Rolling in the 'Deep [Exemplary]

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

“Second gate on the left,” the female off-worlder muttered, collecting the omnilium Ral had offered. She dropped a pair of lanyards on the counter, each adorn with a single yellow tag the size and shape of an index card.

Ral nodded, jabbing his companion in the side and gesturing toward the end of the counter. Vincent grabbed the neckwear and led on, following the queue down a hallway toward what looked like some variety of café. The gunslinger marveled at the size of the establishment, it appeared much larger on the inside. The walls of the building were made of the typical brushed aluminum-looking metal that was the norm in Coruscant, each rising to meet the ceiling some 15 feet above. The hall started wide at the end of the desk, but tapered toward the end, narrowing to nearly single-file width. The eatery at the end of the hall looked quite small, his eyes only catching site of a few tables. Despite this, the crowd continued to file in. As they reached the end of the hallway, Vincent was struck with confusion. He now stood at their apparent destination, though there were no visible means of exit.

Ral quickly caught up with him, snatching a lanyard from the ex-Turk’s gloved hand. “Follow my lead,” he muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The squirrely man donned his lanyard, stepping up to the metal wall. He tapped the corner of his pass on the wall, wisps of yellow rippling from the point of contact across the metal. The wall seemed to wobble for a moment, before returning to its normal consistency. Smirking, he turned to face Vincent. “See ya’ on the other side.” With that, he stepped backward through the wall and vanished from sight.

- -       -

“Telepasses.” Ral chuckled, tossing his hat and glasses onto the floor. “Love ‘em.” He removed the lanyard, dropping the unit into a nearby trashcan.

Vincent glanced down at his pass, which was now a drab shade of gray. The wall that he had just stepped through was of the rough-looking wood plank variety. The spot from which he had emerged looked completely nondescript, identical to the rest of the small room the he had arrive in. He touched a finger to the wall, feeling the expected amount of resistance.

“One way passes. No re-admittance,” his partner explained, yanking the card from the cloaked man’s neck. “Let’s get going; I can feel the jet-lag already.”

Vincent and his client emerged from the receiving chamber, stepping out into brilliant sunlight. Ral shielded his eyes from the glare, his brow knitted. They had emerged from a small, wooden hut. He and Ral had been alone upon arrival and the house held no furniture. Perhaps this hut existed solely as a drop-off point?

“Well, here we are: Vasty Deep.” Ral glanced at his companion. “From the looks of you, we should have brought along sunscreen.”

The dark-haired man gazed out at his surroundings, feeling the tang of saltwater in the air as he took a deep breath. The air was warm and moist; the distant sounds of chatter and laughter met his ears. His red irises focused his gaze at the immediate area, acknowledging the string of huts or various sizes that dotted the beach as well as the people splashing where the ocean met the sand. The familiar feeling on confusion bubbled up within his mind. A prison on the beach?

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The midday sun was bright over their heads, checked briefly by the occasional shadow of a passing gull overhead. The seabirds squawked as they spiraled in great circles over the sunny beachscape. Behind the scattered line of huts was the dense, lush foliage of a tropical rainforest. Various sounds could be heard emanating from the wildlife that dwelled within. Foamy waves crashed along the shore, depositing seaweed and juggling odd pieces of driftwood.

The pale prime glanced back and forth, taking in a cursory view of his surroundings; he raised a gloved hand to his eyes, shielding them from the brilliant light as he did so. Aside from Ral and himself, the population of the small island consisted of a group of five or so people along the water’s edge. Slightly bemused, Vincent looked to Ral for the next course of action. Where was this prison they had spoken of? It certainly appeared to be hiding itself well. Had this whole ordeal been a setup? What had he gotten himself into?

“That’s weird,” Ral began, polishing his spectacles with his sleeve. “Usually the station drops you at the main island.” He pointed eastward as he spoke, gesturing toward a much larger island just close enough to be seen along the horizon. “Costa del Sol. Though I suppose this works out better, I’d rather avoid the Imperial shadow when possible. Still, weird though.”

Vincent nodded, regarding his companion with suspicion. The quest had seemed like a straightforward escort mission in the beginning, but the ex-Turk was beginning to suspect it was more complicated than he had assumed. Presently his guide took off down the beach, walking briskly toward the eastern edge he had been referring to.

“Where are we going?” the gunslinger called to his guide. “And where is this prison? All that I can see is ocean.”

Ral stopped suddenly, facing Vincent. “That’s part of what makes Impel Down the high-security prison that it is,” he paused. “You don’t know where it is unless you’re in it. They don’t exactly advertise its location.”

Vincent frowned. His confusion was quickly becoming frustration. “There are a few too many unanswered questions here. I didn’t have a chance to ask much back at the bar, but I’d like to know everything about what we are here to do and why we’re doing it.”

Ral nodded amiably, taking a seat on a nearby rock as he elaborated.

Tal Sola had arrived in the Omniverse around a year ago from his home in a far-off realm. He was one of the unlucky secondaries to have been summoned be a particularly careless Prime, shackled in servitude and surrounded danger that came with being around his Prime. As time went on and loneliness crept in around him, he found himself in need of a companion. He had no trust for anyone he met, feeling the constant fear of being captured or extorted for who he served in this realm. Though on his home planet he had never been a stranger to being lonely since the death of most of his family, he had always had one person by his side. With a pang of guilt in his heart, he plead with his 'master' to summon his younger brother Ral to his other-dimensional prison. The two rejoiced in their reunion and though they were far from home, they were content with staying in the Omniverse, so long as they had each other. So they had passed the days, with Ral maintaining a small house in the woods near Camelot while Tal worked in town for their Prime. Months later the two escaped their captor into the bustling metropolis of Coruscant, Tal having taken a job for a local crime lord; out of the frying pan and into the fire for the small amount of autonomy it granted the boys. The job paid quite well, with his only real responsibility being the trafficking of information among the varying shades of corruption that composed the city. Ral worried about the safety of his brother, risking his neck daily trading secrets from those who trusted him to those that trusted no one. The elder Sola hushed his brother’s concerns, continuing his double-dealing for both the city’s worst criminals and highest-ranking officials. It was double-crossing Judge Dredd that had left him running for his life.

“I was never worried about him back home. He’s a really smart guy, super charismatic. But when he got his hands in the pocket of the Empire, playing the criminal underworld and the iron fist of Coruscant against one another, I got scared.” Ral sighed, stirring the beach sand with a stick. “Something as simple as this got him sent to the worst prison in the ‘Verse. It had to have been personal.”

The ex-Turk nodded; he was all too familiar with espionage. He needed no reminded of his days working for Shinra, taking out the leaders of opposing organizations, criminal or otherwise. He had barely escaped them with his life. Though, in reality, did he even?

