Vesta's apartment was a pocket of chaos nestled high in one of Bounty's Hold's lesser spires, and it felt like the inside of a hyperactive music box. The single room was so cramped that Atlas's lynx ears nearly brushed the low ceiling, and Jelly's constant wobbling sent him bumping gently into every available surface.
"You have got to be joking," Jannali groaned, her head tilted back to avoid a mobile of carved tone-dial shells that tinkled softly. "There's not a flamin' tavern with a free room? This is like bein' stuffed in a glory box with a karaoke machine."
Galit, who had to consciously coil his long neck to avoid entangling it in a hanging cluster of rainbow-colored feathers, sighed. "The taverns are in disarray. With the catastrophe, our options are beyond limited. This is… tactical concealment."
Vesta beamed, gesturing around the space with pride. "It isn't that bad! It's super cozy! It has character!"
"Character" was one word for it. The walls were a layered tapestry of glossy posters. Brook, in his Soul King regalia, grinned his permanent skull-grin from multiple angles, while Uta's vibrant hair and determined expression dominated another section. The Straw Hat wanted posters were arranged with a collector's fastidiousness, their edges perfectly aligned. Small, hand-drawn diagrams of Brook's afro and Uta's headphone headdress were pinned up with meticulous care. The air smelled of old paper, scented candles that had burned down to nubs, and the faint, metallic tang of the city's cloud-stone dust.
Atlas, peering at a particularly dramatic poster of Brook mid-solo, let out a low whistle. "You're a little obsessed with this skeleton fellow, aren't ya?"
Vesta drew herself up, placing a hand on her chest as if mortally wounded. "Obsessed is such a crude term! I am a dedicated scholar of posthumous musical genius! For instance, did you know that Brook's skeletal structure allows for a unique diaphragmatic resonance that—"
"We need a plan," Marya interrupted, her voice cutting through the impending lecture. She leaned against the only clear patch of wall, her arms crossed over her Heart Pirates insignia. She looked at Galit. "How do we find these Storm-Callers and clear our names so we can get off this island?"
Vesta, her dramatic moment stolen, opened her mouth to protest, but a voice piped up from the tiny, curtained-off alcove that served as a kitchen.
"There is not one morsel of actual food in here!" Eliane called out, her voice brimming with culinary outrage. "How am I supposed to feed everyone?"
Vesta rushed over, pulling the curtain aside. "Hey! Don't be so nosey! I have food!" She gestured to a cabinet.
Eliane scowled, holding the cabinet door open and pointing inside with the authority of a master chef condemning a subpar ingredient. "Instant noodles are not food!" She went to slam the door shut, but with a soft thump, it bounced back open slightly. She hadn't noticed Jelly, who had wobbled in after her and was now happily munching on a packet of dry seasoning he'd found, now trapped inside.
Eliane sighed, a small puff of exasperation. "I need to do some proper shopping."
Jannali called from the main room. "Might be slim pickin's after the bang-up job those terrorists did."
"It's okay," Eliane said, determination squaring her small shoulders. "I can be creative. Besides, there has to be at least one market still open." She marched towards the apartment door.
Jannali shrugged. "Alright, don't wanna let the kid wander off alone. I'll go with you." She followed Eliane out, the door clicking shut behind them.
As Jelly finally pushed the cabinet door open and bounced back into the room, Galit returned his focus to Marya. "I've been thinking about that. We need to infiltrate this group, somehow. Get evidence of their plans, or better yet, proof we had nothing to do with the attack."
Atlas smirked. "And how do we do that, noodle neck? Walk up and ask for their secret handshake?"
It was then that Atlas's eyes, sharp and predatory, fell on Vesta's guitar, which was reclined against the wall. It began to shiver, then bounce, its wooden body contorting with a series of soft, woody creaks until it reshaped itself into a beautifully carved violin.
"Whoa," Atlas said, his smirk widening into a grin of genuine curiosity. He pointed. "Vesta. What's the story with the instrument? That was a guitar a moment ago."
