“Becenti.”

Meloche's voice cut through the green-hued shadow. Through the guilt.. Becenti glanced up to see the old philosopher supporting Ever-True. The young superhero was clutching her head, her face cast down in tired, groggy pain. The old sap-man himself looked exhausted, presumably from having to heave his bulk up the length of one of the stone bridges, pulling himself up and back onto the bridge Ever-True had leaped to during the battle.

Joseph – Thank God, still alive – stood behind them. He looked just as torn up as the other two, his shirt and jacket reduced to shreds, cuts lining his arms and knuckles. There was a hollow look to him, as though he had lost some of his fire.

He kept glancing down at the corpse of Talrash at Becenti's feet. The boy was smart, and he was putting two and two together. But he said nothing. Becenti himself sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Right,” he said, “The game is still on, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” Meloche said, “We have to hurry, now.”

Joseph walked over, stepping over the golden carcass, and extended out a hand.

“Let's go,” his voice was a broken whisper, “Come on, don't leave me with the losers of the group.”

“Meloche is no loser,” Becenti murmured, “It would do you well to respect your elders, Mr. Zheng.”

“God, you sound like my dad,” Joseph said, “You're really going to do that to me?”

He gave a sad smile to the older man, a recognition of what had transpired. His hand was still out, still offered to Becenti.

A murderer didn't deserve a man like Joseph. But Becenti took it nonetheless, the younger pulling up the older to his feet.

“Where's Oliphant?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Joseph said, “Thought he was with you.”

The earth began to shake. The group looked, as one, to see the ceiling above opening up, a rent in the ground towards the night, with its starry sky that looked far too similar to the jewel-peppered ceiling of Earthmute's caverns. The room of statues began falling away, stone histories sinking into the sand, and they all felt a rising as the world simultaneously drew up towards the surface and fell away to a dark, lonely pit.

And they were, once more, alone. In the desert, away from the salt plains. The moon watched them overhead, just bright enough to illuminate the world, for them to see a couple of lonely cacti and the interstate.

“Far outside Death Valley, then,” Becenti said, “Must have moved quickly to build up energy. A planeshift.”

“I thought...”

“Traveling Points are safe,” Becenti said, “But not the only way to move across the multiverse.”

“Looks like we're not alone,” Meloche said. He nodded, and just a bit north of them was Pocket and her lover. The dark-skinned woman cradled Pocket's head in her hands, one stick-like leg bent horribly, tears streaming down her face as she silently wept. Meloche began approaching them, and as he did she picked up her hammer and raised it.

“S-Stay back,” she snarled, “Stay back!”

“I'm not here to hurt you, elline,” Meloche said, “It's over. It's done. No more fighting.”

“No... more?”

“No more,” Meloche said, “May I take a look at your friend?”

“More than a friend,” the dark-skinned woman said, and a fresh breakdown overtook her, “More than a friend. W-we drew s-straws, goddammit...”

But she let Meloche look Pocket over, the old mound taking stock of her wounds, taking out a few bandages from his bag, applying them here and there.

“She'll live, I believe,” Meloche said, and he was surprised at how much relief he felt at the news, “What is your name, elline?”

“A-Analyza.”

“Well, Analyza, if you will, I'd like to take a look at your leg there...”

She complied, and as the philosopher did his best with what rudimentary skill he had, Ever-True glanced past and saw Oliphant. She pointed him out to Becenti, and they made their way over. Joseph took one last look at the body of Talrash before he trailed after them.

Oliphant looked forlorn. Lost. An empty look in his eyes as he simply stared off towards the distant mountains. Noticeably bereft of a Visionary. Ever-True took charge, approaching, blinking the pain out of her head as best she could as he tapped him on the shoulder.

“Sir.”

Oliphant stared.

“Sir!”

He started, before he turned towards Ever-True.

“D-Don't call me 'sir,'” he said.

“Oliphant.”

He swallowed, and gave a nod, the void still hanging on his face.

“Visionary, Oliphant. What happened?” Ever-True asked.

“I...” Oliphant blinked, “She got away. Right as I got to her.”

There was such obvious loss in his voice, such a blatant hiding of the truth, that it all but slapped Eve in the face. But as she thought of a way to voice her concern, the radio communicator clicked back on.

“Oliphant? Eve?” Seismic's voice crackled to life, “Come in, Oli and Eve. Come in.”

Oliphant pulled himself together, clicking the communicator.

