The Sampo Tree. Two, three, four kilometres up the garbage disposal shaft to reach the Continental Saucer.
Arkion bolts upward, zerk flaring in pulses that leave scorch marks on the metal rungs. Fast. Efficient.
Alone for the first time since Vegas-B.
Which means the thoughts he’s been outrunning finally catch up.
He grabs another rung—
Pain.
Sharp. Wrong. Like someone just punched his spleen from the inside with brass knuckles.
The Purple Vase. The cannon towering over the sky. Martin’s voice cutting through static—“Imperfect placement—” and then nothing. Just sand. Purple sand with the force of a hail, cutting through their zerks, their skin.
The Baltikons have shed most of it within the last year. But some of that sand still lingers in their marrow.
Arkion stumbles, catches himself on a narrow platform, breathing hard.
What the—
His reflection in the wet metal shows his left eye flickering—half purple.
The red marble in his suit rattles.
Like it’s trying to claw its way out through his ribs.
He presses his palm flat against his chest, feels the heat building—too much, too fast, the kind of energy that could sustain several armies for a lifetime now demanding to be used.
“Settle down,” he mutters.
The marble doesn’t settle.
His reflection ripples.
He hears Martin violently shouting Arkion’s name.
His—
“No.”
The word comes out strangled.
He doubles over, spleen screaming, suit flaring so bright the entire shaft lights up like a cathedralt.
Then the grief hits.
The kind that doesn’t care about mission parameters or Baltikon training or the fact that he’s dangling kilometers above a very unforgiving drop.
He weeps.
Quick & violent.
The purple flickers spread—both eyes now, swirling like bruised galaxies.
The red marble screams.
His framework shifts.
For one horrible second he thinks he’s going to vomit his entire soul into the Baltic Sea.
Then—
Stillness.
The marble goes quiet.
The purple settles into a faint dusting at the edges of his vision.
His breathing evens out.
Martin’s dead. Arthur’s dead. And he loved them.
The grief had to move through. Now it has.
He straightens, wipes his face with the back of his Kaestus.
Some more of the lingering purple smudged off. On contact with the Kaestus, the colour fades.
Poison of grief expelled through tears.
Checks his reflection again.
Left eye: half-violet, like someone dipped it in twilight and forgot to rinse.
Right eye: blue, steady, furious.
He doesn’t know how long that took. Seconds? Minutes? The suit’s been doing these updates—recalibrations, capacity adjustments, whatever the hell you call it when your nervous system decides to rewrite its own code while you’re still using it.
And he’s carrying enough red marble to power a war.
Maybe it’s connected to the anomaly warnings—Hel, Gen, Atlas, Bratka all muttering about leaks, power spilling backwards through time, rattling the present like a cosmic poltergeist with a grudge.
Can’t afford worry.
But he can afford caution.
He takes one more breath, tastes copper and ozone, decides the grief has had its moment and needs to shut up now.
Martin’s dead.
Arthur’s dead.
Alexander might have killed him.
Or might have spun this for another prank.
Either way, Arkion needs to know.
He grabs the next rung and keeps climbing.
Behind him, a thin ribbon of purple dust drifts down through the shaft.
*
The fifth saucer rests under a dome of artificial twilight.
Lavender sky rolls slow and perfect overhead, lit by distant, muted lightning that never quite touches down.
Alexander’s window looks out across a quiet street of glass and steel: five- and six-story facades glowing softly with neon in Cyrillic and Farsi, holographic fountain cycling pastel colors a block away.
A constant, gentle gust of conditioned air flows in—warm, humid, mountain-fresh like high-altitude oxygen, carrying the faint green scent of the saucer’s internal ecosystem: moss, recirculated dew, living walls breathing.
The royal-red lace curtain stirs in the draft.
A squatting shadow appears at the sill, cloak dripping.
Arkion slips inside.
Boots silent on hardwood, cloak glistening with morning dew from the upper decks’ misting system.
The lace flaps once.
Boy! Wrong hole. The front door called—it wants its drama back.
Alexander wakes like he’s been rehearsing this exact situation in 8K:
rolls off the mattress in one fluid motion, red rubber ball in hand, flicking it once against the wall—ping—and catching it mid-bounce as he comes up behind the wardrobe curtain.
