The desert was quiet as the metahuman known as Civu-Dari walked its dunes. Mountains loomed in the distance, burned an iridescent red, hemming in this appropriately named 'Death Valley.' It was near unbearably hot, even in the middle of the morning, and Civu-Dari was glad she had thought to purchase a couple of cooling spells from that market in Tanlehem. She took one out of her jacket pocket, popping the small geode the spell was encrusted into, feeling her entire body cool down to a comfortable chill. Then, she glanced over and took note of the dunes around her. They dominated the landscape around her, some bare and drab, others detailed with brown-green shrubs that looked to be on the verge of death. But then, they had lasted this long, hadn't they?

And so could she.

This journey to the Earthmute was nothing more than a light trip into the desert. Just a couple hours' walk. A hike, if one could call it that. Civu-Dari began stepping forward. One foot in front of the other.

She grimaced, already feeling the sun’s heat bearing down at her, already feeling it eat through her cooling spell like a starving man at a banquet. Why the hell did the Earthmute have to deposit the Visionary all the way out here?

“To hell with this,” she muttered. She could feel the nation in her body stir at the sound of her voice. Civu-Dari reached into her jacket pocket once more, pulling out a group of ruby geode spells. She could cast this herself, of course, but she preferred to store magic for convenience's sake.

Your goddess needs you, she thought. The message reverberated out of her brain, carried down electrical passages to the core of her nation's palace, placed where her heart would be. The king below heard it, understood its message. Ordered for a litter to be brought up to her. She felt it, a slight tingling sensation, as four of the Dari ran up the length of her body and climbed up onto her tongue. She opened her mouth, exposing them to the dry desert heat, feeling them swelter and burn and nash their teeth. All of this sacrifice, for their goddess and home. Without another thought, she plucked them off of her tongue and applied the spell to them, laying them and their carrier on the ground as they grew in size.

Four Dari, gray-skinned, with six fingers to each hand and three eyes to each head. These were warriors – perhaps the king had realized the battles that were to come, for all of them were dressed in kwent-amoeba skin armor, the toughest substance in her body. Two wore spears, two others held crossbows. All four had shields and twin blades.

“My Civu-Dari,” the foremost of them approached, bowing to her, “Four of us have been chosen, to spend our lives in the service of our home.”

“Rise, my child,” Civu-Dari said. A dreadful smile was creeping on her face, for she had long ago learned to adore the worship the Dari gave her, “Your goddess has need of you. Before you lies Death Valley, the hottest place on this world. I have need of an oracle at this valley's center. You will carry me. You will protect me.”

Her smile went hard and dark.

“You will kill for me.”

“As you wish, Civu-Dari,” the four said, as one. The foremost took his goddess by the hand, guiding her with a gentleman's grace to the litter. As she sat down, he propped up a gorgeous, multi-hued quilt to shield her from the worst of the sun’s light. With a heave, the four Dari lifted the litter, and began to carry her as though she were some sort of ancient Demi-Pharoah across the landscape.

***

“It's really simple, Pock,” Analyza said, “Fair is fair. We drew straws, even.”

“There were two straws, Ana,” Pocket said.

“Yeah, and?” Analyza chuckled, “You still drew the short one.”

Pocket rolled her eyes, smiling in spite of her partner's tricks. In truth, she didn't care much about the Visionary's call. She and Analzya were Far Travelers, at home with wandering the multiverse, not chasing after old prophecies and hollow promises.

But Analyza had heard of Pocket's dreams. And, like moths to a flame, she had drawn them to Prime. To this… Death Valley.

It was an apt name. The place seemed to boil the sand. The air around them rippled. What was living here was small and brown. What was not – the human habitations they had seen, such as the old street signs and sun-cracked concrete roads – was rotted, hollowed-out. Mummified by sand and time.

And of course, Analyza’s eyes were shining in just that way that made Pocket’s heart melt, those square-shaped pupils dilating as she drank in the world around her. They had passed through one of the entrances without much fanfare, the tourist shack having been abandoned to the elements, a brick shell that Analyza had insisted on picking over for any interesting scraps, which she had then made Pocket store in the countless folds of her skin.

