"But not all cycles are harmless Sally," I pressed, tightening my grip on her paw as the door shuddered under another impact. Steam hissed from the ruptured pipe overhead, coating us in scalding mist. "Acorn's guards are clearing this hallway—they'll kill anyone who suspects they looted Newark Ridge." Sally stared at the scattered quartz tiles, her previous detachedness cracking like fractured glass.
"I guess I'll have to be a good actor, all cycles break Sally, I'm just trying to break mine, maybe you will do the same." The closet door buckled inward again, hinges screaming like tortured animals. Rosemarie's shrill command sliced through steam: "Clear this corridor! No witnesses!" Sally's paw tightened around mine—sudden, desperate. "Patterns persist," she whispered, but her gaze locked onto the vent grating. Not escape. Opportunity. "Newark's drainage basin," she breathed. "Jeffrey's schematics pipeline." Her eyes flicked to the scattered quartz tiles—truths counted, truths weaponized. "We intercept."
The vent cover yielded with a rusty shriek. Steam billowed out, thick as conspiracy. Sally scrambled through first, fur instantly soaked. I followed, concrete scraping my spine. Below, Fort Knothole's geothermal heart throbbed—pipes groaned, coolant hissed. Sally moved with feral certainty, darting past scalding conduits toward a maintenance ladder. Distant detonations vibrated the metal rungs. "Jeffrey routes schematics through the laundry chutes," she panted, climbing. "Damp terry cloth rotations swallow digital footprints." Upward, toward the surface chaos.
We emerged near Newark Ridge's western slope. Acorn's interceptors streaked overhead, strafing Jules' loyalist positions. Artillery flashes lit the depot ruins—a crater still vomiting smoke. Sally pointed to a storm drain gushing runoff into the valley. "There." Jeffrey's looted schematics would flow downstream to Rosemarie's extraction team. We slid down the muddy embankment, boots sinking in sludge. Sally didn't hesitate, wading into the icy current. "Patterns lie dormant," she called back, waist-deep, paw outstretched. "Until someone counts them out loud."
I plunged in after her. The water numbed my legs, tugging like guilt. Ahead, a metal briefcase snagged on debris—Acorn's stolen intelligence. Sally grabbed it, heaving it onto the bank. Her fur dripped, but her eyes burned—not void, but volcanic. "Suppress suppression," she stated, popping the latches. Inside, not schematics, but demolition charges. Jeffrey's real payload. Sally held up a detonator, quartz tiles forgotten. "Or redirect it." Outside, Acorn's gunships banked for another pass. Sally's thumb hovered over the trigger. "Your move, Sonic."
Sally's paw hovered over the detonator, knuckles white against the mud-streaked plastic. Acorn's gunships screamed overhead, strafing Newark Ridge's ruins with plasma fire that turned puddles to steam. "Jeffrey's charges," she said, voice stripped of its robotic flatness. "Set for Fort Knothole's geothermal core. Rosemarie's extraction team moves at dawn." She thrust the briefcase toward me. Water sloshed inside—demolition coils submerged to mask thermal signatures. "Redirect them. Or watch Mobius start to fracture."
I grabbed the case. Its weight felt familiar—like Bernadette's microfilaments, like Sally's quartz tiles. Tools of sabotage repurposed. "The drainage basin outflow pipe," I said, nodding toward the gushing conduit half-submerged downstream. "It feeds Knothole's reservoir. Jeffrey's team will plant the charges there." Sally's ears flattened against artillery concussions. "Rosemarie's overseeing the placement personally. Two guards. Heavy ordnance." Her voice held no fear, only tabulated facts.
We waded upstream, the current fighting us. Acorn's gunships banked again, their searchlights carving white gashes through the smoke. Sally ducked low, fur plastered dark with silt. "They'll detonate remotely at 0500," she whispered. "Geothermal rupture. Floods the lower citadel. Blames Jules." Ahead, the outflow pipe's rusted maw gaped, vomiting brown water. Two silhouettes moved inside—Rosemarie's vulpine profile sharp against a guard's bulk.
"Distract the guard," Sally murmured, already sinking beneath the surface like an otter. Her ripple vanished upstream. I sloshed toward the pipe entrance, briefcase held high. "Rosemarie! Jeffrey sent reinforcements!" The vulpine advisor spun, eyes narrowing. Her guard leveled his pulse rifle. "St. Croix doesn't trust my oversight?" she hissed, stepping into the pipe's gloom.
Water exploded behind the guard as Sally surged upward, wrapping her forearms around his neck in a silent chokehold. He thrashed, pulse rifle firing wild bolts that scorched the pipe walls. Rosemarie scrambled backward, reaching for her comms unit. "Drop the charges!" I yelled, tossing the briefcase at her feet. Her vulpine reflexes kicked in—she caught it instinctively. Sally dumped the unconscious guard face-first into the sludge.
