The Rust Belt thrummed with a new, organized chaos. The initial panic had subsided, replaced by the grim rhythm of survival. The skittering tide of Scrap-Scuttlers, their collective mind sensing the rending of their numbers, began to recede, melting back into the dark crevices from which they came. Across the tangled metal city, the distant, satisfying crunches of Armored Frames stomping the last stragglers into paste echoed like concluding punctuation. An announcement crackled from rusted speakers, a voice cutting through the din: "Reinforcements have secured sectors seven through twelve. All clear. Damage control teams, report to your stations."
The Scrap Cathedral, now scarred by smears of alien viscera and the fresh scorch marks of beam weapons, served as the rally point. The air hung heavy with the smells of spent energy, scorched metal, and the peculiar, acrid tang of the Scuttlers' internal fluids.
Bianca, Charlie, and Chloe arrived to find the others already there, their Frames standing like weary titans amidst the cleanup. Evander was inspecting a deep gash on his Paladin's shield, while Jack was cheerfully poking at the overheated, steam-venting machinery of Ember's Frame. Caden leaned silently against his Wraith, his eyes closed, as if listening to the fading echoes of the fight.
Charlie, clutching a small stack of data-slates he'd managed to salvage from the control room, adjusted his pith helmet. "Ahem! If I may inquire… is this level of… enthusiastic fauna a typical occurrence?"
Jack let out a short laugh, wiping a smear of grease from his cheek. "Typical? That was a slow Tuesday. You get used to it. Or you get eaten. Really streamlines the learning process."
Bianca, her hands still twitching from the adrenaline of rerouting power systems, looked between Evander, Caden, and Chloe. "So, like, just to be clear… did we pass? The test, I mean."
Evander looked to Chloe, who gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up with her cybernetic arm, its holographic tattoos cycling through a cheerful green pattern. Caden, without opening his eyes, gave a single, slight nod.
A faint, rare smirk touched Evander's lips. "With flying colors," he confirmed. "Each of you, in your own… unique way, demonstrated value."
Kuro, who had been calmly observing the assessment, stepped forward. "Then what is next for us? Our… employment continues, I presume?"
"Right back to Orphan's End," Jack said, slinging an arm around a scowling Souta's shoulders, who immediately shrugged him off. "Mia will want a full report. She'll decide what comes next. Probably something with even bigger teeth."
Aurélie, who had been quietly cleaning the ichor from Anathema's blade, let her narrow eyes drift towards Jack at the comment, her expression unreadable.
Soon after, they were aboard a different, larger dropship, the Rust Belt shrinking behind them into a tangled sculpture of light and metal against the immense face of Jörmungandr. The mood inside was a mixture of exhaustion and simmering tension. Bianca was curled in a seat, reviewing the data-slates Charlie had saved. Most were mundane maintenance logs and inventory lists. But one, its data heavily corrupted and glitched, contained a fragment of something else. It was a CUA science report, its header barely legible.
...subject: anomalous energy signature...
...theorized cross-dimensional resonance...
...observed fluctuations near Region Theta, colloquially 'The Echoing Grotto'... site of Celestial Monastery interest... further study...
The language was technical, but the concepts struck a chord deep within her. 'Anomalous energy signature.' 'Cross-dimensional resonance.' It was the same kind of language that would be used to describe what had happened to their submarine. Her head snapped up, her eyes finding Aurélie's across the hold. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards the slate. Aurélie's stoic expression tightened. Charlie, peering over, adjusted his glasses, his scholarly mind already whirring. It wasn't a reactor part or a hull plate. It was a clue. The path home wasn't just a matter of engineering; it was buried in the weird science of this reality, in a place sacred to the reclusive monks.
Unseen by the three, Kuro observed the entire silent exchange from his seat, his posture relaxed but his mind a whirlwind of calculation. The way their eyes had met, the subtle communication—it was too practiced, too laden with shared understanding. He adjusted his cracked spectacles with a gloved palm, the lenses obscuring the sharp, calculating gleam in his eyes. He knew a secret conversation when he saw one, and secrets, in his experience, were the most valuable currency of all.