Ral sniffled, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’m sorry. This is so stupid. I’ve brought us both all this way and I don’t have any idea where to find him. I have no way of paying you, and I’m asking you to risk your own life for someone you don’t know or care about.” He sighed, dropping his writing utensil. In the sand was etched an impressive scene: a detailed picture of a small house built along the edge of a lake, shrouded in trees and swaddled in long grasses. Two figures were seated by the lake; their tiny sandy faces grinning, fishing poles in hand.

Vincent’s frustration had long since subsided, giving way to pity. He laid a hand on Ral’s shoulder. “No payment is needed.”

The boy chuckled. “That’s nice of you to say, but unless you know where to find Impel Down, we’re up Shit Creek.”

The sudden sound of a gunshot drew the attention of the travelers, coming from across the strait between Costa del Sol and the unnamed island on which they stood. A group of a few dozen figures stood on the beach across from them, heading toward a docked ship. The majority of the group was dressed in identical uniforms, all a drab gray that matched the hue of used telepasses. Vincent’s keen eyes could make out chains between the men, keeping them spaced evenly apart. A half-dozen or so men dressed in red were firing on the last of the gang, who was now being dragged through the sand by the rest of the group. Vincent glanced over at the ship toward which they were headed, able to easily make out the enormous black Imperial Crest emblazoned on the hull.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

At the sound of gunshots, Ral shot up from his seat. He swung around, only to freeze in place at the sight of the brutalized prisoner. His mouth hung slightly agape, not breathing, the color slowly draining from his face. It was not hard to guess what was going through the young man’s mind. Vincent stood silently for a moment, his eyes locked on the spectacle. As the group began to march once more, Ral let out a grunt and took off wildly across the beach.

Vincent was beside him in a moment; he grabbed at his right arm, throwing his right arm across Ral’s chest simultaneously. He quickly brought the boy down, pulling him behind a nearby tree. Ral flailed madly, attempting to break free. The ex-Turk maintained his grip, eyes still on the group across the sound.

“Let me go! They killed Tal!” the thrashing youngster whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

“You don’t know it was him,” Vincent replied calmly. “We’re too far away to tell.”

“We need to get to him!” Ral sobbed, ignoring his partner’s comment. “He needs our help!”

The pale Prime switched his gaze to the now-motionless human. There were no signs of moment. Vincent doubted very much that whoever had pissed the guards off would survive such violence. Even if the man were alive, the blood loss would kill him before they could reach him. He shook his head, “That was not your bother.” He hoped the dishonesty was not obvious in his tone.

“We…” the boy began, ceasing his fighting, “We have to save Tal.” He sniffled, wiping a tear from his eye.

“We will,” the gunslinger responded. “But we have to be careful. That ship seems to be an imperial transport, we can’t just rush over.”

“Well, we’ll follow them, then.”

Vincent nodded. It seemed to be their only course of action, though there seemed to be no way of executing it. They lacked the watercraft that they needed to make chase. He was certain that he could carry the boy if he swam, but for how long? They would likely be able to ford the water and reach the boat, but by the time they reached it the shit would be long gone. Vincent silently cursed their luck.

“Well, we don’t have much time, so summon the smallest boat that can hold us.” Ral stated, shaking loose of the Prime’s grasp and striding toward the water.

The gunslinger followed his guide, chuckling at his own foolishness.

- - -

“Not bad. It’ll float.”

Vincent opened his eyes as the summoning finished, the glimmering light fading to a dull gray as the boat materialized. The vehicle was the size of a small car, with three seats and a small amount of empty floor near the back for cargo. A robust-looking engine hung from the back, giving the dingy a look reminiscent of a militarized speedboat.

Ral swung his legs over, hopping into the seat in the back closest the engine. He looked worriedly at their target before looking back at Vincent. The summoning had taken just shy of ten minutes; the imperial ship was beginning to vanish over the horizon. “Let’s go!”

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The engine roared to life as the boat’s hull slid from the wet sand into the water. Vincent let out a sigh of relief as he gave the tub a final shove. He was glad that the boat had spawned pre-fueled. Ral adjusted the heading and lowered the engine as the boat began to drift into the open water, with Vincent soon landing nimbly beside him, taking the seat at the bow. The bespectacled youngster glanced back quickly at the cadaver on the opposing island, staring for a moment. The cloaked Prime took noticed, silently acknowledging the boy’s concern with a shake of his head. Ral grunted in response, glancing down at his feet; his hands gripped tightly on the engine’s controls.

“I’ll keep us on course, heading toward the transfer ship,” Ral yelled over the din of the engine, “As for what we do when we get there; I hope you’ve got a plan.”

The gunslinger nodded, turning to face the front once more. Truthfully, he didn’t. Knowing the ways of the empire, Vincent suspected that violence was a likely consequence of what they were planning to do. He had yet to engage in combat since his arrival in the Omniverse and he was a bit hesitant to dive in as he normally did. The ex-Turk was fairly confident in his own physical abilities; aside from a general feeling of ‘weakness’ in comparison to how he felt on Gaia, he did not feel very different. At the very least, Omni could not remove his tactical knowledge. Even still, assuming that he was physically able to overpower his foes, he doubted he could take out a boatload of trigger-happy troopers. Cerberus sat in her holster as his side devoid of ammunition, mostly useless now. Vincent mentally contemplated attempting a spell, or perhaps a summon. But would his abilities, primarily dependant on the Lifestream, even be possible here? Everything was so untested.

The heavy speedboat churned through the water, racing toward the imperial transport. The duo could now clearly make out the shape and direction of the ship. Vincent examined the craft, making note of possible points of entry. Immediately, he could tell that the barge had a military look to it, though it seemed to lack the normal array of weaponry. The holes in the upper sides of the hull that normally allowed for cannons to fire on opposing ships had been covered with sheet metal, welded on hastily to seal the openings from the water. Judging by this, as well as how low the ship seemed to ride in the water compared to other ships he had seen, he surmised that the ship was likely a decommissioned warship, retrofitted to serve as a transport or cargo ship. He made note of the height of the boat’s deck from the waterline; nearly 5 meters. The ship’s low draught may be helpful, he thought.

As their craft approached the transport ship, the deafening sound of its engines drowned out all other noise. White, frothy water issued from the stern as the ship’s rudder cleaved through the sea. As the speedboat began to close in on the transport, roiling water met its hull, causing the craft to jostle and buck. Ral quickly turned the craft out of the ship’s spray, turning in a wide arc.

“Not sure how close we can get without being seen,” Ral called, “though I don’t think they’re really expecting company.”

