The air in the archive was thick with a desperate, hopeful tension. All eyes were on Vesta as she stood before the ancient sheet music, Mikasi held ready. She took a steadying breath, her fingers finding the strings. The first note rang out—a clean, perfect tone that hung in the air for a fraction of a second before it was violently snuffed out, as if an invisible hand had clenched around it. The sound didn't fade; it was erased.
"Again," Gordon urged, his voice strained.
Vesta tried, her brow furrowed in concentration. She played a short, simple scale, focusing intently on the technical execution. Each note died the moment it was born, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the library. The music wasn't just silent; it was being murdered.
"Come on!" Vesta grumbled, frustration getting the better of her. Her fingers slipped, striking a jarring, discordant note.
That one, the wrong one, did not die.
It resonated, an ugly, glowing smear of sound that hung in the air for a full three seconds before fading, leaving a bitter taste in the air.
Gordon sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "You see? This is the curse. The island does not merely dislike the music. It eats the notes it deems pure. Only impurity, only chaos, is allowed to live."
A sudden crash made everyone jump. Jelly, who had been bouncing idly in a corner, had wobbled directly into a teetering pile of old maritime logs. Books and scrolls avalanched around him in a cloud of dust. He stumbled out from the pile, his translucent body wobbling violently, a halo of cartoon stars spinning over his head. His eyes crossed, and he let out a soft "Bloo-oop?" before flopping onto his back, jiggling like a dropped pudding.
Uta couldn't help a giggle, her hand flying to her mouth.
"That is an odd creature," Gordon murmured, watching the gelatinous heap.
Atlas smirked, his arms crossed. "Hit the books a little too hard, Jelly ball?"
But Vesta wasn't listening. Her nose was wrinkled, her gaze locked not on the sheet music, but on one of the books Jelly had spilled. It was open to a page showing a historical sketch of a building on fire. Plumes of smoke billowing consuming the page in darkness.
Her face lit up with a sudden, blazing understanding. "That's it!" she exclaimed.
Before anyone could ask what she meant, Vesta closed her eyes, shutting out the world. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her shoulders slumping.
"What are you…?" Atlas began, his curiosity piqued.
Vesta shushed him sharply, not with annoyance, but with a fierce, singular focus.
Uta glanced at Marya, who responded with a rare, genuine smirk of amusement, shaking her head slightly at the dramatics. The group fell into a hushed, anticipatory silence, leaning forward, waiting for Vesta to do… anything.
After a long, suspended moment, her fingers moved again.
This time, the melody was utterly different. It was not a technical exercise. It was a sob given sound. The notes that flowed from Mikasi were heavy, laden with a sorrow so profound it seemed to physically hurt. They were no longer just sounds; they were memories, they were loss, they were the aching emptiness of a home that existed only in memory. This time, the air did not suffocate them. The music lived, it breathed, it swelled through the dusty archive, each note echoing with a heartbreaking clarity. A single, glistening tear traced a path down Vesta's cheek, but she played on, pouring the ghost of Birka's destruction into Captain Korsakov's counter-song.
The group stood paralyzed, caught in the raw, emotional current. Atlas's usual arrogance was gone, replaced by a look of stunned respect. Gordon's jaw was slack. Marya watched, her stoic expression softened by a flicker of something akin to admiration.
Vesta played the final, resolving note—a sound of quiet, weary acceptance.
For a heartbeat, there was only the echo of her heartbreak. Then, the air itself seemed to vibrate, to crack. It was the sound of a giant pane of glass splintering. And through the cracks, new sounds flooded in: the distant, gentle crash of waves against the shore, the cheerful chirp of a bird from somewhere outside, the sigh of the wind through the ruins. Life, returning to Elegia.
Gordon's face broke into a grin of astonished, tearful gratitude. "You did it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You actually did it!"
Vesta beamed, wiping her tear away with the back of her hand.
"How?" Atlas asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "How did you figure it out?"
Vesta eagerly pointed to the open book with the sketch of the burning island. "I had to stop thinking with my head and start playing with my heart! I had to add my emotions to the melody." Her face fell, the memory fresh and painful. "I remembered my parents… and the destruction of Birka."
Uta placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Birka?"
Vesta nodded, sniffling. "Yeah, it's one of the sky islands. It was my home before…" She cocked her head, a sudden, jarring thought striking her. She looked at Uta, really looked at her. "Actually, now that I think about it… are you from Birka?"
Uta blinked, her violet eyes wide with confusion. "I… I don't know."
Gordon clapped his large hands together, the sound booming through the now-living archive, forcefully shifting the mood. "This calls for a celebration! The first in a very, very long time!" But his eyes, for just a moment, darted to Uta with a flicker of something that was not quite joy, but frantic relief. The curse was broken, but the deeper mysteries of Elegia were only just beginning to unravel.
