The world dissolved into a cool, grey mist as Marya traveled, the sensation not unlike sinking into a deep, waking dream. Her consciousness, expanded by Observation Haki, had latched onto the one vibrant, familiar thread in Elegia's tapestry of sorrow. She reformed not with a sound, but as a sudden, solid presence where before there had been only empty air.
The wind was stronger here, at the highest point of the island's central peak. It tugged at the hem of her denim shorts and whipped her long, raven hair across her face. Before her, standing at the very edge of a cliff that plunged into the restless, grey sea, was a figure she hadn't seen in years. Uta's signature white and crimson hair streamed behind her like a banner, a defiant splash of color against the mournful sky. She was perfectly still, a statue gazing out at the watery expanse that stretched to the horizon, a solitary sentinel in a world of silence.
Marya allowed herself a moment, her golden, hawk-like eyes taking in the sight. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Uta."
The effect was instantaneous. Uta's head snapped around, her violet eyes wide with a confusion so profound it looked like physical pain. She blinked, once, twice, as if trying to clear a mirage from her vision.
Marya smirked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You certainly picked the loneliest island to live on. Kind of reminds me of Kuraigana Island, but less gloomy and no apes." Her voice was a low, steady contrast to the wailing wind.
Uta's chest expanded and fell in a rapid, shallow rhythm. She took a slow, hesitant step forward, then another, her boots scuffing on the sparse, wind-bitten grass. "Marya?" Her voice was barely a whisper, stolen almost immediately by the gale.
Marya gave a single, firm nod.
That was all the confirmation Uta needed. A choked sound escaped her, half-sob, half-laugh, and then she was running, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. "Marya, is that really you?!"
Marya, braced for impact, still let out a soft "oof" as Uta collided with her, throwing arms around her neck with enough force to stagger a less rooted person. Uta buried her face in Marya's leather jacket, her shoulders trembling. Marya could feel the frantic, bird-like beat of Uta's heart against her own. After a stunned second, Marya's arms came up, returning the embrace, one hand coming to rest awkwardly, then firmly, on Uta's back.
"How?" Uta managed, her voice thick and muffled by the jacket. "I almost didn't believe it was…"
"I tried to get Shanks to tell me where you were, but…" Marya began, her tone pragmatic.
Uta flinched at the name, a full-body recoil that made her pull away sharply. The joy in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of old hurt. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her glove, trying to compose herself. "How did you… find me?"
Marya chuckled, a dry, quiet sound. "It's a really long story." Her gaze swept over the desolate, beautiful cliffside, the ruins of the city below looking like a child's forgotten model. "Why are you here, Uta? This place is… destitute."
"That's a really long story, too," Uta replied, her voice gaining a little of its old musicality. "But I'm not the only one here."
Marya's eyes grew distant for a moment, her Haki subtly reaching out again. "Yeah, I know. But it's only you and one other, and…" She trailed off, a slight frown creasing her brow.
Uta leaned forward, intrigued. "And what?"
Marya shook her head, dismissing the thought. "It's nothing. What are you doing up here, anyway?"
Uta shrugged, turning her attention back to the horizon, where the sea and sky bled together into an endless grey. "Thinking about song lyrics."
A genuine, warm smirk spread across Marya's face. "Of course you are. I see that hasn't changed."
Uta's returning chuckle was lighter this time. Her eyes caught the obsidian hilt of Eternal Eclipse peeking over Marya's shoulder. "I see you finally traded in that wooden practice sword."
Marya shrugged, the movement casual, but a shadow of the weapon' immense weight seemed to pass over her features. "Upgrades are inevitable."
"I can't believe you're here," Uta repeated, wonder filling her voice once more. "Are you by yourself?"
"No," Marya said, her head tilting slightly as if she could hear the distant, faint bickering of her crew far below. "I have a small group with me. One of which really wants to meet you."
Uta perked up, a spark of her diva persona igniting. "A fan?!"
Marya shook her head, a wry amusement in her eyes. "Yeah, if that's what you call it."
Uta laughed, the sound bright and clear, a shard of crystal breaking the island's pervasive silence. "I can't wait to meet her!" Her smile, however, faltered as she saw the serious look return to Marya's face.
