The cold, iron-scented wind of Agashima bit at their faces as the group scrambled down the final embankment toward the murky water's edge. The colossal Iron-Web Bridge arched overhead, its braided cables like black veins against the grey sky. Tethered beneath its shadow, hidden in a recess of slick stone, was their submarine—a sleek, dark shape that promised salvation.
Eliane hit the small hatch first, her small hands fumbling with the latch. She practically fell inside, chest heaving. Dr. Zip H. Scatyl tumbled in after her, his usually pristine medical coat now smudged with grime, his breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps that fogged the air in the cramped chamber.
Marya slid into the pilot's seat with a fluid grace that belied their frantic escape. Her fingers danced over the controls, a lifetime of instinct taking over. The leather of her jacket creaked softly as she moved, the yellow Heart insignia a defiant splash of color in the dim, instrument-lit cabin.
Jannali ducked inside, pulling the hatch shut with a solid thunk. The blaring alarms of Metz-Oni became muffled, distant ghosts. She leaned against the bulkhead, her eyes sweeping the interior. "Right. Where's the rest of the mob? Galit? The walking sunshine?" she asked, her twang sharp with concern.
Dr. Scatyl, still fighting to slot a seatbelt clasp with trembling hands, wheezed out an answer between pants. "Kamaten Island… The Sovereign… took them all to Kamaten Island for the… the Anchor labor."
A beat of heavy silence followed, broken only by the low hum of the sub's engines powering up. Jannali's expressive eyes narrowed, moving from the doctor's face to Marya's rigid back.
Marya didn't turn, her golden eyes fixed on the viewer showing the churning, iron-dark water ahead. "We'll get them back," she stated, her voice as calm and steady as deep stone. "But we need to get out of here first." She threw a series of switches. A deeper vibration pulsed through the hull.
Eliane slumped into a seat, wiping beads of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her silver braid was fraying, and a faint, warm glow still lingered at the nape of her neck where her wings had been.
"You alright, love?" Jannali asked, her tone softening.
Eliane nodded, trying for a brave smile that wavered at the edges. "Just… a little tired. That was… a lot of running." She flexed her small fingers, watching a tiny, last spark fizzle out on her thumb. Using her Lunarian fire wasn't like following a recipe; it was raw and wild, draining in a way chopping vegetables never was.
Boing!
Jelly, who had been vibrating with excitement in the doorway, chose that moment to launch himself toward the front console. Just as Marya engaged the propulsion, he landed on the main viewing screen with a soft splat, his gelatinous body flattening into a perfect, wobbling pancake against the glass, his starry eyes and toothy grin magnified and distorted.
Marya stared at the blue, jiggling blob now obscuring her view. A slow breath left her nostrils. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She shook her head once, a short, fond gesture. "Sit down, Jelly. Or stick. But do it quietly."
Jannali's gaze slid back to Dr. Scatyl, who had finally managed to buckle himself in so tightly he looked like a trussed-up surgical parcel. She pointed a thumb at him, her hoop earring glinting in the console's light. "What's the story with this guy? He's jumpier than a seagull in a chip shop."
"He's just catching a ride," Marya replied, her attention on navigating the sub away from the pilings and into the deeper channel. The water ahead was a swirling soup of ash and industrial runoff.
"Right," Jannali drawled, not believing it for a second. She leaned closer to the doctor, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "You better be worth the freight, mate. I've seen rocks with more backbone."
Outside, the world began to tilt and shrink as the submarine descended, leaving the nightmare fortress behind.
Back in the dungeon corridors of Metz-Oni, a low groan echoed off the cold stone. Paula Cupcake Pope's eyes flickered open. The world was a blur of pain and disorientation. Several hulking Ogre guards peered down at her, their faces etched with a mixture of concern and confusion.
"Captain?" one rumbled, his voice like grinding rocks. "Are you… alright? You took a nasty knock."
Paula's vision cleared. The last moments crashed back into her mind with the force of a tidal wave: the blinding sword strikes, the Lunarian girl's surprising fire, the mocking defiance of the prisoners. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, the bronze plates of her armor scraping against the floor. "What?" she growled, the word thick.
The Ogres shared an awkward glance. "You were out cold, Captain. We found you here—"
"The prisoners," Paula interrupted, her voice hardening. She shoved herself fully upright, ignoring the pounding in her skull. "Where are they?"
The lead guard shuffled his massive feet. "Well, uh… they escaped."
Paula's eyes, already sharp, bulged with a fury that made the guards take a half-step back. "ESCAPED?!" Her roar filled the corridor, momentarily drowning out the distant alarms. Without another word, she turned on her heel and began marching, her long legs eating up the stone floor. Her war-paint burning brighter against her stormy expression.
The guards scrambled after her. "Captain! The Celestial Dragons are nearly here! The protocol—"
She ignored them, a force of nature in wolf-fur and rage. As she stormed into a broader garrison hall, another figure fell into step beside her—Archibald Winn Lima-Sabin. The chalk-dust on his colorful vest was fresh, and his expressive face was uncharacteristically grim.
"Paula, the—" he began, his voice a low, focused rumble.
She cut him off, her gaze fixed on the far gate leading to the exterior. "I'm going to Kamaten Island."
Archibald blinked, his chalkboard shifting on his back. "What about the Dragon welcome party? Pier left you in charge of the reception."
"You stay and meet the glittery nuisances," she said, not slowing. "I'll return with the Sovereign's property and the prisoners who dared make a mess of my dungeon."
"How do you know they're heading there?" Archibald asked, keeping pace effortlessly.
"Where else would they go?" Paula snapped, finally looking at him. Her smirk returned, but it was cold, edged with vengeance. "Their crew's there. The girl with Mihawk's eyes won't leave them. There's no other option for her. Which means there's only one place for me."
They burst out of a side entrance into the open balcony, overlooking the loading bay. The Iron-Web Bridge loomed, and the acidic scent of the Moselle Moat filled the air. Paula didn't hesitate. She raised a hand, and the air around her fingertips shimmered with a serene, green-gold light.
A single, perfect lotus blossom, glowing with internal warmth, bloomed in the empty air before her. Then another, a few feet further out over the toxic water. And another. They formed a floating, ethereal pathway leading away from Agashima, shining against the grim grey of the sky and sea—a bridge of divine wrath.
"Try not to have too much fun with the nobles," Paula said, stepping onto the first blossom. It held her weight without a tremor. With each step, a new blossom bloomed ahead of her, and the one behind faded into motes of light. She moved across the air and water with impossible speed, a warrior-queen skipping across her own personal, heavenly road, heading straight for the grey, mournful horizon behind which lay Kamaten Island—the Sickle of Heaven, and the pinnacle of the sleeping Hitotsume.
Archibald watched her go, then sighed, adjusting his elephant brooch. He turned back toward the fortress, his face already shifting, preparing a hundred different voices and characters for the unbearable guests soon to arrive. "Right," he muttered to himself. "Time to put on a show."
Beneath the waves, Marya guided the submarine into the blacker, deeper currents that would carry them away from Agashima. On the screen, Jelly had peeled himself off and now sat in a delighted, wobbly heap on the floor. Eliane's breathing had evened out in sleep. Jannali kept a watchful eye on the nervous doctor.
Marya's hand rested on the steering yoke, her knuckles white. Not from fear, but from focus. The image of the distant, foreboding silhouette of the World Government ships was etched behind her eyes, a timer ticking down. But beyond that, further and far more dangerous, was a grey island of rusted gears and fossilized eggs. Her crew was there. Her path was clear. First, lose the persuers in the deep. Then, turn and face the Stopped Hour.
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