"Now everyone's here…" Jet commenced, theatrically positioning both of his hands on the table, spreading his fingers wide for emphasis. It would've been impressive if it not for the blue, rumpled apron he had just cinched around his waist.

A bit much for popping open cans of baked beans and tiny sausages, dumping it into a pot to warm, and calling it cooking but None of them, Wave included were gonna turn their beaka up at it. "…let's talk about the next big job.

"Said that this mornin'," Storm replied, yawning like a tired thundercloud awakening from a long slumber. He dropped his considerable bulk into the booth with a heavy thud, as if the journey from his quarters to the kitchenette had been the most labor-intensive task imaginable, leaving him feeling drained and ready for a break.

His weight was enough to jolt Wave on the other end up high enough her knees bounced against the under of the table. She glared at him from the top of the data screen she was swiping through and gave him a stuff kick in the shin, taking up a spoon and dipping it into her bowl.

The albatross didn't even seem to notice, slumped over the table and leaning on an arm, his head turned to the sunset disappearing behind a thick blanket of clouds. The sky was a brilliant purpleish orange even as a storm front seemed determined to cover it.

She glared at him from the top of the data screen she was swiping through and gave him a stuff kick in the shin, taking up a spoon and dipping it into her bowl. "The 'slop de jour', courtesy of Chef Jet," she grumbled under her breath even as the bite she took was salty enough to sting. Worse, the mishmash of textures, once overcooked by the canning process and again by Jet, was something akin to more mash than mish. She couldn't tell what was sausage and what was bean when she chewed.

Her complaint was Not quiet enough, apparently.

Jet scowled at her from across the table, his pride apparently wounded by her less than glowing review of his cooking. "I'd like to see you do better," he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in a petulant display.

"Oh, I'm sure I could," Wave retorted with a grin. "But why would I want to deprive you of the joy you clearly get from poisoning us all with your 'culinary masterpieces'?"

Storm let out a guffaw at that, slapping the table with his hand as he laughed, making everything on it rattle. "Burn!" he chortled, grinning widely at Jet.

Jet sneered and as if trying to prove them wrong, chomped on his own spoonful. The sneer stiffened, the corners of his mouth trembling. After a moment, where the hawk was visibly making up his mind to swallow or not, he gulped and put down his spoon with an unseemly degree of haste.

"Look," he finally said when he managed to appear a little less like an air sick hatchling, "When we the cash from selling the loot from this next job, we'll be toasting with champagne. It's gonna be that big.

"Big like an oak or big like a rainstorm?" Storm asked, his voice deep and scratchy, eyes not moving from the horizon where dusk was beginning to spread its crimson fingers.

"It's gonna be, heh, this big!" With a flourish like a street magician, he slapped a pamphlet before them.

Wave raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued despite herself. "Yeah, we need you to define 'big,' with more than a piece of paper." she challenged, crossing her arms over her chest. She absolutely didn't do it to hide the way her hands started to tremble when she read 'Babylonians: Ghosts Of The Past' only @ Spagonia University. "I mean, come on, Jet. You're just doing this to piss me off."

The tension in the room went as thick as the hawk's stew and about as appetizing. Wave snatched the pamphlet off the table, scanning the text with the speed of her nearby data scanner. She'd read this many weeks ago when professor Bartleby passed them out to everyone with the announcement he was treating all of them to free first day tickets. Now she was looking at it again, the more she frowned until the unease stirring in the back of her brain began to simmer into unpleasant vapouring fear even as she passed it over to Storm's waiting mit.

She didn't want to go back to the university. If she were honest with herself, she was still tentatively questioning her sanity and wanted to put as many miles and mountains she could between her and the entire damn city.

With no clue how to begin explaining it, she fell back on disapproval.

Jet rolled his eyes, his frustration evident. "For your information, it's not all about you." With a knowing smile, he placed an open letter on the table. The crudely written note was clearly scratched out in a hurry, its ink smudged and its words barely legible. Despite its poor quality, it was evident that the letter held some significance, and Jet's expression suggested they should at least give it a look. "This was at the harbormaster's desk for us this morning."

