Deep in the stasis bay, the sleepers slept.
Eliane dreamed of bread, golden and warm, rising in an oven that never burned. Jannali dreamed of the Australian outback, of red earth and blue sky and the whistle of a returning boomerang. Atlas dreamed of lightning, of fur crackling with power, of the full moon that called to something primal in his blood.
Vesta dreamed of Uta. They stood on a stage that stretched across the sky, their voices rising together, and the whole world listened and smiled.
Sanza dreamed of questions. Endless questions, each one answered, each answer leading to another question, and in the dream, no one ever told him to be quiet.
Jelly dreamed of bubbles. Millions of them, rising through clear blue water, each one a tiny world of possibility, and he floated among them, happy and free.
They did not feel the heat. They did not hear the screaming metal. They did not know that they were plunging through the heart of the world, carried by a current of impossible fury toward a destination that might not exist.
They slept.
And the submarine fell on.
The amber fluid in Marya's stasis pod pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow, matching the slow beat of her heart. Her body floated weightless, suspended in the warm embrace of the suspension gel, her black hair drifting around her face like seaweed in a gentle current. Her golden eyes were closed, her expression peaceful.
But inside her mind, there was no peace.
The dream took her without warning, without consent, dragging her down through layers of consciousness into a place she had locked away so deeply that even she had forgotten it existed. The amber fluid darkened. The pod's soft hum faded. And Marya was eight years old again.
---
Sunlight streamed through the windows of the cottage, warm and golden, catching the dust motes that danced in the air. The smell of woodsmoke and pine drifted in from the forest outside, mixing with the aroma of Elisabeta's cooking—something rich and savory that made Marya's stomach rumble even in the dream.
She was small. So small. Her legs dangled from the chair, not quite touching the floor, and her leather jacket—the one she would wear for years to come—was far in the future, unworn, unimagined. Here, she wore a simple cotton dress, impractical for a child who loved to climb trees, and her black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Across the table, Micah scowled at her.
He was six years old, his yellow eyes—Mihawk's eyes, their father's eyes—narrowed with indignation. His black hair stuck up in tufts, still rumpled from his nap, and there was a smudge of jam on his cheek that he hadn't noticed.
"That's not fair," he said, his small voice carrying all the gravity a six-year-old could muster. "You got to hold his hand the whole time at the market. The whole time, Marya. I counted. It's my turn to sit next to him."
Marya stuck out her tongue. "I didn't hear you complaining when I bought you that candy."
"That's different!"
"Is not."
"Is too!"
"Is not!"
"Children."
Elisabeta's voice cut through the argument like a warm knife through butter. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand, her silver eyes sparkling with amusement. Her raven-black hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the lean muscle of her forearms. She looked at her children with an expression that was equal parts love and exasperation.
"Enough," she said, but her voice was gentle. "Time to eat."
Marya opened her mouth to deliver the final, definitive retort that would win the argument forever, but Micah was faster. He stuck his tongue out at her, crossing his arms in triumph.
Marya gasped. "Mom! He stuck his tongue out at me!"
"You stuck yours out first," Micah shot back.
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
Elisabeta sighed, but the smile never left her face. She walked to the table, setting down a steaming pot of stew, and took her seat at the head. The cottage was small but cozy, filled with the detritus of a family that moved often. Boxes were stacked in the corners, some half-packed, others waiting to be filled. Maps were pinned to the walls, marked with routes and notations in Elisabeta's precise handwriting. Books were piled on every available surface, their pages bristling with markers and folded corners.
Marya leaned forward, her argument with Micah forgotten in the face of a more important question. "Is Uncle Shanks coming? Will he bring Uta?"
Elisabeta raised an eyebrow, ladling stew into bowls. "You'll have to wait and see."
Marya's face fell. "But mom..."
Micah joined in, his voice rising in a whine. "That's not fair! You always say that!"
Elisabeta chuckled, the sound rich and warm. She set a bowl in front of each of them, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "I don't want to ruin the surprise. Where's the fun in that?"
Marya and Micah exchanged a look of shared suffering. Adults. They were all the same.
"But why do we have to move again?" Micah asked, gesturing at the boxes with a spoon dripping stew. "We just got here. I like it here. There's a tree I'm climbing and I'm not done yet."
Elisabeta's expression softened. She reached out and ruffled his hair, ignoring his protests. "Because the world is a big place, my little knight. And the only way to learn all its secrets is to go out and seek them."
Marya seized her opportunity. She smirked at her brother. "Hey, Micah. Everyone knows that."
Micah's face reddened. "No they don't! If everyone knew, they wouldn't be secrets! That's what a secret is!"
Marya opened her mouth to deliver a devastating comeback—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp raps on the door.
The sound cut through the cottage like a blade.
Elisabeta's head snapped toward the door. Her body went rigid, her silver eyes narrowing, her nostrils flaring as if she was scenting the air. The warmth drained from her face, replaced by something cold and hard. Her shoulders tensed, her back straightening, her hands curling into fists on the table.
Marya's heart stuttered. "Mom? What is it?"
Elisabeta didn't answer. She rose from her chair, and the sound of it scraping against the wooden floor was loud in the sudden silence. She moved to a drawer by the fireplace, pulled it open, and withdrew a pistol—black, sleek, clearly well-maintained. From her belt, she produced a dagger, its obsidian edge ringing as she unsheathed it.