Rosemarie clutched the briefcase, claws digging into wet metal. "Jules sent you," she spat. "To sabotage Acorn's—" "Acorn's flooding Knothole's reservoir at dawn," I cut in, pointing at the submerged demolition coils. "Your extraction team's planting them now. Check the timers." Her ears flicked toward the distant thunder of loyalist artillery. Doubt flickered across her muzzle for the first time.
She popped the latches. The display glowed 0500—Fort Knothole's coordinates pre-loaded. Sally waded closer, dripping. "Patterns lie dormant," she stated quietly. Rosemarie stared at the detonator, then at the unconscious guard. Her tail lashed once. Slowly, she recalibrated the coordinates north—toward Kintobor's Sky Armada staging grounds. "Suppress suppression," she murmured, snapping the case shut.
Artillery flashes lit her vulpine muzzle—calculating, not panicked. "Clever child, I can see why Jules sees you as his prodigy," Rosemarie murmured, tucking the reprogrammed detonator into her tunic. She kicked the guard's limp form deeper into the runoff. "Acorn's betrayal runs deeper than Newark Ridge. He's negotiating with the Northern Baronies as we speak—offering Fort Knothole's coordinates in exchange for clemency." Sally's ears twitched toward the pipe's dripping shadows. Patterns confirmed.
Rosemarie gestured sharply upstream. "Go. Warn your father. Acorn moves against Jules tonight—during the chaos of the reservoir 'failure'." Her claws tapped the detonator bulge beneath her tunic. "I'll handle Kintobor's distraction. But hurry." Sally didn't hesitate, plunging back into the murky current toward Fort Knothole. I lingered, rainwater dripping from my quills onto the submerged guard. "Why help us?" Rosemarie's vulpine smile returned, sharp as betrayal. "Acorn promised the Baronies Knothole's geothermal core intact. I refuse to let those Northern Barony barbarians inherit my spa baths." She vanished into the pipe's gloom, reprogrammed payload in tow.
We scrambled up the muddy embankment, Sally moving with grim purpose toward Fort Knothole's lower citadel access tunnels. Distant artillery shook the ground—loyalist forces clashing with Acorn's troops near Newark Ridge. "Rosemarie plays both sides," Sally panted, squeezing through a cracked service hatch. "She wants Acorn weakened, not destroyed." Steam hissed around us in the maintenance corridor. "Her spa baths," I muttered, sliding after her. Sally paused, ear twitching toward approaching boots. "Patterns persist," she whispered, "but plumbing routes change." She yanked open a dripping valve cover, revealing a narrow overflow channel. "Shortcut."
Inside the overflow channel, scalding condensate soaked our fur instantly. Sally crawled forward, quartz tiles long forgotten, replaced by dripping pipes and pressure gauges. Ahead, Jules' command bunker hummed—shield generators vibrating the walls. "Father won't believe Acorn's betrayal without proof," I hissed, squeezing past a corroded junction. Sally stopped abruptly, paw pressed against a warm pipe. "Then show him Rosemarie's detonator frequency." She pointed upward where a comms conduit snaked toward Jules' war room. "Intercept the signal. Redirect it to his tactical display." Outside, klaxons wailed—Acorn's false reservoir breach alarm activating early.
We emerged behind a bank of whirring coolant processors, Jules' voice booming through blast doors: "—intercept and destroy those Overlander gunships! Ignore Acorn's theatrics!" Sally jammed her claws into the comms conduit, splicing wires with feral precision. Static crackled, then Rosemarie's voice hissed through the processors: "*Staging ground Alpha compromised. Detonate payload at will.*" A high-pitched whine followed—the detonator signal. Sally rerouted it directly to Jules' primary hologram projector. The war room screens flickered violently, replaced by real-time footage of Kintobor's Sky Armada camp exploding in a chain reaction of green plasma fire. Jules froze mid-command, muzzle slack. "That signal . . . it originated *inside* Fort Knothole."
Bernadette materialized from a service alcove, wiping hydraulic fluid from her gloves. "Acorn's signature encryption if I had to guess," she stated, nodding at the flickering carnage on screen. "He just vaporized his own leverage." Jules stared at the burning wreckage where Kintobor's Sky Armada had been parked moments before. "Acorn," he breathed, claws digging into the tactical console. "He sacrificed Kintobor to frame *me*." Outside, Fort Knothole's perimeter alarms shifted pitch—Acorn's forces were retreating from Newark Ridge, abandoning the looted depot. "He's consolidating," Bernadette murmured. "Painting you as the traitor who provoked war."
Sally tugged my sleeve, pointing to a secondary monitor showing Acorn's private comms channel. Text scrolled: *Jules eliminated Collyn Kintobor. Mobilize Baronies for Knothole assault. Offer stands—geothermal core intact.* Bernadette inhaled sharply. "He's not just framing you. He's hiring your executioners." Jules' muzzle twisted into something feral. "Then we counter-offer." He slammed a fist on the console. "Broadcast this feed fortress-wide—let every soldier see their Lord selling their civilized, peaceful Mobius to Northern Barony warlords."
