The Nightshatter slammed against the hull of the elven dreadnought with a deafening shriek of protesting metal and splintering, living wood. For a moment, the two colossal vessels were locked in a forced, violent embrace, the sea churning angrily around them.
"Maintain covering fire with the smaller guns if they try anything," Roy's voice, a low, steady command, echoed across the deck.
A series of heavy chain grapples, thick as a man's arm, fired from the Nightshatter's starboard flank. They soared across the narrow, debris-strewn gap, their heavy metal claws clanking and biting deep into the massive, trunk-like hull of the elven dreadnought. Onboard the Nightshatter, a team of Presidroids, their movements swift and efficient, locked the chains in place, forming a series of tenuous, swaying bridges of cold, hard steel between the two warring ships.
"Team, go!" Roy's voice, sharp and clear, crackled through their comm units. "Capture Lady Brinevein alive if possible. Everyone else is fair game."
Eryndra didn't wait for a second command. She grabbed one of the thick, vibrating cables and launched herself across the gap with an effortless, almost contemptuous strength, landing on the enemy deck in a low, predatory crouch that sent cracks spiderwebbing across the living wood beneath her feet. The rest of the boarding team followed in a chaotic, determined flurry. Warrex was right behind her, his axes already drawn, a low, eager growl rumbling in his chest. Zehrina, a silent, graceful shadow, scanned their new surroundings for immediate threats. Takara, her face a mask of nervous concentration, crossed the swaying bridge carefully, her runic gauntlets already humming with a low, dangerous energy. Truman and FDR, exuding an air of calm, presidential dignity that was utterly at odds with the impending violence, stepped across last, their movements a display of disciplined, military precision. The Elite Presidroid assigned to back up Takara, John Quincy Adams, followed her like a silent, loyal shadow.
They found themselves on a deck that felt more like a cursed forest floor than a ship. The planks beneath their feet were soft, almost spongy, and pulsed with a faint, sickly green light. Gnarled, leafless branches, twisted into unnatural shapes, served as railings, and the air was thick with the cloying, sweet scent of pollen and something else, something metallic and unpleasant, like old, spilled blood.
Almost immediately, a wave of elven warriors, their faces contorted in masks of pure, fanatical hatred, charged them. They were tall, impossibly elegant, and they moved with a dancer's deadly grace, their curved, runic blades glowing with a malevolent green light.
FDR and Truman met the charge head-on, their earlier eagerness now a cold, terrifying efficiency. Takara, her initial nervousness evident in the slight tremble of her hands, took a deep breath, and stood her ground, Adams at her back.
Runic symbols, invisible to the naked eye, flared to life on FDR and Truman's feet and legs. They didn't run; they blurred, their speed now so great they left faint afterimages in their wake. They shot past a group of startled elven archers, their arms extended in a brutal, clothesline-like maneuver that sent the elves tumbling off the side of the deck and into the dark, churning water below with surprised, indignant shrieks.
FDR came to a halt before a particularly arrogant elven mage, whose robes were adorned with what looked like the stitched-together wings of exotic birds. The mage, seeing the approaching Presidroid, simply sneered.
"A metal puppet," the elf spat, his voice dripping with a contemptuous, racial disgust. "A golem crafted by the filthy hands of lesser beings. You have no soul, no place in the natural order. Lady Brinevein will see you, and your mongrel masters, cleansed from this world."
FDR, his blue optical sensors glowing with a calm, almost placid light, simply stood up straight, his posture a picture of dignified confidence. "Then, by all means," he said, his voice a smooth, almost gentle baritone, "attack."
The mage, enraged by the Presidroid's insolence, hurled a volley of corrosive, green fireballs. FDR didn't even bother to dodge. He simply began to walk forward, slowly, deliberately, his own body now glowing with the faint, intricate lines of defensive runes. The fireballs slammed against his chest, his suit, his face, but they didn't even singe the pristine fabric of his 20th-century attire. He walked through the magical barrage as if it were a gentle spring rain.
The elf's arrogant sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine disbelief, then dawning, horrified panic. He stumbled backward, his own spell-casting becoming more frantic, more desperate. But FDR just kept coming, his pace unhurried, his expression unchanging. He backed the terrified elf against the ship's gnarled railing, then, with a single, swift motion, grabbed him by the neck. He lifted the sputtering, kicking elf into the air and held him out over the churning, debris-strewn water below.
