They emerged from the claustrophobic alleyways back into the main thoroughfare, the oppressive weight of the crater's rim high above them once more. Stepping back into the Crystal Goblet Tavern was like crossing a threshold into a different world. The warm, bread-scented air was a stark contrast to the cold mist outside, and the low hum of conversation had returned to its normal pitch. It was as if the violent confrontation had been nothing more than a particularly vivid daydream. Chairs were righted, spilled drinks wiped up; the resilient rhythm of life on Bootleg Island waited for no one.
Their booth was occupied. Galit sat with his usual slouch, his focus entirely consumed by the glowing screen of his data tablet. His fingers flew across its surface, tapping out complex calculations, his brow furrowed in concentration. The faint blue light reflected in his glasses, making his eyes unreadable.
Jelly, his energy restored, bounced onto the table with a cheerful "Bloop! Hello, number-man!" causing the glasses to tremble.
Galit didn't look up immediately, finishing a final notation with a sharp tap. His eyes, when they finally lifted, slid from Marya to Jannali, his expression one of mild, analytical curiosity. "You made a friend," he stated, his voice flat. It wasn't a question.
Jannali grinned, sliding into the booth opposite him with an easy confidence. "Jannali Bandler. And yeah, you could say that. I'll be joining your little crew."
Galit's eyebrows climbed a fraction of an inch. He slowly turned his head to look at Marya, who was settling into the seat beside Jannali, her posture relaxed. He said nothing, his silent question hanging in the air between them.
Marya shrugged one shoulder, a minute gesture. "The wind said so."
A flicker of understanding, followed by resigned acceptance, passed behind Galit's eyes. He let out a soft sigh through his nose and gave a single, slow nod. Of all the reasons Marya could have given, this was one he knew better than to question. A faint smirk touched Marya's lips.
Their silent exchange was interrupted as Auset approached, a tray of drinks balanced expertly on one hand. Her violet eyes were thoughtful, her movements silent. She placed a fresh glass of wine before Marya, a fizzy cocktail for Jannali, and a towering cola for Jelly, who immediately began making loud, gurgling suction noises with his straw.
"That was truly impressive," Auset's voice hummed directly in their minds, a private compliment. Her gaze, however, held a note of caution. "But I fear there could be consequences. The Crimson Lioness does not take interference lightly. Her reach is long, and her memory longer."
Marya took a slow sip of her wine, her expression unmoved. "Let her remember." She shifted her attention back to Galit. "Where's Atlas?"
Galit gestured with his chin toward the bar without looking up from his tablet. "Acquiring funds."
They all glanced over. Atlas, his massive frame folded onto a stool that looked comically small beneath him, was engaged in animated conversation with Poppy, the skunk mink waitress. Her tail swished playfully as she laughed at something he said, her black-and-white fur standing out against the tavern's warm wood tones.
Jannali let out a low whistle. "Well, you don't see that every day."
Sllluuurrrp! Gurgle-gurgle-pop! Jelly's enthusiastic consumption of his cola provided a bizarre soundscape to the observation.
Galit tapped his screen, pulling the focus back. "Should I assume you were the source of all the commotion earlier?"
"You assumed right," Jannali started, leaning forward. "We were—"
Galit cut her off, not out of rudeness, but because the information was irrelevant to his current calculations. "The figures are almost complete for the route to Ohara. The currents are favorable if we depart within the next forty-eight hours."
At the mention of the name, a tall figure hunched over a drink at the far end of the bar went very still. The broad shoulders under a simple, unassuming coat tensed almost imperceptibly.
"We have a little side mission to take care of first," Marya said, her voice cutting through Galit's planning. "Ohara will have to wait until after." Her golden eyes scanned their faces. "How did everyone do with gaining funds?"
Galit's fingers danced over his tablet again. "Well, between my winnings and the furball's… enthusiastic bartering, we should have a slight surplus. So whatever you acquired will be…" His sentence trailed off.
His words died because a shadow had fallen over their table. The ambient temperature seemed to drop a few degrees, a subtle, creeping chill that had nothing to do with the tavern's climate.
Everyone looked up.
A man stood beside their booth. He was impossibly tall, with a lean, powerful build that seemed to suck the warmth from the very air around him. He wore a simple, dark coat, but his presence was anything but simple. His hair was a wild, dark mane, and his face, partially hidden in shadow, was etched with a deep, world-weary fatigue. He held a glass of something clear in one large hand.
He didn't speak. He just stood there, looking down at them, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on Marya before scanning the rest of the group. The easy noise of the tavern seemed to recede, muffled by the weight of his silent attention.
After a long, tense beat where the only sound was Jelly's straw desperately searching for the last drops of cola, Jannali broke the silence. Her voice was light, but her eyes were sharp, missing nothing. "Something we can do for you, mate?"
The man's eyes, cold and assessing, shifted to her. He took a slow sip from his glass, the ice clinking softly. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, rumbling baritone that carried the chill of deep ocean trenches.
