The very heart of Death Valley was known as Badwater Basin, and it was very much unlike the rest of the valley. It was a final dip down a few mountains, towards the lowest point in all of North America, nearly three hundred feet below sea level. And it was one of the most distinct parts of the former national park, its entire makeup a plain of salt. The look of the place always reminded Robber Fly of interlocking cells, amorphous lines of salt walling in dirtied gravel, sand, and (wouldn't you have it!) more salt. This quilt of white knit itself together into the salt flats, extending out as a solid sheet towards the horizon. In the distance, they could see dark mountains loom. A bowl, within a bowl.

Of course, Talrash cared little for this. She guided the trio down the beaten old trail and into the basin proper. There once had been a road here, Robber Fly supposed, that had been created by the stomping of hiker's boots, of tourists coming to the very pit of Hell itself to take pictures and die of heat stroke. But none of that now, and Badwater Basin had returned to nature, once more a pristine, suffering place.

“Quite the place for Earthmute to shift to,” Robber Fly said, “Don't you think?”

Talrash let out a dismissive huff in response. Of course, she wouldn't care much for such semantics. Robber Fly turned towards the domehead.

“What about you?” he said, “Ever been to a place like this?”

Domehead was quiet for a few moments. Then, he shook his head.

“Same,” Robber Fly said, “Been to a couple of hot places, but not like this.”

“If you've got time to talk, you've got time to work,” Talrash said, “Fly up, scout for danger.”

“That's dumb,” Robber Fly said, “I'll just be a sitting duck for anyone who's got a good eye.”

“Sitting fly.”

Robber Fly and Talrash looked at the mercenary.

“You'd be a sitting fly,” the domehead repeated.

Robber Fly blinked.

“Anyways,” Robber Fly said, “I'll go up there, but you'd better be prepared to take out whoever I see, dig?”

“Very well, then,” Talrash said, “Shout down if you see anything.”

It was an odd feeling, using his power. Robber Fly remembered the day he had gone meta. He was nine. He had been complaining about a headache for most of the day, the worst one he would ever have, like his brain was being cooked inside his skull like a hard-boiled egg.

Then, his head had split open. He felt himself bleed out, could feel himself die. Could feel his soul leave his body as he transformed and became something new. His mother had screamed. His father had called him a child of the Devil.

Each time he transformed, he remembered that pain. Those screams. The judgment. It came to him anew, as real and as hot and as blinding as when he was a child. He had tried, many times, to ignore those memories. To forget them.

But they still came. Each and every time he transformed.

Unholstering his machine pistol, Robber Fly took off, buzzing up into the sky, surveying the landscape around him. Of course, being a fly, his vision was a blurred smear of color and movement. Nothing concrete and nothing detailed. He knew why he was up here.

He was bait.

So why had he listened to Talrash?

Well, for one, she was smokin' hot. But the other reason was because he found he just didn't care.

***

“There's a guy up there.”

Ever-True pointed. Becenti glanced up. Indeed, as he squinted he could make out a figure lazily figuring through the sky.

“Robber Fly,” he said, “Must be Talrash's group.”

“That's a trap, if I've ever seen one,” Ever-True said.

“Agreed,” Becenti said, “I had hoped that Talrash's group would have been eliminated. But...”

He shook his head.

“No,” he said, “We meet them up close and personal, if we have to.”

“Sure we'll be able to match them?” Ever-True said, “We're down two.”

“...I'm not,” Becenti admitted, “So let's hope someone else takes them out.”

Indeed, Robber Fly was struck by something, and began spiraling back towards the earth...

***

There was a dome-headed poser who was flying up to catch the falling fly, intercepting him and carrying him back towards the ground, draconic wings flapping to stay aloft for a brief moment before he landed, the fly in his arms like a princess.

Analyza had to snicker at that. Silicon was pointing at the fly, who let out a scream as the glass shrapnel he had sent out dug into the tendons in the man's arm. His scream, warped by his transformed state, echoed across the plains.

Ana's blood ran cold, but she didn't say that out loud. Pocket was pulling free bits and pieces of a sniper rifle, clicking everything into place. Silicon stared out, a blank expression on his face as he observed the other group's reactions.

“They're pulling back,” Analyza whispered, binoculars in hand, “The mercenary is taking out a medical kit. The golden one is breathing in-”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Oh fuck,” she said, “It's Talrash.”

“A child of Drengar,” Silicon smiled, “A challenge.”

“She's breathing in,” Analyza said, “Should we...?”

“No,” Silicon said.