Wave perused the document, her eyes scanning the figures once, then again, leaving her nearly speechless with shock. She handed it to Storm, who, upon glimpsing the figures, inhaled sharply, the sound catching in his throat. The sharp intake of air turned into a genuine coughing fit when he inadvertently inhaled his spoon. Storm pounded on his chest, and the errant piece of cutlery dislodged, skittering across the table's surface to finally come to rest with a splash in Jet's bowl.

After that, they all pushed their bowls away from them, no longer in the mood to eat. Wave finally slotted her thoughts into place, each question crowding her mouth she had to swallow before asking them in order of importance. "Who is paying that much for a scepter? And who the hell would throw money like that at us?"

Jet shrugged. "Don't matter, and I don't care. This is good money that can keep us on the wing for a year."

"And possibly get us thrown in the slammer." Storm observed. Wave and Jet both looked at him, the big lug oddly and suddenly perceptive in the swallow's opinion. "Smells like a set up."

"And who'd want to set us up?"

The albatross started ticking off his fingers. "Admiral Kukku and his little punk-in-command, Speedy. The brig wardens. Our ex-commanding officers."

"Oh and let's not forget Predator Hawk, that ray of sociopathic sunshine looking for a chance to pick up our bounties on the way for a carton of milk. And that's before we get to usual goodie-goodies that get in the way." Wave helpfully supplied, fingers working on the data pad for something to do like scanning the ECUs of their gear for the next tune up. Not because her hands were still shaking.

She didn't want to go back. Not when the somewhat familiar hallways of Spagonia University had gone cold and alien in her search for the professor. The way her gaze flitted from one entryway to the next, tallying each while searching for the inscription bearing his name, she'd forgotten the number. Not due to an error, but from a dreadful sensation crawling up her back, ambushing her when she neared her goal.

Against her will, feathers ruffled in alarm and her gut screamed at her that something was horribly wrong.

She'd turned and ran then, an instinctual primal fear clawing the very scream from her voice before she could make a peep. She could only run, a chill seeping into her bones and stuttering her heart. She'd burst through the fine, heavy doors to get away from the stifling dread, keenly aware of the odd looks she was getting. Still, a raw terror propelled her every step as she kept on her Type-W, movements made fluid by the pure desperate desire to run.

She kicked off, the Gear's powerful thrust sending her hurtling forward, the wind whipping past her, tearing at her clothes and hair.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Wave shook herself mentally, reminding herself that she wasn't some scaredy-cat easily spooked by shadows and strange noises. She was a Rogue! She didn't get scared!

But even as she told herself this, Wave knew that denial wouldn't erase the reality of what she'd seen – or rather, what she hadn't seen. She couldn't find the professor's office, and that scared her more than she cared to admit.

The fresh air on the way home did little to calm her nerves. She knew she had to get back to the Seeker. Back to Jet and Storm. Back to something familiar and safe.

She didn't want to go back.

"What?" Jet and Storm were both looking at her. She hadn't realized she's said that aloud.

"I'm just sayin'." She recovered, leaning back to relax. "The first lesson the Babylon Rogues of old is…"

"… Don't litter where you nest." They recited in unison at her prompting.

"Besides, An artifact from 'Gamil'?" she went on, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You want us to steal something from one of the fakest Babylonian names I've ever heard. What's next, Jet, are we going to rob a pyramid?"

Jet's smug expression wavered, then vanished entirely as a thought seemed to strike him. "You know what? That's not a bad idea..."

Storm's head finally swiveled away from the window, his interest caught by the absurdity of Jet's statement. "You're kidding, right? I mean, I've heard of grave robbing, but pyramid robbing? That's a bit much, even for us."

Jet shrugged, his grin returning. "Hey, if there's treasure involved, I'm game for anything. Besides, we're not just any thieves. We're the Babylon Rogues. If anyone can pull off a heist like this, it's us."

Wave rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get lost in the back of her head. "Right, because that's exactly what we need: more ancient curses to deal with. I've got enough on my plate trying to fix the navigation system on your gear, Jet."

"Hey, my gear works just fine!" Jet squawked, affronted. "It's not my fault if you can't keep up with the latest tech."

Wave fixed him with a withering glare. " Latest tech? Your gear is older than Storm's underwear!"

Storm, busy inspecting the contents of his bowl as if expecting to find a hidden treasure amongst the beans, looked up at this. "Hey, now, I'll have you know I change my underwear every full moon."