Marya's gaze was fixed on her, intense and searching. "Uta, why are you here? I thought you wanted to be a singer, more than anything. Why are you on this deserted island? Why aren't you with Shanks, or somewhere where you can actually–"
"I don't want to talk about it!" Uta cut her off, the words sharp, almost a flinch. The shutters came down behind her eyes, closing off a world of pain.
Marya's brow furrowed, her instinct for puzzles warring with her ingrained reluctance to push. "Yeah, but…"
"We better find your friends," Uta said, forcefully changing the subject. Her smile was back, but it was tighter now, a performance. "It's easy to get lost around here." She reached out and hugged Marya again, this time a brief, fierce squeeze. "I am so happy to see you," she whispered, and the words were utterly, heartbreakingly sincere. "I can't believe you're actually here."
As they parted, Marya's final glance over the landscape was not just one of observation, but of dawning concern. The island's silence was no longer just empty; it felt stifling heavy, and the one familiar, joyful thread in it was tangled with something deep, resonant, and profoundly, dangerously sad.
The grand courtyard they had wandered into was a cavern of lost music. Faded mosaics of dancing figures paved the ground, their joyful poses at odds with the silence. Crumbling pillars, shaped like giant, stylized instruments, held up the remnants of a vaulted ceiling where sunlight struggled through gaps choked with ivy. The air itself felt thick and still, as if the very dust motes were afraid to dance.
It was here that Marya and Uta found them. Vesta was in the middle of an animated theory about the harmonic structure of Uta's early work when she saw her. She froze, her sentence dying mid-word. Her rainbow hair seemed to droop for a second before she let out a squeal that shattered the quiet like a dropped glass.
"UTA!"
Vesta launched forward, her guitar Mikasi clutched to her chest like a holy relic. She skidded to a halt just inches from the singer, her words tumbling out in a breathless, star-struck torrent. "Oh my gosh, it's really you! I'm Vesta! This is Mikasi! Your music, it's… it's everything! The way you blend Sky Island wind-choirs with traditional blues progressions in 'New Genesis' is pure genius! I've learned every song, I even tried to replicate your vocal run and I almost passed out! I can't believe I'm actually here, meeting you! This is the most amazing day of my entire life!"
The sheer, unfiltered adoration was a physical force. Uta, who had been smiling warmly, blinked, her eyes widening. A brilliant, overwhelmed smile spread across her face. "A fan!" she breathed, looking from Vesta to Marya with pure, unadulterated joy. "A real, live fan! You're the first one I've ever met in person!"
The confirmation from her idol was too much for Vesta. Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she swooned backward in a dead faint, hitting the mosaic floor with a soft thud. Mikasi the guitar let out a discordant thrum as she landed.
Eliane gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Jelly bounced beside her, his whole body wobbling with concerned excitement. "Bloop! Friend went splat!"
Uta's hands flew to her cheeks. "Oh! Did I… did I break her?"
From the ground, Vesta let out a dreamy sigh. "I can die happy now."
"Don't be silly," Eliane said, stepping forward with a practical air and kneeling to help Vesta sit up. "You can't die yet. We haven't eaten."
Galit, who had been observing the entire spectacle with the air of a tactician assessing a bewildering new battlefield, finally spoke, his emerald eyes fixed on Uta. "This is your cousin?" His tone was flat, cutting through the emotional chaos.
Vesta, who was now dazedly leaning on Eliane, snapped her head towards him, scandalized. "Of course she is! Look at them! How could you even ask that?"
Uta chuckled, a warm, musical sound. "Marya would visit all the time with her dad, especially after her mother…" She stopped herself abruptly, a flicker of caution in her eyes as she glanced back at Marya.
Marya's smirk didn't falter, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I remember my mom showing Shanks and Beckman how to change a diaper and make a bottle. Beckman was better at it." The image was so absurdly domestic, so at odds with the legends of the Red-Haired Pirates, that it hung in the air for a surreal moment.
Uta swiftly changed the subject, clapping her hands together. "So! You all must be hungry! I can—"
"You have a kitchen?" Eliane interrupted, popping up in front of Uta so fast her silver ponytail swung. Her blue eyes were wide with culinary fervor. "Can I see? I can make us something! I have my own knives! Do you have any fresh herbs? Or spices? Kimchi?!"
