The first sharp, metallic tang of morning on the Dreadnought Thalassa was not light, but smell. It seeped through the submarine's ventilation grates, a warm, insistent caravan of scents that marched down the cool, alloy corridors: the rich, fatty promise of seared meat, the earthy sweetness of roasting root vegetables, and the sharp, wakeful sting of brewing coffee. In his small bunk, Sanza Kaplan Figarland's nose twitched before his eyes opened. He was sprawled starfish-style across the mattress, his modish red hair a chaotic nest against the pillow, one foot dangling over the edge. The blankets were a lost cause, tangled around his legs like defeated serpents.
Next to his head, a wobbling mound of translucent azure gelatin gave a soft, sleepy jiggle. Jelly Squish blinked open massive, starry pupils, his permanent grin seeming to stretch even wider as he inhaled. His entire body quivered, executing a slow, gelatinous sit-up. Sniff. Sniff-sniff. A soft, eager "Bloop…" escaped him.
Sanza's own eyes, heavy-lidded and shadowed by his pronounced Gallagher eyebrows, slid open. He stared at the riveted ceiling for a heartbeat, processing the absence of his father's silent, imposing presence, the unfamiliar hum of the ancient ship's engines, and that glorious, encroaching smell. Hunger, a sharper and more honest master than any celestial duty, won. He grunted, swinging his slender legs over the side of the bunk. His bare feet hit the cool deck plating. A yawn cracked his jaw, and he stretched his arms high, his back popping in a satisfying symphony.
Jelly, now fully awake, bounced to the edge of the bunk and launched himself with a wet splorch onto Sanza's shoulder, morphing into a wobbly, living epaulette. "Food time?" the jellyfish-human hybrid whispered, his voice a hopeful gurgle.
Sanza nodded, scrubbing a hand through his wild hair. "The culinary siren calls," he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep, yet carrying that ever-present undercurrent of theatrical gravity. He fumbled for his discarded parka, shrugged it on over his rumpled tunic, and padded out into the corridor, Jelly wobbling in step beside him like an eager, blue shadow.
The latrine was a compact chamber of polished sea-stone and humming Void Century plumbing. Sanza splashed cold water on his face, the shock helping to evict the last ghosts of dreams—dreams of golden masks and a father's turned back. He grabbed a toothbrush and a tube of paste, squeezing out a stripe of blue-green gel. As he began to brush, Jelly, propped on the edge of the sink, watched with intense fascination. The gelatinous being extended a wobbly pseudopod, mimicked scooping an invisible toothbrush, and vibrated his entire face in an approximation of scrubbing. Sanza, catching the reflection in the mirror, saw the ridiculous, earnest mimicry. A laugh burst out of him, spraying flecks of blue-green foam across the glass. It was a genuine, unguarded sound, short and sharp. Jelly, taking this as encouragement, vibrated harder, his form blurring.
"Stop, you idiot," Sanza choked out, laughter still bubbling under the words. "You'll shake yourself apart."
Clean-ish and more awake, they ventured back into the corridor. The smell of food was a tangible guide. As they passed an open doorway, a burst of color and sound snagged their attention. Sanza peeked in.
The room was a storm of fandom. The walls, once plain alloy, were now a vibrant mosaic of paper. Dozens of wanted posters formed a chaotic, overlapping tapestry. In the center of it all, Vesta Lavana stood on her toes, humming a complex, upbeat melody as she pinned a new, crisply-printed poster to the highest spot she could reach. Her rainbow hair was tied up in a messy, vibrant bun, and she wore a sequined jacket over her practical Skypiean clothes. Leaning against the wall beside her, the guitar Mikasi gave a soft, autonomous strum of greeting, its wood grain rippling with amusement.
Vesta glanced over her shoulder, her violet eyes bright. "Oh! Hey! Come in, come in!" she chirped, gesturing grandly at her collection. "It's a work in progress. A testament, you know? A shrine to the… to the melody of adventure!" She pointed a reverent finger at a particular poster, her expression turning dreamy, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper. "And that… that is the Soul King. The master of the forty-five degree lean."