Glass was forming in front of them, a solid wall between them and her. There was no sound to Talrash's breath. No warning, as a line of gold thundered across the salt flats, crashing against the glass shield, parts of the wall falling away as it turned to metal, now no longer under Silicon's influence. Already she and the others were falling back.

Pock finished getting the rifle put together. She took aim. Analyza grimaced.

The shot had a deafening sort of ka-chunk that Ana had always hated. Her stomach rolled as she saw smoke rise from the rifle's barrel. Pocket's face lined into a frown as she stared down the sights.

“No good,” she said, “They've erected a... a wall, of some sorts.”

“A wall?” Silicon said, “Of what?”

“I don't know. It's rippling, like a mirage.”

Silicon's brow furrowed.

“No, it can't be,” he said, “Shimmer wouldn't... not with Talrash...”

“Shimmer?” Pocket said.

“An old associate of mine,” Silicon said, “An idealist, shall we say. To see him consorting with the Manticore's own stock is... Well, I know desperate times calls for desperate allies, but this is a new low.”

Pocket nodded at that, lowering her rifle.

“Odd, if he's in armor like that.”

“With wings,” Silicon said, “But the multiverse is vast. It could be him. It could be someone like him. It matters little.”

He glanced down at Analyza.

“Attend to your love,” he said.

Pocket looked at Ana. She was shaking, her teeth gritted. Laying the rifle down, she knelt down by her partner, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“Love,” she said, “Ana, are you...?”

“Fine,” Analyza said, “You know how it is. I'm fine.”

“I won't use something like that again,” Pocket said.

“Kinda have to, Pock,” Analyza said. She took a deep breath, “I don't want you going out on me because you didn't you throw everything you've got at some fink.”

“We could turn back,” Pocket said, “This is getting a bit much.”

“We drew straws,” Analyza said, “I want to see the future.”

Pocket studied Ana's face for a few moments. But she nodded.

“Alright, then,” she said, “We go forward.”

“Talrash's group is retreating,” Silicon said, “A mere prod, a few injuries. Nothing more.”

“We'll keep them at arm's length,” Pocket said, “At least until we get to Visionary.”

Silicon nodded.

“Agreed.”

***

Joseph found he did not grow tired in this shadowed mirror world. He walked, step after step, without feeling even an ounce of fatigue. Sometimes he would draw ahead of Oliphant, sometimes he would fall back. But his body felt exactly the same.

And they had been walking for what seemed to be an eternity.

And they were alone.

That part was what started getting to Joseph. Any conversation he and Oliphant shared died as the Silver Knight eyed the landscape with a dark air of suspicion, hand always hovering at his sword's hilt like a drifter at high noon. Joseph wondered how the man found the energy to remain at high alert at all times. How exhausting that would be. How exhausted he must be.

Yet Oliphant did not waver. Did not stop. Perhaps this shadow world fit him nicely, gave him the energy to be a hawk 24/7, always watching the horizon for danger.

For anything. Anything at all, that's what Joseph wanted.

And, after what felt like the third day of walking, Oliphant stopped.

“A shade,” he said, “On the horizon.”

He pointed downwards. The desert slanted into another bowl, though this one was cracked and patterned like one of Nai Nai's old quilts. Joseph's soul thundered to life, glancing down to where Oliphant was pointing. His head swam as he kept his human eyes open, smirking as the Silver Knight's mailed hand came into view.

“I can see that,” he said.

Oliphant smiled back as he lowered his arm, fingers curling around his sword.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You're right,” Joseph said, “It's a shade. Looks like... a walking shadow?”

“Dangerous.”

“Maybe.”

“Probably,” Oliphant said, “Best we keep clear.”

He blinked as Joseph began stepping down, measuring each step as he began picking a careful path into the basin.

“Joseph!” Oliphant said.

But Joseph ignored him, his foot giving way for a moment, letting him slid down a bit before he caught his footing and continued his descent. Cursing to himself, Oliphant followed him down.

“You're an idiot,” Oliphant said.

“I know,” Joseph said, “But it's the first thing we've seen that isn't rock and gravel.”

“...I suppose,” Oliphant said, “But we've got no idea-”

“That it could be something good?”

“That it could be something that wants to kill us!”

“So it's a fifty/fifty,” Joseph said, “You've got a point. But it could be-”

He found himself sliding again. With a huff, he slid down to near the bottom of the hill and jumped off, landing in the grit.

“It could be a ticket out of here.”

“I don't agree,” Oliphant said.

“Look,” Joseph said, “If it turns out to be bad, we'll kill it. If it's not, it's not.”

Oliphant rolled his eyes.

“You guildfolk are too reckless for your own good.”

“I've learned you have to be,” Joseph said, “Come on.”