The ball ricochets again—off the mirror, off the ceiling—then rockets toward Arkion’s head like a guided missile.
Arkion catches it one-handed without breaking stride.
Turns.
Tosses it casually out the open window.
Alexander takes a step towards the window, wardrobe curtains letting him go:
“Are you kidding? That was my favorite ball.”
The ball curves back through the drizzle—loyal boomerang—and slaps into his palm.
Arkion sighs. “Really?”
Alexander grins, bouncing the ball once more—ping-ping—off the wall, the headboard, the ceiling, each ricochet faster, tighter, turning the tiny room into a deadly pinball game.
He circles Arkion, voice lilting, deadly playful.
“Decided to show up for the end of the world anyway, huh! Purple in the eye, dripping morning dew all over my—heh—wood. Guilt in posture. The perfect gothic novel cover, sugar.”
Arkion sidesteps, snatches the ball mid-flight.
The dance ends when Arkion closes the distance and his Kaestus flares yellow, tapping Alexander’s neck.
Lights out.
Alexander flops.
Arkion sighs, hoists the limp body like a sack of dramatic, gluten-intolerant potatoes.
Kaestus flares amber.
Palm to zerked shoulder. Two-second dive into the suit’s memory.
The memory surfaces: this room, sheets tangled, curtains inert, cinnamon and orange blossom thick enough to get pregnant, Valen laughing soft and guilty…
The curtain gasps:
Wait, WHAT!?
Arkion drops the body the last three inches to the floor to yank himself out of the intimate memory.
He considers leaving him there. Then reconsiders. Hoists Alexander again, dumps him on the bed, slaps the Kaestus to his temple like a rude alarm clock.
Alexander jolts awake, immediately strikes a casual fighting pose that looks choreographed by anxiety, ballet, and Prince.
“Did you just kill yourself?” Arkion asks, deadpan.
Alexander lights up like a kid who finally found someone fluent in his native insanity.
“Aw, I’m devastated you didn’t murder me—I had a whole speech prepared.” He glides to the kitchen barefoot, bathrobe flowing like liquid drama, hair exploding in twelve directions and winning. “Come, come, I’ve got a new recipe.”
Arkion follows the cinnamon trail. “I brought spirulina pills.”
“Yes-yes, quite the culinary war crime,” Alexander sing-songs, clattering cupboards with unnecessary flair. “Perfect panacea for people who hate themselves correctly.”
The kitchen is tiny, warm, smells like forgiveness, impending gluten crimes, and the particular loneliness of men who think everyone only tolerates them because they’re useful.
Alexander produces two batches of dough—one light as Arkion’s remaining innocence, one banana-yellow screaming “I gave up on life but kept the receipts”—and starts rolling them into a perfect spiral like he’s weaving DNA for fun.
“Coffee or something stronger?” he asks, knocking over a jar of knives just to keep things interesting.
“Coffee. Black. And ACV. You know me.”
Alexander rolls his eyes, shoves both trays into the stone oven that heats instantly because red marbles don’t negotiate with thermodynamics.
Timer beeps like a polite butler.
Cookies emerge perfect, swirly, smelling like childhood and very good bad decisions.
They sit at the round table—small enough for secrets, large enough for two men pretending they’re still boys.
Alexander pours coffee, slides the plate across like a peace treaty laced with footnotes.
Arkion turns a cookie suspiciously. “So. Arthur.”
Alexander’s hand pauses mid-reach, then continues with theatrical casualness.
“Ah. That rumor.” He bites into a cookie, crumbs falling like tragic confetti. “Let me guess—someone finally decided I’m villain material because I play the horn too well and have excellent cheekbones?”
Arkion doesn’t bite. “You started the rumor.”
Alexander freezes for half a second—then explodes into laughter, throwing his head back like he’s auditioning for the lead in a tragedy.
“Touché, mon cher Arkion! Yes, yes, I tipped the Scands. Needed you here before you all go full hero and ruin my exit strategy.” He leans forward, eyes glittering. “They were going to take heads anyway. This way they let the rest of us walk. Clean exit. No bloodshed for people who don’t deserve it.”
Arkion’s voice is flat. “And you think I can’t handle a few angry Scands calling an early meeting?”
