The attendants took over the motorboat, clambering in without fanfare and twisting the tiller's handle, the engine revving in answer. Nelthel lifted Becenti into the air, depositing him onto their conquered craft, and they were soon buzzing towards Broon's team and the city. Far too soon, they arrived on the half-turned sprawl, the island's towers sunken on their sides, sideways teeth that had once jutted towards the sky, the night, the void, anywhere between the now and the forever. Metahumans had lived here – true members of Epochia, one part of a greater whole that had spider-webbed communities and kingdoms across the multiverse.

The fact left Becenti bitter. Spinlock and Nelthel had left him alive, though he was trapped in his own body, his bones refusing to act, his arms still twisted into uselessness. He wondered how he was alive, in this somehow state, pain running up and down his arms, throbbing and pulsing with each heartbeat. The attendants were quiet as they arrived, docking the motorboat by the same outcropping of stone Broon's team had left their own boat at.

“Right,” Spinlock said. He got off the boat. Nelthel turned and gestured with a finger, and Becenti felt his legs jolt to life, one foot plopping in front of the other as though he were a marionette, bone crying out against flesh as the man forced Becenti to lift himself onto one of the downed towers.

“Sorry, Shimmer,” Nelthel said, “Truly, sorry.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Becenti said. A wave of thoughts stabbed at his mind at the use of his old name. Suspicion, panic, regret, anger, more. All of them rolled into a ball that thundered through his body with his heartbeat.

They were familiar.

Somehow.

He knew his communicator was on. Knew that Broon could probably still hear him. Becenti had tucked it into his shirt pocket, and thus far the attendants hadn't noticed it.

Make or break time.

It helped that they knew his old name. Old name, from an old time. And they now looked familiar.

They just weren't wearing their Sunday best, were they?

Becenti racked his brains.

“You're supervillains,” he said, “From Prime.”

“Right on, mate,” Spinlock said.

“The Brothers Corpo,” Becenti said, “Yes... the Italian villains.”

“Glad you know of us!” Nelhel said, an excited glint in his eye, “Even all the way out here. Then again, you're Shimmer. You know all of us supervillains.”

“Especially the metahuman ones,” Spinlock said.

“You're Brother Brain,” Becenti pointed at Spinlock, “Your power is you can telekinetically lift whatever you can lift with your body. And you. You're Brother Bone. The name speaks for itself, if I recall.”

“Not priests, mind you,” Brother Bone, once Nelthel, said, “We just have a strong, brotherly bond.”

“Still Catholic, though,” Brother Brain said, “I am, at least.”

“I converted to Mormonism when I was in college,” Bone said.

“You'd surprise me,” Becenti said, “You're described as wearing priest's garments with gas masks during your crimes.”

“It's called fashion, mate,” Brother Brain retorted.

“It's called you're a long way from home,” Becenti growled.

“Perhaps,” Brother Bone said, “Or perhaps not.”

The thin man looked around him, taking a deep breath in, then out, a calm and serene expression on his face as beheld the silent waters around them.

“This is our legacy, mate. We're metahumans, and this is a metahuman kingdom. Chliofrond. Got a nice ring to it. It's not every day you encounter something like this, it's like...”

He took another deep breath in, as though he were trying to snort the entire world.

“It's like coming home, dig?”

“While I understand that feeling,” Becenti said, “I don't see how that has anything to do with killing my guildmates and jeopardizing this entire expedition.”

“Because it's our heritage, mate,” Brother Brain said, “It's metahuman, we're metahuman.”

“Come on, Shim,” Bone said, “Can I call you Shim?”

“Becenti is fine.”

“Not your old name,” Bone said, “Brain and I, we heard you'd abandoned it. After the war, and all that.”

“The war was thirty years ago,” Becenti said, “I've spent more time as Myron Becenti than as Shimmer.”

“A human name for a human man,” Brain said, “It's... disappointing. We grew up hearing stories about you.”

“I'm sure you did. All awful, I assure you,” Becenti said, “And besides that, you're still murderers. For all of your talk of metahumanity, did it not occur to you that you killed your fellow? The Zheng boy was a metahuman.”

“We didn't kill him,” Brother Brain said, “Bone just twisted his body so he couldn't disturb us.”

“We're supervillains, not supermurderers,” Brother Bone said.