They had, together, noted the warning sign telling of the dangers of the desert. To beware, would-be wanderers, of the possibility of heatstroke if one was not careful. It was an attempt to ward the foolish away.

The foolish, say, like a woman with pockets all over her body and her hyperactive girlfriend.

They stuck to the main road that snaked through Death Valley, occasionally trading words now and then, a passing comment on the weather, on the dunes in the distance, of how dry and cracked the ground was at certain parts.

“Not much out here that's living,” Analyza commented.

“Of course not,” Pocket said, “This is Prime, Ana, remember? Not too much’s alive in these parts.”

“Yeah, but you'd think I'd see at least a centipede, or something,” Analyza said. Her eyes glanced at the ground. Her pupils expanded in size, red overtaking white, “So far all I see is sand, around eighty percent of it silica, four percent of it metamorphic rock, two percent of it various igneous makes, and the rest of it is broken down glass.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Odd, the glass is moving.”

Pocket stopped at that, turning around.

“You said moving?”

“Yeah,” Analyza said, “Just a bit. On a molecular level, like they're being pulled by a magnet.”

She glanced up, scanning the horizon.

She gave a wide, maniacal smile that made her partner's heart sink.

“It's Silicon!” Analyza cried out, “Brace yerself, Pock! The game just got interesting!”

***

Far in the distance was a flock – not of birds, but of shards of glass. Multi-colored panes, some as clear as clean water, some dark purple, volcanic obsidian scavenged from the edges of still-spewing volcanoes. Still others had been torn away from old, abandoned churches that dotted the Mojave, corpses from the Second Exodus, oranges and blues and reds and greens, reflecting the power of Imagination itself. They flew together as though they were of one mind, a migration of sentience that began coalescing, like pieces of a puzzle, shard melding with shard, into the form of a man on one of the tallest dunes.

Silicon. Tall and dark, glass forming around him like armor. Still more of it swirled overhead, for he had collected much on his journey here. For he knew what today was, and who it brought to Prime.

Convergence. A coming together of metahumanity.

And it would not be an amicable meeting. Talk of the future never was.

He could see, in the distance, now running to take cover behind a battered road sign, two of his brethren. But they were of no consequence. They hadn't made action against him, expecting him to make the first move.

“Typical,” he grunted. He stretched his shoulders as he took note of the landscape around him. Already, combat had started, a civil war among his people. Explosions in the north, the scent blowing downwind tinged with a hint of cyanide. To the east, a pair of ships had crashed – he had seen them fall, like clipped birds, to the earth.

One of them was High Federation in origin. This made Silicon happy indeed.

But time enough was spent in his organic body. With a breath, he alighted to the wind once more, letting his form break apart and scatter to the wind, traveling towards the center of Death Valley.

***

“Can we remove him from the board?” Pocket asked.

Analyza continued to stare at the flock that was Silicon, biting her knuckles as she considered the glass swirled through the air like a fell storm.

“He's moving rather quickly,” Pocket said, “He might get to the Visionary before we're even halfway there.”

“...Nnnooo,” Analyza said, “Best we keep our distance.”

“Oh?” Pocket said, “The great Analyza, afraid of a little spat?”

“N-No! I’ve just got to think things through, dumbass!” Analyza countered, “If we're going to take on Silicon, I need you to make me a cannon made from metals and plastics. I've already got the makeup in my head, but the fewer scrapes we get into, the better.”

“Let some other poor sap face him, then,” Pocket said.

“Precisamundo, my pocket-pocked friend,” Analyza grinned, “Besides, look in the distance. Seems like another top dog's spotted our knight in shining armor.”

Pocket squinted.

“I can't see that far, Ana.”

“Explosions, Pock. I see explosions. Well, not explosions. More like gouts of lava, eighty percent of it melted metamorphic rock, twenty percent of it ash. A couple miscellaneous percentages that don't-”

“Who is it?” Pocket asked.

