A rift tore open, but what emerged was not a warrior or a fleet.
It was a hospital bed—sterile, white, and jarringly out of place among the asteroids.
Surrounding the bed were various life-support instruments of varying sizes, their rhythmic beeping the only sound in the oppressive silence.
Nightflame and the Mad One surged to their feet, their weapons primed as they stared at the bizarre new arrival.
"You really had to force me to reveal my true self, didn't you?
Consider me... impressed," the sick voice added, punctuated by a wet, rattling cough.
With agonizing effort, the figure on the bed pushed himself upright, his skin translucent and his frame skeletal.
"Who are you?" the Mad One demanded, his suit's sensors failing to categorize the biological mess before him.
"The real culprit.
The mastermind," Nightflame guessed, his face hardening into a mask of cold fury.
He could feel the resonance emanating from the ill man.
"Indeed.
'Mad One,' is it?