“Irregardless,” Becenti said, and he felt a pang as he continued, “The city they were in has sunk. I just received word while my team was en-route to intercept you.”

The Brothers turned to face one another, a wave of guilt washing over their faces. They grimaced to one another.

“Well, that's just-” Brother Bone sighed, “Sunala was kind. She was nice. She paid us well and treated us with respect.”

“No 401k, though,” Brother Brain said.

“401ks don't exist out here, Brain,” Bone said. Becenti could watch as Bone took the feelings of shame, of the realization of murder, and stuffed them deep within himself. They were already too far in, too close to their goal, “But Shards do. Come on, let's go.”

***

“You heard him,” Broon said, “Brother Brain. Brother Bone.”

He kept the communicator on, but the voices on the other side had gone silent. There was only the vague static of the communicator to accompany their silence. Ezel began experimenting with the water, waving a hand at it. The pool responded in a sluggish manner, a lazy whirlpool spurning to life by her feet.

“Nasty customers,” she said.

“But not unbeatable, right?” Heyma said, “I mean, we got this.”

“They're... rather infamous,” Ezel said, “Not many heroes back home have been able to stand up to them. Acero could wipe them from a distance, but they learn. They learn quick.”

“And together, they seem unstoppable,” Meleko said.

“They have weaknesses,” Broon said, “Every metahuman does. Let's quit the defeatist talk, and start discussing options. Ezel, you said Acero beat them before? How?”

“Struck from a distance,” Ezel replied, “They were in Venice, she was in a small town outside the city. Warped their minds. They were out of commission for months.”

“Wish she were here,” Mallory said.

“A bit out of the question,” Broon said, “But we do know they have a range, at least.”

“We'll need to separate 'em,” Meleko said, “Together, we don't stand a chance. But apart, we can pick at their weaknesses.”

“...Alright,” Broon said, “Okay. Let's go over our options...”

***

It was Gluh who went to scout. The rest of the party stayed in the barracks, only able to breathe thanks to Phineas's spellwork, the Deep One whispering and rasping to himself, his tome floating a few feet in front of his face, his voice bubbly and distant in the water. With his work tied up, it fell to Gluh to find a good place where they might be able to break through to the other city.

“It's a long shot,” Nash said, “But a long shot's better than nothing.”

None of them voiced the alternative. So they waited, watching as Phineas maintained his spell, as his voice, once harsh and loud in his incantations, began to draw into a whisper. The air bubbles, linked to his own strength, began to wane as well, growing smaller and smaller.

“Can we talk?” Joseph asked.

“Yeah,” Nash said, “Should be, anyways.”

“It is fine,” Phineas said between chants.

“Right,” Joseph tried to keep the panic out of his voice, “Yeah, cool. Thanks.”

Nash gave him a sympathetic look.

“Not wanting to die alone, eh?”

“Look,” Joseph said, “If I'm going to die, it'd be peacefully in my sleep.”

“Not like your passengers screaming beside you,” Rosemary said, her joke tinged a bit with sadness.

“Like my Nai Nai,” Joseph said, ignoring Rosemary's poor humor, “Sleeping. Barring that... I dunno.”

He glanced over at Phineas. The Deep One had returned to fully concentrating on the spell, his great, globular eyes squeezed shut.

“I don't want to die in silence like this,” Joseph said, “Sleep's one thing. This... this is another.”

“We’re not going to die, Joe,” Nash said.

“One shouldn’t lie,” Sunala said, “Not when it comes to this.”

“It’s called optimism, Sunala,” Nash said, “Simple and strange as it is.”

“All the same,” Joseph said, “Just in case, I don’t… I don’t want to die in silence.”

Nash gave Joseph a hard, calculating look, and Joseph saw for a moment the weight of holding the team together in their eyes. For a split-second, he could see a bit of despair break through on their face, before Nash pulled themself together.

“Alright, then,” they said. They crossed their arms and rested their back against the wall, “What do you want to talk about?”

“...I don't know,” Joseph said.

“Where ya from?” Nash asked.

“Earth, but you knew that,” Joseph said.

“What part of Earth?” Rosemary asked.

“Err, San Francisco,” Joseph said, “California.”

“California,” Nash said, “Nice place. Love the beaches.”

“I've never been,” Rosemary said, “How about you, Milady?”

