In a panic, a young boy whispered to his elder brother, “I heard something out there!”

The older sibling tightened the grip on his brother’s shoulder. With his eyes clamped shut, he pulled the smaller boy closer to his chest beneath the table they were hiding under. In a hushed tone, he demanded, “Shut it. Dad’s not coming back. Not for a while. We can’t let them know we’re here.”

While his eyes strangled tears, snot continued to drip down the younger one’s nose. The older brother’s gaze softened, but the instant he thought the other would notice, it hardened.

He couldn’t be weak. They never allowed him to be free. Should he be, there would be consequences.

There always were.

* The faded memory of an adult human.

Moments after Claudius and Qain reached their ambushing point, a light beep resounded within Archimedes’ lap. Startled by the sudden noise, the young boy woke up and released a cry, but Eight’s palm silenced him with force. The experienced warrior, who had seen a hundred battles without shaving cream, glanced at the phone that Arch was holding and nodded in agreement. The boy struggled under his grasp, and the older teen released him, shrugging as he turned to another body.

With a tap on Lucius’ shoulder as the soldier flinched to the touch, Eight exclaimed and retreated, “Wake up—woah, there! I thought only I had PTSD. Ok. Umm... Good. Wake the other three up. It’s time.”

Lucius gave Eight a menacing glare, his pupils shifting color to match the twilight inside the building. The Martian growled out a rebuttal, following orders, “I don’t have PTSD, runt. Say that again, and I’ll tear your damned head off.”

Eight responded by fluttering away and raising his hands, as if surrendering. Many doubted his willingness to surrender, but he did so without effort. The Anomaly relocated next to Dante as Joan, Rejo, and Sonna woke up from their short, yet essential, naps with a delayed grogginess.

With his boredom tainted by that same prideful arrogance as always, the young man posed a question, crouching beside his ‘pupil,’ “What are your plans after this? If you survive, of course. Hard to believe they’d let a human like you go free. Too many free radicals, y’know?”

“Dunno. I’ll have to play it by ear, I suppose. Hopefully, I will get my ship back, and I will continue toward the Heart. Finally, I can see the Empires I’ve longed for. Some other stuff, too… That is if I figure this shit out,” Dante glanced up at Eight, annoyed at his lack of progress at conjuring water. Eight effortlessly glided on ice, while Claudius embodied water and Qain controlled steam like an expert.

Eight nodded his head with resolution, bobbing it up and down before finding something of fake appeal and jabbing a thumb toward Dante, “Right. Right. Right. See the Heart? The center of the galaxy? Well, good luck with that. They’re not too strict with the Third out here, but deeper in... You’ll be a wanted man. They’ll all come after you. Judges. Centurions. Maybe even a Praetor. I don’t think a Legate would care, but... The point stands. And that’s just the Romans. Glaniece and Ostacean would desire your head, too.”

The human sighed, sitting up, as piecemeal as he could, returning the inquisition toward the Seafarer who had guided him for the past hour. As he noticed the young man’s collar missing metal lines, Dante spoke while expressing faux interest, “And you? What will you do? Anomalies are similar, aren’t they? Will they allow you to walk?”

Dante inquired with the slim hope that he could get Eight to join him, knowing that the young man, while split by mystery and danger, would be a massive asset. His knowledge alone is above that of his entire crew, but his strength...

It might not be far from Claudius’ Judge-status.

Unfortunately for Dante, a wicked grin met him as Eight spun around, grabbing Sonna by the arm and pulling her with him. Eight’s words started off with his usual playful cadence, but then took a violent turn as he threatened Dante, saying, “See... Only if they know I am one. I refuse to return to a cage. Never. I’d like to have some fun before this body of mine croaks. If you or any of your ‘friends’ get in my way, I will cut you down. So, you best be amiable, yes?”

The sleepy Weren stood next to the wondrous smile that lingered across Eight’s lips. There were no weapons drawn or motes of the Lightsea accessed, but Dante could feel the threat. Lucius glanced over, but no one else noticed the danger posed to them all at this moment, not even the hostage in question.

Sonna rubbed her eyes and then inquired, “I’m nice,” asking her own question. “Wait, what are we talking about?” The whites of her eyes enlarged toward Dante, and the man bobbed his head in agreement, holding out his hand to seal it.

“Yes. We’re all friends here, and friends work together. But you don’t have to worry about me, Eight. It’s Claudius and Qain that would spoil this for you,” Dante and Eight’s hands clasped together, the two sharing a similar grin as they arrived at an understanding.