There was a beat of stunned silence before all three of them burst into laughter, the absurdity of the conversation momentarily forgotten.

Except, Wave didn't want to go back.

-

She didn't want to be back. It was probably the main reason she was picking the lock to the historical wing of the administration building so slowly. She was a Mobian woman of reason, so maybe if she took long enough she could find a reason not to go back in this damn place.

Jet and Storm, hidden in the shadows of an ornate statue, kept a vigilant eye on the premises. Jet's keen eyes scanned the area, while Storm's more attuned ears picked up the faintest of sounds. The hawk tapped his foot impatiently, the rhythmic sound echoing in the stillness of the night.

"Hurry up, Wave!" he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. "We're sitting ducks out here!"

"Well, if your foot didn't make us more obvious, I could concentrate." Wave hissed back, her delicate fingers moving the tools with the grace she would her board. The tension in the lock matching her own, every muscle unwilling to aid in entering what she believed to be the lion's den.

Each tumbler was a note in the crescendo, each spring a beat in the rhythm that pounded in her ears, as loud as any drum. Her muscles were coiled springs, ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. Yet, a part of her hoped for an interruption, a jolt to break the cycle of her thoughts.

The final tumbler clicked into place, and the lock relinquished its hold with a soft, defeated sigh. The door swung open, and the trio slipped inside, their movements as silent as the shadows that clung to their forms.

They had barely made it through the doorway when a beam of light swept across the entrance. A security guard, his pace brisk and his eyes alert, rounded the corner, his presence punctuating the night with the steady rhythm of his boots against the cobblestones. The Rogues pressed themselves against the wall, their breaths held in a collective moment of dread.

The guard passed by, oblivious to the intruders who had narrowly avoided detection. The tension that had built up in Wave's mind and muscles melted away, replaced by a surge of adrenaline that propelled her and the other forward.

She took a small activation switch from a pocket and pressed it. The cameras on the walls, slowly panning across the area, were swiveling to face them when their lights flickered for a moment going from Green to red.

"Loop's on," Wave whispered, her voice barely audible above the rhythmic tick-tock of the ancient clock tower that stood sentinel outside. Jet and Storm exchanged glances, relief evident in their postures. The tension that had coiled around them like a viper loosened its grip.

Jet grinned, a predatory gleam in his emerald eyes. "Let's go find this ancient scepter, shall we?" He moved with a practiced ease, his movements as fluid as the air currents he rode. Storm followed close behind, his bulk surprisingly nimble as he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the historical wing.

Wave, however, paused, her gaze lingering on a faded statue displayed at the very forefront of the exhibit, a statue she must've passed by in her hurry to get away earlier in the day. The figure was that of an elderly bird, a finch, his expression wise yet mischievous, the eyes of his stone visage twinkling with an enigmatic light. Something about the shape of the beak, the slight upraised quirk to the faded smile. It resonated deep within her, a subtle discordance with the current task.

"Professor Bartleby," she murmured.

Jet, already halfway down the corridor, turned back. "What's wrong, Wave? Daydreaming about your next Extreme Gear upgrade already?"

"No," Wave said, her eyes still fixed on the statue, "It's Professor Bartleby. That's him. The way he's dressed... it's exactly how he was dressed during the lecture on Babylonian artifact that one time." A knot of unease tightened in her stomach.

Storm, his usual stoic demeanor laced with a flicker of apprehension, maybe due to her tone, spoke up. "This your boyfriend's lookalike… or something?" He tried to sound reassuring, but his tone lacked conviction.

Wave shook her head, her gaze drifting to the shadowed corners of the room, a sudden chill dancing across her skin. "No. Something's not right." The feeling wasn't merely a hunch; it felt like a tangible presence, pressing down on her, suffocating her with a nameless dread.

Yet, before she could even begin to list the many wrong things without sounding like she was crazy, a soft, almost imperceptible rustling sound caught their attention.

"Well, it seems I guessed right about you." The unexpected voice accompanied a whirring buzzing sound. Everyone whipped in the direction of the it to see figure sidle up from deeper within the exhibit.

