Eight pairs of eyes, seven cold and indifferent, one fired up with an unhidden fire of excitement. No more words were exchanged. With that one step, Lucas shattered whatever calm could have settled. Amidst the floating debris of metal and organic remains, he crouched ever so slightly, and whispered in a voice that seemed directed at the darkness itself:
"Flow."
When he disappeared, six of the seven pairs of eyes across narrowed in abrupt solemnity, and their owners' hands moved as fast as they could for the weapons that were the only common points in their attires compared to all the Macans Lucas had met before.
But that was all they managed to do. Only the Macan in the middle managed to pull from his back his great sword shining with the reflection of the flickering debris left behind by the fleet. Flowing like a ghostly current, Lucas appeared with a grin before the leftmost Macan.