Vincent nodded, rising to his feet as they neared the ship. Bracing himself against the rushing wind, he glanced back at his young guide. “Bring me in closer, I’ll head in alone. While I’m aboard, fall back and wait for my cue to meet us.” Ral flashed a thumbs-up in response, bringing the speeder alongside the Imperial ship.

Vincent unbuckled his mantle, removed it, and stowed it under his seat. He did the same with his cloak, wadding everything up to protect it from flying away. Stealth would likely be his best course of action, he reasoned, and wearing a bright red cape would surely be a giveaway. He finally removed his red bandana, allowing his messy black mane to fall around his shoulders. The speeder was now abreast the barge, accelerating toward the bow. The pale Prime dropped to his knees, breathing out slowly. He double-checked his holster, tightening the buckle around his firearm. Looking up, he judged his distance carefully and quickly calculated his jump. With the deck in sight beyond the gunwale, he sprang into the air.

Vincent landed silently-or at least, silent in relation to the roar of the engine—upon the vacant deck of the transport, somersaulting as he touched down to soften his fall. He stopped abruptly at the end of his tumble, glancing around quickly for signs of movement. Finding none, he took in his surroundings: the fore end of the ship was decidedly empty, completely free of any notable object. The desk seemed quite clean, though this could be due to the constant barrage of wind and water as they blasted through the sea. The sun hung low in the sky, continuing its slow decent toward the horizon. Dusk would follow soon; darkness would certainly aid him in his mission if he were to remain on deck, though he could not afford to waste time waiting.

The loud clang of metal-on-metal from the other end of the ship caught the gunslinger’s attention. The dark-haired man turned to face inboard, spying an enormous smokestack between a pair of what appeared to be turrets with the gun barrels removed. He dashed quickly toward them, staying low to avoid possible detection. Placing his back against the smokestack, he leaned slightly and peered over his shoulder at the source of the noise.

A soldier dressed in lightweight maroon armor strode toward him, having emerged from a bulkhead that Vincent could only assume lead bellow-deck. He resembled one of the men he had seen on the beach earlier, wearing a dull maroon-colored breastplate, forearm, thigh and shin guards, combat boots and thick gloves. Between his armor could be seen black cloth, presumably some variety of durable synthetic, and a balaclava. At his side hung a futuristic-looking firearm and a baton of some variety. The attire screamed mercenary to Vincent, as did the man’s gruff-looking visage. The pale Prime quickly hid himself behind the smokestack as he approached, hoping he had not been seen.

“Area three, clear.” The mercenary barked into a communicator on his wrist. Vincent caught a better look at the man as he passed; mid-thirties, his exposed skin heavily scarred though his armor looked new. “Proceeding to area four.”

Halfway down the deck, the man turned at an abrupt 90 degree angle and continued his patrol. Vincent dashed behind a turret, eyeing the man as he passed. Just as he passed the turret and raised his arm to activate his communicator, the ex-Turk sprang from his cover, pulling Cerberus from her holster and bringing the barrel sharply across the back of the man’s head. The mercenary promptly dropped with a sharp “Ack!” and slumped to the deck. With a twinge of regret, the pale Prime kicked the man’s unconscious body over the gunwale and down to the sea.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The bulkhead door creaked open loudly, its rusty hinges groaning against the applied force. Vincent doubted the sound could be heard over the roar of the engine, but he remained vigilant nonetheless. The door being open, he hopped quickly over the threshold, taking a few steps down the stairs as he slid the door shut behind him.

The passage was dark, though lit somewhat by a fluorescent bulb affixed to the ceiling; more like it lit the remainder of the hallway, which turned abruptly some 20 feet away. The dim overhead lighting of the ship illuminated the path somewhat, casting a long shadow from where he now stood. The gunslinger blinked a few times, adjusting to the lower light. The sounds of the turbines were now all but blotted out; how exactly, he did not know. The Prime took a few steps forward, placing his feet quietly upon the smooth floor and running his gloved hand along the wall as he passed. He listened intently for sounds of alarm, though none came. He wondered how long it would take for the crew to realize they were short a member.

The pale intruder followed the narrow hallway, turning corner after corner with no resistance. The sounds of the ocean were falling away, though the sounds of life were beginning to emerge. As he turned yet another corner the hallway terminated as Vincent caught sight of a large, reinforced door. As he raised his hand to turn the lock, he heard the unmistakable sound of screaming. He paused, staring at the rusty door for a few long minutes. Finally, throwing caution to the wind, he heaved the door open.

The door opened into a large rectangular atrium, bordered by two staircases located bilaterally from where he stood. He quietly shut the door behind him, keeping his gaze forward to observe the state of the room. Ahead of him stood an archway that lead to a larger room, through which Vincent caught the sight of a few men milling around. He immediately fell to a crouch, somersaulting to the left, out of sight of the door. He crept closer to the doorframe, keeping low to avoid being scene.

The Prime’s skulking was abruptly interrupted by the entrance a soldier, bearing a striking resemblance to the mercenary he had just dispatched. “Who the hell are you?” He barked, reaching for his radio.

Without a second thought, the ex-Turk whipped Cerberus from her sheath, took aim at the man’s belt and pulled the trigger. For a split second the Prime cursed his stupidity, remembering his lack of ammunition. He could scarcely form the thought before a ball of light shot from the barrel, detonating the communication device. The man stood frozen for a moment, staring down at the charred cloth where his radio had been. Vincent instantly dashed forward, throwing his leg hard at the man’s knees. The man half-cart wheeled, half-fell to the floor, letting out a small groan as he had bounced off of the metal flooring.

The pale Prime leveled his firearm at the soldier’s forehead, glaring wordlessly down at him. The man stared back, rage etched into his face. He placed a hit boot over the man’s mouth, pushing down hard. His captive winced, groaning once more in pain. Vincent watched as the man’s eyes broke contact with his, glancing lower. The man let out a few quick breaths as his face began to contort under the Prime’s boot.

Laughter.

Vincent stood puzzled for a moment, until he heard the sound of rapid footfalls behind him.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The ex-Turk planted his foot hard on his captive’s face, vaulting backward behind the cover of the iron doorway as gunshots rang out through the air. Bullets whizzed past through the open throughway, punching holes in the back wall. Vincent shot a glance to his left, watching the formerly downed man scramble to his feet, groping for his own firearm. He found it and drew as a pair of his similarly suited brethren dashed into the room. The trio of mercenaries stood opposite their assailant, guns leveled.

“And who might you be?” One of the newcomers inquired.

“Who cares who he is,” the initial attacked squawked, spitting a mouthful of blood, “Kill him!”