“Yeah, Mick. It's us.”

“Jesus Christ, you guys are the worst,” Seismic sighed, “Where the hell have you been? You broke contact as soon as you entered Death Valley.”

Oliphant nodded.

“It'll be in my report,” he said.

“Are you-”

“Yes. Arrange for a pickup for...”

He looked over at the ragtag group of metahumans. No doubt more in the desert, stragglers still warring against one another. A part of him wondered if they'd stop, now that Earthmoot and Visionary were gone.

Visionary.

Oliphant went silent again.

“Boss?”

“Oliphant,” Ever-True said, “Look.”

She nodded, and the Silver Knight looked over. In the distance was Robber Fly and the Domehead. The Domehead was lifting the other mercenary over his shoulder. His other hand held the discarded plasma pistol, which he pointed at the group as he took a few steps back. Even with the vast desert between them, Eve could make out the white of his eyes, the haggard, tired look on his young face.

“...Let them go,” Oliphant said.

“Oliphant?”

“We're in no shape for a pursuit,” Oliphant said, “We'll track where they go.”

They watched as the Domehead moved further and further away from him, pistol still pointed, until he was a dark spot on an even darker sky.

“Boss,” Seismic said, “I'm detecting a ship. It's nearby, moving closer. Should I...?”

“No,” Oliphant said, “No. Keep your sensors on it if it tries anything funny, but I don't think it's here for a scrap. I need a transport for seven people. All of us are injured, so make sure there are doctors onboard.”

“...Sir,” Seismic said, “Respectfully, I'd like to point out that-”

“Don't call me 'sir,' and do as I say.”

There was silence on the other line for a few brief seconds. The Domehead's ship filtered into view, only able to be made out by a few lights that lined neon against the night, a strange, orbular vessel that floated over the mercenaries, a light shining down and caking them like a solar flare.

Then, they were gone. Brought inside the ship, like a UFO taking cows in a pasture. The ship veered away from the Silver Knights and metahumans. With a great bang that echoed through the desert, it took off towards the atmosphere and into space.

“Right,” Seismic said, “One transport. It's on its way.”

Oliphant nodded. He clicked off the line.

They waited in muted silence, the only sounds being that of the wind and Meloche's whispers to Ana as he applied salves to her leg.

***

The Domehead peeled his helmet off while onboard the ship, taking a deep breath and leaning back in his chair. Robber Fly was on the bed next to him, an IV port in his arm and his entire body covered in bandages. The paramedics aboard the vessel had seen to his wounds as quickly as they could, weaving spellwork and modern medicine to re-set and re-puzzle broken and shattered bones. Internal wounds were sutured back together, gels were applied to the bruises, and a dark ritual was invoked to bind his spine together with a dark, jellyfish-like creature, its individual tendrils snaking out and holding bits and pieces together.

It was as much they could do to pull him back together. Further healing would be done when they returned to base. But it was enough for him to wake up, albeit unable to move much save for his mouth, a painful wriggling at the base of his back as the thing they had inserted into his body pulsated and drank minute drips of his bloodstream.

“...We didn't win, did we?” he moaned.

The Domehead didn't answer. But that was answer enough. Robber Fly grimaced, but even that movement was enough to cause needles of pain to lance down his neck.

“Christ,” he growled, “Feels like I was hit by a truck.”

“...You have been hit by a truck before?” the Domehead asked.

“Twice, kid.”

The young mercenary nodded. He held his plasma pistol gingerly, taking a small wipe and cleaning its barrel of grime and dust. His face gave no emotion, no reaction to what they had just gone through.

Just cleaning, the gentle sound of brushing cloth mixing with the somber hum of the ship's engine and the distant scream of the Warp.

“Talrash didn't make it, did she?” Robber Fly said.

“No. Shimmer.”

“Shimmer?” Robber Fly said, “Damn. Messed up. She was...”

“Not kind.”

“Hot,” Robber Fly chuckled, though that caused him to wince, “Surprised you picked me up, kid. I was a goner.”

The Domehead did not respond. Robber Fly supposed he couldn't really call him that anymore. Domehead. Mercenary. He was just a kid, truly. Barely eighteen, maybe, just following the orders given to him. Robber Fly had seen dozens of his kind before in this kind of job. Messed-up kids, mere experiments by those insane dregs of the Sons of Darwin, forced into a life of combat and warfare, withdrawing into themselves and becoming like stone. Simple reaction, and nothing more.