“Once or twice,” Sunala said, “Nothing major, a couple business trips with some holdings with the Silver Knights.”

“Is that a sports team?” Joseph asked.

“Superhero team,” Sunala said, “On Prime. The largest superhero team on the plane, actually.”

“Oh,” Joseph blinked, lost in thought at the difference, “They... they don't have that. On Earth, I mean.”

“But you still have a California,” Nash said.

“Yeah. Far as I can tell, geography's the same. There are differences, though, I think,” Joseph racked his brain, “Soviet Union fell in the 90s, for example.”

“Is there a Red Iron, where you're from?” Sunala asked.

“Nnnnoo,” Joseph said, “We don't have superheroes on Earth, remember?”

“Explains things, then,” Sunala said.

Joseph squirmed for a moment, before turning to Nash, “What about you? Where are you from?”

“The Runway,” Nash said, “The World of Speed.”

“No way,” Joseph let out a chuckle, despite his anxiety.

“It's a giant road, Joe,” Nash said, “Seriously. No one knows how far it goes, and all around it is a great desert. I was raised on Ralvandarius, City on Wheels.”

“What made you want to leave?” Joseph asked.

“Fell through a Traveling Point going ninety on the track,” Nash chuckled, “Crashed my car right into a solid cloud somewhere over Nendoria. Haven't been back since. The multiverse is more than just a big road, you know?”

“True,” Joseph murmured.

“Well,” Sunala said, “I think it's quite an interesting plane.”

“Yeah, if you're a tourist,” Nash said, “Visitors come every year to see our races. And it's good stuff! The Grand Prix of Betelgusia, the Godspeed Festival, the Wheeler's Moot. Living there, though...”

A dark look passed over their face.

“It's not the nicest place to be.”

“It gave us you, though,” Rosemary said.

“Ah, you're just sayin' that,” Nash chuckled, “You know, Rosemary, you never told us where you're from.”

She flushed red unexpectedly, and Joseph noted she chose her words with a careful measure.

“You know,” she said, “From here and there. It’s not really important, you know?”

Nash rolled their eyes, though left it at that.

***

Gluh returned almost an hour later. Nash grimaced as the zombie moaned out a response.

“He says it's tough to find a good spot, but he thinks he's found something,” they said, “Nearer to the bottom, around where the royal chambers were.”

“Any way to push through?” Joseph asked.

“I'm hoping we can dig,” Nash said, “Barring that, a miracle. Alright, Gluh, lead the way.”

Gluh guided them out of the barracks, once more into the halls and passages that, to Joseph at least, felt more cramped and closed-in, ceilings too close to the floors, with the walls narrowing in on either side. It didn't help that Rosemary extinguished her light during the journey, an odd spark dancing in her eyes. The water was murky and dark, and more often than not Joseph had to reach out to feel for Phineas in front of him. Occasionally he would feel Sunala prod at his shoulder, indicating she was having the same problem.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Through the swamp-like murk they swam. The only sounds being the disturbed water and Phineas's dark, rasping words. Those became quieter and quieter, and Joseph found that his bubble was now more a sheath of air, just barely keeping the deluge out. The water itself became colder, more constricting, as though at any point Phineas's words would fail, his spell would snap, and they would all be killed. Never mind by drowning, but by the sheer water pressure, their lungs collapsing, oxygen blockading important arteries, a slow and drawn-out series of deaths that Phineas would have to watch, exhausted and broken, before the natural deluge of the sea wiped away the world.

The thought of such a death terrified Joseph, wrapped around his heart like a hand of ice and held fast. They were going far too slow – Gluh's movements, already slow, were exaggerated and sluggish underwater. This wasn't like the quick-paced riptides Joseph had been pulled under while at the beach as a child, where the world was frantic and he was shoved this way and that. This ocean was stagnant and still, uncaring in a silent way to those who swam beneath its surface.

At last, they came to the spot Gluh had pointed it. It was as near to the edge of the city as they could get, yet near the bottom of the city, where the layer below them had impacted into rubble during the city's descent and crash. Cracked had splintered up and down the marble walls, and loose roots, broken by the final chaotic fall, floated freely in the water. Gluh ignored these as he pointed at one of the walls.

“This one, then?” Sunala asked, “How do you know?”

“Gluhh.”

“Says he smells fresh air,” Nash said.

“Through all of this?” Sunala said.