“I don't know,” Analyza said, and she flashed a wild, wide grin, “Isn't that exciting?”

***

They were three. One was a man of Prime, a former mercenary who had recently turned to darker aspirations. He was dressed in military fatigues, the cloth a miasma of browns to mimic the desert, though he left the front open to reveal his chest, upon which was a spider-webbed scar that he wore with a mixture of pride and anger. Robber Fly's smile was curved like the crescent moon, without mirth as he turned to look at his two compatriots. One, he had worked with before, the taller one who wore the futuristic combat armor, his head hidden by a black-glassed globular helmet. He carried a plasma rifle in hand, and he looked plenty scrappy. There was an air to him that set Robber Fly on edge. This one who had been sent with him stood too still, too silent, as though he were a machine waiting for some sort of outside stimuli to get him going. Wasn't much of a talker, either.

Neither was the third of the gang. A woman, one who stood tall and wore flowing golden robes, upon which were sketched silvery Dragons that snaked up and down from one arm to the other, meeting at the chest, swirling and biting the other's tail. A real crowd pleaser, this Talrash, with a beauty that practically forced Robber Fly to pause and stare at her.

But she was known as the Breath of Midas for a reason, as she caught him staring at her and returned it with an icy glare.

“R-Right,” Robber Fly said, “So, we're here!”

He gestured towards Death Valley.

“...Now what?” he said.

“Now,” Talrash said, “We walk.”

No for small talk. No time to go over any sort of plan. Robber Fly felt his insides shrink at the sight of this woman, at the way she glared at him with draconic eyes, her golden sand hair whipping around with the bitter almond wind. Cyanide was in the air.

Things were already getting started.

“Right on,” Robber Fly said, “Lead on, lady.”

They had climbed mountains to get there. Crossed raging rivers. Lived off of the land, these three, staying off the radar. Avoiding civilization – for every phone was a camera and speaker, every car a potential witness. Robber Fly was a wanted man. Talrash was known to the Silver Knights. Tall and Helmeted Handsome was carrying a high-grade military rifle.

No, better to sneak across the plane silent-like. They didn't even have a car, lest that ping on the Round Table's sensors.

Their employer wanted no chances, not one.

But now, here in Death Valley, where no doubt at least one Silver Knight would be happening by, Robber Fly felt himself relax. They were going to be getting into scraps anyways, right? Might as well drop the stealth and secrecy.

“So,” he said to Talrash, “You've been here before?”

“To Prime? Yes,” Talrash replied.

“Nah, nah,” Robber Fly said, “Here. Death Valley. California.”

“...No,” Talrash said, “I have not.”

“You Far Travelers, always the same,” Robber Fly had to chuckle, “No, I don't mean if you've been to Prime, what does that even mean? What part of Prime? Where? Who did you hang with? What cities did you go to?”

“You bore me,” Talrash said.

Robber Fly ignored that.

“Me,” he said, “I used to hear stories about this place from my old man. He fought here, you know.”

Talrash and the other continued to walk, ignoring him. Talrash even quickened her step, outpacing them and taking point.

“I mean it!” Robber Fly said, jogging a bit to catch up to her, “Said the Manticore himself was out here!”

“Don't speak of him so lightly,” Talrash growled.

“Oh, don't tell me you're one of those reverent types-”

She turned around, her fist arcing and slamming into Robber Fly's stomach. With a gasp, he collapsed to the ground. When he looked up, her face was next to his, her eyes glowing like the sun high above, her breath like flames.

“You will not speak of the Manticore in such light terms,” she said, “As though he were some... some hollow celebrity. You will not speak of him at all on this trip, are we clear?”

The flames dripped down her maw as though they were lines of saliva. Parts of them dropped to the ground below, staining the sand, transforming it, making it more...

Golden.

“Yes, M-Ma'am,” Robber Fly said.

The Breath of Midas rose back to her full height, head eclipsing the sun above and forcing Robber Fly to squint as she looked up at her. Gold still dribbled down her silhouetted face.

