A crude cawing laugh bounced down the stairs leading to the airship's command deck and smacked across her ears, all harsh and mocking. "Leaving so soon, Wave?"

Wave was just about to leave, fingers barely tickling the knob which would let out to the hangar where her extreme gear waited impatiently, its engine humming with a muted, constant vibrancy. Hanging from her left shoulder was her backpack, loaded up books and paper, instead of the usual spoils of their high-flying heists.

She paused, her gloved hand still on the doorknob. It was a voice she recognized all too well - Jet.

He was up early for a Saturday; suspiciously early. "It's not like you have a bus to catch."

"It's not like you gotta catch a bus." He noted, a hint of mischief laced his tone.

Knowing what was coming next since they'd had the conversation before, she tipped her glasses over her eyes like a knight would his helm, hiding her eyes from him. She took a deep breath before turning around to face him, her expression as impassive as a marble statue. She watched his approach, the arrogant green worm-pecker's swagger amplified by the metallic echo of his boots against the steps as leaning casually against the doorframe, hips cocked just so. But despite her outward calm, the feathers at the nape of her ruffled in silent agitation.

"I don't. Any reason you're up before the crack of noon?"

"Maybe I just like watching you try to sneak off, Wave. It's cute, really, how you think no one notices." Jet's smirk grew as he paused halfway down.

Wave's jaw clenched momentarily and she forced herself to remain relaxed. "I'm sorry, sir. Didn't realize we were back in the Armada. Shall I announce my departures with rousing bit of 'Command the Skies, Our Fabled Homeland'?" The sarcasm was thick in her voice, dripping from each word like honey from a comb with enough weight it could've filled their airship's hold. Gaia's breath, if she never had to hear that anthem again it would be too soon.

"Gag me," Jet said rolling his eyes, still hearing the rising notes they all dealt with blaring from the radio system at 4 every morning back in the fleet. "I'd sooner swallow a cactus before I started feeling that 'patriotic'."

"Then what is it?"

"Just wondering what's so important that you're ditching your beloved crew at dawn?" His gaze was sharp and searching. "And with a bag full of books. You runnin' a secret book club or something?"

"Its Research," she clipped out, the word dropping like a stone in water — simple, profound. "We could use it."

"Research?" Jet's eyebrow arched, skepticism painted in bold strokes across his face. "Since when did did we need research?"

Since the stakes had risen, Wave wanted to say. Since their enemies had begun to play a different game. Instead, she shrugged nonchalantly. "Change of pace."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, knowing full well the teasing wouldn't end here. " But maybe I am in a club," she retorted, thrusting her arm through the other backpack loop. "Maybe it's a cult where we worship ancient gods and plot the downfall of arrogant pilots."

The swallow shrugged the pack in place for a better hold, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck and smoothing down her feathers with a quick easy stroke. "Besides? I'm not seeing the issue." her tone casual and indifferent. "It hasn't gotten in the way of my job. Speaking of, did you manage to find us some work, oh dear leader?"

Jet winced at her words, the sting of her sarcasm slicing through his arrogance. He tried to conceal his discomfort with a shrug, but the way his hand clenched the railing betrayed him.

As he descended the last few steps, crest began rising in response to her taunt. Like a hatchling denied a sweet, he stomped down each step with deliberate force, his heavy boots echoing in the living space of the gondola. Despite the tension between them, Wave couldn't help but smile at his theatrics.

Within the Babylon Rogues, they each had specific roles since breaking away from the Battle Bird Armada to find Babylon Garden: Storm was brute force, she was the engineer keeping everything running smoothly, and Jet—the so-called master strategist—picked their targets.

He was as much a 'mastermind' behind a successful heist as she was a weightlifter from picking up her toolbox.

In reality, Jet's plans usually lacked sophistication and could be summed up in just three words: Smash and Grab.

Not exactly the elegant methods their ancestral namesake was famous for.

The "Legendary Wind Master" and his grand schemes hadn't produced much except empty promises lately and because of his strategic inadequacies, and the lack of funds was beginning to tell. They hadn't locked in a big score in months and resources were running low.

Their last mission which Jet swore on his pinfeathers was a sure thing—a scavenger hunt in an abandoned sky merchant's vessel for half a crate of trinkets—had barely covered fuel costs.

The tension within their group was palpable, slithering through the corridors of their airship like an invisible snake.

Storm had taken out his frustration on his punching bag, literally pounding the stuffing out of it while Wave had come dangerously close to throwing Jet beak-first into one of their propellers after he suggested they cut another engine to conserve fuel; three out of four engines were already offline.