“Oh, I know you can handle them.” Alexander’s smile is sharp, genuine. “That’s why I told them. They need the reminder that the Black Sea wasn’t a fluke. You’ll embarrass them again, and they’ll finally stop sending children to theoretically die at you.”
“Have you considered euthanasia?”
Alexander laughs—nervous, electric. “Oh—please.”
“Your little sax tune last night would have brought me here anyway.” The odd note at the end—melancholic, not optimistic like the song used to be.
“Well, I can never really tell who catches on.” Alexander pours more coffee with unnecessary flourish.
Arkion snorts. “Thoughtful.” Then feels something coming on, takes another cookie. “Don’t put cocaine in the next batch.”
“There’s already a regrettable amount of wheat,” Alexander sighs, fluttering his lashes. “The dose makes the poison, sugar.”
Arkion shakes his head, almost grinning. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Anytime you want to break into my apartment and hack my brain, brother—door’s always unlocked.”
“You really do want to bring that up?” Arkion gets a little annoyed. “Flaunt with your score?”
“Well, didn’t it sting, just a little?”
“Don’t tell me you did it all for a little sting?”
Alexander closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He is smiling. “Mistress Quiet was an entirely spontaneous episode.”
“Well, by the looks—You get to see Quiet again at the handover.”
Alexander’s pale skin contrasts the blush, “Oh, I know. The Brotherhood gave her the Capricorn, and this will be our way out.”
“Unless they’re gonna put you against the wall, right?”
“No—as I’ve said, for the tip on your head, we’ve settled on a migration agreement. Our staff, including Rozenbäer with her entourage get out, clean.”
Arkion likes the idea, but sees the problem. “But Daegan’s not our staff anymore.”
“Daegan is—” Alexander stops, face going still. “No!? Gen!? No-no-no-no-no! We’re fucked!”
“Vinu’s orders. Leave the rest to the tacticians.”
Alexander fans his face. “This is some… Unbelievable bullshit.”
Arkion stands, brushing crumbs. “Take me where we can see what the Krakens are up to.”
*
Just for the magical moment of the dawn they make it to the topside of the saucer. The sun rising behind them, wind whipping their coats like battle flags, they look towards where the two Kraken experiments just sit, inert in the water.
Alexander hands over antique binoculars like a child showing off a drawing he’s secretly proud of.
Arkion pairs with a buoy-system instead, eyes silvering over.
Two Zodiacs glow right beneath the surface—bait in a trap big enough to swallow nations.
“You won’t be able to get close by boat. Quite a clever way to set it up,” Alexander remarks.
“Did Daegan ever reach them at that distance?”
“I doubt he seriously tried. How do you plan to cross over?”
“Like spiders,” Arkion grins, fingers dancing like he’s already weaving filaments out of weather, spite, and love.
“So, you’ll be stuck here, facing whatever the Nords come up with, and we’ll meet Vinu for the Anomaly.”
Arkion perks up a little, “Will Hel be there?”
Alexander grins, “no, she’s actually away checking something out about the Pilgrimage.”
Arkion asks, a little sheepish, “she called?”
Alexander smirks. “Jealous?”
“A little.” Hel was a wonderful friend. “Do you have any of the charts?”
Alexander pulls a folded printout from his robe like a magician who’s given up on wonder and switched to bureaucracy.
Arkion studies the chart. The black spike—massive, world-ending potential. The red spike after it—smaller, but still outstanding.
And then: faint, discolored, wrong. A pale line that looks like the fax machine had a stroke.
And at the end: the cube. Blushing white. Pearl-pink. Impossible.
“Why would you doodle on this?” Arkion asks.
“This bit here?” Alexander taps it dismissively. “Either the fax machine’s dying, Hel’s equipment is possessed, or she’s finally discovered drugs and is having very creative moments. Ignore them.”
“There’s a spike of red long after the anomaly is set to peak…” Arkion mutters. “And the anomaly peak itself looks… Wrong.”
Alexander chips in with a high-pitched suggestion: “foreign?”
Arkion chuckles, “I’ve a feeling Vinu has been greenlighting the jacking because we brought something from Siberia.”
Alexander’s voice jumps an octave and speeds up. “That would be a very expensive mistake. If you have ANY clues to indicate we—you are cause of the cause… We should leave now. I’ve got my stuff packed, and I’m ready to go.”