“Walk, Robber Fly,” she said, “As we walk a sacred path to free one of the Sons.”

But Visionary's a girl, Robber Fly wanted to say.

But his two companions were already leaving once more. The conversation was over. With a huff, Robber Fly stood up, rubbed the spot where Talrash had punched him, and followed them into the valley.

***

Meloche heaved a great sigh as he took in the sights of Death Valley. A beautiful place, all things considered, a vast bowl of sand. An arena, if one thought on it long enough, a gladiator's ring waiting for its combatants, its audience the wind and the dirt. But Death Valley had been a battlefield before, hadn't it?

The sand had drunk blood before.

“You're in one of your moods, Mel,” Eco's voice interrupted the great mass of sap from his stupor. He turned around to consider his guildmate.

“Behold,” Meloche said, “Metahumans. We once were kings. Rulers. Gods of the multiverse, as numerous as the stars in every sky. Now look at us, snarling for scraps like vultures.”

“True,” Eco said. He was laying down, a calm smile on his face. He had already aligned to this ecosystem, having choked down a pocket full of gravel earlier, and his entire body now had the composition of sand. He almost looked like one of the dunes below, his body seeming to meld with the earth.

“When we took this job,” Meloche said, “I was expecting to feel elated. To see other metahumans! This should have been a celebration, Eco, a coming-together, to catch up on what others have been doing, how our people have been thriving.”

“I highly doubt you could call what we do 'thriving,'” Eco said.

“You get what I mean, though,” Meloche said, “We should have been...”

“I know,” Eco said.

“Why are we fighting like this, Eco?” Meloche said, “We all know, we're all we've got.”

“Because we know what happens when metahumans come together in peace, and not war,” Eco said, “Remember Ludaya?”

“Yes,” Meloche said, “I suppose I do.”

They both remembered Ludaya, and the dark memories there.

“Well,” Eco said, “We're here now, and that's what matters.”

He stood up, drawing up beside his old friend, and put a hand on his sticky shoulder.

“We've work to do, Meloche,” Eco said, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Meloche's voice was heavy and sad, “I suppose I am.”

***

The man that the Dari approached was tall and willowy, swaying in the desert area. Three corpses were around him, the blood flowing around his great, rooted feet. Old Man Oak was his name, a warrior of great renown, a Far Traveler, an enemy of the High Federation. As he turned to Civu-Dari, the wind picked up his leaf-hewn beard and hair like a cloak in autumn, revealing a carved wooden chest. His eyes were somber as he considered her.

“The Witch Goddess,” Old Man Oak's voice was gravelly and slow.

“Greetings to you,” Civu-Dari said from her perch, “I've heard of you.”

“And I, of you.”

“Nothing good, I hope,” Civu-Dari chuckled.

“No, not at all,” Old Man Oak rumbled, “Keep your distance, witch. I wish for no allies such as you.”

Your Goddess needs you, Civu-Dari thought. Her children below began calling for more warriors. She considered the corpses at Old Man Oak's feet. Two human-like, one with the head of a wolf, one with long, scythe-like claws. He had never even used them, however, what with a branch-made spear in his gut.

“I'm merely traveling,” Civu-Dari said, feigning ignorance.

“Through this Valley,” Old Man Oak said.

“Yes,” Civu-Dari said, “Wonderful weather for it, isn't it?”

He gave a dark chuckle.

“An aptly named place,” he said, “For one such as you.”

“Well, ouch,” Civu-Dari said.

She was aware of Old Man Oak stepping forward, his legs growing in size as he rose, stilt-like, above the dust and decay of the earth. So, too, did his arms, more of those sharp, branching javelins growing from them like thorns from a bougainvillea.

Shit, Civu-Dari thought.

“We both walk this valley for a purpose,” Old Man Oak said.

“Indeed,” Civu-Dari, to her credit, sat tall. With but a nod, her Dari guards lowered her carrier to the ground and put hands to their weapons. The foremost among them put himself between her and the ancient metahuman, “And what, pray tell, do you intend to see from the Visionary?”