***

The shade, Joseph noted, seemed both real and yet not, a strange paradox somewhere between solid and gaseous. It carried itself like it had mass – and indeed, it was a large being, easily a head taller than Oliphant, round and bulbous like a walking mound of glue. The shade's head was cast down, staring at the ground, as though in shame. It plodded across the basin slowly, each stepping seeming to take a monumental effort, the world on its shoulders.

If if had noticed Joseph or Oliphant, it made no indication.

“Congratulations,” Oliphant said, “It's a big, sad shadow.”

“Sure,” Joseph said, “It... Yeah, it is.”

“Any idea what it is?” Oliphant said.

“...No,” Joseph said, “I don't.”

“Some Far Traveler you are.”

“I'm not a Far Traveler!” Joseph said, “Brand new to the big multi-U, remember?”

“Fair,” Oliphant said, “But you're the one who wanted to get close to it.”

The shade made another plod forward. Stopped. Continued to stare at the ground.

“Now what?” Oliphant said.

Joseph continued to study the being. With a (slightly trembling) finger, he poked the shade. His finger went right through, as though it were nothing more than a mirage.

“Well, that didn't work,” he said.

“Great,” Oliphant said, “Got any other ideas?”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Oliphant said, “We keep walking.”

“We've kept walking for the last few days, it feels,” Joseph said, “Or years. Or hours. I don't know, I don't give a shit.”

“We'll find the end eventually.”

“Will we?”

“We will,” Oliphant said, a finality to his tone, “Come on.”

Joseph, bristling at the demand, continued to study the shade.

“Joseph, we're wasting time. Let's go.”

“Hang on,” Joseph replied, “I have an idea.”

He had studied with Becenti on the origins of metahumanity quite a bit, especially during the final lead-up to the expedition to Chliofrond. Metahumanity's abilities were pulled from the metagene, attuned to the place between worlds and realities, where, it was said, possibility flowed like blood through the vein, like a soul through an electrical circuit.

His hand became wrapped in soul, a glowing cobalt claw that washed the gray to blue. Some of the only color in this blasted landscape. He could hear Oliphant grunt behind him and put his hand once more to the hilt of his blade.

“It's fine,” Joseph said, “I got this.”

With soul in hand, he made a scratch at the shade.

***

Meloche looked up from where he had been staring at the ground. He felt something prodding him, something...

Scratching at him. He glanced to the right, but could see nothing. Yet the itching continued, just on his right arm, where the elbow could be, so deep it seemed to dig into his arm beneath all of the sap. For a moment, he felt a moment of apprehension. But mortal vision could see very little, in the long run.

Part of traveling was the opening of one's eyes to all possibilities.

This one would require ritual. Kneeling down, he began to drag a finger into the salt, etching out the barest outline of a rune. It was an old magic, from Covenrand. He was no Aldr Fatebreaker, but he was still at least somewhat passable in the art. This rune was a flowing thing, very unlike the usual make. Circles within circles, drawn almost lazily on the ground. Covenrand rune-making was an active geometry equation. Each stroke needed to be precise, the closest reproduction one could get to the ancient World Runes that adorned the Elder Rise. It was no coincidence that the greatest runemakers were also mathematicians.

But Meloche was a philosopher, so his rune was a poor imitation of the real thing. But it was sufficient, as he breathed life into the symbol, which flared blue for a second, then purple.

Ah, now he could see them. Shades. Two of them. Victims of a lichworm, or something equivalent. Trapped in some dusk-hued mirror. Meloche heaved a sigh at the sight of them. Communication would be difficult, but not impossible.

Well, then, better to get them out.

***

The figure had drawn into the ground. Oliphant and Joseph looked at one another, and stepped back as the shade breathed into the symbol, letting it flare purple, then blue.

“A rune,” Oliphant said, “I wish Maker were here.”

“A rune guy?” Joseph asked.

“Aye. Studies runes from around the world,” Oliphant said, “He'd be better at this than me.”

He knelt down and considered the etching. It was what seemed to be dozens of circles that looped and curved into one another, forming something that made Joseph's head spin.

The shade pointed at them, then at the ground.

“Well, it's not a destructive rune,” Oliphant concluded, “Not yet.”

“Think he wants us to do something with it?” Joseph asked.

“...Perhaps,” the Silver Knight drew out his blade, a solid beam of light in the darkness. He lightly tapped the rune with its tip, causing it to burn blue for a moment.

The shade responded to that with a tapping of the rune, his own touch smearing a bit of it. A full half of it became purple.

“Odd,” Oliphant said, “Try going for it now.”