Vesta, who had been hovering nervously, rushed over and scooped up the violin, holding it protectively. She laughed, a high, awkward sound. "Well, you see, this is Mikasi! My guitar ate the Uto Uto no Mi, Model: Huehuecoyotl, and now it can shapeshift into different instruments! Pretty cool, huh?" She beamed, waiting for their awe.
Marya, Galit, and Atlas stared at her for a beat, their expressions utterly blank. Then, in unison, they turned away from her and back to their conversation as if she'd commented on the weather. Jelly, however, bounced over, his massive starry eyes peering at the now-violin with intense fascination.
"If this group is organized enough to create this level of destruction," Galit continued, ignoring the magical instrument entirely, "then they have to have some sort of hierarchy. A meeting location to organize."
Marya gave a slow nod. "I agree. But how do we find it? If the local authorities with their eagles and their networks haven't been able to locate it, what hope do we have?"
"Could you use your mist?" Atlas asked Marya. "Spread it out, see what you can hear?"
Marya held her chin, considering. The black veins on her arm seemed to darken with her concentration. "Maybe. I might be able to increase the range with Kenbunshoku. But that won't necessarily tell us anything specific. It's just… noise."
"It might give us a direction to start with, though," Galit countered. "A concentration of hostile intent, whispers in the wrong place."
Vesta, who had been standing there holding her sentient violin and feeling profoundly left out, cocked her head. "What is… Ken-bun-shoku?"
Marya gave her a sideways glare that could have frozen a lesser person solid. Galit sighed wearily, and Atlas let out a short, sharp chuckle. At that moment, Jelly, in his investigation of the violin, wobbled too enthusiastically and knocked over a precarious tower of instrument polish bottles, which clattered to the floor in a noisy, rolling cascade. The sound was a perfect, chaotic punctuation to the utter normality of a shapeshifting guitar in a world where they now had to play detective.
---
A good distance from the shattered heart of Bounty's Hold, a farmers' market stubbornly clung to life in a wide, open plaza carved into the side of a spire. The air here was different—thick with the sweet, earthy smell of sun-warmed cloud-berries and the rubbery scent of fresh cloud-kelp, layered over the ever-present chalky dust of the island. Stalls made of faded cloth and weathered cloud-wood displayed their wares: baskets of luminous moss that glowed with a soft, internal light, strange tubers that looked like knuckles of ginger, and plump, purple fruits that seemed to hum faintly.
Eliane moved through the stalls with the focused intensity of a seasoned general inspecting troops, her small hands testing the firmness of a cloud-cabbage palm. Jannali ambled beside her, hands in her pockets, looking far less invested.
"Bit of a grim vibe, isn't it?" Jannali muttered, her eyes scanning the crowd. The vendors and shoppers weren't their usual boisterous selves. Instead, they huddled in small groups, their conversations a low, anxious murmur that buzzed beneath the market's usual sounds.
"—heard it was a Dial cache that went off—"
"—no, the Storm-Callers, my cousin saw the symbol—"
"—Aerie Guard has the port locked down tighter than a drum—"
Eliane, ignoring the gossip, held up a bunch of vibrant, leafy greens. "These are good. A bit peppery. We can sauté them with some of those mushroom things." She was an island of culinary purpose in a sea of nervous speculation.
Unseen by them, Payton Samson moved with a different purpose. She pretended to examine a basket of woven cloud-grass trinkets, her head tilted as if admiring the craftsmanship, but her gaze was locked on the small Lunarian girl. The white of her nurse's uniform was a bright beacon in the crowd, making her attempts at stealth somewhat comical.
She was so focused that she jumped when a solid shoulder nudged hers. Julian Sturm stood there, his face grim, the usual aroma of grilled meat and spices replaced by the general market smell. Beside him was Shane Peláez, the dentist, who offered a thin, professional smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"A word," Julian said, his voice low.
Payton gave a tight nod, her eyes flicking back to Eliane one last time before she let them lead her away from the main thoroughfare. They slipped into a narrow alleyway between two spires, where the sounds of the market became muffled and the light dimmed. The air was cool and carried the damp, mineral smell of water condensing on ancient cloud-stone.