Vincent quickly tumbled across the threshold as the trio leveled their guns once more, firing haphazardly after the dark-haired man. The Prime glanced around quickly at his surroundings; the room appeared to be a storage area of some sort, filled with a half dozen crates, but no exits. Thinking quickly, Vincent ducked behind a crate, Cerberus in hand. He doubted that he could take out the trio all at once, even with a functioning gun. He silently cursed his luck.

“Hide-and-seek, eh?”

The gunslinger heard footsteps falling closer, echoing off of the empty walls. He gazed around once more at his surroundings, finding nothing useful save more boxes. He kept Cerberus at the ready, prepared to shoot his way out if needed.

“Let’s get this over with.” His unseen foe chuckled.

The gunslinger lifted his gun to fire, only to drop it a moment later as searing pain tore through his head. His breath caught in his throat, both hands balled into tight fists. He pressed his fists to his temples as he tumbled forward onto the cool metal. Had he been shot? It certainly felt as if his skull were being torn in two, though he had heard no gunshot. He gritted his teeth tightly, his eyelids following suit as agony swallowed his consciousness.

“Where did he go?”

“What do you mean ‘where did he go’?”

“He was just here, behind this box…”

“Spread out, look in the crates!”

Confusion permeated his mind as the pain rapidly subsided. He lay in the fetal position on the floor of the room, not a foot from one of the armed gunmen. They seemed to glance past him, shooting gazes rapidly around the room. They began to rip open the crates, paying no attention to the armed intruder in their midst. Vincent silently raised his hand to retrieve his weapon, stopping abruptly as it entered his field of vision. He gazed long and hard at it, blinking slowly, waiting for whatever mental deficit he was under to dissipate; no such event happened. The gunslinger raised his other hand, noticing the same effect; they were transparent.

“There’s nothing in these boxes but gunpowder!” a gruff voice grunted. The mercenary associated with it gently closed the lid, wiping his hands off.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins as the bewildered men continued their search efforts. Without a second thought he sprang silently to his feet, nabbing his gun from the ground. He dashed away from the trio, back through the doorway. In a moment he was at the eastern side door, pulling it open effortlessly. As if the sound chased away whatever had taken hold of his body, his hair became solid black in his peripheral, with the rest of his body following suit.

“There he is!” the wounded attacked roared, pointing in Vincent’s direction.

The Prime smirked, leveling his gun at the man. He grasped at the open door’s locking mechanism with his free hand. Just as the loudmouthed mercenary began to make chase, Vincent lowered Cerberus’ trio of barrels at the nearest gunpowder crate. The ex-Turk saw a brief moment of realization cross the man’s face as he pulled the trigger.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The force of the explosion threw the Prime backward into the adjoining room, the vault door slamming shut in his wake with a tremendous ‘BOOM’. He lay for a moment, flat on his back, staring up at the door. Heat was emanating from the room that housed the now-charred mercenaries, a fire having likely been left behind by the explosion. He was out of breath, his method of entry having knocked the wind from his lungs. The gunslinger breathed rapidly, sweat beading on his brow. It was a few moments before he realized his whole body was shaking.

What the hell happened in there? Vincent wondered. The ex-Turk stood up uneasily, brushing debris from his clothing. He glanced down at his body, noting its lack of translucence. Had he been imagining things? Had the heat of the moment played tricks on his eyes? Then there was the matter of the sudden agonizing migraine that had gripped him. Mental deficit and extreme head pain spelled stroke to him, though he had no trouble dispatching his foes after the pain passed and he doubted that his ageless body would succumb to such an ailment. The fact that his opponents had failed to notice him during that moment told him that it was likely not all in his head. Had some hex taken hold of him?

Another explosion shook the thought from his brain; this one louder than the first, though it seemed to be farther away. The whole ship seemed to shake in response, nearly knocking Vincent from his feet. The ship's dim lighting flickered in response as the earthquake-eqsue vibration rumbled through the ship. The gunslinger looked quickly down at the threshold, bracing for another blast from the storage vault. None came; the fire seemed even to be dying down. He wondered briefly if perhaps the previous explosion had set off cargo elsewhere in the ship. As if to answer his query, the vessel shook violently once more before ceasing, a loud groan audible from below him. Vincent paused, awaiting further noise. A speaker hanging from the ceiling some 20 feet ahead quickly filled the silence.

“Hello hello, all. This is Lieutenant Duro. Seems as though we're having some engine trouble. Imperial guards: please report to the Captain's quarters. Vultures, secure the prisoners and the cargo holds before meeting on the upper deck. That is all.”

Vultures, the gunslinger mused. That would likely be the group name for the nondescript mercenaries he had been encountering, undoubtedly hired goons employed by the Empire. Ral's brother was likely one of the referenced prisoners, or so the Prime hoped. He thought briefly of the man dead on the sands of Costa del Sol. Shaking the thought from his head, Vincent continued through the maze of hallways in the ship's depths.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

Vincent passed quickly through the maze-like halls of the imperial warship, following the dimly lit hallways silently through countless forking paths. At each diversion, the gunslinger veered away from the distant sound of crashing waves and toward the sound of creaking metal, descending any staircase he could locate. If his years of espionage with Shinra had taught him anything, it was that those with valuables often hid them deep. The deeper he went, the more likely he was to find his mark.

Presently the pale Prime had reached yet another bifurcation, this time a pair of identical iron doors. He examined the two for a moment, looking for any signs of recent use. None could be found; the crew of this vessel, being mercenaries, undoubtedly wore gloves to obscure possible printing on the metal. Their newly gifted garb likewise would leave no telltale dirt behind. The Prime crossed his arms over his chest, furrowing his brow. 50/50, he thought, not the best odds.

As if to answer his comment, the ex-Turk felt a sudden coolness on his neck. He shot a glance behind him, right hand bolting to Cerberus' grip. Nothing. Relaxing a bit, he turned slowly to face the way he had came. Another pinprick of icy coolness met his flesh, this time on his cheek. He felt the familiar feeling of water dribbling down his face, glancing upward to spot its source. Cold seawater leaked steadily from a seam overhead, dripping water onto the floor of the corridor. Vincent looked at his feet, spying a small puddle a yard away between the two doors. He smirked, taking a few steps before dropping to a knee before the liquid. The ex-Turk pulled the leather glove from his right hand, reaching the now-bear extremity over the puddle. A soft blue light began to emanate from his flesh, illuminating a yet-unseen set of wet footprints leading from the puddle to the western door. With a smirk he retracted his hand, ceasing the spell, and re-donned the glove. As he made to stand, he caught sight of his reflection in the the puddle before him. The Prime looked decidedly disheveled, his jet-black mane even more messy than usual. After a moment's pause, the pale man rose to his feet, pulling the indicated door open effortlessly. As he continued his trek through the belly of the steel beast, his thoughts wondered.