The war room screens flickered violently as Acorn's treasonous transmission flooded every terminal in Fort Knothole—Northern Barony warlords demanding Jules' head in exchange for Knothole's steaming heart. Soldiers froze mid-stride in corridors, pulse rifles lowering as they stared at monitors showing their king bartering their home. Jules seized the comms array, his voice raw granite. "Lord Maximillian Acorn sold your children's future to savages who skin prisoners alive for sport. Stand with me, and we'll drown his betrayal in plasma fire." A ragged cheer erupted from the lower citadel guards, followed by the clatter of safeties clicking off. Acorn's retreating forces faltered, their formation fraying as loyalists turned weapons on traitors.
My mother dragged Sally toward a blast door, her claws digging into the girl's shoulder. "Acorn will purge every witness now—maybe even you." Sally stumbled, quartz tiles forgotten in her pocket as she scanned the chaos. "Rosemarie," she breathed. "Her spa baths connect to Acorn's panic room plumbing." Jules spun toward a terminal, barking coordinates. "Jeffrey's fruitarian supply logs show terry cloth deliveries to that sector—perfect for smuggling damp schematics." He routed a strike team toward the luxury wing. "Intercept her before she scrubs the evidence."
Lord Acorn's personal guard breached the command center, pulse rifles shredding consoles. Jules shoved Sally behind a sparking hologram projector. "The drainage basin outflow pipe," he hissed at Mom. "Rosemarie's escape route." My mother nodded, pulling Sally toward a service duct while Jules laid covering fire. Plasma bolts scorched the air where Sally had stood seconds earlier. Acorn's voice crackled over the guards' comms: "Terminate the princess! She's compromised!" Sally scrambled into the duct, Mom slamming the hatch as rifle fire pinged against reinforced steel.
We emerged in Fort Knothole's derelict hydroponics sector, algae-slick walkways echoing with distant combat. Sally's paw trembled against a dripping pipe. "Rosemarie's panic room has three access points," she whispered. "Jeffrey's terry cloth manifests indicate secondary plumbing behind the sulfur baths." Mom pried open a corroded access panel, revealing steam-clogged tunnels. "Acorn won't expect intrusion through his relaxation suite." We crawled into scalding mist, the reek of rotten eggs clinging to our fur.
Rosemarie's vulpine silhouette materialized through the vapor, hunched over Lord Acorn's private terminal. Sally lunged—not for the advisor, but for the emergency coolant valve behind her. A torrent of icy slurry erupted, dousing the terminal in a crackling cascade. Sparks fizzed as encrypted schematics dissolved into digital sludge. "Patterns erased," Sally stated, dripping coolant onto the panic room's heated marble floor. Rosemarie hissed, claws scraping tile, but Mom already had her pinned, hydraulic wrench pressed against her windpipe.
"Acorn's panic room location," Mom demanded, twisting the wrench. Rosemarie choked, eyes darting toward a concealed panel beneath the sulfur baths. Sally pried it open with a grunt, revealing a narrow chute slick with mineral residue. "His escape route," she confirmed. Distant detonations shook the marble tiles—Jules' loyalists breaching the luxury wing. Rosemarie spat coolant. "He's already gone! Headed for the Northern Baronies to seal your fate!" Mom slammed her head against the tile, knocking her unconscious. "Then we seal his first, one way, or another."
We plunged down the chute, sliding through darkness until we splashed into icy runoff beneath Newark Ridge. Lord Acorn's hovercraft skimmed the river ahead, kicking up spray as it raced toward Northern Barony territory. Sally scrambled onto a half-submerged maintenance platform, fur plastered with silt. "He's transmitting Fort Knothole's core schematics live—see the uplink pulse?" A rhythmic crimson blink flared from the craft's comms array. Mom wrenched open a corroded utility panel nearby. "Override the signal. Flood his frequency with geothermal static."
I jammed my claws into the junction box, rerouting Fort Knothole's overflow pumps directly into Acorn's transmission band. Scalding water roared through the pipes, vibrating the platform beneath us. On the hovercraft, the uplink light flickered wildly—then died as steam erupted from its vents. Acorn's silhouette thrashed behind the fogged canopy, fists pounding the controls. Sally's muzzle tightened. "He'll switch to backup. The Northern Baronies expect visual proof by dawn."
Mom yanked a submerged cable free, sparking. "Then we give them visuals." She spliced the line into Fort Knothole's surveillance grid—live feeds of loyalist troops securing Newark Ridge, Baronies repelled. Acorn's hovercraft veered wildly as static drowned his screens. Sally scrambled along the slippery platform edge. "His backup transmitter's shielded near the engine coil." She pointed at a humming vent on the craft's underbelly. "Douse it."
"Yes ma'am."