She turned to her children, and her voice was steel wrapped in silk.
"Hide."
Marya's blood ran cold. "Mom—"
"Now."
The word cracked like a whip. Marya grabbed Micah's hand—he was frozen, his yellow eyes wide, his face pale—and dragged him from his chair. They ran to the back of the cottage, to the spot their father had shown them a hundred times, the spot behind the false wall where the floorboards hid a small crawlspace. Marya pushed Micah inside and squeezed in after him, pulling the panel closed just enough to leave a crack.
Through that crack, she could see her mother.
Elisabeta stood at the door, pistol in one hand, dagger in the other. Her back was straight, her breathing controlled. She looked like a predator waiting to strike.
"Who is it?" she called out, her voice calm, almost pleasant.
A man's voice answered from outside. Deep. Formal. Wrong. "Travelers seeking shelter. We mean no harm."
Elisabeta's eyes narrowed further. "I'm afraid I'm ill. Spreading sickness wouldn't be neighborly. You'd best move on."
Micah gasped behind Marya. She clapped her hand over his mouth, her own heart hammering against her ribs. Through the crack, she saw her mother glance over her shoulder, just for an instant, her silver eyes meeting the gap where her children hid.
Then the voice came again.
"What luck. I'm a doctor."
The door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. The frame shattered. And through the wreckage came men—Marines in their white coats, their faces hard, their weapons drawn. And behind them, a figure in an ivory-white coat, his eyes gleaming, his expression one of cold, clinical interest.
Casimir.
Elisabeta moved like water. The pistol cracked once, twice, three times. A Marine dropped. The dagger flashed, finding throats, finding hearts. Three more fell. Blood sprayed across the walls, across the boxes, across the maps that charted Elisabeta's journeys.
But Casimir was already changing.
His body twisted, grew, transformed. Scales rippled across his skin. His face elongated into a snout filled with razor teeth. His hands became claws, his legs became powerful haunches built for speed and killing. The Velociraptor—full Zoan form—towered in the ruined doorway, its eyes fixed on Elisabeta with the focus of a predator that had found its prey.
Elisabeta fired. The bullet struck the creature's chest and bounced off, harmless.
She didn't flinch. She raised her dagger and charged.
The raptor moved faster. Its claw swept out, a blur of motion, and caught Elisabeta across the chest. She flew backward, crashing into the table, sending bowls and stew flying. She tried to rise, tried to lift her blade, but the raptor was already there, already looming, already—
The claw came down.
Marya's scream tore from her throat, but Micah's hand was over her mouth now, his own face a mask of frozen horror. Through the crack, through the tears that blurred her vision, Marya saw her mother fall. Saw the blood. Saw the life fade from those silver eyes that had sparkled with mischief just minutes ago.
And then she ran.
She grabbed Micah's hand—he was stiff, unresponsive, dead weight—and pulled him from the crawlspace. They ran through the back of the cottage, through the kitchen, out the rear door that their father had taught them to always keep unlocked. The forest loomed ahead, dark and promising, and Marya ran toward it with every ounce of strength in her eight-year-old body.
"Come on!" she screamed, jerking Micah's hand. "We have to keep moving!"
Micah stumbled. His legs wouldn't work. He looked back at the cottage, at the smoke beginning to rise from its shattered windows, at the bodies lying in the doorway.
"Mother," he whispered. "They... mother."
Marya wiped her eyes with her free hand. The motion was savage, angry, desperate. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't cry. Not now.
"Father will come!" she shouted at him. "He'll come for us! But we have to move!"
Micah's legs started working. Limping, stumbling, but moving. They crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping at their faces, thorns tearing at their clothes. The forest tried to slow them, tried to hold them back, but Marya didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
Behind them, the cottage exploded.
The blast threw them forward, sent them tumbling through the leaves and dirt. Marya's ears rang. Her head spun. But she forced herself up, forced herself to keep moving, dragging Micah with her.
And then the roaring footsteps came.
Heavy. Thunderous. Closing fast.
Marya risked a glance over her shoulder and saw it—the raptor, crashing through the trees, its scaled body a blur of deadly motion, its eyes locked on them with the hunger of a killer that wouldn't be denied.
They didn't make it far.
The claw swept out, and Marya felt it more than saw it—a wall of force that lifted her off her feet and sent her spinning through the air. She hit a tree trunk with a crack that drove the breath from her lungs, and she crumpled to the ground, her vision swimming, her body screaming.
Through the haze of pain and darkness, she heard Micah scream.
The sound cut through her, sharper than any blade. She forced her eyes open, forced herself to look.
Micah stood frozen in the clearing, his small figure dwarfed by the raptor that loomed over him. The creature raised its claw, ready to strike, ready to end him—
And then the raptor stopped.
It froze mid-swing, its head snapping around to face the edge of the clearing. Its posture changed, shifted from hunter to something else. Something wary.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Confident.
A figure emerged from the trees.
Red hair, catching the light filtering through the canopy. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the easy grace of someone who feared nothing in this world or any other. A sword at his hip.
Marya's vision was fading, the darkness closing in, but she saw him. She saw the red hair, the confident posture, the way he walked toward the raptor as if it were merely an inconvenience.
"Uncle Shanks," she whispered.
The world went black.
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