"Ohara," he said, the word hanging in the suddenly frigid air like a frozen ghost. "That's a name you don't hear every day."
*****
The amplified voice's final word—"force"—hung in the salt-tinged air, a metallic threat underscored by the synchronized click of a dozen rifles being shouldered. The soldiers surrounding the submarine were faceless behind their sleek, grey helmets, their postures rigid, their weapons unwavering. The lead officer, a man whose armor bore a single crimson stripe on the pauldron, gestured sharply. Two soldiers stepped forward, hefting a heavy, hydraulic pry-bar between them, its jaws looking capable of peeling the sub open like a tin can.
Just as the cold metal touched the seam of the hatch, a deep internal hiss broke the tension. The hatch, with a groan of protesting mechanics, swung outward.
Six figures emerged, blinking against the harsh, artificial light of the platform. They were a stark contrast to the sterile, uniform grey of their surroundings. Aurélie led, her silver hair a defiant banner in the industrial breeze, her black tactical gear and the horizontal sheath of Anathema marking her as a warrior. Behind her, Bianca wiped sooty hands on her already-stained overalls, her goggles pushed up on her forehead, a pencil still tangled in her messy bun. Charlie followed, clutching his salvaged scrolls to his chest like a shield, his pith helmet miraculously straight. Then came Kuro, his charcoal suit impeccably tailored even now, his gloved hand subtly pushing his cracked spectacles back up his nose. Souta emerged with an air of bored indifference, though the tattoos on his arms coiled with a slow, restless energy. Lastly, Ember bounced out, her neon-pink space buns bobbing, her charred rabbit toy tucked under one arm, her mismatched eyes wide with delight at the new playground.
They stood on the tilted hull of their home, surrounded.
The lead officer, Commander Victor Keller, removed his helmet. His face was all hard lines and weathered skin, a map of old tensions, with eyes the color of flint. His hair was cropped short, grey at the temples. He looked them over, his gaze lingering on their strange attire and weapons, his distrust a physical presence.
"Identify yourselves," he demanded, his voice a low gravelly rumble without the amplifier.
Aurélie and Kuro's eyes met for a fraction of a second—a silent, swift exchange between two natural leaders assessing the same threat, a fleeting moment of alliance in the face of the unknown. It was Charlie, however, who stepped forward, clearing his throat with a loud, nervous "Ahem!"
"Good day to you, sir!" he began, his voice too loud for the tense space. He stood a little straighter, attempting an air of academic authority. "We are…," he paused, his eyes darting over the soldiers, the massive platform, the hulking forms of the Armored Frames being guided into distant hangars. He was searching for the right term, the correct context for this bizarre new world. "We are explorers. It appears we have, through a most unfortunate navigational anomaly, lost our way."
Commander Keller's eyes narrowed, the lines around them deepening into crevices of skepticism. "Explorers," he repeated, the word tasting foul in his mouth. "That is highly unlikely. There are no 'explorers' in these waters. The only ships that brave the Typhon Drift are CUA patrols and JFF scavengers." He took a step closer, his boots ringing on the metal deck. "It's apparent which one you are."
Charlie blinked, adjusting his glasses. "I assure you, good sir, we have no idea what the 'JFF' is."
Keller closed the final gap between them, looming over the scholar. The air grew colder. "That," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "is proof you're lying. There is no one, not a soul from the outermost Jovian rock to the central spire of Haven-Prime, who doesn't know the Jovian Free Fleet. So, let's try again. JFF affiliation. Now."
The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Everyone tensed. Bianca's hand twitched toward a multitool on her belt. Souta's smirk vanished, his calculating mind racing through options. Kuro's expression remained a polite mask, but his body was coiled spring-tight.
The tension was shattered by a gleeful squeal. Ember, bored with the talking, had found a loose, fist-sized component that had shaken free from the sub during the crash. It was a spherical housing unit, its surface etched with delicate, unfamiliar circuitry. "Ooh, shiny!" she giggled, giving it a shake. It emitted a low, worrying hum.
"Ember, don't—" Souta started, but it was too late.
She tossed it playfully into the air. As it spun, the humming intensified into a high-pitched whine. It reached the apex of its arc, and for a heart-stopping moment, it glowed a fierce, cherry red.
It exploded.
The blast wasn't large, but it was blindingly bright and deafeningly loud in the confined space of the cordon. A concussive pop sent soldiers ducking and stumbling. The sphere shattered into a thousand superheated fragments that pinged harmlessly off armor and the sub's hull, but the shockwave was a perfectly chaotic disruption.
In the instant of stunned silence that followed, Commander Keller's composure shattered into pure, unadulterated fury. His face flushed a dark crimson. "JFF saboteurs!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Detain them! All of them! Get them to the brig! I will interrogate these liars myself!"