Joseph nodded, pressing a claw against the barest edge of the rune. It sparked at his hand, a surprising jolt that made him recoil back. An odd feeling playing at his hands.

He had just been shocked.

“Been a while since that happened,” he commented.

“Look , above the rune,” Oliphant said, “It's rippling.”

Indeed, the air over the rune wavered as though under Becenti's influence. The two of them stared at it. The shade gave a thumbs-up.

“Right,” Joseph said, shaking his hand to numb it back to life, “Well, we did something right.”

The shade put their hands together. Pointed at Joseph, then at Oliphant.

“We don't have to hug, do we?” Joseph said.

“No,” Oliphant said, “At least, I hope not.”

“Thanks.”

There was a moment where they continued watching the shade, who perhaps realized what they were trying to convey wasn't getting across to them. They stood back up to their full height, pointed at Joseph, then made a motion, as though they were holding a sword. Oliphant's brow furrowed at that.

“Alright, then,” he said.

He patted Joseph on the shoulder, presenting the sword to him. Joseph blinked.

“I'm sorry?” he said.

“Take the sword,” Oliphant said, “Touch the rune with it. Make sure your soul's the one doing the holding, alright?”

“Are you... are you sure?”

“If it gets us out of here, then it's our best shot.”

Joseph, swallowing down his nervousness, wrapped an electrical claw around the sword's hilt. It was heavier than he would have imagined, dipping a bit as Oliphant removed his hold over it.

“This is Durandal,” Oliphant said, “The blade of Roland. It can cut through solid rock as though it were butter.”

“I'll be careful around rocks, then,” Joseph murmured, “S-sorry, it's just...”

“A lot, I know,” Oliphant said, “It feels like the weight of the world, doesn't it? Hold it tight, don't let it slip, and do what needs to be done.”

Joseph nodded, setting his jaw as he lowered the blade towards the rune. His hand began sparking up again as sword touched symbol, his soul revolting against him as he spasmed and splashed against his skin. The air above the rune continued to pulse and undulate, faster and faster as Joseph held Durandal fast against the rune.

And then...

“Joseph,” Oliphant said, “Move the sword up.”

And he did so. Slowly at first, the blade of Roland cutting through the air, tearing a hole between realities. Heat assaulted them all at once, hot and blistering and real. A massive being made out of dark sap stood on the other side. They reached out a hand.

One that Oliphant took. With a heave, the sap-being pulled him back into Prime. The two of them looked at Joseph.

“You'll need to be quick!” the sap-being said, “Quickly now, jump!”

And Joseph jumped, the rent closing behind him, the stale cold of that dark-lit realm swallowed completely by the unending heat of Death Valley. Oliphant stopped him before he tumbled to the ground, standing him up and slapping him on the back.

“Excellent!” he said, “My God, man, you're a natural.”

“Th-Thanks,” Joseph said, “Here, your sword...”

He presented Durandal back to Oliphant, who took it.

Who did not sheath it, as he considered their rescuer.

“Right then,” he said, “You are?”

“I am Meloche,” the sap-being said, “And you would be Oliphant, head of the Silver Knights.”

“Aye,” Oliphant said.

“I suppose you're here to arrest me.”

“I...” Oliphant gave Meloche a look, “Perhaps.”

“Jesus, you can't be serious,” Joseph said, “He just saved our lives!”

“He's also a metahuman in Death Valley, presumably after the same thing we are,” Oliphant said.

“The Visionary?” Meloche said, “You'd be correct.”

Oliphant glared at him.

“All of this, for a damn criminal,” he muttered, “What even is she, to you?”

“An opportunity,” Meloche said.

“Oliphant, don't,” Joseph said.

“There's a chance we'll come to blows later on, isn't there?” Oliphant said.

“Perhaps,” Meloche said, “What even is she, to you?”

“A war criminal,” Oliphant said.

“And you don't want your future seen, yes?”

That made Oliphant stop for a moment. Joseph could have blanched, his eyes widening, at the realization that the thought of asking for the future had never, ever crossed the Silver Knight’s mind. Oliphant stood for an uncomfortable few seconds, staring at the ground, as he processed it.

Then...

“No,” he said, “I suppose I don't.”

His voice sounded hollow, as though he were trying to convince himself.

“But I do,” Meloche said, “Surely, we can come to an agreement. You want to apprehend her, I want to see the future. Our two goals need not misalign.”

“You see her, after I arrest her.”

“Or, you arrest her, and I see her in prison. One of the two.”

Oliphant chewed on those words.

“...Fine,” Oliphant said, “Deal. We go to Earthmute together.”

He began stomping off again. Joseph fell in line, keeping pace with him.