Yet he had saved Robber Fly's life. He could have left him in the dirt, in Earthmute, wherever. His superiors would even have encouraged that.

Robber Fly gave another pained chuckle.

“You're not bad, kid,” he said.

***

The Songbird arrived a few hours later, just when the sun was starting to rise. By then, Meloche – now joined by Becenti – had gone through the painful process of re-setting Ana's leg and attending to her wounds.

A being in armor stepped out of the ship, an apparent battleship with arms and legs, her entire surface rippling slightly. Joseph felt a whisper in the back of his head as they took stock of the situation, similar to when he was with Phineas at times.

“Acero,” Oliphant said.

“You look like you've had quite an interesting time,” a woman's voice came out of the suit of steel, “Come on, we've got paramedics onboard.”

She guided them onto the Songbird, where a full team of medical practitioners got to work going over their injuries, their voices quick and clipped as they quickly patched up the more egregious wounds. They loaded Pocket onto a stretcher, connecting IV ports and applying gauze to her head, watching her carefully.

Ana kept her eyes on Oliphant the entire time, even as the paramedics took a look at her leg. In her square eyes was a mixture of fear and desperation. Oliphant avoided locking with her gaze, guilt eating away at him as the paramedics wrapped his arm up in gauze, peeling away his armor like a lobster's shell.

Joseph was attended to next, though they found that most of the cuts running up and down his body, arms, and face were surface-level.

Most of the deeper cuts had been on the soul.

“They sting, though,” Joseph said.

“That's good,” the paramedic looking him over said, “If it stings, it means it's not too deep. Do you need a shirt?”

“Yeah. I feel alright. Seriously, go check on someone else.”

The paramedic nodded, wrapping a blanket around Joseph and moving off to help with Becenti, three of his coworkers puzzling over the older man's golden hand and skin.

“We'll need a spell for this,” one of them was muttering, “Goddamn wizards, I hate working with them...”

Joseph chuckled at that, leaning back. Meloche walked over and sat across from him, a similar blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak, a cup of hot chocolate in his hands.

“My paramedic didn't give me any hot chocolate,” Joseph said.

“Your paramedic wasn't Lucinda,” Meloche said, “A very kind woman.”

“Hmm,” Joseph said, leaning back against his chair. His look was hard as he stared at the ceiling.

“You’re alright, then?” Meloche asked.

“As much as I can be.”

Meloche shrugged at that.

“...Joseph,” Meloche said, “What do you want in life?”

“Who, me?” Joseph said, “I'm not sure. I want to go home, I guess.”

“Your home?”

“Earth. I'm from Earth.”

There was a low rumbling as Meloche processed those words. He took a sip of his hot chocolate, the liquid pouring into the molasses and, as though in slow motion, traveling to the silhouetted skeleton that was the philosopher's true form.

“Earth. Not in forecast. Not for a while. How did you get here?”

“...Where to begin?,” Joseph said.

He told Meloche of his arrival into the greater multiverse, of Anuté and Inweth, of his time in the guild. Throughout his talks, his quiet conversations in whispers and mutters, the Songbird lurched onward and upwards, heading towards the Round Table, base of the Silver Knights. Becenti leaned back, listening to the conversation, though he began dozing off halfway through the flight. Oliphant merely stared forward, iron grip still on Durandal, the blade etching lines into the floor. Ever-True rested beside him, pulling out a pillow and laying down across the expanse of three of the seats. Analyza kept to herself, always by Pocket's side, her face a haunted visage as she still, even now, stared at Oliphant.

“I see,” Meloche said, as Joseph finished up, “So you're a long way from home then.”

“Yeah.”

“...And you're Zheng Chun's grandson.”

Joseph blinked.

“...You knew my Nai Nai, didn't you?”

“I suppose it makes sense,” Meloche said, more to himself than to Joseph, “She was from Earth, but didn't talk about it. You share the same family name.”

“You knew her, though.”

“She was a colleague of mine,” Meloche said.

“Was she at Ludaya?”

“No, she wasn't,” Meloche said, “Your grandmother, she was a free spirit. Refused to be tied down to any one place.”

Joseph thought of her last years, back on Earth, alone in her old, three-story house. Practically trapped there, in the last months. The thought made him uncomfortable.

“Why are you just telling me now?” he said.