A familiar owl, missing the fez, was pointing something right at her. She raised her hands, almost relieved they'd been caught and her attention was no longer on… the statue. "You saw right through the perception filter they placed on me. And they you can see through the statue when no one else did…"

His voice dropped to a mumble as he flicked the device in his hand, the thing clicking, and brought it up to his face, peering at the end as if examining something. The green tipped in flickered in just the right way to flicker off his glasses, continuing on mumbling mush to loud as if they weren't there. "But why? Leaving someone to recognize somethings off." Every word rolled off his tongue in a tumble, a stream of conscious thought as he began to pace, eyes locked on the device as he went from a case holding ancient scrolls to a velvet rope around an old, half crumbled throne. "Are they weak? Starved maybe? Could be loosing their touch, could they? But no, their still as sharp as ever. Not that at all. Unless they h-"

"Put that thing away," Jet growled, eyeing the strange contraption in the man's hand with suspicion. "You're making everyone nervous."

The owl blinked…well, owlishly as if remembering the were thieves in front of him, glancing from the odd device he held to the raised hands of the Rogues. "But this isn't a weapon," he protested, almost affronted. "It's a multipurpose tool! It's not even lethal! Look, I'll put it away if you're so nervous." He opened his jacket and tucked the thing into a pocket.

Jet clearly wasn't convinced. "Wave, check him."

But before Wave could even move, Professor October's eyes went to her and in that brief moment of distraction,

Jet was already moving. With a swift, fluid motion that spoke of years of practice and precision, he lunged at the Doctor, knocking him off balance.

Storm followed suit, moving with surprising speed for his size. Together, they wrestled the Doctor to the ground, pinning him with their combined weight.

"Jet! Storm!" Wave exclaimed, rushing forward to help them. But they had it under control. With quick efficiency, they bound the Doctor's hands together with a length of rope they'd found among the exhibit's many relics.

The Doctor didn't resist, instead he sighed heavily as if this were an inconvenience rather than he was jumped by a group of thieves.

Snatching the device from his pocket, Jet snorted in disbelief as he stepped back from their captive, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "And we wish you hadn't shown up with your weird gadget and spooked everyone," he retorted.

Storm nodded in agreement as he stood up and dusted himself off. "Yeah, you're one strange bird," he muttered, giving the Doctor a wary look.

Wave, who'd been watching the whole scene unfold with a mixture of disbelief and worry, finally spoke up. "What now?" she asked, her gaze flickering between Jet, Storm, and their captive.

Jet shrugged, a grim look on his face. "Who did you contact? Why are you here?"

"No one and for the same reason as you I suspect. I'm up to no good."

"Keep an eye on him," Jet instructed, jerking his head towards the bound figure of Professor October. "Storm and I will go find the scepter."

The words snapped Wave back to the present. "Right," she agreed, her voice regaining its usual confidence. She positioned herself near the Doctor, her gaze sharp and alert.

As Jet and Storm disappeared deeper into the exhibit, their forms swallowed by the encroaching shadows, Professor October turned his attention to Wave. "So," he began, his tone casual despite his current predicament, "how long have you known Bartleby was missing?"

Wave frowned, taken aback by the question. "Missing?" she echoed. "I didn't know he was missing. I just found it odd that he wasn't teaching my class today."

"Odd?" October raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of amusement and skepticism. "Odd how?"

Wave hesitated, unsure how to articulate the unsettling feeling that had crept over her earlier. "I don't know," she admitted, "It just felt... wrong. Like something wasn't right."

"Wrong?" October chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "My dear Wave, 'wrong' is a relative term. In my line of work, 'wrong' is often the norm."

"What line of work is that?" Wave asked, her curiosity piqued despite her apprehension.

October smiled, a sly, enigmatic expression that sent a shiver down Wave's spine. "Let's just say I deal in the unusual," he replied, his eyes twinkling with an unnerving light. "The things that go bump in the night, the mysteries that most people would rather ignore. Like the fact you have put your back to an Advisor to the so called 'Gamil' who's the spitting image of the man I replaced."

Wave stared at him, her mind racing to make sense of his words even as she wanted to deny them. "There's no such thing as the-"

October shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Supernatural? Perhaps. Or perhaps something far more mundane, yet equally disturbing." He paused, his gaze locking with Wave's. "Tell me, Wave, what do you know about the scepter we're all looking for?"