Now? Well, until they got some mobiums to rub together for more than just renting a berth, they were effectively grounded, dead as a dodo, in Spagonia to avoid falling out of the sky in the middle of nowhere.

Part of her didn't mind it, really. Taking a break from the endless search for the Garden wasn't the problem. After all, she wasn't forced to keep the engines going on a wing and prayer, but Jet still copping an attitude with her because she was taking some classes at the local university did grind the gears harder than some rails.

His answer did surprise her though.

"Yeah, I did," he retorted, closing the gap between them with a few purposeful strides. "Already told Storm and found your bunk empty. Big job tonight. Real big."

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Wave raised an eyebrow but didn't move from her relaxed pose against the doorframe. "Details?" Her tone was cool, betraying none of the curiosity that piqued within her.

"Later," Jet snapped, his voice low and edged, brushing past her to inspect her gear piled beside the door. He lifted a helmet, examining it before tossing it back carelessly. "Just be back and ready by sunset when you're done mingling with the Grounders."

Snatching her helmet mid-air and tucking it under her arm, Wave watched him, her gaze steady and unflinching. "Always am," she replied, finally turning the doorknob and stepping into the hangar at the rear of their airship's gondola. The comforting scent of oil and metal enveloped her as she prepared for take-off—a reminder of dependable machinery since she spent so much of her time in here. Her fingers traced over the smooth surface of her board as she prepared for take-off. It was one thing in this world that never let her down - a testament to her skills and knowledge.

Whirring hydraulics creaking, the hangar bay opened out to the seemingly endless stretch of rooftops, its ancient towers like jagged teeth against the morning glow, the city sprawling beneath them like a labyrinthine jigsaw of modern asphalt and cobbled lanes all converging toward its iconic clocktower. Spagonia's ancient architecture offered a stark contrast to the gleam and polish of their high-tech hideout.

Wave sighed and pushed her sunglasses up her beak, eyes drifting to where she could see Spagonia University's spires in the distance.

She leapt off the edge with a kick flip, her Type-W humming to life with a breath of energy she felt through her boots. The wind pulled at her scarf while she let gravity drag her down, unraveling it like a flag of freedom behind her as she spread her arms to feel every feather tremble.

Her thoughts fell into place, taking in sensation and sight and turning it to action.

Heart pounding, low-ground, switchback left repulson-engine rev perfect-somersault over chimney, thrust.

Her extreme gear cut a purple streak across the air, the engine's thrum a vibrant part of her as she sliced through the morning chill, each turn and dip an elegant dance of precision and speed. The city's landscape passed in a blur, its streets waking up in that way cities like it did this early.

As Wave maneuvered between buildings her heart was a furious drumbeat matching the rhythm of her slowly uncoiling anger. She weaved through the concrete giants, each sharp turn unspooling the fury within her. Downward she spiraled, towards

Jet's ignorance gnawed at her; his assumptions about wasted time stung. He knew nothing of her secret classes on ancient Babylon, of her quest to unearth the Garden. She bit back retorts, kept secrets close.

A left swerve, repulsion-engine rev, shift and grind over bus stop.

Leaning a hard right, she banked sharply around a corner tower, wind whipping a wake behind her. At racing speeds, she would've blown aside and upended the open-air cafe's the city was known for as she passed and given the morning breakfast crowd a shock better than 20 cups of espresso to the veins. Wave resisted the urge, for no better reason than they would have to fly off without their ship to avoid the ticket.

A swift somersault-thrust, perfect in execution.

Silence was strength; knowledge was power. Wave held both tightly to herself as she danced through the cityscape. Search or find were their choices now with the Armada after their heads.

Plus when you know full well your partners would get the whole lot of you banned off campus for sticky feathers or cleaning someone's clock right through wall, you learned to keep things to yourself.

By the time she reached the university, she was hardly upset anymore.

With her heart pounding in joy, she bent low to the ground and gripped tightly onto the edge of her hoverboard. She switched off the engine, propelling herself into a perfect somersault over a crowded bus that blocked her path to the university gate. As soon as her feet hit the pavement, she took off running at full speed, her board tucked under her arm, ignoring the sounds of outrage from the security guards and disembarking students. She was actually surprised they made an effort to try and block her this time.

She reduced her eager stride to a leisurely amble as she made her entrance into the imposing history building, her feet echoing against the marble floors.

passing by the library archive down the corridor to lecture hall 2-A, Professor Bartleby's class.

Wave slipped into her usual seat near the back, her sunglasses perched atop her head.

As the minutes ticked by, the seats around her began to fill. The rustle of turning pages and the murmur of intellectual discourse grew in volume, a symphony of scholarly pursuit that Wave found oddly comforting. Yet, as the clock neared the top of the hour, the lectern at the front of the room remained conspicuously empty.