Rough hands seized them. Aurélie met the gaze of her team—Bianca's wide-eyed panic, Charlie's open-mouthed horror—and gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Her expression was granite, a silent command burning in her steel-gray eyes: Do not struggle. Cooperate. Live to fight later.
The order was unnecessary for Kuro, who offered his wrists with a condescending sigh, already playing the part of the inconvenienced civilian. Souta complied with a cold, detached stillness, his mind already mapping the corridors they were dragged down. But as the cold ceramite cuffs were locked onto their wrists, the six of them were united, for now, in a single, shared reality: prisoners in a world that had already decided they were its enemies.
The air in Commander Victor Keller's office was thick with the smell of stale coffee, old metal, and simmering rage. It was a utilitarian space, all brushed steel and harsh lighting, but worn at the edges. A deep scratch marred the surface of his desk, and a faded propaganda poster on the wall showed a pristine Armored Frame standing triumphantly over a vanquished Typhon, the words "UNITY THROUGH CONTROL" stamped beneath in bold, optimistic letters that felt like a mockery now.
Keller paced like a caged animal, the rhythmic clang of his boots on the deck plates the only sound for a long moment. Across from him, leaning against a bank of silent comms equipment with an infuriating calm, was Josiah Manos. Josiah was everything Keller wasn't: younger, his CUA uniform somehow looking less like a second skin and more like a costume he could shrug off. His eyes held a calculating light, a mind that preferred twisting puzzles to bludgeoning them.
"It defended them, Josiah," Keller finally growled, stopping his pacing to stab a finger at the reinforced window, beyond which the submarine sat like a beached, alien whale. "The sonar logs are clear. The Typhon-class entity altered its attack vector. It intercepted the Goliath's strike. It didn't just ignore the sub; it actively put itself between our Frame and their vessel. How in the burning drift does the JFF have that kind of technology? How do you call a monster?"
Josiah pushed off from the console, his hands held up in a placating gesture that didn't reach his eyes. "If they are JFF, sir, then it's not a stretch. They're scavengers, tinkerers. They jury-rig everything. Maybe it's some experimental emitter they were testing. Our arrival interrupted the field test. It backfired, drew the thing in instead of repelling it. You know how their cobbled-together tech is—unpredictable."
"Unacceptable!" Keller's fist came down on his desk with a bang that made a half-empty cup of cold coffee jump. "There's been no intel, not a whisper, of anything like this. If the JFF can sic those things on us… it changes everything. Everything!" His mind raced through the implications: patrols annihilated, platforms vulnerable, the fragile balance of terror they'd maintained for decades shattered. He needed answers. Now.
He slammed his palm on a worn comms button embedded in his desk. The speaker crackled to life with a faint hiss of static. "Engineering! Where's my preliminary tech report on that submarine? I need something to work with!"
A nervous, tinny voice filtered back. "Sir, the team is still working. It's… it's not like anything we've ever encountered. The power signature is a complete mess, like nothing in our databases. The hull composition is reading all wrong—it's dense, it's scattering our deep scans. It's completely foreign, Commander."
Keller released the button, cutting off the engineer. He grunted, a low, frustrated sound in his throat. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "We can't let this leak," he muttered, more to himself than to Josiah. "If word gets out that we have a vessel of unknown origin that can apparently manipulate Typhon behavior… the panic alone would be devastating. The Council would have my head. The CUA's entire authority is built on being the one thing standing between humanity and those things. If that's no longer true…"
Josiah watched him, a faint, almost imperceptible frown on his face. He saw the path Keller's mind was taking: containment, suppression, brute-force interrogation. Josiah's own mind worked down a different, darker alley. "What if they aren't JFF?" he interjected, his voice quiet but cutting through Keller's agitation. "Their denial seemed genuine. The scholar, the one with the helmet… he looked more confused than deceitful. What if they're something else entirely?"
Keller's eyes snapped to him. "What are you suggesting?"
"The Celestial Monastery," Josiah said, the words hanging in the stuffy air. "They hoard relics from before the Breach. Things they don't understand. Maybe that sub is one. Maybe they were experimenting with some ancient piece of tech they dug up, and it went wrong. It would explain the foreign tech, the bizarre energy readings. It would explain why they're here, in the middle of nowhere."
The suggestion landed like a live charge. The Celestial Monastery was a ghost story the CUA told itself, a reminder that there were forces that didn't play by their rules. The idea that those reclusive fanatics might possess a weapon of this magnitude was, in some ways, even more terrifying than the JFF having it.
Commander Keller snapped. He jumped to his feet, his chair screeching back against the deck. The flint in his eyes had turned to fire. All the theories, the possibilities, the terrifying unknowns—they crystallized into a single, burning need for a definitive answer.
"Enough speculation," he barked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that promised violence. He strode toward the door, his hand hovering over the sidearm at his hip. "I think it's time we found out exactly who these 'explorers' associate themselves with. Personally."