As he plodded along, the ever-present memories of his 'family' returned, reminding him of why he continued on. He ran his left hand through his knotted hair unconsciously as he passed over the threshold, the metallic fingers of the gauntlet moving effortlessly through the mess. The ex-Turk never used to give his appearance a second thought, though this had changed as of late. He thought briefly of Shelke, and of her constant berating over said apathy.

“Vince, do you want to be single forever?” She would bark, “Comb your damn hair!” For her sake, he did.

Vincent smiled to himself. Despite what he would display to others, he genuinely cared for the girl. Both were products of different experiments by the same deranged man and since being liberated from Deepground, they shared a special bond. As both were immortal and condemned to a twisted, eternal youth and lacked any living biological family, Vincent had filled the role of father figure for the girl. Though his friends were a group of more than competent fighters, as was Shelke herself, he still found himself worrying about her safety in his absence.

“You worry too much,” Cloud would always say.

Too much? He doubted he could ever worry too much. Shinra had taken his family from him long ago, in some way or another. His mother? A vocal opponent to Shinra's pillaging of the planet, she had 'disappeared' shortly after his third birthday. Father? Killed in a freak lab accident under Dr. Hojo. And Lucrecia, the only woman he every loved, defiled and rendered comatose by the same man. An only child and son to a pair of likewise sibling-less parents, he had had no other loved ones left when he himself was targeted by the megalomaniac Hojo. Since his 'second birth', he had found a group of people worth worry about, worth loving. With such a group of individuals in his life, he had begun to forgive himself for his sins. It was a slow process, one that he was not always up to facing, though necessary. Even when his back was to them, they remained loyal.

“We're your friends, Vincent. You can't run from us.” Yuffie would say with a smile, taking hold of his hand. “At least, not for long.”

As Vincent neared another split, he stopped abruptly. Remaining motionless, he could just barely make out the vague sound of conversation some yards away. He took another few steps forward, listening carefully in an attempt to make out words. He was nearly at the corner before he could discern what was being said.

“Hurry up and lock the door. We're supposed to be up on deck already.” One voice implored.

“Oh, shut it,” came the reply. “I couldn’t care less about what the ‘great’ Lieutenant Duro thinks. Imperial swine; I wouldn't be here if the money wasn't good. He can wait.” A slight pause followed, succeeded the loud CLANG of metal on metal. “Sit your ass down, Sola! I'm not afraid to shoot you right here and now. My pay is the same no matter how many of you vermin are delivered.”

Vincent snapped to attention. Tal!

“Yeah, yeah.” A third voice simpered. “Didn’t your babysitter call you? Run along to your keeper.”

“Big words for a man condemned to die,” the mercenary replied. A long pause hung in the air, punctuated by gruff laughter. “Oops! Did I spoil the surprise?”

The Prime heard the sound of approaching footfalls from around the corner, responding by drawing his back to the wall to avoid being seen. Thinking quickly, he recalled his last encounter with the Vultures and his subsequent escape. With no time to wonder how such a technique could be executed, he had to improvise. The gunslinger focused, tapped his mana as he would when casting a spell, and imagined himself blending into the wall; staring down at his torso as he willed himself transparent. As if coaxed by his desperation, the shadows of the hallway swallowed him, rendering him all but invisible. The duo of guards passed by not seconds later, paying no mind to the combatant enrobed in shadows.

Vincent waited for the door down the hall to slam shut before making his move into the holding room. Said room looked to be a converted cargo bay, nearly pitch black and crowded with prisoners. A futuristic-looking door stood between him and the new cargo, in stark contrast to the outdated look of the decommissioned ship. Its frame was a shiny chrome-like metal, housing emitters every few inches that generated bars of glowing energy that stretched from the top to the bottom to separate the guards from the prisoners.

“Tal Sola,” Vincent spoke into the darkness.

A moment passed. “You haven’t left yet? Papa will be angry.” Tal replied, spitting at Vincent’s feet from the back of the cell.

The gunslinger ignored the insult. “Your brother sent me.”

Vincent could see movement, barely able to make out the shape of a tall, skinny figure. The figure stepped forward, the light of the laser bars illuminating his face. He looked indescribably haggard, wearing tattered gray prison clothes and 5 o’clock shadow. The man glared at him, looking him up and down. “Ral sent you?”

The ex-Turk nodded in reply. “He sent me to free you.”

“Tch.” Tal chuckled. “Nice thought, but I’m kinda without a paddle here, if you catch my drift.”

“I’m familiar with the expression.” Vincent replied, drawing Cerberus. “Stand back.”

“Woah! Hey, easy! I didn’t mean to offend!” Tal stammered, stepping back into the shadows. “Kinda silly to kill a man on death row, eh?”

The pale Prime looked quickly around the room, searching for any sort of control mechanism. His eyes finally set upon the welcoming sight of a terminal set in the corner, attached to the door. A cursor blinked on the screen, with the phrase “Input? _____” visible in green lettering. He leveled the firearm at the computer quickly and fired, a shower of sparks issuing from the terminal in response. The ‘bars’ of the cell flickered for a moment before fading away entirely.

“Follow me.” Vincent commanded.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

“Oy, Freddy! What’s going on, anyway?”

“Beats me, Ted.” Freddy replied. “I’m not paid to think. Duro’s orders.”

The mercenaries were converging on the upper deck, heeding the call of their employer. After a few moments, the stragglers had found their way to the deck, striding toward their compatriots.

“Didja lock the cells, Jim?” Freddy asked the newcomers.

“Of course I did.” The Vulture replied, glaring at the small crowd sitting idle on the deck. “Shouldn’t prettyboy be here by n-”

“Hey guys,” Ted interrupted. “Does something seem…weird to you?”

“Oh shove it, Theodore.” Jim replied.

“No, really. It seems…quiet.” Ted muttered. “Why are the engines off?”

- - -

“So my little brother put you up to this?”

Vincent ignored the question, striding down the hall the way he had come. The staff of the ship was certainly aware that something was awry; he was not keen on being around when they figured it out. The gunslinger heaved yet another vault door open, quickening his pace as they crossed the threshold.

“Not gonna talk, then?” Tal called, struggling to keep up with his savior’s pace. “The kid’s an idiot for getting involved. Still, I’m kinda proud.”

“Please stop talking.” Vincent called over his shoulder. He had to think of an escape plan. Waltzing up onto the front deck and walking briskly past a crowd of henchman was not optimal.

