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The Astraia was in a state of uproar. Citizens who knew nothing of anything but their simple complacent lives cried out in protest, demanding justice for their tyrannical Empress. Myos watched the news day by day in his uncomfortable holding cell as he awaited his trial date. Anything that he had ever owned save for the clothes on his back had been destroyed, completely erased from existence. Any fingerprint he had left wiped clean and disappeared, even any technological footprint was gone, leaving his gaming friends to wonder were his user handle had gone. People spat on his image, called him a traitor. Until the trial and all but those closest to the Empress had been forced to forget his visage, he would live in infamy. It disgusted Myos, how they mourned and rallied the woman who strove to murder their free will right under their noses.

The whole ship was in mourning, the normal bright pinks and vibrant lights replaced with cloaks of black and dark lacing around every surface. No flowers grew in the courtyards and parks, and the skies above were continuously cloudy. They were without a leader, and even though they had never seen or really knew the woman who used to wear the crown, they felt lost without a presence of governing. Myos knew they would find a replacement for the tyrant soon, probably someone who had literally been created for the job. Myos’s scowl darkened, tracing the star pattern on his headphones that he fought to keep. Though they no longer worked, the presence of the item was still comforting to him.

He sighed and lay on the simple metal cot that had been provided for him and closed his eyes and sighed. Myos needed his sleep for his trial tomorrow.

Myos lay one thin arm over his angular face, covering his sensitive eyes from the newly introduced bright light. The cells were on automatic timers that flicked the fluorescent lights on and off from time to time, to confuse and disorient the criminal staying there. Despite that he could never be positive of the time or many days had really past, he knew it must have been around a week or two. He not been allowed to leave the cell to shower, so he had to make do with bathing himself with water from the sink that was provided for him. His usually lustrous hair was limp and matted, and he was unable to get all of the blood out from the initial blow without the aid of shampoo or any other type of soap really.

Myos hadn’t moved in days, just waiting for the guards to come by and announce it was time for his trial. All he could do was watch the ever present news on the television system that was built into the cell’s wall. His trial had been postponed because it was announced the heir to the Alioth Empire had been found - apparently a young daughter would be taking the place of hidden tyrant. Myos sneered at the thought, wondering if they crafted the poor girl out of the process that had been attempting to make Amaya. Remembering his friends brought him nothing but guilt and shame. He had killed all of them - roped them into the idea that they could start a rebellion together and now the four of them were dead and Myos had nothing to show for it but a mug shot and a tracker embedded in his arm. He was no hero, and he shook his head at the delirious thought that he ever could be.

The princess in training would be present at his trial, her first public appearance, and Myos couldn’t wait to see the poor brainwashed idiot.

Myos stood in the middle of a circular room, awaiting the time when the new Empress would arrive. The room was perfectly round, and fairly small, just enough room for him and his guards along with the up and coming royal woman. The walls had black draping over them, the ship still in loss after the death of their previous ruler. The tiled floor below him was bedazzled with the crest of the Empire, one black wing extending from the ever pervading heart.

Myos shifted uncomfortably with a guard on either side of him. The ginger boy had been dressed up in the best finery to meet the new Empress, and the starchy feel of the clothing got on his nerves. He was used to cottony fabrics and spandex, things that would stretch and allow him to move as quickly and easily as possible in the gaming campaigns he used to take part in. Those days were long gone he supposed as he fiddled with the cuffs of his jacket, glad that at least he didn’t have to wear the cuffs. He had long since fell into the depression and defeat of hopelessness, and the guards knew it. He wouldn’t be trying to escape any time soon. He had lost every one of his friends, so he had nothing left to fight for. Myos had been waiting for almost an hour, and he was getting impatient. The fiery haired man brushed one stubborn lock out of his face, trying to make it fall in line with the rest of his perfectly manicured tresses. He was glad to have his hair no longer matted, but hated the fact it had to be styled so specifically. The pristine curve of his bangs reminded him of Zeke, doing nothing but leaving a pang in his heart. He twisted the ring around his thumb and waited.

Suddenly the door in front of him opened, and Myos jerked his head to look, body instinctually tensing to be ready for any reaction. His current clothes made the action feel foreign to him, but it was a habit carried out none the less. The figure that stepped in, however, was not the slight female figure he had been expecting, but a rather brash looking man. He was dressed almost identically to the others, but his pin was a golden one instead of the ones the usual attendants wore. A high ranking official it would seem.

“I regret to inform you, but Our Lady the Empress of Alioth could not make it here today, but I have her sentence here for all to hear,” the official spoke in a loud, clear voice - most likely addressing the cameras built in the walls at every angle more so than Myos. His trial was being televised so the citizens could get their vengeance against him and become placated - all the better to brainwash you with, my dear.

Myos waited to hear his punishment, along with the millions of others aboard the Astraia.

The official cleared his throat, and brought out a small transparent screen, obviously intending to read the Empress’s exact decree. “By Her Majesty’s order, the criminal who has been accused of treason, crimes against the crown, rebelliousness, and murder in the first degree...shall be sentenced to never ending exile in space.”

A woman dressed in rich finery and furs strode across the golden room, headed towards an ornately carved alter where a man dressed in the same rich finery lay. She was a lithe, waif like girl, of average height though most of her length was in her slender legs, covered mostly with boots of which the heels clicked over the surface as she walked. An elegantly fashion silver wire tiara sat atop her head, to crown her for all to see as the Empress. Her long, thick lashes - bottom significantly longer than the top - brushed her cheeks as her plump pink lips pouted.

She finally reached the sacrificial looking table, taking in the man she saw there. He was of a well muscled build, though it was not shown due to the billowing and flowing fabrics that draped over him. That would be changed soon enough though. His skin was flawless, save for a blemish in the shape of a large star that was positioned over the strong man’s heart. She twirled a lock of her alabaster bob around a slender finger, brushing Zeke’s own inky bangs out of his peaceful looking face. It was almost as if the man was asleep. The girl leaned down, and whispered in the man’s ear as if it were a secret shared between the two though there was no one else in the room but the two. “Où est mon maître le prince rebelle?”

The ravenette opened his vibrant emerald eyes, now laced with thin lines delicate as the patterns on a moth's wing. The glowed and pulsed with an electric current, like that of the basket woven circuits on a motherboard. The woman’s face didn’t change as the other sat up on the table, immediately taking the new ruler’s hand gently in his own like a knight of old - with the exception that his movements were slightly unnatural, jerky, as though the action was not his own.

“How may I serve you, Empress Razzy?”

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