The teams split like oil and water separating in a storm-tossed sea.
Marina Kick jerked her head toward the Papaho ship, her dark hazel eyes narrowing as she measured the distance, the angles, the blind spots. Her green-trimmed Justice coat flapped once behind her before she raised a fist, signaling her squad forward. Behind her, soldiers moved in crouched silence, boots finding the softest patches of stone, breath held in collective restraint. The Papaho ship sat moored against the dock, its crew still unloading crates, still laughing, still utterly unaware of the shadows closing around them.
Topiaris Tidaltuff took his team in the opposite direction, his long coat sweeping the ground as he glided toward the beach where Captain Onyx and her bound soldiers sat in a defeated row. His pompadour caught the cave's dim light, the silver-white waves gleaming like polished armor. He did not crouch. He did not whisper. He moved with the arrogant confidence of a man who knew he was about to be the most beautiful thing his enemies would see before they lost consciousness.
A sailor on the Papaho ship leaned against the railing, wiping sweat from his brow after setting down a heavy crate. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again. A shadow moved near the dock's edge—no, not moved. Shifted. Changed shape. His mouth opened before his brain caught up. "HEY!"
The word cracked through the cave like a gunshot.
Every head on the Papaho ship turned. Hands froze on ropes. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. A woman holding a coil of line dropped it, the rope unspooling across the deck in a lazy spiral. Another sailor, higher in the rigging, pointed toward the beach where Topiaris Tidaltuff's white coat had just disappeared behind a stack of crates. "There! Over there!"
Marina Kick did not wait for them to organize.
Her leg swung back, her cleat biting into the stone floor. The soccer ball sat at her feet—a battered, scuffed thing, covered in the overlapping marks of a hundred previous impacts. She drew a breath, held it for a heartbeat, then released her leg like a catapult arm snapping forward. The ball left her foot with a sound like thunder trapped in a leather casing.
It streaked across the cove, a dark blur against the grey stone, and struck the first sailor in the chest. He flew backward, his body folding around the impact, and crashed into the man behind him. The ball ricocheted—off the railing, off a crate, off the shoulder of a woman reaching for her pistol—and continued its path of destruction. It moved too fast to track, too fast to dodge, a cannonball with a grudge against consciousness. Bodies dropped in its wake. The deck became a tangle of groaning limbs and scattered cargo.
The ball returned to Marina's foot as if it had never left. She caught it with her instep, brought it down, and rested her boot on top of it with a soft thud.
"Hey," she called out, her voice carrying across the water with the authority of a referee calling a foul. "You! Over here!"
The remaining sailors turned toward her, faces pale, hands shaking as they reached for weapons that would not save them.
Marina smiled. It was not a kind smile. "You call yourselves sailors? I've seen better coordination in a schoolyard kickabout. You're slow. You're sloppy. And you're about to learn why they call me the Queen's Cannon." She jerked her head toward her squad. "Keep them busy."
Her soldiers surged forward, weapons raised, haki flaring in small bursts of invisible armor. The Papaho crew scrambled to respond, but they were off-balance, scattered, already losing.
On the beach, Captain Onyx's head snapped up at the commotion. Her dark blue eyes, wide and exhausted, found Topiaris Tidaltuff approaching through the chaos. He moved with the unhurried grace of a catwalk model, his silver chain gleaming in proclamation, his pompadour defying the laws of physics. Behind him, his team spread out in a practiced formation, knives and wire cutters already in hand.
"Hurry," Onyx whispered, her voice cracking. "They'll be back any minute."
Topiaris knelt beside her, producing a small blade from his sleeve—not a weapon, but a tool, thin and sharp and designed for cutting restraints. He inserted it between the rope and her wrist and began to saw. "Don't worry," he said, his tone as smooth as aged brandy. "We have—"
---
Further back in the tunnel, the expedition rounded the corner leading away from the arch they had been exploring. The passage opened wider here, the ceiling rising into shadow, and the distant sound of combat echoed off the walls—shouts, crashes, the wet thud of bodies hitting stone.
Galit Varuna carried Jannali Bandler across his shoulders in a fireman's carry, her afro bouncing against his back, her head lolling with each step. Her headscarf remained in place, covering her forehead, and her golden hoop earrings swung in lazy arcs. She groaned softly, still caught in the fog between sleep and consciousness.
Behind Galit, Charlie Leonard Wooley walked beside Lieutenant Cleo Grahisto, his pith helmet tilted forward, his wire-framed glasses sliding down his nose. He cleared his throat—ahem!—and gestured with both hands, nearly dropping his satchel in the process.