“Fair enough, mate.” Tal responded. “Where’re we going anyway?”

Vincent sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well I mean, we can’t just go topside can we? They’ll pick is off in no time flat.”

The ex-Turk grunted in response, proceeding through another door. Where could they go? Perhaps there were escape pods somewhere belowdecks? Doubtful; this boat seemed to be on its last legs, not exactly indicative of the technological apex that the Empire prided itself on being.

“It’s too bad we can’t just grab the cannons.” Tal sighed, jabbing his finger toward a door. It was the other of the pair of doors Vincent had encountered earlier. “I doubt we could move them far, but we could defend ourselves.

The gunslinger glanced at the door and shook his head briefly. Cannons wouldn't do much good in such an enclosed space regardless, least of all with their ports covered in rusty sheet metal. “It doesn't matter. There’s…” He stopped suddenly, blinking a few times. Suddenly he chucked, striding to the door.

“What’re you doing?” Tal asked, scratching his head.

Vincent yanked the door open. “Cannons.” He replied with a smirk.

- - -

“What the fuck do you mean “the engines are broken”?

“I-I-I mean that something h-happened to trubines, Mr. Duro, sir.”

“That’s impossible, you imbecile. Those engines are the only new part of this ship.” Lieutenant Duro snapped, slamming his hand on the steering apparatus. “Get this tub moving, or the Emperor will hear about this personally!”

“B-b-but I told you. There’s no power going to the engines. Something’s gone w-w-wrong…”
A rhythmic beeping interrupted man’s pleas. The lieutenant gripped his lapel between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently. “This is Lieutenant Duro speaking,” he replied with faux-pleasantness.

“We just done the attendance like you asked, sir.” A gruff voice responded. “Four men are missing.”

“Well, page them!” Duro snapped, his cordiality vanishing.

“That’s the thing, sir; we did. No signal from their communicators and their GPS indicators have vanished from the
tracking radar.”
A moment of silence rang though the cabin of the ship. Duro glanced down at the cowering navigator who had busied himself wiping his tears from the floor with a rag. He could feel his blood pressure rising as he activated his communicator once more.
“Search the ship.”

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The delinquent duo strode down the corridor, Tal throwing a look over his shoulder every few feet. Though he had spent much of his time in the Omniverse dealing with unsavory folk, he had never learned to relax in dangerous situations.

“So, I don’t get it,” he began, glancing behind him once more, for good measure. “The ship was disarmed when they converted it. A lack of guns wouldn’t exactly help us right now.”

Vincent ignored the man, passing through another nondescript doorway. He didn’t truthfully have a great grasp on how they would escape, though any plan was better than meeting their captors on the deck. The two stopped presently, meeting the familiar sight of old steel as their path split yet again. The gunslinger pursed his lips, contemplating his path.

“This way leads to some storage,” his comrade piped in, “along with the majority of the prisoners’ bunks. The other is probably maintenance from the looks of it.” He poked absent-mindedly at a small electronic device.

“What? How-“

“You didn’t think I was just going to let myself be dragged to some wonky sea-prison did you?” Tal chuckled, pocketing the device. “A couple of these guys owed me favors; then again, a bunch also want me dead,” he shrugged, as if it was something everyone had to worry about. “I kinda broke even with them after taking out a couple Vultures. ‘Swhy I was locked up alone. I grabbed this doohickey off one of ‘em and kept it for myself; it has the basic layout of the ship. Nothing fancy, just a schematic.”

Vincent couldn’t help but smirk at Tal’s resourcefulness. “Your brother was right about you.”

Tal grinned. “I won’t ask what he told you. Now, where to?”

- - -

“Search every nook!”

Lieutenant Duro clamored across the deck of the ship, pointing at various men and directing them to their assigned areas.

“You!” he shouted at a particularly burly Vulture. “Get down to the hold and secure the prisoners.” The commander looked out across the sea in the direction of Impel Down. What had stalled his ship?

“M-m-mister Duro,” the navigator yelped, half running-half tripping across the deck. He held a tiny data terminal gripped tightly to his chest. “I ran the security protocols like you ask…”

“And?!” the Lieutenant barked, glaring at his subordinate.

“The s-sensors in the weapons hold show extremely h-high temperatures a-a-a-and…”

“Spit it out!”

“The lowest security hold is showing a communication error.”

Duro frowned, furrowing his brow. An escaped prisoner did not quite spell the promotion he was vying for. He had taken this meager assignment as a favor to Judge Dredd, to reinforce his worth as a commander in hopes he would be given more power among his peers. “Who was assigned to that cell?”

The navigator stared down at his data terminal. “W-well, no one was assigned…b-but there was a transfer. Prisoner 312523, surname Sola.”

The lieutenant cursed loudly, causing his subordinate to lose his grip on the terminal. The spy from the Tier 5. The boy had been scooped not for his relatively minor crimes, but for crossing Dredd himself. “What are you waiting for?!” He snarled, activating his communicator.

“Find Tal Sola!”

- - -

“Well, left it is…” Tal sighed, gesturing toward the door. “Though I’m still in the dark as to how we’re getting off this tub.”

“Leave that to me,” Vincent replied, leading the way.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The two strode briskly down the dimly lit corridor, stopping as they reached another reinforced door. This door differed from those that Vincent had seen throughout the rest of the ship, namely in that it was actually labeled. The words “CAUTION: Do Not Enter” had been scrawled onto the metal with what seemed to be paint or some such material. Caution? The prime wondered.

“That’s a maintenance door; it leads to area behind the ship’s exterior armaments… or, at least where they would be.” Tal stated, looking at the schematic.

Vincent nodded in response, opening the door effortlessly. “I wonder...”

The duo stepped cautiously into the maintenance corridor, closing the door behind them. It was slightly wider than the hallway from which they had just entered, running perpendicular to it. The room was lit, though only dimly; what could be seen gave the impression of disuse. Glancing quickly around the room, Vincent could make out the shapes of various machinery: floor buffers, pallet jacks, tool boxes and miscellaneous supply. They had seemingly arrived at yet another converted storage area. Vincent furrowed his brow and peered into the darkness; had he wound up in the wrong place?

“Another junk room.” Tal sighed, look down at his schematic. “It's odd that they'd make an area this low and close to the exterior a storage bay, though.”

The prime agreed wordlessly, stepping over the scattered junk. He sighed, making to heave a dusty crate toward the door to serve as a barricade lest they were found. As he turned to push the box, something caught his eye; beyond the rusting machinery, he saw something peculiar. At regular intervals some 5 feet away, a phalanx of broken and partially dismantled cannons stood sentry before hastily-sealed holes. A smile spread across the Prime’s face as he realized what he had found. The sound of splashing seawater could be heard.