Everyone's response was cut short by a new sound. It was the slow, heavy, and unmistakable echo of footsteps on stone. The sound seemed to travel through the courtyard's very foundations, a dull, rhythmic beat that felt entirely out of place. The crew turned as one.
Emerging from a shadowed archway was a tall, broad-shouldered balding man with a scar on the left side of his forehead wearing a green trench coat, sunglasses and headphones.
Jannali swallowed hard, her usual easy-going demeanor gone. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her spear, Anhur's Whisper.
"What is it?" Atlas rumbled, his hand instinctively moving to rest on the hilt of one of his maces. His lynx ears were flat against his head.
Jannali shook her head slowly, her accent low and tense. "Everything here is off, and he…" Her gaze fixated on the man. "The whole bloody song. It's… wrong."
"Uta," the man called. "You have been exploring again. You are late for your lesson."
Uta brightened, seemingly oblivious to the tension she'd just walked into. "We have company, Gordon!"
The man—Gordon—stumbled mid-step. His jaw went slack for a moment, a crack in his regal composure, before he schooled his features into a mask of strained politeness. "Company?" he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
"Yeah!" Uta said, beaming. "My cousin Marya has come, and she brought her friends!"
King Gordon raised a bushy white brow. "Oh." He stopped in front of the group, his eyes sweeping over them with an unreadable expression.
Uta looked to the group expectantly for introductions. Eliane, ever the polite one, rushed forward with a small bow. "I'm Eliane!"
Jelly bounced next to her. "Jelly!"
Eliane then pointed to each of them in turn. "That's Jannali, Galit, Atlas, Vesta, and Marya."
King Gordon nodded slowly, as if processing each name. "Um. Well. It is… uh… nice to meet all of you." He scratched his head, clearly searching for words. "I didn't know Uta had a cousin."
Marya, who had been watching him with her arms crossed, narrowed her golden eyes. "And who, exactly, are you?"
Uta interjected brightly, "Oh, this is King Gordon!"
Galit shifted his weight, his long neck tensed as he scanned the empty courtyard. "King?" he asked, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Don't kings usually have… subjects?"
Gordon stammered, the regal facade cracking again. "That… was a long time ago."
"I was about to take them to the kitchen to get something to eat," Uta said, coming to his rescue.
King Gordon nodded, a little too vigorously. "Good idea. I am sure you are all famished. Come. This way." He turned and began to lead the way, his footsteps once again echoing too loudly in the silence.
Uta fell in behind him, waving for them to follow. Vesta (now back on her feet, though leaning heavily on Eliane), Eliane, and Jelly eagerly trailed after, already chattering about food and music.
Marya, Galit, Jannali, and Atlas did not move. They hung back, letting a distance grow between them and the others.
"We should go," Jannali whispered, her voice tight. "Right now. This is a bad vibe, mates. A proper howler."
Atlas nodded, his rust-red fur bristling. "I agree. This place smells off. Not just old… wrong."
Marya's gaze was fixed on Uta's retreating back. "It will be a short visit." She looked at Jannali, her expression grim. "Then we go."
Galit, asked the pressing question. "Do you intend for Uta to join us?"
Marya let out a short sigh, the sound laden with conflict. "Yes, but…"
Jannali finished for her, her voice low. "She's part of it, then? You sense it too?"
Marya gave a single, sharp nod, her eyes still on her cousin. The joyful thread of Uta's presence was now inextricably woven into the island's deep, resonant, and profoundly dangerous melody. "There is something very off here," Marya confirmed quietly. "More than just a desolate island."
*****
The air in the docking bay was a storm of grinding metal, shouted instructions, and the sharp, clean scent of fresh weld-seams. Sparks fell in shimmering curtains around the battered hull of their ship. Bianca Clark moved through the chaos like a commander, her waist-length black hair escaping its messy bun as she pointed, corrected, and occasionally snatched a tool from a CUA repair worker to demonstrate the proper torque setting.
"No, no, no! The flux coupling has to be, like, phased to the harmonics of the main reactor, or the whole ignition sequence will sound like a drum solo in a trash compactor!" she insisted, her words a rapid-fire torrent as she adjusted a calibration node herself.