“The same thing we all seek,” Old Man Oak said.

“You're an old man, friend,” Civu-Dari said, “The only future for you is in the dirt.”

“Not a future for myself,” Old Man Oak said, “That's been wasted, already. No, I seek a future for our people.”

“You see 'your people' before you,” Civu-Dari said.

More of her warriors were ready. A ballista, upon which they were loading one of her spells that she had imbibed yesterday.

“I give you a chance to step aside, honored elder,” Civu-Dari said, “Let the new generation take charge.”

“'New generation,'” Old Man Oak mused, “I see none of that here. Just a witch, pining for her own path, her own greed. You are metahuman in name only.”

“And that is the future,” Civu-Dari said, “I've only my own back to watch.”

With that, she opened her mouth fully, pulling free more of her growth spells from her jacket. At the same moment, the Dari charged forward. Old Man Oak looked downcast for a moment, before he met their assault, spinning with a grace and speed that belied his towering bulk. Already, one of her children was down and out, speared through and tossed aside.

Shit. They were still loading the ballista, deep at the back of her throat. With a cough, she expelled those Dari at the front, her spell washing over them as they grew to full size, drew weapons, and charged.

Old Man Oak lunged and fought, twisting this way and that, his arms goring and pinning the Dari as they rushed him. More and more met their ends, some of them hanging from the branches, others spiked so hard they went flying.

An entire army, Civu-Dari thought, NOW.

She fully opened her mouth, breathing out more of her children. More and more and more, dozens of them who all drew weapons and began swinging at Old Man Oak. Some with axes, others with blades, some stabbing at him with spears.

One of the Dari, a particularly bulky fellow with a two-handed axe, stepped forward, waited for an opening, as patient as the sea. Then, right when Old Man Oak revealed an opening, he struck, axe sailing into the back of the metahuman's knee, which folded in from the blow. Old Man Oak let out a cough of pain as the Dari, as one, leaped onto him, stabbed into his body, pulled him to the ground, piled over him like ants.

For a moment, there was writhing, as they cast over the metahuman like a shell.

And then, with a heave, with a roar of anguish and desperation, Old Man Oak burst upwards, vines and leaves and thorns jutting out of his body as he rose back to his feet, throwing Dari back as though he were an explosion.

And Civu-Dari opened her mouth. The ballista fired off, expanded in size from the growth spell. It flew through the air for a moment, slower than one would expect, with a weight as though it were a falling stone. It collided with Old Man Oak, just between his ribcage and hips.

The magic within the ballista took hold, took shape, warped the space around the metahuman, shifted a hunk of flesh and wood and sap away, off... somewhere.

A quarter of Old Man Oak was gone. He swayed for a moment, coughing up sap.

And collapsed, breaking apart as he did so, an ancient, moldering tower. Still, Civu-Dari didn't dare approach. Old Man Oak coughed and spluttered, and when he heaved and spat, blood, real blood, past all of the wood and sap, inked through.

“S-so be it,” his voice was hardly a whisper, “Our future, y-your choice..”

The foremost of the Dari stepped forward, blade drawn. He was bleeding from a gash in his head, dark blue trickling down the side of his temple. He looked at his goddess. For permission. For approval.

Civu-Dari nodded.

The foremost turned. Locked eyes with Old Man Oak. The metahuman's eyes were filled with an exhausted sort of sorrow, one that realized that this was how it ended. How it always ended.

The blade spun downwards. It was a fine thing, stripped clean from his goddess's spine, sharpened to near-perfection. And it cut through Old Man Oak's head like butter.

“Well,” Civu-Dari said, “That was something, hmm?”

The Dari nodded at her.

“Leave the bodies,” she said, “We've already been delayed enough.”

Those remaining Dari sheathed weapons, the foremost taking the lead as four of them hoisted the carrier into the air. Civu-Dari had not moved. Had not stood. She had sat on this makeshift throne for the entire skirmish.