The professor was late. That was strange. Professor Bartleby was anything if not punctual.

Just as the first whispers of concern began to ripple through the students, the door swung open and in strode a figure that was decidedly not Professor Bartleby.

An owl with fringe slicked and parted to the left, wearing a cherry red fez at a jaunty angle, stepped in and greeted brightly, "Good Morning, class," his spectacles catching the light glinted on his beak, and his feathers were impeccably groomed under a simple suit and bowtie.

He set the stack of books he was carrying on the lectern and opened one, his eyes scanning the pages. "Today, we delve into the intricacies of ancient Babylonian architecture. Fascinating stuff, really."

Wave blinked. She leaned towards the student next to her, a whisper escaping her lips. "Is Bartleby out sick?"

The student, a squirrel with tufted ears, gave her a puzzled look. "Who's Bartleby?" The squirrel's brows furrowed. "This is Professor October's class. Has been all semester."

Wave stared at him then leaned over to the student on her other side, a serious-looking ferret with thick-rimmed glasses and a notebook filled with meticulous notes. "Is Bartleby out sick?" she whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the owl as he began to scrawl complex diagrams on the chalkboard.

The ferret turned to her with a puzzled expression that could've matched the squirrels. "Who's Bartleby?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wave's heart skipped a beat. She glanced around the room, her gaze sweeping over the other students. They were all engrossed in the man's lecture, hanging on his every word as if he had always been their teacher. Panic fluttered in her chest like a caged bird. She sank lower in her seat, bewilderment etched on her face before she caught herself.

She straightened up, masking her confusion with a feigned interest in the lecture. Wave's mind raced, trying to parse the situation.

Had she mistaken the room? No, that couldn't be it; she had been attending lectures here all semester. Was it a simple miscommunication? Unlikely, given the responses from her classmates.

This was Bartleby's class, his classroom… Hell, they were picking up from where they left off last week. So why…?

She opened one of her books where she'd folded up the class syllabus she'd gotten on her first day and unfolded it.

There, right at the bottom of the first page, was 'Lentil Bartleby' in swooping cursive letters.

Wave's eyes narrowed as she re-read the professor's name, trying to make sense of this, she even traced the letters with her finger. Her mind swirled with confusion and a growing sense of alarm.

The owl, Professor October apparently, continued lecturing animatedly about the structural innovations of Babylonian ziggurats, oblivious to the turmoil brewing in Wave's mind. The room was filled with his enthusiastic voice echoing off the high ceilings, punctuated occasionally by the scratch of pens and pencils on paper as students hurried to keep up with his rapid pace.

Had the professor disappeared? Had something happened to him? The possibility seemed increasingly likely, and yet, no one else seemed to notice or care.

As the lecture drew to a close, Professor October announced that they would have an unexpected test the next day on the new material covered. Groans filled the room, but Wave was hardly paying attention. Her mind was elsewhere.

Wave waited for the class file out before approaching the podium where Professor October was gathering his books.

"Excuse me, Professor," she began tentatively. "Do you know where Professor Bartleby might be? I was under the impression he taught this course."

Professor October looked up, his brow creased slightly with confusion. "I'm sorry, young lady, but I've been teaching this course for over five years now. There's no Professor Bartleby at this university that I recall."

Wave felt a chill run down her spine. For a moment, she thought to press further, to ask more questions, but the way Professor October's expression didn't waver made her pause. She thanked him with a nod and left the room, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back as she departed.

Outside, the air tasted different, heavier somehow, as if charged with static.

Determined to find answers, Wave decided to visit the administrative building where she knew she'd find the finch's office. The swallow entered then turned left, passing by the 'Babylonians: Ghosts Of The Past' exhibit.

She quickly navigated the familiar halls, her mind racing as much as her heart. It was only as she hit the records room did she realize she must've went right past it in her hurry. She turned around, retreading her steps… right back to the exhibit. She nearly tripped into a banner depicting the Hanging Gardens it was so sudden.

"What?"

A sense of surrealism washed over her as she noticed the details – it wasn't just any depiction of the Hanging Gardens, but a theoretical rendering based on Professor Bartleby's controversial theories, which he had shared enthusiastically in one of their first lectures about it being built to feed army or something like that. The same theories that had sparked heated debates among historians and architects alike.

She stood still for a moment, staring at the banner, her mind whirling with confusion. Everything seemed out of place and jarring. Why would an exhibit featuring Bartleby's work be displayed so prominently if he supposedly never existed at this university? She took a deep breath and turned around, determined to find some trace of Professor Bartleby.

The records room was dimly lit and smelled of old paper and dust. She turned back.