With Sonna now released from a shove, Eight hurried with a sudden gusto towards the exit of their temporary hidden abode. Then, he spoke in an ominous yet promising manner, “Hmm, hmm. I have them covered. Let’s get outta here. It’s giving me the creeps.”

Next, the young man vanished into thin air, entering the Lightsea and reemerging in an instant. When he finally did, everyone had finished preparing. They drew their weapons, peeled their eyes, and pumped their hearts to their limits.

He didn’t have to say anything. The rest knew. It was time.

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Some had trembling hands, the metal inside making a noisy rattle, while others stood daring. Although they boasted a smaller count of two, they stood tall and proud.

Just as Dante stepped ahead to lead the group alongside Eight, the phantom in his head reappeared. The identical copy of Dante’s little brother, before his eyes, shifted into a distinct form as he stood there, into that of Dante himself. They would be exact copies if not for the lack of a scar on Judas’ face and the absence of the more minor remnants of injuries littered across Dante’s flesh.

While passing by, the human, beyond bewildered, chose to just listen.

“I see you’ve grown. A little. No drugs this time? Surprising. I thought you needed those little toys to keep up,” Judas hissed out, his back against a pipe, and yet Dante didn’t give him any morsel of attention. He was convinced Judas did this for attention.

Instead of halting, the man continued, crawling over and under the pipes carefully while following Eight. Predictably to Dante, Judas abhorred this lack of attention.

“Nothing? You want no more hints? Nothing? Things here are not as they appear. You’re missing something. I hope you find it before it’s too late. Now, get to brainstorming.” Judas chuckled aloud as he spoke, the echoing laughter floating in Dante’s head while the group landed upon a mesh steel floor.

Ahead, the steel floor fed into elevated bridges overtop a water-filled room, the basin hundreds of feet wide and long.

This was the sedimentation bin, as the sign nearby read to Dante’s eyes, now caught in paranoia. Beneath was where particles settled out of the water, and yet, Dante’s eyes did not focus downward.

Nor were anyone else’s.

They were all transferred to one lone figure. Resting on the neon railing was a peaceful humanoid creature, its skin ebony and adorned with flowing lines of frigid water. With the noise of shoes against metal, however, it sat up, with violet eyes meeting the group of seven.

As the Anathema stood up, a casual swagger carrying him to his feet, the gathering crowd felt a chill while Archimedes fell to his knees. Dante found comfort in the creature’s rising astonishment, a welcome sight for his weary eyes.

“You all again... with some fresh faces. Run along. I’m unsure how you navigated through the bastards I left behind, but turn around. Now. This is the only chance I’ll give you,” Astraeus’ spoke, its face warped beneath its mask born of the Lightsea, and the warbling and wicked smile etched itself across his lips.

Dante opened his mouth to say something in rebuttal, but the teleporting briefcase was faster, landing right behind Astraeus, “I was going to say that!” Shouting into the Anathema’s ear, Eight hurled an icy knife toward the monster’s ear.

Like a marionette, Astraeus contorted his whole body, revolving to catch the knife and raising his other hand to strike at the sudden threat. But as he did so, an object flew at him, and he used his Stigmata instinctively as protection.

A briefcase flew into the wave of destructive space and detonated into a shower of papers with the cackling brazenness hidden beneath it, crying out, “Not my passport!”

While still recovering from temporary blindness, another knife targeted the Anathema that it hopelessly tried to fend off. Despite its efforts, it was not precise enough as a freezing blade embedded itself in his right calf. As the ice dug deep, the papers fell to the ground to reveal a smiling young man to Astraeus.

While gunfire resounded inside the open aperture, echoing off the water below and the metal above, two others rushed ahead, but Astraeus directed his mania exclusively towards Eight.

With his head down, he exerted force to silence the words in his throat, while his hands spread out with danger. Droplets crawled across his skin as he tapped into the Lightsea, for the first time since awakening, with sincerity.

Previously, a human injured Astraeus, but the injury healed within hours because of his regeneration against such Tideless strikes. The Anathema departed that battle, recognizing the need to prioritize his more important duty and not waste any more time or risk his life with such damage.

But here. Here and now, he was playing no games.

And as luck would have it, neither was Anomaly 888.

Without hesitation, the two dove towards each other, the latter activating his Stigmata the moment he felt the Lightsea wavering from Astraeus’ droplets. A knife sunk for Astraeus’ nape from behind, yet a hand caught it before the chill touched skin. The target’s neck twisted backward to face his attacker as he needed to see for his Stigmata to function, but a bullet into his temple robbed him of the opportunity.