The elf, his face now a mask of pure, unadulterated terror, caught sight of Warrex approaching, his axes already stained with elven blood. The sight seemed to ignite a final, suicidal spark of defiance in the doomed mage.
"You ally with lesser beastfolk!?" he gurgled, his voice a choked, desperate rasp as FDR's grip tightened. "Lady Brinevein will cleanse you from this world! You and all your vile, sub-human kind will be nothing but a forgotten, puss-coated footnote in the glorious annals of time!"
FDR's calm, blue optical sensors faded to a flat, ominous black. He increased his grip, the sound of cartilage and bone beginning to creak under the pressure.
"There should be no forgotten races," FDR said, his voice a low, chilling monotone that was more terrifying than any shout. "And no forgotten men... except you."
He held his free hand over the elf's torso, and a single, heavy, gray rune materialized on the elf's chest, burning with a cold, unforgiving light. A hauntingly deep bass tone rumbled all around.
"G-gravity magic?! How?! Please, no!" the elf gurgled, his eyes bulging with a final, desperate plea.
FDR simply opened his hand and dropped him. The elf didn't even splash around; he just vanished beneath the waves, his own magically increased weight pulling him down into the dark, unforgiving depths like a stone.
FDR, his eyes still a flat, ominous black, turned to face Warrex, who had instinctively tightened his grip on his own axes, a flicker of something akin to caution in his eyes. FDR gave him a simple, clean, and somehow deeply unsettling thumbs-up, before leaping effortlessly up to a higher, secondary deck of the elven flagship.
While the Presidroids were engaged in their own brand of cold, calculated brutality, Zehrina had become a ghost of vengeance. She moved through the chaotic battle with a serene, almost detached grace, a silent, deadly whirlwind. Her feet barely seemed to touch the pulsing, living deck as she glided through the ranks of the elven warriors. They rushed her, their faces contorted in rage, their runic blades held high, but none of them could get close. She would either block their desperate lunges with a shimmering, impenetrable barrier of black dust, freeze them in their tracks with a crackling bolt of iced lightning, or simply cut them down with a casual, almost dismissive flick of her wrist that sent a razor-sharp blade of solidified dust whistling through the air.
Eryndra, in stark contrast, was not a ghost; she was a hurricane. Her armor vents were open a mere thirty percent, yet she was a blur of raw, untamed power. She blitzed through the elven ranks, a one-woman wrecking crew, casually dismantling entire squads at a time with a brutal efficiency that was both breathtaking and terrifying to behold. She didn't bother with tactics or finesse; she was a force of nature, a pure, unadulterated expression of physical dominance. The sickening crunch of bone and the sharp, surprised cries of the elven warriors were the only testament to her passing.
Takara, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm, decided to split off from the main group. Driven by a desperate, burning desire to prove her worth, to show Roy that she was more than just a girl in need of protection, she headed for the upper decks with a Presidroid that trailed silently, dutifully, at her back.
The moment she set foot on the upper deck, three elven warriors, their brown armor gleaming in the eerie green light of the ship, attacked. She felt a familiar jolt of panic, but she forced it down, planting her feet firmly on the deck, a low growl of defiance escaping her lips. She amplified the runes on her gauntlets, and with a grunt of exertion, locked her legs to the ground. She took the full force of their combined, three-pronged assault without so much as flinching, then, with a powerful, sweeping motion of her arms, blew all three of them back with a concussive, runic blast.
"Oh," she said, a slow, surprised grin spreading across her face as she watched them scramble to their feet. "These guys are… actually kinda weak!"
With a newfound, almost reckless confidence, she layered her arms and legs with even more enhancement runes and rushed forward. She moved with a fluid grace and with her mix of the Karate and boxing she had dabbled in back in her old life, she decimated elf after elf as they hurled a stream of increasingly creative racial slurs her way.
"Vile human woman!" one of them shrieked, just before her runic-charged fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying through a nearby, ornately carved window.
"Unpure trash!" another snarled, right before a powerful side-kick to his stomach folded him in half with such force that his shins smacked against his forehead, incapacitating him instantly.
She tore through multiple enemies, through multiple lavishly appointed but now thoroughly demolished rooms, until she finally reached a set of large, imposing double doors at the far end of the upper deck. Inscribed on a golden plaque above the doors were the words: "Her Ladyship, Brinevein."
Takara paused, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her knuckles bruised but her spirit soaring. She keyed her comm unit, her voice tight with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "Warrex, I think I found her."