Sanza blinked, his eyes scanning the chaotic gallery of grinning, shouting, or posing faces. He recognized the aesthetic—the bold fonts, the outrageous bounties. "Are they pirates?" he asked, his tone not judgmental, but curious. His world had been the sterile halls of Mary Geoise and the brutal efficiency of the Holy Knights; this vibrant, paper celebration of outlawry was alien.
Jelly, however, had zero interest in iconography. His gaze had locked onto a tiny, iridescent beetle that had somehow found its way into the submarine. It buzzed past his eye. Food time! immediately morphed into Bug time! With a silent, focused "...", he launched himself from Sanza's shoulder in a wobbling arc, chasing the insect around the room, leaving a faint, glittery trail in his wake.
Vesta, lost in her own rhythm, didn't hear Sanza's question. She spun away from the wall, her eyes alight with a different kind of hunger. She snatched up Mikasi. "This," she announced, striking a dramatic pose, "is one of his classics! It's called 'Bone to be Wild'!" She attacked the strings.
What followed was not music in any traditional sense. It was a cacophonous, enthusiastic explosion of sound. Mikasi, perhaps feeling mischievous, warped the chords, adding a discordant, wailing pitch that sounded like a seagull being stepped on. Vesta, mistaking this for righteous sonic fury, played harder, headbanging, her rainbow hair a whipping blur.
The beetle, terrified, zipped out the door. Jelly, making a gurgling sound of triumph, suctioned it into his body with a soft plop and immediately began to cough, a series of wet, glittery hiccups as the bug struggled inside him.
Sanza stood in the doorway, assaulted by the wall of noise and visual chaos. He took a slow, deliberate step backward. Then another. The smells of the galley called to him with a new, desperate urgency. He turned and fled, a tactical retreat from the sensory maelstrom. Jelly, having finally dissolved his crunchy breakfast, bounced after him, his internal bug crisis forgotten, once again laser-focused on the primary mission. Breakfast time!
Rounding a bend in the corridor, they nearly collided with Charlie Leonard Wooley. The archaeologist was in full flow, marching with purpose, his pith helmet a permanent fixture. He wasn't alone. Gliding beside him, her form composed of soft, cascading light particles that formed a graceful, mermaid-like tail, was the holographic guide, Halia. Her silver-blue hair floated as if in a gentle current, and her large, whirlpool eyes were patient.
"—a fundamental misapplication of the schema!" Charlie was insisting, his voice echoing in the metal hall. He cleared his throat with a sharp "Ahem!" "The nineteenth modulation, correlates to the element of Fire, not to submerged telluric currents! Your postulate that the submerged landmass of… of 'Amizishi' acts as a geomantic capacitor is romantic, but lacks evidentiary rigor!"
Halia's voice was a calm, melodic counterpoint, like water over smooth stones. "The evidence lies in the pressure-fracture patterns in the bedrock, patterns that match the sacred geometry of the symbolism itself. The land did not simply sink; it was pressed down, its energy contained. The proof is absent not because it does not exist, but because the site is inaccessible."
"Ahem! Inaccessible is not synonymous with substantiated!" Charlie waved a hand, nearly smacking Sanza as the boy tried to slip past. "Without a firsthand lithic analysis, without core samples, it is mere speculation! Fairy tales!"
Sanza opened his mouth, a "Good morning" forming on his lips, but the two scholars—one flesh, one light—swept past him, locked in their duel of epochs. Charlie didn't even glance his way. Halia offered Sanza a faint, apologetic smile that held the weight of ancient seas, but her focus remained on Charlie's flustered, retreating back.
Sanza closed his mouth. He shared a look with Jelly, who simply blinked and sniffed the air, pointing a wobbly finger down the corridor. The message was clear: the world of academic warfare was secondary. The primary front, the true objective, lay ahead. Together, they followed the triumphant, greasy, life-affirming scent, leaving the echoes of debate and explosive fan-music behind, two very different hunters drawn by the same primal, promising beacon.
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