“I think I’ve grasped your plan.” Tal said with a grin. “I’ll find us some tools.”

- - -

“L-lieutenant,” the navigator muttered, frantically scampering to keep pace with his commander. “The room adjacent to the w-weapons hold is showing an elevated t-temperature as well…”

Duro gritted his teeth; he didn’t have to be told which room adjoined the hold. “Get back to the helm and await my communication,” he spat. His subordinate obliged, quickly fleeing his raging commander.

“Duro, sir,” a deep, grizzled voice muttered from behind the Lieutenant. “What would you have me do?”

The commander spun around, rage pumping in his veins. A mountain of a man behind coal-black armor, he faced the leader of the Vultures, Grak Samm. Samm’s presence gave him pause; the man was able to command a squad of dangerous outlaws without a single word of disobedience, unlike his own subordinates. This, combined with the Vulture’s reputation of ruthlessness made Duro change his tone. “Make sure your men do as they were told.” He asserted, with the smallest hesitation. Grak nodded silently, following his men belowdeck.

- - -

“Such messy children these Imperials are,” Tal taunted. He wielded an old-looking blowtorch, attached to a fuel container strapped to his back. “Just leaving tools everywhere,” he smirked, handing Vincent a formidable-looking cutting device topped with a circular blade.

Vincent glanced at the 9x9 steel sheet covering the cannon’s vantage. The weld was not the best, the rust creeping around the edges standing as testament to that. Along the edges, the occasional beam of moonlight slipped through a gap, the gentle rocking of the ship casting moving shadows on the dusty floor. He stared absent-mindedly at the dancing shapes for a moment, the sound of sloshing seawater a fitting backdrop to the gentle movement.

“ATTENTION,” A booming, computerized voice spoke from an overhead speaker, shaking Vincent from his thoughts. “LOCKDOWN IN PROGRESS.”

“I think they’re wise to us,” Tal said, cursing loudly.

“We’d better get to work,” Vincent replied, depressing the trigger on his saw. The machine roared to life, Tal’s blowtorch following suit.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The delinquent duo stood shoulder to shoulder, each carving at separate sides of the blockade. Tal's torch sent a shower of sparks over him, singing his ragged prison uniform. Vincent raised his tool to the weld, focusing on the more oxidized portions of the seal. His saw jerked erratically in his hands as he went, resisting the tough material. This job was going to take a bit longer than he had thought.

"This shit's a lot tougher than it looks. Or, well it could be that these tools haven't been used in years," Tal called over the cacophony.

The gunslinger acknowledged the issue wordlessly, cutting the power to his tool momentarily to assess the duo's progress. They had each torn through a few feet of the rusted weld in the 10 minutes they had been working. This was not going to do; it would take them at least an hour at the rate they were going, all this assuming the disused tools would make it that long.

“Unless you've got another idea, keep cutting!” Tal snapped, turning up the flame on his torch. “See if you can find another torch over there,” he said, gesturing to a nearby junk pile. “I'm making a little more progress with this baby turned up to 11. This alloy must just have a higher melting point than I expected. ”

Heat! The ex-Turk rested a hand on his partner's shoulder. “I think I can speed this up. Stand ba-” He stopped short, turning his attention to the sound of approaching footsteps. By the sound of it, at least a dozen sets of feet clambering down the hall, just feet from where he and Tal stood.

“Vultures!” Tal exclaimed, racing to the doorway. “We've got to hurry this up. I'll barracade the door as much as I can,” he said, re-lighting his blowtorch. “Melting this lock should help us out some. Work your magic!”

“ATTENTION. INTRUDERS CONFIRMED IN BAY 8C.” The ship's intercom squawked, the sound of footsteps in the hall giving way to the calls of angry mercenaries.

The gunslinger turned to face the barricade, raising his left hand to eye level. “Let's hope I can still do this.” he muttered, channeling his magicka.

“Shit, any day now!” Tal snapped, bracing against the mound of machinery he had piled in front of the door. “They're ramming the door!”

The ex-Turk nodded. He closed his eyes, focusing the energy into his palm. He imagined a roaring fire; an intense, sorching blaze contained within his grip. Though he had not performed this spell in some time, it felt as natural to him as taking a breath. He curled his fingers inward, closing around a softball-sized orb. A familiar, gentle warmth crawling up his forearm told him he had succeeded.

“FIRA!”

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

“Intruders cornered in storage bay 8C,” Duro's communicator squawked.

“Good.” Duro replied, a smirk crossing his face. “Shouldn't be long, then. Looks like we'll be adding another prisoner to our roster, Smee. Make the required edits to the logs; Dredd should be quite pleased with my handiwork.”

“Y-yes Mr. Duro, sir,” Smee replied, stumbling across the ship's deck as fast as his legs could carry him.

Duro grabbed the communicator from his chest and lifted it to his mouth. “All Vultures converge on 8C. Verify all exits are locked down and report ANY suspicious activity.” Replacing the device, he stepped to the edge of the deck, peering out over the moonlit waves. From his pockets he produced a lighter and cigar, remnants from his past life. He smiled and brought the bundle to his lips, flicking his lighter open. As if in response, the ship shook violently; Duro's treasures falling into the sea below. Rage filled his veins as a plume of smoke pouring from the hull below swallowed up the tumbling trinkets.

- - -

“Holy shit; that oughta do it!” Tal yelled, coughing loudly through the smoke billowing from the hull. “Maybe even over-did it a little!”

With precious few seconds to admire his work, Vincent quickly stepped to the newly-reformed porthole. As the issuing smoke cleared, he started to make out the rolling waves, crashing against the ship just a few yards below.

“Where's Ral?” The elder Sola yelled, stepping away from the barricade.

The ex-Turk didn't respond, straining his eyes for any sign of their escape vessel. Without the time required to summon a new craft, he was their only hope. He briefly considered plunging into the sea and swimming to shore, though a dozen or so mercenaries shooting at a pair of bobbing heads didn't seem like a very good game plan.

Tal stepped quickly to the edge beside Vincent, craning his neck as he searched for his younger brother. Frowning, he brought two fingers to his lips and blew, producing a sharp, rhythmic tune. Some fifty feet in the distance an engine roared to life, the tiny speeder suddenly racing toward them. “Cloaked!” he whooped, beaming with pride. “That's my little bro for ya'!”

Their celebration was cut short as the vault door behind them began to creak open, various junk items tumbling from the makeshift barricade. The rabble of angry mercenaries became louder, hands reaching through the gap. Vincent shot a look back out at Ral, the craft still too far to reach from their location. In a moment, though, it wouldn't matter. Shaking his head, he grabbed a handful of Tal's prison uniform and leapt into the sea, dragging his vagabond companion along with him.

