The space gate buzzed and shimmered behind them, humming like a storm ready to swallow whoever dared step through. Pentagon stood before it — silent, stoic. Vargara and Rouxie, just a step away from crossing, stared at him in disbelief.
"Why?"
Rouxie's voice cracked.
"Why can't we come?"
Vargara demanded, stepping forward. "What did we do wrong?"
But Pentagon didn't answer.
He turned his back and began walking into the light of the portal.
"Stop!"
A lone voice cut through the thick air.
Everyone turned. A man from the crowd — older, rough-bearded, eyes burning with something ancient — stepped forward from the villagers.
"Thisisn'tsomemilitarystunt!" he shouted. "It's war. A war we don't understand yet. But they're part of it — those girls."
Pentagon halted. He didn't turn. Didn't meet his eyes.
"I know we can't do anything," the man continued. "We're just villagers. Farmers. But I saw them walk in with you. I don't know what they've done... but I know what they are. They were special. From the day they were born."
Then, he pulled something from inside his jacket.
Two worn, golden-edged cards.
He threw one — it sliced through the air and landed square in Pentagon's gloved hand.
The first card…
The Emperor.
The symbol of strength, leadership, and hidden lineage. The one who commands order from chaos.
It belonged to Vargara.
The man flicked the second card. It spiraled through the air and somehow — impossibly — also landed in Pentagon's hand.
Justice.
Balanced, sharp, and unshakable. The blade that separates truth from illusion. The one who sees beyond what is shown.
This card… belonged to Rouxie.
Pentagon stared at the cards. His eyes flicked from them to the girls, then back to the villager.
"Where did you get these?"
The man stepped forward slowly.
"They'renotmodernfakes. Not just symbolism. These are ancient…" — his voice lowered, intense — "original tarot cards. Before the books, before the fortune-tellers. These were drawn during the first war. The real war."
Pentagon looked again at the two girls.
The silence stretched.
Then, without a word, he slipped the cards into his chest pocket.
He walked toward them, and with two strong arms, tossed Vargara and Rouxie into the gate.
They vanished in a flash of white.
"Yourname," Pentagon asked, still watching the portal swirl. "Whatis it?"
"IvanMartell," the man replied. "Come back when you're ready for the truth."
---
Inside the flaming-orange walls of the fire-based underground headquarters, Vargara and Rouxie shot out of the portal, tumbling mid-air — and slammed straight into Xavier, who staggered slightly but caught them both.
"I… wow. Welcome, I guess," he muttered.
Pentagon stepped through last.
"Xavier," he ordered, "Get them a room. And prepare the full file. I want to see everything on the prisoner. FeralBullet."
. . . . . . . .
Ten minutes later.
A cold steel room. Surveillance cams glowing red. A single table in the center.
Pentagon sat, gloved hands resting on the table's surface. His helmet was off now, his eyes sharp — but distant.
The door slid open with a hiss.
Xavier entered, holding a thick folder in one hand. Behind him, shackled at the wrists but smiling, was the man of the hour.
Dr. Feral Bullet.
Xavier tossed the file onto the table and nodded. "I'll leave you two."
The door closed with a heavy thud.
The air dropped in temperature.
Pentagon didn't speak.
FeralBullet just tilted his head and grinned, like someone who already knew the next move in the game.
Their eyes locked.
And in that silence — it was clear they had history.
To Be Continued