“Because I've only just put two and two together,” Meloche rumbled, “Zheng Chun was not a name your grandmother used often, not out here. I only learned her old name after several years of working with her.”

“...She had a metahuman name.”

“Yes,” Meloche said, “Yes, she did.”

“What was it?” Joseph asked.

“Fēngbào,” Meloche said, “It was Fēngbào.”

Joseph nodded, digesting the news. Nai Nai was a metahuman, he had pieced together that much. But the realization that people knew her, that she worked with people, that she had a life out here, gave him pause.

His old man took them out to visit her at least once a year. Often, this had been in the summer. Joseph thought this was because everyone was out of school, and they could afford the time to make the trip up north.

But now?

Theories etched themselves into his mind. Meloche, evidently noting Joseph's concentrated look, leaned in.

“You want to get home.”

“Yeah.”

“I may be able to help you,” the philosopher said, “I have colleagues. Friends. Favors I can call in.”

Joseph wasn't sure how to respond. A pinprick of something like excitement began fluttering in his chest.

“Give me a few weeks. You'll be staying at your guildhall, yes?”

“Y-Yeah,” Joseph said, “Castle Belenus, on Londoa. City called Scuttleway.”

“Good, good,” Meloche said.

“...Why are you doing this?” Joseph asked.

“Because you listened to me,” Meloche said, “Because you let me talk about Eco. Because you're Fēngbào’s grandson, and a bright one, at that. Because you want to go home. And-”

He glanced over to the sleeping form of Becenti, making sure the older man was still asleep before continuing.

“...And because you've obviously had little help in that regard with your guild.”

Those last words stung, and Joseph felt his stomach shrivel. They had given him books. Time to research. But more often than not, he had been shuffled from mission to mission, with very little in between.

His conversation – more of a subtle argument – with Wakeling came back to his mind, an unbidden and unpleasant memory. The one chance to research Anuté and Inweth, gone. Because she forbade it. A chance to get home, washed away.

She had known Fēngbào – Nai Nai – hadn’t she? She had been aware of her. Knew more of her than she let on. And yet she had done little to help.

On some level, he could not deny Meloche's words.

With a sigh, Joseph nodded. Clasped his hands together, tried to stop thinking about the aching in his body, the emptiness of his soul.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” Meloche said, “Castle Belenus. Londoa. Scuttleway.”

“I'll look for the letter.”

He gave the philosopher a tired smile.

The ship lurched on, higher and higher, to the realm of moon and stars.

***

Gaiusaia was a dark world, among the few planets explored and settled in the Milky Way. Despite the Federation's insistence on absolute authority of the multiverse, the galaxy that Prime resided in was still a blind spot to their eyes. They had outposts and bases, of course, warships that trawled the Sol System on patrols through the multiverse, but the Alu'eer had arrived on Prime, saw the Milky Way, saw the countless galaxies that peppered the plane, the millions of discs and trillions of stars and the endless possibility...

The pure possibility...

And they had shut the door back up. Ignored Prime. Let it develop on its own. They had their own galaxy to worry about, and the resources to settle and colonize an entire plane that was larger than the Silver Eye by several million degrees was a project that would cost far too much. For the First Men, for all of their god-like science, for all of the whispers spoken about their grandeur, were a quiet, almost isolated people, who viewed the multiverse more as trouble than opportunity.

Or so it was said.

The result was that Gaiusaia had escaped the notice of the Federation's war against the Manticore. It was one of the few places to do so, a planet of near-constant rain, of swamps that glowed red in the muck.

It was Manny's home, as he stepped off of the ship, casting a glance as attendants wheeled out Robber Fly to the medical wing. The young man watched them snake along the path, the rain falling heavy around them, a red streak of lightning flashing across the world for a brief moment, followed by a cacophonous boom.

Manny stared down at the plasma pistol in his hand, giving it one last once-over, and then holstered it. He began following the attendants down the road to the bulbous base of the Sons.

Scientists ruled Gaiusaia. They had ruled the Manticore's empire, just as much as the Manticore himself. Their forbidden experiments, their delving into the sinful and the profane, had brought forth monstrosities and technologies that had formed the backbone of the guild's military might. Those that had avoided the Federation's gaze, who had hidden while the Federation either arrested or recruited their compatriots, were here. Manny stepped past men and women in white lab coats, talking to themselves, a pair of whom were pushing a cart with a hand in a vat. He dodged past a couple of military officers, their uniforms emblazoned with dozens of medals, as they glared at the young mercenary.