"Did you speak with Castor?" Payton asked, her voice a hushed whisper.
Julian nodded. "He said to bring the girl to him. The sign is clear."
"Okay," Payton said, her breath catching slightly. "What's the plan?"
Shane held up a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid. It clinked softly against another in his pocket. "I have anesthetics. A quick, clean application. We can take her without a fuss."
Payton peeked out from their hiding spot. She could just make out Eliane's silver ponytail bobbing near a stall selling dried fish. Jannali was a few steps away, haggling half-heartedly over the price of a bag of cloud-rice. "What about the woman with her?" Payton asked. "The tall one with the headscarf? Should we bring her too?"
Julian and Shane exchanged a look. "She'll alert the authorities if we don't," Julian reasoned with a pragmatic shrug.
Shane adjusted his spectacles. "Might as well. A two-for-one spiritual cleansing."
Payton nodded, a strange mix of relief and dread settling in her stomach. "Okay then. Once they leave the market, we grab them both." She pulled back into the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs, her role as a healer warring violently with her fanatical conviction. The divine wind was blowing, and they were ready to be its instruments.
---
Out in the open air, Kuzan Aokiji took a long, slow breath. The meeting was over. The past had been acknowledged, and the present, as always, was proving to be a hassle. He began the walk back towards Bounty's Hold, his hands buried in the pockets of his long coat, his gait a lazy, rolling amble that ate up the ground with deceptive speed.
The further he went, the more the signs of devastation became clear. The usual hum of a busy sky-island port was gone, replaced by a strained quiet punctuated by the distant shouts of Aerie Guards and the occasional cry of an eagle. The air, usually carrying the scents of salt and strange spices, was now thick with a gritty, chalky powder—pulverized cloud-stone. He passed a stall that was now just a collection of splintered wood and torn fabric. A group of medics hurried past, their faces smudged with grime.
He stopped, his dark eyes scanning the damage. This wasn't a random accident. This was coordinated. With a sigh that fogged slightly in the cool, high-altitude air, he reached into his coat and pulled out a transponder snail. It blinked sleepily, its shell a dull brown. He dialed.
After a few rings, the snail's face underwent a remarkable transformation. Its eyes became sharper, more intelligent, and its features elongated slightly, taking on the distinct, lean look of Galit Varuna.
"Buru buru... click."
"You answered," Kuzan said, his voice a low, unhurried rumble. "I heard you were detained."
From the snail's mouth emerged Galit's voice, layered with a weary sigh. "Yes. Things have become… complicated."
"Are you with the Guard?" Kuzan asked, watching a team of workers carefully shift a large chunk of debris.
"No, we worked it out so we could go," Galit replied, the words coming in a rapid, tactical clip. "But there are stipulations. We're effectively on probation."
Kuzan's eyebrow lifted a millimeter. "Huh. So where's 'go'?"
"We're currently taking up residence with one of the locals," Galit said, a hint of strain in his voice. He proceeded to give a series of concise directions—a specific spire in the lower strata, a landing platform marked by a broken weather vane, a stairwell carved into the rock that smelled of damp moss and old rope, and a blue door with a chipped carving of a musical note.
"I'll fill you in once you get here," Galit finished. "It's… an experience."
The transponder snail's face went slack, the connection severing. Kuzan slipped it back into his pocket. He stood for a moment longer, taking in the wounded street. Complicated. Stipulations. Residing with a local. It sounded like far more effort than he'd signed up for. He sighed again, a long, slow exhalation that spoke volumes of his general weariness with the world and its incessant dramas.
Then he resumed his walk, ambling towards the lower strata with his typical languid pace, a mountain of a man moving through the aftermath of a storm, on his way to a blue door and an "experience" he already knew he was going to find deeply tiresome.
*****
The Whisper Jet shuddered as it decelerated from its violent, unplanned jump, the starfield outside the viewport resolving into a scene of controlled chaos. Before them floated the battered vessel, the Stubborn Mule, its hull scarred and venting tiny plumes of frozen gas. But it was the space around it that stole the breath.