From a safe distance atop a crate of replacement hydraulic lines, Aurélie observed the scene without seeming to. She chewed thoughtfully on the end of a stylus, her silver hair a stark banner in the industrial gloom. An open notebook rested on her knee, its pages filled with her cramped, looping script. The words were there, the images of silent wings and distant screams, but the connective tissue, the right word to bridge the second and third stanza, eluded her. The shriek of a plasma cutter seemed to mock her search for rhythm.
Nearby, Charlie was engrossed in a data-slate, his pith helmet a bizarre beacon of formality. "Ahem! Fascinating," he muttered to no one in particular. "The mineralogical survey of this sector indicates a high concentration of psychic-reactive crystalline formations. No wonder the structural integrity is so… improvisational."
Deeper in Echo-City, the main thoroughfare was a river of life flowing through a stone vein. The air hung thick with the smell of spiced fungus-roasts and the oily scent of machinery. Stalls built from salvaged ship plating and woven crystalline fibers sold everything from glitching data-slates to bags of glowing, violet moss that pulsed in time with the auroral light filtering from above. The psychic static was stronger here, a constant, whispering pressure that made casual conversation a effort of will.
Emily Nary suddenly stopped, her hand tightening on the woven strap of her supply bag. Her storm-grey eyes lost focus, the star-like points of her pupils contracting. A vision, sharp and painful, lanced through her mind: not a scream, but a deep, resonant hum of profound loneliness, a vibration of cosmic sorrow trapped in stone. It was the dead Typhon, the very heart of this moon, and its silent cry was a hook in her soul.
Souta was at her side in an instant, his concern a silent question in the set of his jaw. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
She blinked, the market sounds rushing back in. She saw the worry in his dark eyes and offered a small, fragile smile. Turning her hand, she placed it over his where it rested on her shoulder. "The Typhon is calling to me," she whispered, the words almost lost in the din. "I think… I must go to it."
Souta held her gaze, his own mind, so adept at mapping strategies and legacies, grappling with the sheer, empathic weight of her statement. He saw no lie, only a profound and terrifying certainty. He didn't ask if it was safe or wise. He simply took her hand in his, his grip firm. "I will go with you."
Emily's smile gained a fraction of strength. She nodded, and without another word, they turned away from the market, abandoning their half-filled bags to move toward the deeper, darker arteries of the moon, following a song only she could hear.
In a different sector of the market, where the stalls sold more dubious wares and the glances were sharper, Kuro and Ember walked in a bubble of strained silence. Kuro's gaze swept over the crowd, cataloging threats and opportunities, while Ember stared at her boots, her charred rabbit swinging from her belt.
"Do you think we'll be able to return soon?" Ember asked, her voice small.
Kuro glanced at her, the lenses of his cracked glasses masking his thoughts. "The engineer is confident." Ember nodded, chewing her lip. "Once we return," Kuro continued, his voice low, "the Syndicate may have… questions. About your recent… clarity."
Ember's knuckles turned white where she gripped her bag. "What if I don't want to return to the Syndicate?"
Kuro adjusted his glasses with a practiced push of his palm. "It would not be wise to openly challenge them. They have… resources."
"Yeah, but, I…" Ember began, her protest dying in her throat. A flash of crimson cut through the crowd—a passerby wearing a jacket the exact shade of fresh blood. Ember went rigid, her breath catching.
Kuro sighed, a sound of impending exhaustion. "Ember—"
A sound ripped from Ember's throat, starting as a choked giggle and escalating into a shriek of manic malice that cut through the market's noise. Her shoulders quaked, not with sobs, but with the terrifying energy of an unstable jackal.
Kuro's brow furrowed. "Ember."
Her head snapped up, her mismatched eyes—one blue, one gold—locking onto his with a terrifying, unfocused glee. "Let's play a game!" she belted out, her voice a singsong dagger.
Kuro's jaw flexed. But it was too late. Ember dropped her bag, its contents scattering across the grimy floor, and then she was gone, a darting, pink-haired phantom jetting into the heaving crowd.
A string of low, vehement curses escaped Kuro's lips. He shot one last look at the abandoned supplies, then plunged into the throng after her, the orderly lines of his strategy dissolving into the chaotic wake of a human wildfire.
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