And made his way to the lab of Doctor Matergabia. A dark place, for she said that the harsh, artificial light of the base interfered with her work. She kept her lab dark, the only sources of light being vials of bright neon liquids that bubbled and frothed. Manny stepped inside without ceremony, standing up straight as he waited for her to turn around.

She did not as she said, “So it's done, then.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Matergabia said.

“Yes, ma'am,” Manny amended.

“Good,” Matergabia said, “But I don't see a Visionary.”

“No, ma'am,” Manny said, “We failed.”

“I see,” the doctor went over to one of her experiments, a clear liquid being suffused through an alembic, adjusting the small fire beneath the instrument, “And Talrash?”

“Dead.”

“Poor dear, but she always had a way of getting in over her head with these sorts of operations. She should have brought you and Jericho. You'll be pleased, Jericho's returned from his mission as well.”

Manny hid his smile, keeping his face resolute as he said, “Good.”

Matergabia turned around, a wrinkled mess of age and ingenuity, bent with time, her hands needle-like as she clasped them together, approaching Manny and looking up at him with storming, sharp gray eyes.

“Well? Any interesting abilities?”

“Not many,” Manny said, “A lot of the combat faced was long-distance. I only obtained one of note. It's fading.”

“Fading?” Matergabia nodded, “Well, not surprising. Show me.”

Manny brought out a hand, concentrating, trying to will the heat from the fire into his hand. It was harder than it was before, and he found himself breaking into a sweat as he wrenched the heat free from the flame, balling into a ripple. Matergabia nodded, then walked over to her alembic and passed a hand through the flame.

“That was an important experiment, there.”

“Sorry, ma'am.”

“No matter. How long did the power hold?”

“Several days.”

“I can increase that,” Matergabia said, “Come by later. I have tests. But eat first. Rest. I don't work with tired projects.”

Manny nodded.

“Right, ma'am,” he said.

He turned to leave.

“Manny?”

He stopped.

“Welcome back.”

“...Thanks, ma'am.”

And he walked out.

***

The Round Table was a needle in space, one with a robust medical bay, put to good use nearly 24/7. Its official purpose was to be a place for superheroes to seek medical attention, away from the prying eyes of hospitals Primeside, and considering that there were now hundreds of operatives spread across the planet, seemingly always getting into spats with various supervillains, mad scientists, and the like, it often housed at least three patients.

Three patients, now ten, as the doctors and nurses got to work patching up the survivors on the Songbird. Joseph soon found himself on a hospital bed, his cuts getting looked over, though he only needed a few bandages, and was good to go.

Becenti waved off most of them.

“I've got a guy back home,” he said, “He'll take a look at the damage that's been done.”

“Are you sure?” one of the doctors said, “We've got a witch, could bring her out here.”

“I assure you, the magician I have back on Londoa is excellent.”

He smiled, and patted them, then stood up and walked over to Joseph, sitting down at the foot of his bed.

“You mean Phineas, don't you?” Joseph said.

“He has the spellwork, he demonstrated it on Chliofrond well enough,” Becenti said, “I see you're getting comfortable.”

“I,” Joseph said, “Have been sleeping in the dirt for the last few days, fighting for my life against everything but the kitchen sink. I deserve a nice bed.”

“I suppose that's true,” Becenti said, “But seriously, Joseph. Are you...”

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the wall. On the other side of the room, a few doctors were unwrapping the bindings around Analyza's leg, getting her ready for an X-ray.

“Are you alright?”

Joseph blinked.

“...I'm fine,” he said.

Becenti nodded, but both could feel the lie. Joseph sighed, leaning his head against the pillow.

“Okay, maybe I'm not,” he said.

“Of course you wouldn't be,” Becenti said, “This was... I'm sorry, Joseph. I was in over my head with this one.”

“You think?”

Joseph's tone held real anger, but he bit it down, swallowed it like a poison, just as he had before. Becenti, to his credit, didn't react.

“I thought this would be simpler,” Becenti said, “I thought...”

“I know, man,” Joseph said, “You don't have to say it.”

Becenti nodded.

“It's alright,” Joseph said, “That's what being part of a guild is, right? Take on dangerous jobs, free room and board, and maybe they’ll help you somewhere along the way.”

“Indeed.”