---
The comms room in the Rust Belt was a cramped space, its walls a tapestry of welded hull plates and snaking fiber-optic cables that glowed with a soft, internal light. The air carried the taste of recycled oxygen and the faint, metallic tang of old solder. A flickering holographic projector sat in the center of a scarred metal table, casting a bluish glow on the faces of the four JFF operatives.
Mia Chronis's image shimmered into existence, her features sharp and composed even through the static. "Report," she said, her voice cutting through the low hum of the machinery.
Chloe Drivas leaned forward, her cybernetic arm resting on the table, the holographic tattoos on its surface cycling through restless, geometric patterns. "Okay, so, Bianca is, a total genius. I'm not even kidding. She rerouted a century-old containment grid mid-swarm with, zero prep time. We need her on the engineering corps, stat. Charlie..." She paused, scratching the shaved side of her head with a greasy finger. "Well, he knows stuff. A lot of stuff. Old stuff. Maybe intel? He pulled a defensible position out of a data-slate while we were running for our lives."
Evander stood with his arms crossed, his posture rigid. "Aurélie Nakano," he began, his tone formal. "She is wasted in a cockpit. Her skills are... singular. She abandoned her Frame and engaged the swarm with a blade and her... unique physiology. It was not piloting. It was a form of combat art I have never witnessed. She should be assigned to special operations and close-quarters defense. A Frame would only limit her."
All eyes shifted to Caden. He stood slightly apart from the others, his gaze distant, as if tracking a conversation only he could hear. He was silent for a long moment, the only sound the faint buzz of the projector. "Kuro," he finally said, his voice low and flat. "He's a planner. Thinks three steps ahead. He used the wreckage as a weapon. Put him in a command support role. Strategy. Not a frontline Frame. The other one, Souta... his ink is weird. But it's useful. For control. Sabotage. He thinks sideways."
A grin split Jack Gerou's face. "The pink-haired girl, Ember? She's a walking disaster," he announced with palpable relish. "She nearly cooked her own Frame using the thrusters for a concussive blast. It was glorious. High risk, higher reward. She's perfect for demolition. Shock assaults. The kind of crazy that makes CUA tacticians tear their hair out. I like her."
Mia listened, her expression unreadable, processing each assessment. She steepled her fingers. "So. The castaways are not dead weight."
"Far from it," Evander confirmed. "They are a uniquely talented asset."
"Bizarre, but talented," Chloe added with a bright smile.
"Then we continue to invest," Mia concluded. "They've passed their audition. Assign them to the higher-priority salvage ops. The ones that pay enough to cover those expensive parts they need. Let's see how their unique talents handle a real challenge." Her holographic gaze swept over them. "Keep them useful. And keep them close."
The call terminated, leaving the four of them in the humming silence of the comms room, the future of the newcomers from the sea now firmly, and dangerously, tied to the fate of the Jovian Free Fleet.
*****
The rainbow-haired musician finally paused to suck in a ragged breath, her chest heaving. Her guitar gave another low, conspiratorial hum in her grasp, the sound seeming to vibrate right through the table. The crew of the Glacial Advent stared, a mosaic of bewilderment and amusement. Jannali was the first to break the stunned silence, her voice a low, dry mutter that cut through Vesta's fan-girl haze.
"Alright, love, that's a hell of a yarn," she said, leaning forward on her elbows. "But who the bloody hell are you, and can you maybe let one of us get a word in edgewise?"
At that moment, the waitress with the cheerful, stained apron and bouncing red buns arrived, an empty tray tucked under her arm. She took in the scene with a single, practiced glance—the stunned crew, the vibrating guitar, the vibrating musician—and let out a sigh that spoke of long-suffering patience.
"Vesta," Vera said, her voice warm but firm, "why don't you let these folks order a drink and get a decent feed in peace before you blow out their eardrums with… all of that?" She gestured vaguely at Vesta's entire being.
Vesta swiveled, her rainbow hair fanning out. "But Vera, don't you get it? Do you know where they're from?"
"It's pretty obvious they're outsiders, and from the Blue Sea at that," Vera replied, unimpressed, her hands finding her hips.
"Exactly!" Vesta cried, whipping her attention back to the table, her violet eyes shining. "What's it like down there? The endless blue! The islands! Have you seen them? Have you seen him?"
Galit, who had been massaging his temple as if trying to reset his hearing, raised a brow. "Seen who?"
