The mist clung to the shoreline like a settling beast, thick and cold and wrong. It moved in ways that had nothing to do with wind—swirling, parting, closing again, as if something resided beneath its surface.
Ember stood at the water's edge, her neon-pink space buns catching the faint light, her mismatched eyes fixed on the gray void before her. The charred rabbit hung from her belt, its one button eye reflecting nothing.
The mist shifted.
A curve of ancient stone materialized—the flank of a Rokaku, massive beyond comprehension, carved with symbols that writhed in the dim light. Then it faded, swallowed again by the gray.
Ember giggled.
It was not a pleasant sound.
They're playing hide and seek, Josiah's voice whispered. The Rokaku. They're hiding and you're seeking. Isn't that fun?
"Very fun," Ember murmured.
Atlas stood a few paces behind her, his rust-red fur dark with moisture, his blue eyes scanning the mist with the focused intensity of a predator. His ears twitched, catching every sound—the lap of waves, the distant cry of gulls, the soft, unsettling giggle of the girl in front of him.
He opened his mouth to speak.
And stopped.
His nostrils flared.
A scent—unfamiliar, wrong, carrying notes of gunpowder and salt spray and something else, something that made his fur bristle and his Electro crackle in warning.
Then the click.
It was soft, barely audible over the waves, but his Mink ears caught it—the distinctive click of a weapon being readied.
Ember's head tilted.
It was that specific tilt—the one that said she had heard something too, the one that meant she was no longer in the same world as everyone else. Her gold eye caught the light, flat and wrong. Her blue eye stared into the mist with an intensity that bordered on hunger.
She blinked.
Her gaze fixed on a point in the distance, where the mist was doing something strange—thickening, shaping, forming edges and angles that had no place in nature.
Ember began to cackle.
The sound echoed off the cliffs, off the mist, off something that might have been much closer than it seemed. Her shoulders jostled with each laugh, the motion jerky, wrong, like a puppet with tangled strings.
Atlas's brow furrowed. "Hey—"
She didn't hear him.
"They are coming," she whispered.
Her voice was eerie—distant, hollow, as if someone else spoke through her mouth. Her hand moved to her back, finding the Helltide slingshot rifle, pulling it free.
"Want to play a game?"
Atlas's ears flattened against his skull.
She loaded the slingshot rifle with a round from her belt—Sparkler, by the look of it, the kind that exploded on impact and blinded anyone looking directly at it. Her grin stretched too wide, too sharp, too much.
Then Atlas saw it.
The silhouette in the mist had become a ship.
Massive, dark, its sails catching what little light filtered through the gray. And on those sails, unmistakable even from this distance, a flag—three skulls in a triangle, dark against pale fabric.
Blackbeard.
Atlas moved without thinking, his body interposing itself between Ember and the approaching threat. His Electro crackled, blue sparks dancing across his fur. His claws extended. His muscles coiled.
"I've got you," he said. "Stay behind me."
Ember didn't move.
She shouldered her slingshot and took aim at the ship.
---
On the deck of the ship, Van Augur lowered his rifle from his shoulder, his sharp eyes picking out the two figures on the shore below. The mist made it difficult, but his vision—honed by years of sniping from impossible distances—cut through the gray like a blade.
"It appears we have a greeting party," he said, his voice calm, almost bored.
Jesus Burgess laughed—a booming sound that echoed across the water. His massive frame shook with mirth, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.
"Let's show them how to be hospitable!"
Van Augur nodded, placing one hand on Burgess's shoulder. "Shall we?"
The air warped.
And Jesus Burgess appeared on the beach.
One moment, empty sand. The next, a wall of muscle and laughter, his massive arms spread wide, his grin threatening to split his face.
Atlas stared.
For one brief moment—a heartbeat, no more—he stood frozen, his Mink instincts screaming warnings that his body couldn't process fast enough.
Burgess pulled his elbow back, fist cocked, aiming directly at the rust-red Mink.
"Hey, kitty."
Atlas's teeth ground together. His own elbow drew back, Electro crackling along its length, matching the massive pirate's stance inch for inch.
"WHO YOU CALLING KITTY?!"
Their fists connected.
The impact sent a shockwave across the beach, scattering sand and sending spray flying from the waves. Electro sparked and flared, blue lightning meeting raw strength. Burgess's grin widened. Atlas's muscles screamed.
Above them, Van Augur sat cross-legged on the head of the Rokaku, his rifle resting across his knees. He'd teleported there in the same instant as Burgess—a sniper's perch, high and hidden, perfect for his work.
He raised the rifle, sighting down its length at the small figure on the beach. The pink-haired girl with the slingshot rifle. The one who had been aiming at their ship.
She was fast. He'd give her that.
He pulled the trigger.
The flintlock clicked.
And on the beach, Ember's aim shifted.
It was impossible. She hadn't looked at him. She couldn't have seen him. And yet the end of her slingshot rifle moved, tracking upward, finding him on his perch with the inevitability of fate.
She pulled her trigger.
Her projectile launched.
Van Augur's bullet flew.
They met in the air above the beach—a tiny point of intersection where lead and explosive collided.
The explosion lit the mist like a miniature sun.
Van Augur's eyebrow rose. Just slightly.
"Well," he murmured. "That was impressive."
He loaded another round, working the mechanism with practiced ease. The flintlock clicked into place.
"Let's see what you can do with this."
On the beach, Ember chuckled.
The sound was wrong—too high, too sharp, too much like breaking glass. Her head cocked at that terrible angle, her mismatched eyes fixed on the sniper above.
"Oh, this is a fun game!" she called out, her voice carrying across the sand. "Let's do it AGAIN!"
She laughed—manically, joyously, the laugh of someone who had found the one thing in the world that made sense to her.
Then she fired.
Another round from the Helltide, arcing upward.
Van Augur fired in response.
Their projectiles met again—crack, another explosion, another burst of light.
Ember fired again. And again. And again.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
The air above the beach filled with detonations, each one a blossom of fire and light, each one perfectly timed, perfectly aimed. The mist caught the flashes and scattered them, turning the sky into a canvas of explosions, a fireworks display for an audience of two.
Atlas and Burgess fought below, their clash sending shockwaves through the sand, neither willing to yield an inch.
Van Augur fired and fired and fired, his expression unchanged, his respect for the pink-haired girl growing with each exchange.
And Ember—Ember laughed.
Laughed and fired and laughed some more, her world reduced to the simplest thing it had ever been: a target, a trigger, and the beautiful, perfect crack of impact.
"AGAIN!" she screamed, and her voice held nothing but joy.
Nothing but madness.
Nothing but the pure, uncomplicated bliss of battle.
Above her, the Rokaku watched with stone eyes, their ancient carvings glowing faintly in the light of a hundred explosions.
The mist swirled.
The drums of the festival continued, distant and ignorant.
And on the beach, two battles raged—strength against strength, shot against shot, and somewhere in the middle, a broken girl found the only peace she had ever known.
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