“Gluhh.”

“Says he's confident,” Nash said, “Alright, Joseph. Let's get digging.”

Joseph nodded, staring at the wall for a few moments. He brushed his hand against the wall, running his fingertips across its cool, almost slimy surface. For a moment, he concentrated, feeling his soul well up within him, before the eagle's claw mirrored out from his, cold pain running up his forearm due to the talon's submersion.

His inside was squirming from the discomfort. He gave an experimental scrape against the wall. Perhaps it was the fact that he was underwater, his movements awkward and bleary, the ice resistance of the world pushing down on his very soul.

He reeled back the claw, curling it into a fist. Know your mark. Know where to punch. Even pulling his punch was exhausting, though.

“Joseph?” Rosemary asked.

His fist thundered forward – rushing forward like a freight train in slow-motion, slamming with a dull thud into the marble.

No dent.

Nothing.

“I don't-” Joseph felt his head swim, “I don't think I can do this.”

“Alright, put your soul back, Joseph,” Nash said, “You look like you just ran a marathon.”

“Feel like it, too,” Joseph collapsed the claw back into his body. He felt clammy and warm, despite the relative coolness of the water.

“Phineas, how much time do we have left?” Nash asked.

“...Little,” Phineas said, “Minutes.”

A few minutes.

Then it would be over.

“No,” Nash said, “No, there's gotta be a way.”

“I...” Rosemary piped up.

The group turned to her. Rosemary was looking at her mace, that same odd expression still on her face, her brow knitted in thought.

“I might...” she took a deep breath, centering herself, “I have something.”

“What is it?” Nash asked.

She presented up her mace.

“There's still a lot of light left,” she said, “And I've been thinking of designs to work with it. A drill. One strong enough to punch through into the other city.”

“Lady Rosemary,” Sunala said, a spark dancing in her eyes, “You are brilliant, my dear.”

Rosemary visibly reddened, before she said, “D-don't thank me yet, give me a moment.”

“The floor's yours, Rose,” Nash said.

They stood back. Rosemary turned to face the wall.

She pointed the mace.

***

Rosemary had first learned to use her scepter as a child.

It was a rite of passage on her home plane, to capture the sun in a flower, a small rose, miniature idols to the great towers of the north of her home plane. The sun specifically, for it gave life to everything back home. Without it, the trees did not drink and grow, the insects did not eat their leaves, and the world would be dark and barren. It was a powerful source of energy, a pool to be drawn from like any honeypot or hive.

It was almost arrogant, the way her master had described the process. The feelings. The techniques, as though the sun was theirs, and theirs alone. That it lived to serve them, to protect them, that it was a tool, just like anything else.

Rosemary was glad when she left that not all people thought the same way.

For one treated the sun with respect, for it could always choose to not light the world, and where would they be, then?

Yet she always felt that same sense of pigheaded pride, that same selfishness, whenever she drew out the energy from her rose. Perhaps it was just a part of the process, as she pointed the scepter directly at the wall as though it were a magic wand. Took a deep breath from the remainder of the stale air.

Every beam of light was molded by her imagination. By her mind. And she had been taught to memorize different objects, different tools that she could use. On a lower-tech plane like hers, those had been nets, spears, axes, even bow and arrows.

But the possibilities had expanded after she left her old home behind. She had seen wonders in her wanders. Starships that sailed in voids devoid of suns, ancient canoe-cities that traveled across oceans of diamond, and now, metahuman cities full of darker secrets and mysteries she could hardly describe.

She had also seen the tools of the multiverse, far past acorn shields and hornet rapiers. Technology so far ahead it was mind-boggling. Becenti had described how a starship worked to her once, and it had given her a headache that lasted until the next afternoon.

She had also learned about the drill.

They didn't have those back home.

But it was in her mind, as accurate as the day she had first seen one in Krenstone, two great metal fins undulating around a metal tower, carving into the earth, carrying stone and rock away from the endless spin.

Light erupted from the scepter's head in a twisting snarl, a line that mirrored the cuttlefish motions of the drill's screw. It met resistance from the wall at first, before blowing far past it and deep into the rubble of the city, carving further and further.

“Not much time!” Sunala said, “Rosemary, run ahead!”