Jelly, meanwhile, had wobbled to the edge of the table, his gelatinous form quivering as he peered at Vera's empty tray. "Fizzy drinks?" he chirped, hopeful. "Pop-pop-fizz?"
Vesta clapped her hands together with a sharp crack that made several of them flinch. "The Straw Hats, of course! That's his crew!" She pressed her palms together and tilted her head, a dreamy, far-off look on her face. "He's a skeleton… but he's suuuper cool…"
Atlas, a smirk playing on his lynx-like features, uncrossed his arms. "He who?"
Vesta's dreamy expression shattered into one of utter, exasperated frustration. "Brook! The Soul King!" she snapped, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Honestly!"
A round of confused glances traveled around the table. Vera let out another, heavier sigh and began to physically steer Vesta away. "I am so sorry," she said to the crew over her shoulder. "She's got a real… thing… for Blue Sea musicians. It's a whole… situation."
"Wait!" Vesta protested, digging her platform boots into the cloud-stone floor. She twisted in Vera's grip, her eyes locking onto Marya. "Take me with you! I can be your musician! I'm great, I swear!"
"They're here for a feed and a quiet drink, Vesta, not to take on passengers," Vera chided, trying to usher her towards the bar.
"How do you know what they're here for?" Vesta countered, a spark of cunning in her eyes. She suddenly squirmed free, darting around Vera with the agility of a sky-gecko and rushing back to the table. She slammed her hands down on the dark wood, rattling the unused cutlery. Leaning in, her expression shifted to one of intense, serious focus. "Why are you here? I can help you! I know I can! All you have to do is take me with you!"
"Persistent little ripper, ain't she?" Jannali cursed, though a hint of a smirk betrayed her amusement.
Marya, who had been quietly observing the entire spectacle with a twitching eyebrow, cut her eyes at Jannali. "Reminds me of someone I know."
Jannali's smirk widened. "Yeah, and look how well that's turned out for ya."
Vera returned to the table, looking apologetic. Eliane, who had been completely absorbed in the menu, finally looked up, her large blue eyes wide with culinary curiosity. She pointed a slender finger at a description. "Excuse me? This stew… it says it's boiled with sky-cabbage. But for the cloud-mutton to be truly tender, it should be simmered. A slow, gentle heat. Boiling it just makes the fibers tough and the cabbage mushy."
Jannali shoved her hands in her pockets. "Oh, come off it, Ellie. Be a sport and try the local muck. You might like it."
"It's not about 'muck,'" Eliane retorted, her voice taking on a lecturing tone. "It's about respect for the ingredients! The cloud-mutton spent its life grazing on airy, delicate kelp. Its flavor is subtle! You can't just assault it with a rolling boil!"
And just like that, the two launched into a deep, passionate debate about cooking techniques and ingredient integrity, completely derailing Vesta's desperate pitch. Jelly, bored, began bouncing in place, his body jiggling. "Fizzy. Drinks!" he chirped with each bounce.
Vesta's face flushed with frustration. She was being ignored. "Don't ignore me!" she declared, straightening to her full, platform-boot-enhanced height. She placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "I am destined to change this world with my music!" She thrust a finger, sweeping it across the entire table. "And you… you are going to help me do it!"
Galit sighed, the sound full of weary resignation. Atlas's smirk only grew, his sharp teeth showing as he looked to Marya. "What do you think, boss?"
Vesta's gaze snapped to Marya, finally identifying the leader. Her guitar gave a sudden, sharp twang, as if in agreement. Marya, her golden eyes meeting Vesta's pleading violet ones, felt a fresh wave of annoyance warring with a strange, dry amusement. She took a slow breath, about to deliver a flat refusal.
The world erupted.
It wasn't a sound so much as a physical force—a deep, subterranean thump that came up through their feet, followed by a tremor that shook the very foundations of the stone spire. The mugs on the table danced. A split second later, the deafening BOOM hit, a roaring, concussive wave of noise that smashed into The Zephyr's Roost.
Marya was on her feet in an instant, muscle memory and instinct overriding thought. Her hand found the hilt of Eternal Eclipse, and as sprays of debris and shards of glass from the windows flew inward in a deadly cloud, a wave of pitch-black Armament Haki flared from her in a protective arc. It wasn't a shield, but a redirecting force, a scything intent that sliced through the incoming shrapnel, deflecting the worst of it away from their table with a series of sharp pings and cracks. The air filled with the dusty, acrid smell of shattered cloud-stone and the sweet, coppery scent of fear from the other patrons. For a moment, silence hung thick in the tavern, broken only by the ringing in their ears and the distant, panicked cries from outside.