---
The silence in the laboratory was a physical weight, thick and heavy with the chill of the grave and the hum of machinery that had no business existing. Jannali Bandler's question hung in the cold air, a direct challenge to the spectral Marine Captain. "Alright, mate. The penny's dropped. We see the whole rotten picture. Now, what is it you want from us? What do you want us to do?"
Captain Nikolaos 'Rhythm' Korsakov did not immediately answer. His translucent form, which had been a steady, shimmering guide, suddenly went rigid. The sharp lines of his uniform seemed to solidify, and his head tilted a fraction, his sharp gray eyes staring past them into the cavern's oppressive darkness.
"Uh, what's he doing now?" Galit Varuna murmured, his long neck uncoiling slightly as he followed the ghost's gaze, his emerald eyes scanning for a threat his whips couldn't touch.
Eliane Anđel, clutching Jannali's arm so tightly her small fingers strained from the stress, whispered, her voice trembling. "He looks like... like he's listening to something."
It was a silent concert for a dead man. The ghost's fingers, which usually fidgeted with the clasp of a baton that was no longer there, froze mid-air. Then, his head snapped back to them, and the expression that etched itself onto his spectral features was one of pure, unadulterated horror. It was a look that spoke of defenses breached, of a fortress wall crumbling after a century of holding firm.
A gust of wind, impossibly cold and smelling of salt and old, rusted metal, blasted through the sealed chamber. It wasn't a natural wind; it was a gale of pure spiritual energy, whipping through the lab and making the green-lit cylinders flicker wildly.
"Blow me down!" Jannali cursed, throwing up an arm to shield her face as her stylish headscarf threatened to tear free. Eliane let out a small yelp and buried her face in Jannali's side, while Galit braced himself, the tails of his riptide cloak snapping behind him like angry serpents.
As suddenly as it began, the wind died.
And they were no longer alone.
Surrounding them, phasing through rock and machinery alike, were dozens of ghosts. They were all in tattered Marine uniforms, their forms less distinct than their Captain's, little more than shimmering outlines of weary soldiers. For a single, heart-stopping moment, the entire spectral crew locked their hollow gazes on the three intruders. The air vibrated with a silent, collective farewell, a salute from souls who had stood their post long past death. Then, like candle flames snuffed by a sudden breath, they winked out of existence.
The three of them stood frozen, their heads swiveling in the sudden, profound stillness. The oppressive presence of the guardian crew was gone, leaving only the malevolent hum of the lab.
"What in the seven seas just happened?" Jannali breathed, her usual confident swagger replaced by bewildered alarm. Her golden hoop earrings swung as she turned, her third eye itching beneath its covering as if trying to see into a realm that had just vanished.
Galit held up a hand, his brow furrowed. "Shhh. Do you hear that?"
Jannali and Eliane fell silent, tilting their heads. Faint, but unmistakable, new sounds filtered down from the world above. It was the distant, cheerful chirping of birds. And beneath that, the steady, mechanical thrum of the lab's computers, a sound that had been masked until now by the crew's spiritual dampening field.
"I hear birds," Eliane said, her brow puckering in confusion. "And... machines? It was so quiet before."
Jannali swallowed hard, a cold dread settling in her gut. "They're gone," she whispered, the truth of it hitting her like a physical blow. "Just like that. The whole mob of 'em."
Eliane looked up, her large blue eyes wide with innocent confusion. "But... I thought they were guarding the island. How can they be gone?" The question was a child's logic applied to a nightmare, all the more heartbreaking for its simplicity.
Galit turned his intense gaze from the empty space where the ghosts had been back to the central cylinder, where the real Uta floated in her endless sleep. His mind, a whirlwind of tactical calculations, found a terrifying answer. "Someone or something upstairs just interrupted their resonance. Broke the chain of command." He spoke with the grim certainty of one who understood how delicate a well-laid strategy could be. "The containment field they were powering... it's failed."
As if his words were a cue, the low hum of the laboratory's machinery seemed to sharpen, intensifying from a background drone to an aggressive, hungry whine. From deeper within the complex, a new sound echoed down the metallic corridors—a heavy, rhythmic clanking, like the footfalls of something immense and mechanical being brought online.
Eliane's grip on Jannali's arm tightened. "Jannali," she squeaked, her voice small. "What is that?"
Jannali shook her head, her face set in a grim line. "I don't know, little chef," she said, her accent hardening with resolve. "And I've got a real strong feeling I don't wanna stick around to find out."
Galit gave a sharp, decisive nod, his own fear mastered by the immediate need for survival. "The Captain showed us the truth. Our duty now is to deliver it. We need to find the others. Now."
The heartfelt, horrifying discovery was over. The quarantine was broken, and in the newfound, deceptive normalcy of birdsong, the true monster in the labyrinth had just been let off its chain.