And now, more bodies littered the earth of Death Valley. Corpses, of metahumans and their progeny. It was calm once more as Civu-Dari was carried across the desert. But in the distance, she could hear explosions. Combat. A scream, high-pitched and steeped in pain.

***

Smoke choked out of the crashed remains of the two craft. Endralus slithered around the man with the morphed arm, his expression set and dark. He disliked combat, despite his metapower. He disliked the way it made him feel, that adrenaline that made his stomach hurt after it was all over. He wished he had bought some Tums at the gas station before coming here. But still, he waited for someone to come out. Metahumans had survived worse, hadn't they? He had to make sure. They were flying in High Federation craft. Traitors, perhaps.

The smoke continued to billow.

Then lightning flashed, parting it like an arrow, slamming into the man and sending him flying back.

Joseph stepped out of the wreckage, the left side of his face marred with red, his teeth gritted so hard he could almost feel his molars cracking. His entire soul pulsed with an angry fire as he stepped out. He could see writhing mass of oil rise up like a coiled serpent.

“'Sup, Slick,” he said.

He fired off another bolt, burning the morning with the stench of ozone. It wasn't even fair. Endralus didn't even move as the bolt scorched through them, fire sparking wherever plasma landed. For a moment, the Ocean of Oil stood stock still as the flames overtook their molasses form. Joseph watched, angry expression still knit on his face, as Endralus writhed and twisted. The air was acrid now, like when Nai Nai's car was on the verge of breaking down and she refused to have it fixed.

Then Endralus surged forward, a wave of fire, like something from the Book of Revelation. Joseph's heart skipped a beat.

“SHIIIT-” He leaped back, soul fully surging around him as he took cover.

But he didn't need to, as the air in front of him began to waver and shimmer. The sea of flame collided with a wall of heat, Becenti's creation as he stepped out of the wreckage, seemingly none the worse for wear, his face set as stone as he watched Endralus roil against his construct, battering against it, wave after wave of oil and flame.

“Another one, Mr. Zheng,” he said to Joseph, “We'll need to burn them all out.”

“R-right,” Joseph stood back up, eagle returning to his stomach, his body sparking as he took aim.

“I'm lowering the barrier on the right side,” Becenti said.

He flickered his wrist, and Joseph's sharp eye caught part of the barrier disappear. He glanced at Becenti.

They would need to be quick, lest the force of the explosion send them flying.

“Just a spark,” Joseph willed his soul to being, a single azure claw gloving over his hand. He stepped forward, and thrust it through the hole just as Endralus was finding it, oil slipping through like the tentacles of an octopus.

The effect was near-instantaneous, as fire began licking upwards wherever claw met sea. Endralus pulled back, the mass of oil slinking away, rolling backwards from Becenti's barrier. Joseph watched it for a few moments.

“Finish it up, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti's voice was ice.

Joseph looked back. The older man's face was still a mask, but he had a look in his eye that made a shiver run up his spine.

“I-Are you sure?”

“If you're thinking you'll kill them, you're mistaken,” Becenti said, “But it will cow Endralus, perhaps enough to abandon this venture altogether.”

So casual, the way he spoke. Professional. Detached and distant. Becenti was going into full work mode. Joseph was starting to hate when that happened. Nonetheless, he turned back.

“Drop the shield.”

Becenti did so, the walled mirage dissipating, and Joseph fired off another bolt. This one cleaved through Endralus, sparks racing up against their black mass, parting it from side to side, an inferno following behind. A low, deep whine escaped from the metahuman, one that rumbled the very earth and made Joseph grimace.

But then, Endralus was gone, inking away, soon becoming a line on the horizon.

“They'll transform back once they feel they're safe,” Becenti said, “No real harm done.”

“Feels like it,” Joseph said, a bit shaken.