A Class II Typhon, designated a 'Razor-Manta' by its distinct, blade-edged silhouette, moved with a nightmarish grace. Its body was a vast, undulating wedge of chitinous plating, the color of a deep-space nebula, and from its leading edges extended scythe-like appendages that gleamed with a cruel, metallic sharpness. It should have shredded the Mule in seconds. It was being prevented from doing so by a single, dazzlingly unorthodox performance.
A Sanctioned Frame, designated 'Gambol' by the cheerful, hand-painted stars and a beaming moth on its cockpit, was quite literally bouncing off the Typhon. It didn't fly so much as it ricocheted, using the creature's own vast bulk as a springboard. It launched itself from the Manta's back, executed a flawless, seemingly pointless corkscrew through a cloud of frozen debris, and delivered a concussive thump from its Kinetic Resonance Gauntlets directly into the creature's sensory cluster. The impact wasn't a deafening explosion, but a deep, percussive boom that visibly rippled through the Typhon's flesh.
"Have you ever seen…" Evander began, his voice a mixture of awe and professional distaste as he guided the Whisper Jet into a holding pattern.
Caden didn't need to look away from the viewport to answer, his fingers already dancing across the console, running diagnostics on his own Frame, the 'Wraith'. "No. And it looks like the pilot is having the time of his life."
A burst of static-crackled laughter came over the open comms, followed by a gleeful, "Woohoo! Watch this!" The 'Gambol' twisted in mid-air, using its Titan-Fiber Ribbons to lasso one of the Manta's scythes, using the creature's own momentum to swing it harmlessly away from the Stubborn Mule.
Caden and Evander shared a long, speaking look. It was a silent conversation of raised eyebrows and slight head tilts. Should we intervene? Is this help or hindrance? Caden gave a minute shrug, his decision made. He keyed the ship's internal comm. "Update. We're providing assistance. We need one of you to come up and monitor comms and pilot. Don't all volunteer at once."
The response was immediate. The door to the cockpit hissed open to reveal not one, but all six of their temporary charges, drawn by the spectacle. Aurélie stood with her typical serene stillness, though her storm-grey eyes were fixed intently on the dancing Frame. Bianca was practically vibrating, her multitool holster creaking as she leaned forward to get a better look. Charlie adjusted his pith helmet, muttering about "unorthodox kinetic application." Kuro observed with a strategist's cold calculation, while Ember's mismatched eyes were wide with a pyromaniac's appreciation for chaos. Souta's gaze, however, was not on the fight, but on the readouts, analyzing the energy signatures and the 'Gambol's' impossible flight paths.
"You don't all need to be here," Evander started, but Bianca cut him off with a flick of her grease-stained wrist.
"You like, don't think we can just sit around and stuff, like, do you?" she said, her words tumbling out in an excited rush. "That's a Class II! And that pilot is like, totally rewriting the manual!"
A faint smirk touched Evander's lips. "Fine. The comms are yours. The ship's on autopilot for now. Just hit this big, friendly red button if you need to take manual control and not get us all killed." He gestured to a prominent, shielded switch.
They all nodded, a temporary, uneasy consensus formed in the face of spectacle. As Evander and Caden moved to suit up, a new, gruff voice crackled over the comm, laced with profound annoyance. "Whisper Jet, come in. Will you be providing backup to that idiot out there before he damages that Frame beyond even my ability to bill him for?"
Evander, already halfway out the door, keyed his mic. "En route. Hold tight."
Bianca slid into the pilot's chair with the practiced ease of someone who understood machines better than people. "So, like, what's the damage on the Mule?" she asked, her fingers already skimming across secondary controls. "Can it be, like, repaired in flight, or do we have to, like, dock somewhere and stuff?"
Daniel Kamath's sigh was a blast of static. "I have no idea. I am not an engineer. Clear the Typhon out, and you can make your own assessment. Kamath out." The channel went dead with a final click.
"Charming," Kuro murmured, the word so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the ship's systems.
Outside, the void became a stage. The 'Wraith', a ghost of non-reflective black, shot out first, its Phantom Shift drive leaving a brief, shimmering afterimage. Evander's 'Paladin' followed, a crimson fortress of polished armor and heraldry, its massive physical shield looking decidedly terrestrial against the cosmic horror.
