eyes, but she knew it was just her assumption of what the Xzandian contact would look like based on the little information she was given.

At the end of the day, she had no idea what this person would look like, but she knew what to look out for: the person who appeared the least intoxicated.

Gothalia sighed with discouragement when she realised how many people on the upper level were sober. Great, she thought, disheartened, before making her way to the bar.

Later that evening, she waited outside the club.