Slippery, as usual, Eight vanished into the Lightsea while Lucius ducked Dante’s fireworks of lead. Roars ignited behind them as Dirge arrived to help their commander, leaving the three alone with Astraeus for the time being.

Joan injected a flowing pink into her flesh as she warped into another form, the Pouncer, as she deemed it so. Her figure stretched and contorted, morphing into that of a feline creature with arms on its back and a slender tail made of spines.

She jumped right at an Anaphage, stabbing and tearing it apart while Rejo blasted another’s head open. Archimedes, cradling the phone for backup, hid behind Sonna, who used the gun provided to her to the best of her abilities, landing a hit here or there.

The bridge they came from was thin, letting two people walk abreast at a time, and that gave them the advantage with firearms and the agile Joan, who used the edges of the catwalk to add to her lethality.

The safest ones were the four in the rear, but their existence relied on the other three more than anything else. And those three were betting on the duo somewhere above to turn the tide.

Although they were putting up a good fight, it couldn’t continue forever. Within mere seconds of the battle beginning, the environmental damage had escalated significantly between Eight and Astraeus.

The dagger wielder evaded another wave of destruction from space that wrought a hole into a stabilizing pillar. Eight acknowledged the damage, but he had limited options. Nevertheless, he didn’t shirk from his duty, stealing Astraeus’ attention and rage without pause, for if he did not, the others would swiftly die.

“Eh! Water-boy! Can you even use the Lightsea properly? Or are you just a Stigmata-nut!? Huh!? Are you like this chump here? He can’t! Haha! I bet you can’t—fuck!” Eight mocked the Dirge further, proving an effective yet dangerous strategy as Astraeus, unflinching, endured Lucius’ hatchet into his spine just to catch Eight off-guard.

Space warped and annihilated the metal Eight had put between him and his opponent, but behind that metal was perforating snow. Bits of the manipulated Lightsea wrapped around Eight despite his evasion of the Stigmata.

The young man bounced off a distant catwalk from the impact, rolling several feet before he crawled to his feet. Waves of frigid breath left Eight’s jaws as he glanced down at the snow freezing his body.

“That’s some frostbite you got there! Reminds me of my terrier! Sparkles always loved tug of war!” Eight laughed through the pain. Shaking off what he could with a weighty pivot, Eight Dived just in time to save Lucius from having his head removed by Astraeus’ palm.

A dagger landed on the Anathema’s elbow, leading to a struggle between the petite figure and the Anathema, resulting in a complete miss of the Martian.

Lucius nodded to Eight in thanks while Astraeus cursed bitterly, “You little shit! Just fucking die!”

Meanwhile, Dante struck Astraeus with another bullet; this time, it slid right into an eye, slinging his head backward. Then, a second and a third arrived while Lucius slammed his hatched into their opponent’s thigh and kicked the back of his knee.

For a moment, the human thought they could manage this, with Eight tearing Astraeus’ arm back and stabbing through it with a knife while Lucius tore out the flesh of the Anathema, too. It didn’t take him long to understand Claudius’ motive for calling backup.

Wintery embers burst forth from Astraeus, blanketing Lucius in snow and propelling Eight across the room with the velocity of a car. As Dante crouched to the ground with alarm, a few snowflakes brushed against him, instantly penetrating his body and lowering his temperature.

His mind understood that this was another form of water in the Lightsea, but it was so much more potent than the rest he had seen that he struggled to reconcile it.

He didn’t have a choice as Lucius stumbled backward, white freckles cascading off his form. The Martian smacked his fist against his chest with a resounding boom that popped Dante’s ears and knocked much of the frost off.

It was now the two of them against Astraeus, for Eight was nowhere to be seen, the young man falling into the waters below. Dante spread his feet outward, providing himself with a sturdy foundation as he glared ahead at his opponent while Lucius got his shit together.

With frantic determination, the human’s eyes scanned for any hint of movement from Astraeus, whether watery or physical. He could feel the ocular veins bulge as he pushed himself beyond his limit, and then that was when he saw it.

A twitch. The slightest bit of motion that predicated an attack. A slow smile grew on Dante’s face as he recreated what he once could only do with Nervefire.

With a casual pivot to the left, the human’s neck twisted somewhat, and in that instant, the air split in twain, consuming the metal railing behind him. Dante’s lungs heaved with bouts of agony, for the few moments of fighting consumed much of his endurance.

Yet, it was not over. And so, he sucked in with his lungs, standing tall despite his fatigue, and strode forward while the surrounding violence cascaded further.