“We'll be facing more of our fellows as we go,” Becenti said, “I had hoped to avoid this, but-”

His eyes bulged almost comically as he leaped forward, tackling Joseph to the ground as a beam of plasma sang over them. The man with the morphed arm had gotten up, smoke curling around him, still in the fight-

As a javelin, bronze and shining in the sun, pierced through his arm. He let out a coughing gasp. From the wreckage of the Silver Knights' ship came a woman, stepping forward. She was wearing a purple uniform, her face silhouetted by a mask that... really didn't do a good job of actually hiding her face, just cloth strips accented in white and ending with a stylized flair on either side. She was wearing a violet tapered hat with a feather pointing out of its top, as though she were some sort of Robin Hood.

She pulled out another javelin, took aim, and threw it with surprising strength at the man with the morphed arm, cape fluttering in the wind. The man took note of the second projectile, however, and rolled to the side to avoid it.

Only for the javelin to stop in mid-air, spin, and fire off at him once more. It pierced the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the ground. The top of the javelin opened up, expelling a net that blanketed over him.

“A bit overkill,” Joseph said.

“It's the Silver Knights,” Becenti said, “We had a member literally named Overkill.”

The second of the Knights came coughing out of the wreckage after his teammate, clutching his side. This one – Oliphant, Joseph presumed – was every bit a 'Silver Knight,' perhaps taking it a bit too literally, what with his scaled armor, his cloak, and the glittering sword at his waist.

“Ever-True!” he said.

“They're down,” the woman, Ever-True, said. She was young, maybe Joseph's age, though she carried herself with a sort of confidence that came with the fact that she just speared a man like it was nothing.

“G-Good,” Oliphant said. He noticed Joseph and Becenti staring at him, and he stood up straight, wincing a bit.

“You're injured,” Becenti said.

“As are you,” Oliphant nodded at Joseph.

There was an awkward silence as the two parties faced off against one another. Ever-True was already pulling free a third javelin. Joseph's soul began pumping through its circuit once more.

“We're at an impasse,” Oliphant said.

“We don't have to be,” Becenti said.

“You're trespassers-”

“I assure you, this is my home plane,” Becenti said, “The only one trespassing here is Mr. Zheng.”

“Gee,” Joseph said, “Thanks for throwing me under the bus, I guess.”

“And we are here on behalf of the High Federation,” Becenti said.

“The Federation,” Oliphant spat, “Well, I've read your contract, and I still don't like this.”

“Trust me,” Becenti said, “Neither do I.”

“And I'm not going to rest until this is through,” Oliphant said. Nonetheless, he lowered his guard. Didn't have much of a choice, as he gave a wince and nearly collapsed again, held up by Ever-True.

“You shouldn't be here,” Joseph said, “You're injured-”

“There are... monsters on Prime today,” Oliphant said, “More than the usual fare. No, I'm staying.”

“...There are some metahumans who would disagree,” Becenti said, “You. Both of you, you shouldn't be here.”

“This is our plane,” Oliphant said.

“They don’t care about that,” Becenti said, “This coming together is based on metahumanity, by common culture and blood. It doesn’t matter what plane this is, or where you come from, so long as you share the metagene.”

He gave Oliphant a dark look.

“You Silver Knights would not be welcome here.”

“Doesn't matter,” Oliphant grunted. He rose back up with Ever-True's assistance, though at the last moment pushed her gently away so he could stand unaided, “They're on Prime, it's a Prime matter. It's a Silver Knights matter. Besides, Eve here's a metahuman.”

Becenti glanced over. Ever-True went a shade of red for a second as she saw him narrow his eyes, then give a reluctant nod.

“They still won’t like someone here who they see as an outsider,” Becenti said.

“How many are there?” Oliphant said.

“A few hundred, I would presume,” Becenti said.

“...And after we either apprehend Visionary, or she leaves, they'll leave?”

“Most of them will have no further reason to be on Prime,” Becenti said. His words were measured, Joseph noted. Careful.

“Then we go to Visionary, then,” Oliphant said, “Ever-True, see if you can't scrounge some first aid from the Songbird.”

“Are you sure?” Ever-True asked.