---
Kuzan unfolded his long frame from the doorway and crossed the worn floorboards of the tavern. The space between them felt both vast and insignificant, a chasm of years bridged by a single, familiar gesture. He reached out, and Geo met him halfway, their forearms clasping in a grip that was less a handshake and more a reaffirmation of a shared language—one of shared watch posts, silent understandings, and storms weathered.
"You two sit and have a visit out back," Kathy's voice floated from the kitchen, accompanied by the rich, savory scent of stew and the rhythmic thump of a knife on a cutting board. "I'll bring you some lunch."
Geo gave a slow, deliberate blink, his voice a low rumble meant only for Kuzan. "Well, you heard her. We better do as she says, or there could be hell to pay."
"I heard that!" Kathy called back, without a pause in her chopping. "And there will be!"
Geo leaned in conspiratorially, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "See what I mean? I think her Kenbunshoku is better than mine."
A low chuckle escaped Kuzan, a sound that seemed to surprise even him with its ease. Geo turned and grabbed two sturdy, cloud-wood mugs and a dark bottle of rum from a shelf behind the bar, its label faded by sun and time. He led the way through a rear door, out onto a covered porch that overlooked the leeward side of the spire.
The world fell away into a breathtaking expanse of swirling white. The porch was a bubble of calm, the roof shielding them from the constant wind that sculpted the cloud-sea below into great, slow-moving waves. In the distance, other stone spires pierced the white blanket like the fingers of drowned giants. A small, rugged table and two chairs, clearly Geo's handiwork, were positioned for the view. They sat, the old wood creaking in protest under Kuzan's height.
Geo poured two generous fingers of amber rum into each mug. The liquid caught the diffuse light, glowing like captured honey. He slid one across the table. "How are things faring for you," he asked, his tone deceptively casual, "since Punk Hazard?"
Kuzan let out a long, slow breath, his gaze fixed on the endless white. "Still as tactless as ever, I see."
"Of course I am," Geo said, taking a sip. The rum seemed to warm his voice. "That hasn't changed. Ever."
Another chuckle from Kuzan. He lifted the mug to his lips, the aroma of aged sugar and oak a welcome familiarity. "You still keep your ear to the ground?"
Geo shrugged, a motion that spoke of a lifetime of ingrained habit. "Old habits die hard. Don't know how not to." He took another sip, his sharp blue eyes studying his friend. "What brings you all the way up here? The scenery's nice, but it's a long way to come for a drink."
"Had an unexpected encounter," Kuzan replied, a wry twist to his mouth. "Caught a ride."
Geo reclined in his seat, the wood groaning softly. He didn't need a map; he'd already charted the course in his head. "The Dracule girl."
Kuzan's smirk was a brief, fleeting thing. "You do stay informed, then."
"Is she what they say she is?" Geo asked, his curiosity genuine but measured, like a man assessing a new piece of gear.
Kuzan placed his mug down on the table with a soft thud. "She's more than just his shadow," he said, his voice losing its lazy edge for a moment, gaining a weight of certainty. "In many ways, she surpasses him."
Geo cocked his head, a single silvered brow rising in silent question. The implication hung in the air between them, significant. "What's she doing in the sky?"
"Looking for an island," Kuzan said, leaning back and stretching his legs out under the table. "Called Lumenara. Heard of it?"
Geo nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the cloud-sea met the azure sky. "Yeah. I know it." He pointed with his chin towards a barely perceptible shimmer in the distance, a faint, perpetual distortion in the light. "Just follow the rainbow currents. They'll take you right to it."
The back door swung open and Kathy emerged, balancing two deep bowls of steaming stew that filled the air with the smell of hearty cloud-mutton, root vegetables, and hardy sky-herbs. "Here," she said, setting them down with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Eat. Before it gets cold and I have to tan your hides for wasting good food." She gave them both a look that was equal parts affection and threat before disappearing back inside, leaving the two old soldiers to their conversation and the vast, silent theater of the sky.
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