"Ahem! I must insist that the root of the nineteenth derives directly from the central axiom," he said, his voice rising with academic indignation. "The system, as it is clearly developed, undoubtedly establishes a hierarchical relationship between the sets and the domains. You cannot simply—"
Cleo Grahisto did not look at him. Her bronze eyes remained fixed on the tunnel ahead, scanning, cataloging, filing away details that Charlie would not notice if they hit him in the face. Her fingers tapped against her thumb in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
"The root is a practical implementation," she said, her voice flat and immovable. "Not a theoretical construct. The archaeological evidence from the Goru-Goru Island excavations demonstrates that the call structure predates the referred to interpretation by at least four centuries. You cannot derive a set from a symbol that predates the set's application. The chronology alone invalidates your premise."
"Chronology?" Charlie's voice pitched upward. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his forefinger. "I do not need a lecture on chronology from an archaeologist who still uses relative dating methods in the field!"
"Relative dating is a valid approach when absolute methods are unavailable due to site contamination," Cleo replied, her tone unchanging. "If you had ever actually excavated a Poneglyph instead of merely reading about them in books, you would understand that."
"Contamination? CONTAMINATION?" Charlie threw his hands in the air, and a handful of loose papers escaped from his satchel, fluttering to the ground behind him. He did not notice. "The only contamination in your methodology is your refusal to accept—"
Behind them, Bianca Yvonne Clark walked beside Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba. Her grease-stained overalls hung open over a floral blouse that had seen better days, and a pencil rested behind her ear, another in her hair, a third—she had no idea where the third had come from—sticking out of her collar. Her magnifying goggles sat on her forehead, and her hands gestured wildly as she talked.
"Like," she said, waving toward Charlie and Cleo with both hands, her fingers wiggling in the air like she was conducting an invisible orchestra, "what are they even, like, talking about right now? It is, like, completely incomprehensible. Like, are they arguing about magic? Or history? Or, like, both?"
Ataboy laughed—his signature "HE-HE-HE!"—and shook his head, his feather boa bouncing with the motion. The blue-black feathers brushed against his chin, and his eyes crinkled with genuine amusement.
"I stopped listening ten minutes ago," he said, gesturing toward the arguing pair with his chin. "They are arguing about the same thing, but they are not. They are just making noise at each other. Like two birds fighting over a worm neither one wants."
Lieutenant Tori Miniku walked on Ataboy's other side, her multicolored hair shifting through shades of amber and auburn as she moved. The iridescent strands caught the light from the distant cave entrance, and her large, luminous eyes tracked the argument with quiet amusement. Her lips curved into a rare smile, small and genuine.
"The sound of their voices is enough," she said softly, her melodic accent turning the words into almost-song. "The meaning does not matter. They are both correct, and they are both wrong. That is the nature of scholarship."
Lieutenant Mani Lucheres brought up the rear, his short, impossibly dense frame casting a shadow that seemed too large for his body. His boots echoed against the stone, and his massive axe, Suley, rested across his back like a sleeping giant. The scarred iron blade a proclamation of past challenges. He grunted—a low, guttural sound—and pointed at Charlie with his chin.
"He is going to walk into a wall," Mani said.
Tori glanced forward. Charlie's head was turned completely sideways, still arguing with Cleo, his pith helmet tilting at a dangerous angle. A support pillar loomed three meters ahead, its surface rough with age, water dripping from its cap.
"Seven seconds," Mani said.
Bianca counted on her fingers. "Like, five."
Charlie walked into the pillar.
The impact sent his glasses askew and knocked his pith helmet forward over his eyes. He stumbled back, arms flailing, and his satchel swung around to smack him in the hip. A shower of loose papers, ink bottles, and crumbling notebook fragments spilled across the tunnel floor.
"HE-HE-HE!" Ataboy slapped his thigh, his laughter echoing off the stone walls. "Called it! Charlie triumphs again!"
Charlie recovered with as much dignity as he could muster. He pushed his pith helmet back into place, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat—ahem!—with exaggerated authority.
"Ahem! I was merely testing the structural integrity of the—"
"Shut up," Cleo said, not unkindly. She stepped around him and continued walking.
Charlie opened his mouth to respond, thought better of it, and scrambled to gather his scattered papers.
Zahi Rukun walked at the front of the group, his massive frame blocking the tunnel like a walking fortress. His jade-green scarf fluttered in the cave's draft, and his clouded left eye—the one that shimmered with that faint, eerie light—fixed on the passage ahead with the weight of centuries. He stroked the short, meticulously maintained beard along his jaw, and his hand rested on Toshito's hilt, the lion's head pommel fitting into his palm like it had been grown there.