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

The fleeing duo tumbled through of the makeshift porthole and out of sight just as the vault door crashed open, spilling odd pieces of machinery across the dingy metal floors. The angry cussing of vexed mercenaries briefly met the gunslinger’s ears before the sound of whipping wind whisked it away. Vincent tightened his grip on his companion’s garb, straightening his legs and pointing his metallic sabatons toward the sea in an attempt to correct his trajectory. With their flight plan chosen, their haphazard freefall finally ceased as the ex-Turk’s toes broke the surface of the water, their velocity plunging them several feet below the surface.

On the ship above, the meaty behemoth known as Grak Samm pushed his way through the pack, brushing his subordinates gently aside as he strode to the edge of the damaged ship. He glanced for a moment at the patch of choppy water where his marks had plunged into the sea, scratching at his shaven scalp thoughtfully.

“Lord Grak, should we follow them?” one of Samm’s Vultures inquired, drawing a shiny blaster pistol from its holster.

Grak smirked, shaking his head. “Dredd’s orders were to protect the cargo and keep an eye on Duro. If some of it happened to fall into the sea, that’s Duro’s problem. Besides,” he began, cracking his knuckles, “I’m not about to lose one of my men just to make the pompous prick look better.”

Vincent let out a sharp gasp as his head broke the surface, his aching lungs sucking in the salty ocean air. He quickly brushed a sopping lock of black hair from his visage, rapidly scanning the perimeter for his comrade. Seconds later Tal surfaced, coughing and spitting seawater. “Can you WARN me next time you drag me into the ocean?!”

“Hurry!”

The pair of bobbing heads snapped to attention as Ral’s craft neared, slowing as he approached. The younger Sola brother produced Vincent’s cloak, twisting it into a makeshift rope and tossing the free end toward the duo. The raven-haired gunslinger spun in place without a second thought, drawing his revolver and taking aim up at the Imperial ship. He loosed a few unaimed shots from the firearm, hoping to distract and deter any would-be assailants from taking a similar leap of faith. As the stray slugs pinged off the side of the hull, Vincent paused to take better aim, the barrel now trained on the opening they had escaped through. The seconds ticked away slowly, his finger tensed against the trigger.

“Get in the boat!” the Sola brothers called in unison, tossing the end of Vincent’s now damp cloak within range of its owner. He glanced quickly as the opening one last time before taking hold of the cloth and climbing into the craft.

“Floor it!” Tal yelled, ducking below the side of the small water craft. The speedboat bucked in response, the engines roaring to life by Ral’s command. Seconds later, they were skipping across the water and away from the Imperial craft.

The ex-Turk kept his eyes and his gun trained on the ship, squinting through the darkness, prepared to let loose covering fire if needed. The need never arose; as the ship churned through the dark water and the vessel faded into the night, Vincent was struck by just how easy it had been to escape the ship. Barring the necessary pyrotechnics, they had essentially just walked away from an Imperial prison transport without so much as a single attempt to retrieve them. Though the mercenaries were far from the typical fiercely-loyal storm troopers that the Empire was famous for, Vincent had expected at least some kind of attempt. He slowly lowered Cerberus, replacing it in its sheath. Something was not sitting right with the gunslinger.

“Hell of a job Ral!” the elder brother yelled over the engines, slapping the boy on the back. He beamed at his brother, his smile quickly contorting into a scowl seconds later. “But don’t ever do something like this again; you risked your safety as well as that of our friend here.”

Ral hung his head, his hands falling limp at the controls. The engines died down, reducing their output to a much quieter volume. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you rotting in a prison cell, of being all alone in this Universe…” a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Oh shut it!” Tal laughed, throwing his arms around his brother’s torso. “Like you’ll ever get rid of me!”

Vincent smiled as he watched the Solas, wringing his cloak out over the sea. He retrieved his mantle from beneath the bench seat and fastened the two articles of clothing back to their normal arrangement. As he clipped the last buckle into place, covering the lower half of his face, the elder Sola turned in his direction.

“Well, what do we owe ya’,?” he said with a grin. “You’re not getting away without some kind of reward. You
saved my life!”

The ex-Turk shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You might want to actually get to land before you thank me, though.”

A loud, rhythmic beeping drew the trio’s attention, Tal slowly pulling a now-waterlogged terminal from his waistband. Anxiety surged anew through the cloaked man’s veins as he caught sight of the tiny computer; it would certainly contain a GPS chip within its casing. The elder Sola brother eyed it with more curiosity than suspicion, dragging his finger across its soaked screen thoughtfully.

“Ditch that thing!” his younger brother snapped, reaching for the device.

“No need to worry.” Tal replied, batting his brother’s hand away. “It’s basically fried anyway. The screen just
keeps showing the same message repeatedly on loop. A couple of sentences, looks like names?”

Ral glanced over his brother’s shoulder, his eyes widening. “Vincent…what’s your last name?”

“Valentine.” The pale Prime returned, cocking an eyebrow. “Why?”

Ral jerked the terminal from his brother’s hands, spinning it around to face the gunslinger. In enormous, red font nearly the height of the screen itself scrolled the same handful of words on repeat: “VINCENT VALENTINE. DANTE’S ABYSS. VINCENT VALENTINE. DANTE’S ABYSS.” The words scrolled for a moment before the device’s screen faded to black. The cloaked prime grabbed the terminal, jamming his finger at every button on the device, to no avail.

“Dante’s Abyss?” Vincent muttered, perplexed.

“That name sounds familiar.” Tal asserted, taking the terminal from Vincent’s hands; in one quick motion, the boy flung the device into water. “Some of the Vultures were muttering about it while I was locked up. All that I heard them say was ‘Dante’s Abyss’, ‘Karl Jak’, and something about ‘another universe’.”

Another universe? Could this possibly mean that he could escape the Omniverse? The Prime’s thoughts whirled at a dizzying pace, his eyes glancing at the Solas and then at the several dots of land in the distance. “You want to reward me? Get me back to Costa del Sol and help me find whoever put out this message to me.”

“Dangerous to head back to Costa del Sol after escaping the Empire,” Ral said, shaking his head. “Sorry, bu-“

“BUT,” Tal spoke over his brother, “For Mr. Valentine here, we’ll do it! Besides, it’s dark. Those sissy Imperials are probably all tucked up warm in their bunks by now.”

The younger Sola shook his head, smiling. “Whatever you say, Tal.” He grabbed hold of the throttle once more, kicking the engine into high-gear, with a course set for Costa del Sol.