*****
The invitation—if it could be called that—hung in the dusty air, a challenge wrapped in the grim packaging of military protocol. Without another word, Josiah Manos strode up the ramp, his polished boots ringing on the metal with a finality that brooked no argument. His two escorts followed, their movements synchronized, their eyes hidden behind helmet visors. They moved past the gathered crew with the impersonal focus of loading machinery, heading for the stacked crates that held Nash Weiner's mysterious cargo.
The Nutter brothers, ever the optimists, saw this as the transaction moving forward. "Alright!" Tony chirped, rubbing his hands together. "So, the payment. Fuel, repairs, and those fancy alloys. You have it ready? We're on a tight schedule."
Josiah didn't even look at them, his gaze sweeping the Mule's worn hold as if inspecting for contraband. "I do not have your payment."
The silence that followed was heavier than the moon's gravity. Peter's face fell. "You… you don't? But the agreement—"
"I am to escort you to the individual who does," Josiah stated, his tone leaving no room for debate. He gestured for his men to begin moving the crates. The soldiers hefted the first one with a grunt, the contents within shifting with a dull, metallic clunk.
The brothers, baffled but still driven by the promise of compensation, began to shuffle after the departing soldiers. "Well… alright then. Lead the way, I suppose."
It was then that Kuro spoke, his voice a low, cool blade cutting through the brothers' compliant chatter. "And why," he began, adjusting his spectacles with a deliberate slowness, "would you think we would be so willing to follow you, considering our previous encounter?"
The Nutter brothers' heads swiveled in unison, their expressions a perfect mirror of confused alarm. "You know this guy?" Tony asked, his voice pitching high.
Charlie cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense quiet. "Ahem! We encountered Captain Manos during our… unplanned arrival at Haven-07. The circumstances were less than cordial."
Josiah finally turned his head, his dark eyes fixing on Charlie with the force of a physical blow. "As you can see, we are no longer on Haven-07." His voice was dangerously calm. "And if I recall, you left Haven-07 in a shambles."
Aurélie took a single, graceful step forward, placing herself slightly between Josiah and the rest. Her hand hadn't left Anathema's hilt. "That was not our doing."
"Wasn't it?" Josiah's glare was a physical weight. "Recent intelligence states the Typhon are drawn to you. Your vessel emits an anomalous energy signature that acts like a dinner bell for those creatures."
Souta's eyes narrowed, his mind, ever in motion, latching onto the specific word. "Intel?" he interjected, his voice sharp. "There is intel about us? How exactly could you have—"
Josiah cut his eyes toward Souta, a flicker of impatience breaking through his rigid composure. "We have connections," he said, the words dropping like stones. "In several different places."
Souta opened his mouth to press further, but Emily's hand, still holding his, tightened in a silent, desperate warning. He felt the fine tremor in her fingers and closed his mouth, the unspoken question burning in his gaze.
Tony Nutter threw his hands up in exasperation. "Are we going to finish this exchange or keep chit-chatting about past vacations? We have another run to get to! Prestige Galactic won't build itself!"
Kuro ignored him entirely, his full attention locked on Josiah. "What exactly are your intentions, Captain? You appear, without our payment, and demand we follow you into a known CUA stronghold. You must forgive our… reluctance."
Josiah let out a short, weary breath, the sound of a man tired of navigating a field of verbal traps. "If I were going to take you into custody," he said, his voice low and flat, "I would have already done it. This bay is surrounded."
The statement landed not as a boast, but as a simple, grim fact. The shadows beyond the ramp seemed to deepen, suggesting hidden shapes and leveled weapons.
Bianca, who had been nervously fiddling with a spanner, piped up. "So, like, you are going to, like, what? Help us or something?" She made it sound like the most improbable scenario in the galaxy.
"Or something," Josiah echoed, his tone dry as the lunar dust. He gestured again, and his men hefted the final crate. "Right now, I am going to take you to meet with Cassius Vance. He has your compensation. And he has a proposal for you."
Aurélie's eyebrow arched, a minute gesture of supreme skepticism. "A proposal?"
Josiah gave a single, curt nod. "So. We can either keep standing here, or we can keep it moving."
A silent, rapid conversation passed between the seven allies—a flicker of eyes, a slight tilt of the head, a tightened jaw. Trust was a currency none of them possessed, but options were even scarcer. It was the Nutter brothers, driven by pure, avaricious impulse, who broke the deadlock.
"Well, we're not getting paid standing here!" Tony declared, marching down the ramp after the CUA soldiers. "Come on, Pete! Let's go get our loot!"
Peter, with a last, worried look at the tense standoff behind him, shrugged in helpless resignation and followed his brother. Their retreating backs forced the issue. With no better path forward, and surrounded by unseen threats, the rest had no choice but to follow, stepping out of the relative safety of the Mule and deeper into the buried labyrinth, toward a meeting with the mysterious Cassius Vance.
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