The Silver Knight did not sheathe his sword.

***

There was a sign in the distance that, just barely, read 'Sea Level.' It was high up on one of the nearby mountains, battered and abandoned to time, the white paint having scratched away long ago. Ever-True found herself stopping to stare at it, a thin frown on her face. It was the first sign of civilization they had seen in several days, having been doing nothing but hiking up and down the basin, Furnace Creek Ranch seeming like a dull memory in comparison to the barren nothing that was Death Valley.

It reminded her that, long ago, people had lived out here.

“I remember visiting here, you know,” Becenti said, “When I was younger. It was just after the United States had taken this part of the country from the Manticore.”

“So you never saw it before the war.”

“No, I hadn't,” Becenti said, “I was on leave, visiting Prime, catching up with a few of my old friends. One of them was stationed out here. Eduardo, I think. We hiked down here, too. Saw that same sign.”

“...And what happened to Eduardo?”

“What do you think?” Becenti's voice was cold and grim, “Come on. We're wasting time.”

They were aware, dimly, of some battle on the peripheral horizon. One seemed to be a metahuman of flame by the looks of it, great gouts belching out from the salt plains like ash from a volcano. The other seemed to have no obvious power, but the flames warped in response to them, guided by their owners to strike at the small figure who ducked and weaved.

Eventually, the flames consumed them, and went out. Becenti's frown deepened.

“Be ready,” he said, “Be ready for anything. At any moment.”

“Got it,” Ever-True said. She had already unholstered her javelin.

But nothing accosted them as they went across the salt flats. They walked, occasionally trading warnings to the other, for the most part keeping quiet as they went. There was very little wind, if any, here. All was silence, the world itself pregnant with a tension that buzzed in both of their stomachs and made the hair on their necks stand on end.

It was Becenti and Ever-True who were among the first to find an opening into the Earthmute. A door made of sandstone that lay on the ground as though abandoned. Etchings were carved into it, images of the distant past, of Epochians of all kingdoms walking towards a table. Some had wings. Others had fangs. Some walked on many legs, some were made of the stars themselves. Becenti studied it for a moment.

“It's...” Ever-True said, “God, that's some...”

“Like looking at a museum piece,” Becenti said.

“Yes.”

Without ceremony, Becenti got to work, stooping down to grab one side of it. After a second's hesitation, Ever-True followed suit, grabbing the other side. As one, they pried the top of the door off, tossing the art piece aside. The other side was a hole, one that yawned down into the earth. Ever-True took out a match, struck it alight, and dropped it down.

“Only a few feet,” she said, “A jump.”

“An invitation, not a death trap,” Becenti said, “Earthmute was a place of meeting, after all.”

He jumped down, landing with a huff on cool stone. He glanced up.

“Come on,” he said, “We've a seer to catch.”

Ever-True nodded, leaping down. The sun shone from the open door above, revealing their immediate surroundings, a small clearing that smelled faintly of dust and age. More paintings lined the walls, so old that Ever-True was afraid to touch them, for fear the paint would disintegrate.

Beyond that was nothing but claustrophobic darkness. A tunnel, one that slanted downwards into the earth. Becenti felt around his pack for a moment, producing a small flashlight that he clicked on. It didn't feel like enough as he stepped out of the clearing and into the darkness.

Ever-True stood stock still, watching him.

“...Are you alright?” Becenti said.

“I'm just,” Ever-True took a deep breath, “Scared.”

Becenti gave a smirk, though it was oddly devoid of mockery.

“Of the dark?” he prodded.

“Yeah.”

“Well, we all have to be afraid of something,” Becenti said, “It's alright, Eve. But we can't let our fears rule over us.”

“I know,” Ever-True said, “I'll be fine.”

Becenti nodded.

And offered a hand.

“It's dark,” he said, “And this place could easily become maze-like. Best we stick together.”

She took the hand, and he began guiding her into the tunnel. She felt her heart leap into her throat as she became fully swallowed by the darkness, the thin beam of the flashlight just barely cutting through the murk. It was cold – far colder than she imagined. It were as though Death Valley above did not exist.

As though they had left Prime entirely, and come to someplace far older.

“Careful, now,” Becenti said, “Can you hear that?”

They stopped. Ever-True craned a nervous ear. There were the sounds of dripping water, of what seemed to be a river of some sort rushing underneath them, on some lower level.

And there were also screams.

“We're not alone,” Becenti said, “Of course we're not. Keep a steady eye. And be ready.”

“Right,” Ever-True said, “I'm with you.”

The pitch-black seemed to laugh at her.

But she stayed her course.

There was work to be done.