Joseph resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He pushed down another angry outburst, staring hard at the ceiling. A single lamp hung above, blaring above like an ugly white sun. It looked almost mundane, in comparison to everything else aboard the space station.

Mundane.

That’s what he needed. What he wanted.

“...They have a San Fran here, right?”

“A... San Fran, Mr. Zheng?”

“San Francisco,” Joseph said, “There was... There was this Mexican place that me and my friends always used to go to. I'm wondering if it's here. On Prime.”

Becenti nodded.

“They have a San Francisco here, yes.”

“...Can we check it out?”

“Of course, Joseph,” Becenti said, “Come, let's get out of here.”

***

The Amber Foundation left the Round Table after getting Joseph's wounds treated. Becenti, of course, refused their medical officials, brushing them off, only lingering to arrange for a pickup for their ship.

“I want her in one piece,” he said, “There was a hole through her hull, but she landed like a rock. If there's anything out of place, we'll bill you.”

And with that, Seismic took them Primeside, loading them into a Songbird and flying back towards the world below. Ever-True watched them through a viewscreen, as the sleek ship became smaller and smaller against the planet's blue glow.

The doctor had told her to get plenty of rest. A concussion was normal, in her line of work. Superheroes sustained more concussions than football players, which is why so many of them went coo-coo by the end of their careers. The doctor had said that with a smile on his face, but it was enough to make Eve take the injury seriously. So she would rest, preferably in a dark room, to give her brain time to recover. No field work, no observation duty, nothing but rest.

But first, she had to talk to Oliphant. The doctor had given her an ice pack to hold against the back of her head to reduce the swelling, but she found she liked holding it against her temple as she walked, it helped numb the pain pulsing through it, just a bit for her to be able to think clearly. She held it even now as she stepped into the lift, then down the hallway to Oliphant's quarters.

His room was once Silver Arthur's room, and Arthur himself had been quite the show-off. The entire place was hued in brass, circular in nature, a ramp curving up along the walls and leading to the bedroom proper. Shelves lined these walls, atop which were books taken as trophies from supervillain's walls, artifacts from the Golden Age, skulls of Dragons and shattered blades, the fragmented remains of the Time's Arrow, a vial of green goo which seemed to speak whispers in her ear. All of them from Silver Arthur's age.

Oliphant's belongings, of which he kept few, were scattered on the floor. His armor, peeled off like a crab's molt, worn by Death Valley, still caked in sand and grit. Durandal itself was lying on the ramp, a deep cut in the floor indicating where Oliphant had dragged its tip before releasing it from his hold altogether.

The man himself sat at his bed, in civilian wear, sweatpants and a white shirt. He had not even shaved after returning, and his face was cast in the shadow of his beard. His arm had been bound, but he had refused the doctors, much like Becenti had. They would get to him later. So instead, he sat at his bed, staring at the wall, a bowl of Stuffy'Os in hand.

He scooped a spoonful into his mouth, and chewed. Slowly, up and down, side to side, like a cow chewing cud.

“...Oliphant?” Eve asked.

“Yeah,” he said, chewing.

“It's me, Oliphant.”

“I know,” Oliphant said, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, everything's fine,” Ever-True said, “Um... Is everything alright with you?”

Oliphant swallowed, then shoveled another bite into his mouth.

“...Sir?”

“Don't call me 'sir', Eve.”

“Why?”

“Because we're not a military organization,” Oliphant said robotically, “We're peacekeepers. Heroes. Everyday folk who dress up in spandex and fight crime.”

Eve looked around the place once more, at the gadgets and trophies, at the shelves, at the window that coated the back wall of Oliphant's room, the world shimmering below.

“I'm tired, Eve.”

“I am, too.”

“No, not just that,” Oliphant said, “Tired of this life. Tired of all the pain it brings.”

Ever-True nodded, leaning against the wall in front of Oliphant, crossing her arms and looking down at him.

“Oliphant?”

He replied by taking another bite.

“...Sir.”

“Call me 'sir' again, and I'll throw you in the brig.”

“Oliphant, what happened down there?”

“That's for the mission logs, Eve. You can read them when I write it up.”

“Oliphant.”

He looked up at her, and his hard, hollow look relaxed.

“You're a lot like your brother,” he said, “You're a stubborn ass.”

“You... You didn't get Visionary, did you?” Eve said, “You had the chance, but you didn't.”