Rosemary did so, leading the way, her beacon roaring and tearing through more of the city's broken firmament. She heard the rest of the group behind her, as well as the sound of rushing water as the sea deluged into the tunneling gap. It was also far faster than them. Rosemary felt a wall of sea push her forward, carry her and threaten to topple her over.

But she couldn't be dissuaded. She gritted her teeth and kept pointing the rose forward. If she lost her balance, and the beam was still on...

Then she felt a jolt run from the rose's head up her shoulder. The beam had hit marble once more. The other side.

The other city.

She extinguished the light and yelled out, “Hang on!”

And the ocean swept them up and carried them through the tunnel.

The water stopped at a certain point, cascading against thin air.

And in that moment, Rosemary knew they had made it.

Of course, the force flung them out of the tunnel she had made, down about fifteen feet, and cracking against the wooden floor.

There was silence. Then groans as they all came to. Joseph opened his eyes to see he had landed squarely on Gluh, the zombie moaning in pain. And, wincing, Joseph couldn't blame him. Both of Gluh's legs had snapped in awkward directions, and his head flopped like a ragdoll's as the zombie sat up.

“Jesus,” Joseph said, “You... are you alright?”

“Gluhh,” the zombie's moans were a tad more strained.

“He'll be fine,” Nash said, “Come on, Gluh, I got you...”

They walked over and hoisted Gluh onto their back, before turning to the rest of the party, “Everyone alright?”

“I'm fine,” Joseph said, “Thanks, Gluh.”

“I am... relatively unharmed,” Sunala said.

Phineas gave a thumbs up. The Deep One was pale scaled, and his eyes had begun to film over. But he stood up nonetheless. Joseph walked over and lent a shoulder to his friend.

“Rosemary?” Nash said.

Rosemary sat a bit apart from the rest of the group, studying her scepter. The light within had faded – it would need almost a full day to recharge, she knew.

A day fully in the sun, immersed in its rays. Something that wouldn’t be down here, in a sunken city. Yet that was not what concerned Rosemary. What concerned her, as she looked at the scepter's make, peering an eye at the glasswork, was a small, hairline fracture that had not been there before.

Her jaw set.

“I'm fine,” she lied.

“That was some nice stuff there, Rosie,” Nash laughed, “You got us out okay.”

“Right,” she tried to inject some cheer into her voice, but she could tell it fell flat. Nash's eyes slid from her to the scepter. Perhaps they understood, as they nodded and began taking stock of where they had wound up.

It was another frozen room. This one was natural – a great tower in the room's center, an ancient and beautiful thing that reminded Nash of the Saplings of Yggdrasil on Nohen. Branches formed the roof, crisscrossing and interlaced with leaves in the shades of Autumn – reds and yellows and oranges, coalescing into a collage of fire that felt oddly comforting. Rather than burrow into the earth, the tree's roots spread out, flattened, patterned themselves into an even, almost smooth floor.

“Neat,” Joseph said, “I guess Chronilock was here, too?”

“Guess so,” Nash said, “Do we still have her body...?”

“We do,” Sunala said. She gestured towards the corpses of Rend and Chronilock, which had flopped almost comically behind them. Chronilock's back must have broken from the fall, Rend's shoulder had dislocated.

“That's not...” Joseph said, “That's not right.”

Sunala stared at the corpses for a few moments. Nash's expression darkened as they saw a visible war wage in the noblewoman's mind.

“We can't, Sunala,” they said.

“Of... Of course not,” Sunala said, “We'll leave them here. We got what we needed from them, regardless.”

“Yes, we did,” Nash said, “Gluh, alright if I put you down for a sec?”

“Gluh.”

The Far Traveler gently knelt, laying their friend on the ground. Then they went over to Rend and Chronilock's bodies. They set them on their backs, heads looking up towards the Autumn above. A fitting sight, all things considered. Rosemary just gave a soft smile, before her eyes flicker to the tree.

***

“Joseph,” Rosemary whispered, “Look.”

She pointed towards the tree. A hole had been bored through it, one he had not noticed before. It was also fresh, almost seeming to cleave the top of the trunk near in two.

“Did I-” Rosemary said.

“Yeah, I… I guess you did,” Joseph said.

The elf looked supremely uncomfortable at that, a guilty look creeping on her face as she wrung at her mace.

“S-Sorry, Joe,” she said.