“If it comes from us, it comes from us—any way we try to play this. If I find out now it comes from you and I throw you off this saucer right now—Somehow—You falling off this cliff makes it happen, alright?”
Alexander imagines falling down, growls, “oh you nihilistic, fatalistic—”
“I’m not gonna throw you off this saucer.” Arkion smiles, looks back at the chart and speaks while he tracks the lines, “I’m saying we’re already inside the attractor pattern and there’s no escaping it with the nitty-gritty—but we can look out that it blows over without too many people getting hurt, alrig—Aha!”
The red line sits after the black peak—on the other side of the page.
“Why are you looking for red?” Alexander asks.
Arkion flicks a finger against Alexander’s shoulder, sharing information about the red he’s carrying.
Alexander stops breathing, “are you clinically insane? That’s more than the entire fleet—”
“Just preparing for the Anomaly.”
“Are you listening to yourself? If some Gisnepo bullshit or your purple little thingy takes you under, we’re all in trouble.”
“Well, it’s not like my zerk can ever syphon through it all at once. You can handle me.”
“Well, fine. You don’t butt into my strategy, I won’t butt into your—” Alexander wiggles his fingers at Arkion, “tactics… But for now—Just break off from this saucer before the second spike.”
The prediction signal warns that the very spot they’re standing on will be at the bottom of the sea. The best guess: this branch of the Sampo—sliced off clean.
Arkion grins, “If escaping via Capricorn won’t work out, Vegas-B is ready to help. Bratka’s elevator is cleared.”
Alexander looks worried for a moment, then remembers they’re all certified in what they do—it’s just been a while—what if I’m too out of shape for this?
Arkion smiles when he sees the little worry. “You’ll be alright. The pack’s waiting.”
Alexander throws his head back and howls—clear, wild, gentle as water, loud as revolution.
The sound falls like a stone into the sea below—swallowed before it can echo.
From every scrap of naked lace still fluttering over the Baltic, a single collective voice rises—soft, fond, and utterly shameless:
Up next: a chaotic bard gives a quick tour around Continental, Sampotree.
Don’t touch that dial.The Sampo Tree. Two, three, four kilometres up the garbage disposal shaft to reach the Continental Saucer.
Arkion bolts upward, zerk flaring in pulses that leave scorch marks on the metal rungs. Fast. Efficient.
Alone for the first time since Vegas-B.
Which means the thoughts he’s been outrunning finally catch up.
He grabs another rung—
Pain.
Sharp. Wrong. Like someone just punched his spleen from the inside with brass knuckles.
The Purple Vase. The cannon towering over the sky. Martin’s voice cutting through static—“Imperfect placement—” and then nothing. Just sand. Purple sand with the force of a hail, cutting through their zerks, their skin.
The Baltikons have shed most of it within the last year. But some of that sand still lingers in their marrow.
Arkion stumbles, catches himself on a narrow platform, breathing hard.
What the—
His reflection in the wet metal shows his left eye flickering—half purple.
The red marble in his suit rattles.
Like it’s trying to claw its way out through his ribs.
He presses his palm flat against his chest, feels the heat building—too much, too fast, the kind of energy that could sustain several armies for a lifetime now demanding to be used.
“Settle down,” he mutters.
The marble doesn’t settle.
His reflection ripples.
He hears Martin violently shouting Arkion’s name.
His—
“No.”
The word comes out strangled.
He doubles over, spleen screaming, suit flaring so bright the entire shaft lights up like a cathedralt.
Then the grief hits.
The kind that doesn’t care about mission parameters or Baltikon training or the fact that he’s dangling kilometers above a very unforgiving drop.
He weeps.
Quick & violent.
The purple flickers spread—both eyes now, swirling like bruised galaxies.
The red marble screams.
His framework shifts.
For one horrible second he thinks he’s going to vomit his entire soul into the Baltic Sea.
Then—
Stillness.
The marble goes quiet.
The purple settles into a faint dusting at the edges of his vision.
His breathing evens out.
Martin’s dead. Arthur’s dead. And he loved them.
The grief had to move through. Now it has.
He straightens, wipes his face with the back of his Kaestus.
Some more of the lingering purple smudged off. On contact with the Kaestus, the colour fades.
Poison of grief expelled through tears.