“She showed me things. She showed me what was to come. The coming months and years, how... how bleak, how long they'll be.”

He put the bowl on the nightstand. Perhaps that was why he had the cereal in the first place, to give his hands something to do, because they shook now, looked weak and skeleton-like without the gauntlets covering them. Eve realized she had never seen them before, seen Oliphant out of his uniform.

“...But that's why we're superheroes, right?” she prodded, “That's why we're here.”

“Perhaps,” Oliphant said.

Eve nodded, thinking about what to say.

“That girl...” she said, “Analyza, you broke her leg.”

“Yeah.”

“She's going to be fine, the doctors said. It was a clean break.”

“And her partner?”

“She'll be fine, too. They're going to need to have an extended stay, might need to take them Primeside to a hospital.”

“Good,” Oliphant said.

“...So we did good, then.”

“Maybe,” Oliphant said, “But don't forget, it was us who hurt them in the first place.”

“Yeah, we... we did,” Eve said, “But we ended it. We got Earthmute to leave. Now we just have to pick up anyone who's stranded down there.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

“You think we saved lives?”

“...I think we kept Prime safe,” Oliphant said, “And that's what we're here for, right? To make sure that Prime is safe. No matter the cost.”

He looked up at her, determination of a sort in his eyes, and Eve had the feeling he had been having a conversation with himself the entire time he'd been talking with her.

“Get some rest, Eve. You've more than earned it.”

Eve nodded, stepping away. She went down the ramp, then noticed that Durandal was still on the floor. Giving a quick glance back at Oliphant, she picked the sword up and propped it against the railing at the bottom, then walked out of the room.

Oliphant did nothing but stare at the wall.

***

Jericho was wearing similar armor to Manny, though he was certainly less worse for wear than his friend. While Manny was caked in dust, blood, and grime, Jericho merely had his stained with a neon yellow spray of blood. His helmet was under the crook of his arm, and he was rubbing his buzzed head, a change in hairstyle mandated by guild leadership last week for all operatives on the field. Manny knew that his friend missed his long, waving hair, as Jericho let his hand fall with a sigh, before he got a look at Manny's beat-up look.

“Dude,” Jericho said, “Why do you get the worst assignments?”

“Beats me,” Manny said, “Maybe because I'm better than you, and they know to assign me the crazy stuff.”

Jericho rolled his eyes, slapping Manny on the back as they headed into the cafeteria together. As always, the place was half-full, a shell of its former self, which once would have held thousands of people. Scientists were hastily eating their meals before they returned to work, a couple of mercenaries who were off duty were lounging and smoking cigarettes, and a nervous-looking, thin businessman eating with one of the guild leadership in the corner.

“Who's that?” Manny asked.

“Oh, him?” Jericho nodded, “Pencilman, is what we call him. Looks like a pencil, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“He's with OzTech, nothing crazy,” Jericho said, “Weird that he's out here, though. Usually Agrippa just sends us memos.”

The Pencilman was giving a shaky, tittering little laugh, evidently in the middle of a joke. Koban Drol, the guild leader hosting him, simply kept his hands clasped together, his elkhorn rod on the table in front of him, his bearded face passive and unamused. His eyes watched, not the Pencilman's face, but his hands, as the Pencilman scooped a bowl of soup into his mouth with a shiver.

“Looks like a loser, right?” Jericho chuckled.

“...Sure.”

“Come on, let's get some food.”

They did so, grabbing the meal of the day, sitting down at one of the many empty tables across from one another. Jericho stared at Manny as his friend took a spoon and dipped it into the drink, ladling some and swallowing.

“Soup's cold,” Manny said.

“Think it's supposed to be?”

“It's advertised as 'hot and steaming mushroom.' So, no.”

Jericho laughed, and Manny liked his laugh. It was light as a cloud. Casual and free. Above all, genuine.

Something that was rare on Gaiusaia.

“You're the salt of the earth, Manny,” he said.

“I try,” Manny said, “Was it a good mission?”

“Yeah, nothing too crazy,” Jericho said, “Wetwork. Some politician on the Eye was getting too uppity, so they sent me out.”

Manny nodded at that, sipping at his soup.

“You?” Jericho asked.

Manny blinked. He remembered it all. The battles that took place, the skirmishes and conflicts. Robber Fly's screaming, hoarse and primal. The Silver Knight's wild eyes in the last room before the Visionary. Talrash's corpse, lying in the sand, her head still steaming and fresh, bubbles still growing out of her skin like warts, her eyes like molasses...