“I am,” Oliphant said. He turned to Becenti, “If we have the same goal, we might as well call for a truce, then.”

“A truce,” Becenti murmured.

“Aye. You so far haven’t tried to kill us, not like Arms over there,” Oliphant nodded at the still-netted-up man, “And you’re on a job for the High Federation, whom the Knights have an amicable enough relationship with.”

“That is… true,” Becenti admitted.

‘You will accompany us to wherever this Visionary is,” Oliphant said, “We both want her apprehended. We both want this to end.”

“And if we meet our fellows? Those metahumans who do not wish to fight us?”

“Are there any?” Oliphant said.

“There might be,” Becenti said.

“Then I'll hang back, and let you talk to your people.”

“Very well, then,” Becenti said. He presented a hand, one which Oliphant shook.

***

“Jesus,” Joseph said, “Look at what they did to her.”

He and Becenti were scavenging through the crash site. Miraculously, the Titania Amber was still in one piece – unlike the Silver Knights' Songbird, which had come apart and was responsible for most of the wreckage. A perfect hole had been drilled through the Titania Amber's hull, one that had severed through the back wall and engines. Becenti's face was pinched up as he surveyed the damage.

“Nothing major,” he said, “Nothing we can't fix, at least. Was a rookie mistake on my part, though.”

He looked a bit guilty at the broken mess of the back.

“Nothing we can do about it now,” Joseph said, “Right?”

“Right,” Becenti said, “Joseph, help me, here.”

He removed a panel just behind the pilot's seat, pulling out a rather large tarp.

“We'll cover her, so people won't be able to see her.”

“You really think that's necessary?” Joseph asked, taking one half of the tarp. Becenti began unraveling.

And unraveling.

And unraveling...

“Yes,” the older man said at length. He stepped outside of the starship, the tarp unfurling like a snake's shed, “It's advanced enough to camouflage the Titania Amber. She's not pretty, but the tech inside of her is a few generations' ahead of what's here on Prime.”

“Don't want any of that cross-contamination, right?” Joseph said.

“We've already had enough of that, here,” Becenti said, “The Federation only looked the other way because of Prime's efforts during the war.”

There it was again. The war.

The completed covering was massive, but Becenti threw it over the ship as though it were nothing. It cloaked over the Titania Amber, and after a few moments the ship seemed to fade out of existence, an illusion that was only betrayed by the barest hint of shimmering when Joseph looked at it funny.

“Like a mirage,” Joseph said.

“Like any mirage,” Becenti replied, “We're in the desert, Mr. Zheng. People won't think twice.”

“Besides,” Joseph said, “They're trying to get to the center of this place, not the edges of it.”

Becenti nodded, “Precisely.”

Oliphant and Ever-True stood apart from them, having picked over the remains of their own ship. Joseph eyed them suspiciously.

“Sure we can trust them?” he asked.

“Not as far as I can throw them,” Becenti said, “They’re Silver Knights. Superheroes.”

“Thought that was a good thing,” Joseph said.

“Once, it was a respectable position,” Becenti said, “But I’ve heard of what these Silver Knights do now. How they lord over Prime, watching through every camera, listening through every speaker. There’s no privacy, with them.”

He hoisted a bag over his shoulder.

“There’s no freedom.”

Ever-True was just finishing patching up a nasty gash in Oliphant’s side as Joseph and Becenti approached. He stood tall, ignoring his injury as he re-donned his armor.

“I hope you all brought water,” he said, “This isn't going to be a simple hike.”

Joseph wanted to ask if the Silver Knight would be alright. But Oliphant's glare was like the sun's, enough to quell any argument or worry. Without another word, they were off, shouldering packs and following an old dirt road that snaked towards an abandoned highway. In the distance, they could see explosions. Bright, neon green ones, so large that, even from here, they polluted the air with a faint hint of cyanide. Something glittered in the sky high above, like thousands of noontime stars. Screams could be heard, magnified by distance and their own suspicions.

It was a coming-together of metahumanity.

It would not be an amiable one.