Checks his reflection again.
Left eye: half-violet, like someone dipped it in twilight and forgot to rinse.
Right eye: blue, steady, furious.
He doesn’t know how long that took. Seconds? Minutes? The suit’s been doing these updates—recalibrations, capacity adjustments, whatever the hell you call it when your nervous system decides to rewrite its own code while you’re still using it.
And he’s carrying enough red marble to power a war.
Maybe it’s connected to the anomaly warnings—Hel, Gen, Atlas, Bratka all muttering about leaks, power spilling backwards through time, rattling the present like a cosmic poltergeist with a grudge.
Can’t afford worry.
But he can afford caution.
He takes one more breath, tastes copper and ozone, decides the grief has had its moment and needs to shut up now.
Martin’s dead.
Arthur’s dead.
Alexander might have killed him.
Or might have spun this for another prank.
Either way, Arkion needs to know.
He grabs the next rung and keeps climbing.
Behind him, a thin ribbon of purple dust drifts down through the shaft.
*
The fifth saucer rests under a dome of artificial twilight.
Lavender sky rolls slow and perfect overhead, lit by distant, muted lightning that never quite touches down.
Alexander’s window looks out across a quiet street of glass and steel: five- and six-story facades glowing softly with neon in Cyrillic and Farsi, holographic fountain cycling pastel colors a block away.
A constant, gentle gust of conditioned air flows in—warm, humid, mountain-fresh like high-altitude oxygen, carrying the faint green scent of the saucer’s internal ecosystem: moss, recirculated dew, living walls breathing.
The royal-red lace curtain stirs in the draft.
A squatting shadow appears at the sill, cloak dripping.
Arkion slips inside.
Boots silent on hardwood, cloak glistening with morning dew from the upper decks’ misting system.
The lace flaps once.
Boy! Wrong hole. The front door called—it wants its drama back.
Alexander wakes like he’s been rehearsing this exact situation in 8K:
rolls off the mattress in one fluid motion, red rubber ball in hand, flicking it once against the wall—ping—and catching it mid-bounce as he comes up behind the wardrobe curtain.
The ball ricochets again—off the mirror, off the ceiling—then rockets toward Arkion’s head like a guided missile.
Arkion catches it one-handed without breaking stride.
Turns.
Tosses it casually out the open window.
Alexander takes a step towards the window, wardrobe curtains letting him go:
“Are you kidding? That was my favorite ball.”
The ball curves back through the drizzle—loyal boomerang—and slaps into his palm.
Arkion sighs. “Really?”
Alexander grins, bouncing the ball once more—ping-ping—off the wall, the headboard, the ceiling, each ricochet faster, tighter, turning the tiny room into a deadly pinball game.
He circles Arkion, voice lilting, deadly playful.
“Decided to show up for the end of the world anyway, huh! Purple in the eye, dripping morning dew all over my—heh—wood. Guilt in posture. The perfect gothic novel cover, sugar.”
Arkion sidesteps, snatches the ball mid-flight.
The dance ends when Arkion closes the distance and his Kaestus flares yellow, tapping Alexander’s neck.
Lights out.
Alexander flops.
Arkion sighs, hoists the limp body like a sack of dramatic, gluten-intolerant potatoes.
Kaestus flares amber.
Palm to zerked shoulder. Two-second dive into the suit’s memory.
The memory surfaces: this room, sheets tangled, curtains inert, cinnamon and orange blossom thick enough to get pregnant, Valen laughing soft and guilty…
The curtain gasps:
Wait, WHAT!?
Arkion drops the body the last three inches to the floor to yank himself out of the intimate memory.
He considers leaving him there. Then reconsiders. Hoists Alexander again, dumps him on the bed, slaps the Kaestus to his temple like a rude alarm clock.
Alexander jolts awake, immediately strikes a casual fighting pose that looks choreographed by anxiety, ballet, and Prince.
“Did you just kill yourself?” Arkion asks, deadpan.
Alexander lights up like a kid who finally found someone fluent in his native insanity.
“Aw, I’m devastated you didn’t murder me—I had a whole speech prepared.” He glides to the kitchen barefoot, bathrobe flowing like liquid drama, hair exploding in twelve directions and winning. “Come, come, I’ve got a new recipe.”