“No need to apologize, I guess,” Joseph said, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, though.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He gave a harsh, venomous look to Sunala. For a moment, he wanted to say something at her, before he swallowed it down like a bitter pill. Nash, to their credit, noticed the sparks in his eyes, and shook their head.

“Joe,” they said, “Here, let’s lay Phin and Gluh down, take a look at ‘em, alright?”

And the Far Traveler made an effort to walk over and clap a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, guiding him to the wall. They laid Phineas down together, Nash pulling out a small first aid kit from their pocket, a small tile that expanded in size to reveal a set of bandages and tonics. Then, they got up and grabbed Gluh, bringing him up beside Phineas.

Rosemary did nothing but stare at the hole in the tree as the two of them went to work. Sunala walked over and hung beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. Joseph could not help but feel a rising anger well up within him.

“She’s killing us, Nash,” he muttered.

“I know,” Nash whispered back.

“We’re damaging this city more and more,” Joseph continued, “This feels wrong. I feel wrong. Everything about us being here feels wrong.”

“I know.”

“Over a stupid fucking gemstone-”

“Joseph.”

Nash’s voice trembled with a dark, barely concealed anger. They looked at Joseph.

“I. Know.”

Joseph was about to give the Far Traveler a mutinous response, when Phineas interrupted them.

“Joseph,” he said, “I am tired.”

And Joseph deflated at that. He pulled out a small potion Nash had provided him, and opened the Deep One’s mouth to pour it in.

“Alright,” he sighed, “What do we do, then?”

“We get out of here,” Nash said, “Come on, let's see where else we can go in this city.”j

They stood up, turning to face the rest of the group.

“We’re moving out.”

Without another word, they stooped to pick Gluh up. Joseph held out a hand, pulling Phineas to his feet and supporting him as the two of them waddled together behind the Far Traveler. Sunala drifted, following them without a word. Rosemary gave one last look at the tree, put a hand against its bark, and then went with the rest of the group, trailing behind them by a large margin.

***

The entire city here had been frozen by Chronilock's abilities. It was an effort that had taken time, energy, and not a bit of effort. This floating island must have been an arthouse of some sort, Joseph supposed, or some maniac's leafy dream. A temple to Iresine, perhaps, for all of it was natural. Trees flourished here, their growth stunted by Chronilock's power to never grow and overtake like they did outside. Instead, they stood as silent sentinels throughout the complex, their roots forming the floors and walls, their tops forming the roofs. Some were great, stout oaks. Others were thin and wiry. Some were small, others rose up far past the height of the others, their trunks extending upwards for several floors, ending in hand-shaped palms that swept from side to side, idols with all the same gravitas as the metahuman statues that dotted the world above.

It was not long before exhaustion overtook adrenaline. All of them were running on fumes, as the stress seeped away and replaced by a tiredness that bit deep into their bones. Nash called for a halt.

“We should keep a watch,” they said.

“I'll go first,” Joseph volunteered.

No argument from the Far Traveler, who simply nodded and sat down, putting their back against the wall. They closed their eyes and were out in seconds. The rest of the group followed suit, laying down on the hardwood floor. Phineas fidgeted. Gluh sat there and moaned in a vague agony (but then, he always did). Of them all, only Rosemary seemed halfway comfortable as she sidled up against the trunk of a tree, curling into a ball, though her eyes were still wide open. Joseph leaned against the trunk on the other side.

He glanced over to see Sunala staring at him. She still stood, imperious as always, her once stunning dress frayed and torn from the day’s events, sodden down so that it did not so much poof out like a cloud then wilt like a dried rose.

“Something to say, your highness?” Joseph asked.

“I'm not royalty, Mr. Zheng,” Sunala said.

“You sure do act like it.”

A sad smile crept on Sunala's face, “Of that, that is true.”

He didn't like it when people did that. When they admitted their faults. Joseph was so used to his parents never admitting anything that he wasn't quite sure how to react.

“Well, whatever,” he said, “Get some sleep.”

“Of course, Mr. Zheng.”

She sat down by the tree. Gave a last glance over to Joseph, then one to Rosemary, before finally closing her eyes.

***

Joseph woke Nash up first.

“Alright, leader,” he said, “Lead us.”

“Har har,” Nash replied, “How long have I been asleep?”

“A couple hours,” Joseph said.

“What, you stinging out on me?”

