The aft section of the Dreadnought Thalassa was a symphony of chaos wrapped in a catastrophe.
Water sprayed from a gash in the hull—not a large breach, but large enough to be a problem. The seam had split during the last explosion, and now seawater wept through the crack with every shift of the vessel. Emergency lighting cast everything in angry red, throwing long shadows across the compartment as the ship rolled and groaned.
Bianca Yvonne Clark stood in the middle of it all, her waist-length black hair escaping its messy bun in ever-greater quantities, her grease-stained overalls slick with spray and sweat. She had a sonic wrench in one hand, a roll of emergency sealant clamped under her arm, and a look of intense concentration on her face that completely contradicted her usual chaotic energy.
Around her, a dozen Karakuri automata scuttled and clanked, their ancient mechanisms whirring as they followed her shouted orders. They were beautiful things in their own way—brass and copper and some metal that didn't exist anymore, moving with a accuracy that modern machines couldn't match.
"Like, no, no, NO!" Bianca waved her wrench at one of them. "The support strut, not, like, the conduit! The, like, shiny one, not, like, the glowy one! Honestly, do I have to, like, draw you a picture?"
The automaton tilted its head, considered this, and moved to the correct location.
Above her, Telchines' holographic form flickered with barely contained frustration. The stocky, muscular AI hovered near the breach, his arms crossed over his chest, his orange-gold eyes blazing with disapproval. His tool harness glitched, a phantom wrench appearing and disappearing on his chest.
"Your methodology is fundamentally flawed," he growled, his voice carrying that grating, perfectionist edge. "You cannot simply slap sealant over a compromised seam and expect structural integrity! The molecular bonding requires—"
Bianca cut him off without looking up. "Like, I know what it, like, requires. But, like, what it requires and what, like, we have are two very different things right now."
"You're not even using the proper curing sequence! The sealant needs to set for at least four minutes at optimal pressure, and you're—"
"Telchines." Bianca finally looked up, her magnifying goggles pushed onto her forehead, her brown eyes flashing. "Like, there is a hole in my ship. Water is, like, coming in. If I don't, like, plug it now, there won't be any structural integrity to, like, worry about because we'll, like, be at the bottom of the ocean. So kindly, like, shut up and, like, let me work!"
Telchines' mouth opened, closed, opened again. His form flickered with indignation. "I am merely pointing out that—"
The ship rolled.
It wasn't a gentle sway—it was a violent lurch, the kind that came from a near-miss explosion or a massive wave hitting the hull at the wrong angle. Bianca was thrown sideways, her tools scattering across the floor with a clatter that echoed off the metal walls. The automata stumbled, caught themselves, resumed their positions. The sealant roll bounced into a corner.
Bianca caught herself against a support beam, her chest heaving. She stared at the scattered tools, at the sealant now out of reach, at the water still weeping through the crack.
"LIKE, WHAT THE HELL ALREADY?!" Her voice bounced off the walls, raw with frustration. "Can we, like, catch ONE break?! Like, just ONE?!"
Telchines, to his credit, didn't say "I told you so." But his expression suggested he was thinking it very loudly.
---
On the bridge, the chaos was of a different flavor.
Galit sat in the pilot's seat, his long neck curved in that alert S-curve, his emerald eyes fixed on the displays before him. His fingers flew across the console, pulling up maps, sensor readings, current patterns—anything that might show them a way out, a place to hide, a chance to repair.
The sub lurched again.
Sanza, Dr. Zip, Eliane, and Charlie, who had been clustered near the viewport watching the battle above, were thrown across the bridge in a tangle of limbs and startled cries. They landed in a heap against the far wall, a pile of red hair and silver hair and pith helmet and surgical gauze.
Dr. Zip H. Scatyl's voice emerged from the bottom of the pile, sharp and sibilant and thoroughly annoyed. "What—is—going on—out there?!" Each word was punctuated by someone's elbow finding a new uncomfortable position.
Galit didn't look up. His hands never stopped moving. "A fight for freedom, Doctor. And if I don't figure out an escape route in the next few minutes, it'll be a fight we don't win."
Eliane extracted herself from the pile, her silver hair wild, her blue eyes wide. She helped Sanza up—the eight-year-old's red hair was even more disheveled than usual, his heavy Gallagher eyebrows drawn together in an expression of intense concentration.
"Why don't we just run and hide somewhere?" Eliane asked, brushing off her miniature chef's jacket. "Like, find a cave or something? Hide until they go away?"
Galit glanced at her, and for a moment, his expression softened. She was twelve. She shouldn't have to think about things like this.
"If it were only that easy." He turned back to his displays. "That ship—Shamrock's ship—has predicted our location more than once. Every time we think we've lost them, they show up right where we are. It's like they know—"
Halia materialized beside him.
Her form flickered once—a glitch, a ghost in the machine—then solidified into her usual serene presence. Her silver-blue hair drifted in that unfelt current, and her whirlpool eyes were fixed on something in the distance.
"Galit." Her voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "Another ship is approaching."
Galit blinked. His hands stopped moving for the first time in minutes. He turned to her, his emerald eyes narrowing. "Show me."
Halia gestured, and the main viewscreen shifted. A new blip appeared, moving fast—faster than the Marine vessels, faster than Shamrock's ship. It was coming from the southeast, cutting through the chaos with purpose.
Galit's eyes narrowed further. "That's not one of theirs."
"No," Halia agreed. "It is not of the same configuration as the vessels above."
Charlie disentangled himself from the pile, his pith helmet somehow still on his head, his round wire-framed glasses miraculously unbroken. He pushed himself up and walked toward the viewscreen, squinting at the new blip.
He cleared his throat. "Ahem."
Galit glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. Charlie had taken a dramatic pause, clearly waiting for attention.
"I know this vessel."
Galit's glare could have melted steel. "This is really not the time for—"
Charlie pressed on, undeterred. "This vessel belongs to Marya's uncle. He is more commonly known as Red Hair Shanks." Another pause, for effect. "One of the Four Emperors."
The bridge went silent.
The sub lurched again—a massive jolt that sent Sanza, Dr. Zip, Charlie, and Eliane tumbling across the floor once more. They landed in a heap on the opposite side, a new pile of limbs and indignation.
Galit didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the screen, on that new blip moving toward them with terrifying speed.
"An Emperor," he breathed.
His lips curved into a smirk.
"Maybe we do have a chance after all."
Halia's voice cut through the moment, calm but urgent. "Foreign vessel incoming fast! Estimated time to intercept: three minutes."
Galit's hands returned to the console, faster than before. "Show me everything. Position, speed, trajectory—everything."
The viewscreen zoomed in, and there it was—the Red Force, cutting through the waves like a knife, its red sails full and proud, heading straight for the heart of the battle.
Galit's smirk widened.
"Hold on, everyone," he said. "This is about to get interesting."
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