The group approached the final bend in the tunnel. Beyond this corner, the passage opened into the cove—where the ships waited, where the chaos of the rescue mission unfolded, where the Navy and the Papaho crew clashed.
Zahi Rukun stopped.
His hand rose, fingers spread, palm flat. The gesture carried no sound, but it carried everything else.
The entire group snapped to attention. Feet planted. Hands moved to weapons. Breath held in chests. Even Charlie stopped shuffling his papers, his eyes widening behind his glasses.
Galit Varuna shifted Jannali's weight on his shoulders, his long neck coiling into a tight, observant S-curve. His emerald eyes tracked Zahi's hand, then followed the General's gaze toward the corner. "What is it?" he asked, his voice low, controlled.
Everyone who carried a weapon reached for it. Fingers wrapped around hilts. Knuckles whitened. The soft rasp of steel leaving leather whispered through the tunnel.
Zahi Rukun jerked his head toward the corner. "We have company," he said, his voice flat, unhurried, the tone of a man who had seen worse things than whatever waited ahead. He turned his head slightly, his clouded eye fixed, and looked back at his people. "It appears they are attempting to take the ship."
Captain Ataboy Shitomi Kusaba's face changed. The laughter drained away, replaced by a hard, focused intensity that transformed him from jester to soldier. His hand found Kuroi's hilt, the wavy blade's cool touch grounding him. His feather boa stilled.
"Give the order," Ataboy said.
Zahi Rukun nodded once.
"Lieutenant Grahisto," he said, his voice carrying to every corner of the group, "you will cover us from the tunnel entrance. Find a vantage point and do not let any of their reinforcements reach the beach."
Cleo Grahisto nodded, her bronze eyes already scanning the tunnel walls for elevated positions, her fingers twitching toward Sashito's stock. "Understood," she said, and moved.
"Captain Ataboy and I will take point." Zahi's hand tightened on Toshito's hilt. "Lieutenant Miniku, you are with me. We go right."
Tori Miniku's nodded, shoulders tense as tightens her grip on Adana, her cross shaped spear, "Yes, General," she said.
"Lieutenant Lucheres." Zahi turned his head toward Mani. "You go left with Captain Ataboy."
Mani Lucheres grunted, hefting Suley's weight onto his shoulder. The massive axe's weight was a comfort to hold, its dark iron surface absorbing everything around it. He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles—one at a time, left hand first—and nodded. "Good iron," he said.
Zahi Rukun drew a breath, held it for a heartbeat, then let it go. His eyes swept across his people—Ataboy, Tori, Mani, Cleo—and he saw that each one stood ready.
"Go," he said.
The group moved.
Cleo Grahisto vanished into the shadows of the tunnel entrance, Sashito's stock pressing into her shoulder as she found a gap between two stalactites—a natural sniper's nest with a clear view of the beach. Her bronze eyes swept across the battlefield, counting sailors, tracking movements, waiting for the first shot.
Zahi and Ataboy moved forward side by side, two impossible forces heading for the chaos. Tori held Adana lifting as she charged forward with the cross shaped spear, ready to defend her subordinates and companions. Her eyes glowed brighter, the First Song warming in her chest.
Mani took the left flank, Suley swinging in his grip, his short legs carrying him across the stone with the deceptive speed of a rolling boulder. His boots left small cracks in the rock. He did not look back.
Bianca and Charlie moved to stand next to Galit, who still held the tunnel entrance, his emerald eyes tracking the Papaho team as they spread across the beach. Jannali remained across his shoulders, her breathing slow, her groans growing softer.
Charlie frowned, his wire-framed glasses slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up with his forefinger. "What?" he asked, looking from Galit to the beach and back again. "What is happening?"
Galit did not look at him. His emerald eyes remained fixed on the beach, on the Navy ships, on the Dreadnought Thalassa bobbing against its moorings, on Topiaris Tidaltuff's white coat moving among the bound prisoners.
"I don't think they want the ship," Galit said. He pointed with his chin toward the beach, toward the sailors cutting ropes from wrists and ankles. "This looks like a rescue mission."
Bianca flicked her wrist in a dismissive wave, her fingers wiggling in the air. "Like, cool, but like—"
Galit turned to face them. His long neck coiled into a tight spiral of frustration, the muscles standing out in sharp relief. "You two," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Get to the Dreadnought Thalassa. Start prepping to leave."
Charlie blinked. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "But what about—"
Galit's hand chopped the air, cutting him off. "This location is compromised. We will have to meet up with the others somewhere else. Move."
Bianca nodded, her messy bun shedding pencils with the motion. "Like, cool, cool, cool." She grabbed Charlie's arm and began dragging him toward the submarine, her grip firm around his bicep. Charlie stumbled, his satchel bouncing against his hip, papers spilling from an unsecured pocket.