“We might want to get a move on soon,” Joseph said, and Nash could only smile at his attempt at pragmatism, “I reasoned only a bit of time for everyone to sleep, and all that.”

“I'll take the rest of the watch, then,” Nash said, “Another hour, at least. Thanks, Joe.”

The metahuman nodded, sitting down by the wall and closing his eyes. Nash stared at him for a few moments, making sure he actually began to doze, before they stood up and began pacing the room. It was a good room, all told – these Chliofrond folk had good taste. Trees and plants, a natural wonderland that stood in stark contrast to Federation metals and artificial fire. They walked over to a patch of bloom, taking an experimental sniff out of one of the bright pink flowers.

It smelled like a flower.

“Typical,” they chuckled.

They turned around to see Sunala looking wearily at them.

“Not the smartest idea, hm?” she said, “Could be poisonous.”

“True,” Nash said, “Poisoned by a flower.”

They considered it for a moment, crossing their arms.

“Beats the alternative, doesn't it?”

Sunala was quiet at that. The two of them strayed in silence. Nash continued their pacing, walking over to Gluh to make sure the zombie was alright. He would need healing magic – maybe Wakeling's, assuming they got out. The color had not yet returned to Phineas's scales, a fact that worried Nash. Magic took a lot out of you, especially the kind that Phineas performed...

“I'm sorry, Nash.”

“You bet your ass, you are,” Nash replied.

The silence became awkward. Nash sighed.

“Look,” they said, “I can't blame you for wanting to hide the truth from us. It's a Shard of Imagination.”

“Indeed,” Sunala said.

“Us having only a bit of info to go off of? That's Wakeling's thing. That's most guildmasters' thing. They always think they're so much higher and mightier than the rest of us. I'm used to it. It's why I became a Far Traveler, so I wouldn't have to deal with it as often.”

Sunala was quiet, waiting for the rest of the lecture like a child who had fallen into a mud puddle.

“When I joined up with this expedition, I hadn't been back at Castle Belenus for almost a year. But Wakeling reached out to me, specifically. For my expertise in dead empires. Ancient civilizations. I mean, I've got a goddamn PHD in Dead Planes. From Prime, and everything. That's what I'm good at.”

They jammed a thumb at the ceiling.

“But this? Going to a dead plane to find a Shard of Imagination?”

“It's... it's needed, Nash,” Sunala said.

“For what?”

“Research,” Sunala said.

“What research?”

The same tone of voice. Nash did not lower it. Did not raise it. They kept cool, giving a stern, stone-like look to Sunala.

“Shards of Imagination are bad luck, Sunala,” they said, “We're already seeing it here. They're powerful, yeah. But they've got a way about them. They demand payment. Karma. Compensation.”

“I am aware of that,” Sunala said.

“The last time I heard of a Shard being used, it was during the war,” Nash said, “You know your history. Prime. Silver Arthur. The Manticore?”

“The entire east coast of the United States, yes,” Sunala said.

“That kind of compensation.”

“I am fully prepared to pay,” Sunala stated.

“With what, money?” Nash chuckled.

“Of course not. Hand for hand, blood for blood.”

Nash went quiet at that as the full weight of the noblewoman's words hit them.

“On yourself, then?”

“A foolish payment,” Sunala said, “But yes.”

“Arthur said that, too,” Nash said, “Did you know that? You've read his final words. He meant it to just be a sacrifice of himself, not a sacrifice of millions.”

Sunala said nothing.

Nash could do nothing but give a huff at that.

“You people are all the same,” they said, “What makes you different? What makes you think that things will go better this time, huh?”

“I’ve… I’ve read about the Shards,” Sunala said.

“Reading and understanding are two different things, Sunala,” Nash said, “You’ve read the right books, sure, but you haven’t gotten the right lessons from them. Now, tell me: What makes you think that things will be different this time? Because you sure as hell can’t say because you’ve read the right books, can you?”

“I know,” Sunala's voice broke, “I... I know.”

She curled into a ball.

“Let me tell you, Nash, you're only telling me things I've been telling myself. Even before Spin and Nel betrayed me. I know, by God, I know.”

She closed her eyes, making a conscious effort to push the guilt down, to tell herself she was not a murderer by proxy, that the payment of the Shard was not the lives of a guild. She fell back to sleep while doing so.

Nash glared at her, but with a defeated sigh, let her rest.