"Sanctioned Frame, this is Evander of the Crimson Blade, JFF. We are here to assist," Evander announced over the tactical channel.
The only reply was another peel of boisterous laughter. "Awesome! The more the merrier! Name's Luke! Watch this—he hates it when I do this!"
The 'Gambol' shot straight towards the Razor-Manta's gaping maw, a seemingly suicidal move. At the last possible second, it planted both feet on the creature's snout and pushed off, backflipping away as a scythe-arm whistled through the space it had just occupied. The move was so recklessly elegant it made Caden's calibrated instincts itch.
"He's… baiting it," Caden observed, his voice tight as he pushed the 'Wraith' into a flanking position, his Typhon Echo Sense a dull thrum of alien rage and confusion in his skull. "He's reading its instincts, not its tactics."
"It's undignified," Evander grumbled, but he was already moving, positioning the 'Paladin' to intercept a sweeping scythe blow aimed at the 'Gambol'. The impact of the Typhon's limb on his shield sent a shower of sparks into the vacuum, the sound a colossal, metallic shriek transmitted through their Frames' hulls.
"Hey, thanks, Mr. Fancy Red!" Luke chirped. "Okay, new plan! I'll make it dizzy, you two hit it where it counts!"
What followed was a ballet of controlled insanity. Luke's 'Gambol' became a hyperactive gadfly, its kinetic gauntlets delivering sharp, disorienting blows to the Razor-Manta's joints and sensory organs. It wasn't dealing damage so much as it was inflicting a cosmic case of vertigo. Caden, synced with the 'Wraith', flowed through the chaos, his movements a series of precise, economical dodges and strikes. He used his Echo Sense to feel the shifts in the Typhon's intent, sliding past a scythe by a margin that would give a normal pilot a heart attack, his beam saber scoring a deep, sizzling cut along the creature's flank.
"He moves like he can hear it thinking," Evander muttered, himself a bastion of traditional combat. He met force with force, his 'Paladin's' Sovereign Blade humming with energy as he parried and counter-attacked, creating openings with sheer, disciplined power.
"Okay, big guy, hold still!" Luke yelled. The 'Gambol' launched its ribbons, not to entangle, but to wrap around two of the Manta's scythes, pulling them taut and crossing them. For a precious second, the creature was pinned in its own limbs. "Now!"
Caden didn't need the invitation. The 'Wraith's' Phantom Shift flared, and he became a blur, his beam saber plunging deep into the Typhon's primary nerve cluster. At the same moment, Evander leveled his beam cannon and fired a sustained burst into the same wound. The Razor-Manta convulsed, a silent, psychic scream of agony that lanced through Caden's mind, making him grit his teeth against a sudden wave of nausea. The creature's movements became sluggish, then ceased altogether, its vast form drifting inertly.
A final, triumphant "Yeehaw!" echoed over the comms.
Back in the cockpit of the Whisper Jet, the observers were silent for a moment, processing the display.
"Fascinating," Souta said finally, his voice low. "The pilot's complete disregard for established doctrine created a new, effective pattern. A chaotic variable that the entity's limited cognition could not process."
"Like, that was the most beautiful piece of engineering I've ever seen," Bianca breathed, ignoring the strategic analysis entirely. "The way it moved… the gyroscopic stability to pull off those turns… it's like, totally impossible!"
Charlie cleared his throat. "Ahem! While the pilot's methodology was… unorthodox, the results are irrefutable. A successful neutralization with minimal collateral damage to the client vessel."
Aurélie said nothing, but her eyes remained on the drifting form of the 'Gambol'. She saw not just the machine, but the pure, unadulterated joy of the spirit within it, a stark contrast to the grim purpose that defined this universe.
Kuro simply adjusted his smudged glasses, his mind already cataloging the tactical applications of such unpredictable allies, and the potential threats they posed. Ember, meanwhile, was sketching explosive trajectories in the air with her finger, a small, wicked smile playing on her lips. The battle was over, but the games within the ship had only just begun.
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