“Um, nothing major,” he said, “An assignment to Dailori, then sent Primeside.”

“Nothing major?” Jericho said, “That's it? You get the more exciting assignment, and 'nothing major' happens?”

“We went, we fought, we failed,” Manny said, “Nothing more.”

Jericho gave Manny a look. Manny tried to hide the shaking in his hand as he put the spoon down, steepling his hands together and laying them on the table. Perhaps that was why he had gotten to eating his soup so quickly, to give his hands something to do. Jericho pursed his lips, recognizing what Manny was trying to convey.

“Alright,” he said, “Alright. One of those ones, then. Let's just eat, is that cool?”

“Cool,” Manny said. He waited for Jericho to start dipping his spoon into his soup before he continued eating.

***

On Earth, the restaurant was known as Mendoza's, a seafood Mexican grill. Founded in 1982 by Marco Mendoza, who passed ownership of it to his son, who was always the manager on duty whenever Joseph went. And Joseph had gone to Mendoza's a lot, especially after school with his friends, laughing and joking and groaning about homework, the sounds of the sea cascading on the shore. He went there a lot in the summer, too. After his shift at the grocery store was over. After his morning runs. After his dad got home from work. He would sit at one of the outside tables, watching the sun dip lower and lower until it was swallowed by the sea entirely, and fires had been lit on the beaches.

Anything to avoid being at home. At least there was love here.

But on Prime, the restaurant was known as El Capitán, a seafood Mexican grill. Founded in 1987 by a man known only as El Capitán, a survivor of the war who had taken a raft from Salina Cruz all the way to San Francisco. A much different story than Mr. Mendoza, who always greeted Joseph and friends with a warm smile and free churros. El Capitán was played up as some mythical figure, according to the mural on the restaurant's wall, a man of the sea who had given the restaurant its place in San Francisco, before casting out onto the ocean once more, never to be seen again.

“What a load of horseshit,” Joseph said as he got to the mural's end.

“Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said.

They sat down at one of the tables outside, ordered their food, and waited. Joseph leaned back in his chair, listening to the sound of the ocean, of the cars driving by, of the distant sound of a bell on the pier. He felt his lip quiver a bit, but bit down and stared at Becenti. The older man was keeping his golden hand covered up, having stripped off his superhero outfit and replaced it with a ratty set of jeans and a T-shirt from the Songbird. He was quiet too, staring out at the sea, lost in thought.

Joseph was too tired to bring any conversation up. All he could do was sit there, listening to the ocean, trying not to remember the last few days, feeling as though they were a bad fever dream. He could feel the adrenaline start simmering, now that they were far away from Death Valley. Yet he still felt like he was being watched, like there was danger in the distance and conflict just around the corner. With an aching sigh, he turned his gaze up at the sky, which was just barely beginning to pepper with stars.

Millions of them, Nai Nai had told him. Billions, all of them out there. All of them, uncaring.

Joseph felt very small indeed. Very small, and very, very alone. His heart ached with homesickness. All of it was familiar, this sea. This city. All of it almost was like Earth, with its bustling, with the chorus of people getting on with their lives. He hadn't heard the sound of a car's horn in the distance in what felt like an eternity, hadn't felt the conversation of millions upon millions of people just… existing. Not like Scuttleway, with its charm that now felt quaint. Not like the Silver Eye, which felt alien and inhospitable.

Prime was almost like Earth.

Almost.

The food came out to them, a plate of simple mahi mahi tacos that Joseph had ordered a thousand times from Mendoza's. Becenti took one in his one good hand.

“Your health, Mr. Zheng,” he said, and he took a bite, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. Joseph put one onto his plate and considered it for a second. Then, without another thought, he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. He took another one.

“Do you like it, Mr. Zheng?” Becenti asked.

Joseph was quiet, swallowing and staring down at his plate.

“...Joseph?”

“'S not the same.”

“I'm sorry?”

Tears were welling in Joseph's eyes now. He took a deep breath, struggling to overcome them, forcing his emotions down. This was not the time.

This was not the place-

“It's not the fucking same,” he said, and then, he broke down, his shoulders heaving as he buried his hands in his face as he lost control of his entire body, which shuddered and gasped of its own accord.

Becenti said nothing, turning to watch the sunset as Joseph sobbed.

They continued sitting there long into the night.