"I don't not appreciate being—" Bianca yanked harder. He stopped protesting and focused on keeping his feet.
Galit turned away from them and looked down at the woman across his shoulders. Jannali Bandler's head rested against his back, her afro brushing his neck, her breathing shallow. Her headscarf had shifted slightly, but the third eye remained covered. Her golden hoop earrings glinted in the dim light.
"Hey," Galit said, shifting her weight and shaking her shoulder. "Wake up. I could really use your help."
Jannali groaned—a long, low sound that vibrated through her chest. Her head lolled to one side, then the other. Her eyes stayed closed.
Galit carried her to the wall and rested her against it, her back pressing into the rough stone. He crouched in front of her and shook her again, harder this time, his fingers digging into her shoulders.
"Jannali. Wake up."
Her eyes snapped open. Brown. Wide. Confused. She blinked twice, then pressed both hands to her temples, her fingers digging into her afro. The headscarf shifted again, and she tugged it back into place with a reflexive motion.
"Bloody hell," she muttered, the accent thickening with pain. Her voice cracked on the second word. "Bloody hell, why is my head pounding?"
Galit smirked. He pointed a finger over his shoulder toward the beach, where the sounds of combat grew louder—shouts, crashes, the wet thud of bodies hitting stone, the whistle of a returning soccer ball.
"Hey," he said, his voice dry, "we will have to deal with that later. But we gotta—"
Jannali sat up.
Her third eye—still hidden beneath the headscarf—throbbed with a dull ache, the kind that came from trying to hear too many voices at once. But her vision cleared, and her gaze found the beach, and her mouth fell open.
"BLOODY HELL IS THAT THE NAVY!"
Her shout echoed off the stone walls, bouncing through the tunnel and spilling out into the cove. A few heads turned in the distance—a sailor on the Papaho ship, a soldier in Marina Kick's squad—but the chaos of the battle swallowed the sound.
Galit nodded. "Yes. That is—"
Jannali scrambled to her feet, her afro bouncing around her head like a storm cloud, her golden hoop earrings swinging wildly. She gripped Gosan, the spear's segments sliding against each other as she extended it to full length. The metal hummed in her grip, a low, resonant vibration that spoke of ancient things sleeping beneath the surface. The Ryu Ryu no Mi, Model: Hatzegopteryx stirred inside the weapon, its awareness brushing against hers.
"Fair dinkum," Jannali snapped, her voice cracking like a whip, "why didn't you just say so, mate!"
She did not wait for an answer. She ran.
Galit ran after her, his Vipera whips uncoiling from his waist, the sea-snake vertebrae segments clattering against each other like ghostly chimes. His long legs ate up the distance, his neck extending into a striking S-curve, his emerald eyes locked on the beach.
On the beach, Topiaris Tidaltuff was cutting the last rope from Onyx's wrists when the shouting started.
"THEY ARE HERE!" Onyx screamed, pointing with her newly freed hand toward the tunnel entrance.
Topiaris looked up. His pompadour swayed with the motion. Two figures charged toward him across the stone—a woman with an afro and a spear, the weapon humming with trapped power, and a man with a neck too long for his body, whips trailing from his arms like serpents.
Topiaris cursed—a word in French that translated roughly to "this is going to ruin my coat." His hand reached for the rifle at his back, but his fingers closed on empty air. He had left it with his team. He had no time to retrieve it.
His body shifted.
Fur erupted along his arms. His face elongated into a elegant snout, his ears growing into the perfect, fluffy puffs that his soldiers secretly adored. His silver-white coat transformed into a poodle's fur, immaculate and pristine, and his pompadour somehow became even more magnificent—a crown of silver curls that was luminous even in the dimness and threw it back gleams of radiance in defiance of good taste.
He charged.
His paws hit the stone, and he ran with the grace of a show dog and the speed of a predator. His tail wagged—not from joy, but from the anticipation of violence. The silver chain around his neck bounced against his chest, the diamond-encrusted poodle charm swinging.
Behind him, his team called out, alarmed. "Rear Admiral! Wait!"
"Hurry up!" Topiaris barked over his shoulder, his voice carrying the same authority in canine form as it did in human. "Get those restraints off them, then come and back me up!"
The soldiers moved faster, knives sawing through ropes, hands pulling bound Marines to their feet. Onyx rubbed her raw wrists and scrambled to her knees, her dark blue eyes tracking Topiaris's charge.
Topiaris lowered his head, his crest ridge standing on end in challenge, and prepared to meet Jannali and Galit head-on.
Jannali raised Gosan.
The spear began to glow.
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