Arkion follows the cinnamon trail. “I brought spirulina pills.”
“Yes-yes, quite the culinary war crime,” Alexander sing-songs, clattering cupboards with unnecessary flair. “Perfect panacea for people who hate themselves correctly.”
The kitchen is tiny, warm, smells like forgiveness, impending gluten crimes, and the particular loneliness of men who think everyone only tolerates them because they’re useful.
Alexander produces two batches of dough—one light as Arkion’s remaining innocence, one banana-yellow screaming “I gave up on life but kept the receipts”—and starts rolling them into a perfect spiral like he’s weaving DNA for fun.
“Coffee or something stronger?” he asks, knocking over a jar of knives just to keep things interesting.
“Coffee. Black. And ACV. You know me.”
Alexander rolls his eyes, shoves both trays into the stone oven that heats instantly because red marbles don’t negotiate with thermodynamics.
Timer beeps like a polite butler.
Cookies emerge perfect, swirly, smelling like childhood and very good bad decisions.
They sit at the round table—small enough for secrets, large enough for two men pretending they’re still boys.
Alexander pours coffee, slides the plate across like a peace treaty laced with footnotes.
Arkion turns a cookie suspiciously. “So. Arthur.”
Alexander’s hand pauses mid-reach, then continues with theatrical casualness.
“Ah. That rumor.” He bites into a cookie, crumbs falling like tragic confetti. “Let me guess—someone finally decided I’m villain material because I play the horn too well and have excellent cheekbones?”
Arkion doesn’t bite. “You started the rumor.”
Alexander freezes for half a second—then explodes into laughter, throwing his head back like he’s auditioning for the lead in a tragedy.
“Touché, mon cher Arkion! Yes, yes, I tipped the Scands. Needed you here before you all go full hero and ruin my exit strategy.” He leans forward, eyes glittering. “They were going to take heads anyway. This way they let the rest of us walk. Clean exit. No bloodshed for people who don’t deserve it.”
Arkion’s voice is flat. “And you think I can’t handle a few angry Scands calling an early meeting?”
“Oh, I know you can handle them.” Alexander’s smile is sharp, genuine. “That’s why I told them. They need the reminder that the Black Sea wasn’t a fluke. You’ll embarrass them again, and they’ll finally stop sending children to theoretically die at you.”
“Have you considered euthanasia?”
Alexander laughs—nervous, electric. “Oh—please.”
“Your little sax tune last night would have brought me here anyway.” The odd note at the end—melancholic, not optimistic like the song used to be.
“Well, I can never really tell who catches on.” Alexander pours more coffee with unnecessary flourish.
Arkion snorts. “Thoughtful.” Then feels something coming on, takes another cookie. “Don’t put cocaine in the next batch.”
“There’s already a regrettable amount of wheat,” Alexander sighs, fluttering his lashes. “The dose makes the poison, sugar.”
Arkion shakes his head, almost grinning. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Anytime you want to break into my apartment and hack my brain, brother—door’s always unlocked.”
“You really do want to bring that up?” Arkion gets a little annoyed. “Flaunt with your score?”
“Well, didn’t it sting, just a little?”
“Don’t tell me you did it all for a little sting?”
Alexander closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He is smiling. “Mistress Quiet was an entirely spontaneous episode.”
“Well, by the looks—You get to see Quiet again at the handover.”
Alexander’s pale skin contrasts the blush, “Oh, I know. The Brotherhood gave her the Capricorn, and this will be our way out.”
“Unless they’re gonna put you against the wall, right?”
“No—as I’ve said, for the tip on your head, we’ve settled on a migration agreement. Our staff, including Rozenbäer with her entourage get out, clean.”
Arkion likes the idea, but sees the problem. “But Daegan’s not our staff anymore.”
“Daegan is—” Alexander stops, face going still. “No!? Gen!? No-no-no-no-no! We’re fucked!”
“Vinu’s orders. Leave the rest to the tacticians.”
Alexander fans his face. “This is some… Unbelievable bullshit.”
Arkion stands, brushing crumbs. “Take me where we can see what the Krakens are up to.”
*
Just for the magical moment of the dawn they make it to the topside of the saucer. The sun rising behind them, wind whipping their coats like battle flags, they look towards where the two Kraken experiments just sit, inert in the water.
Alexander hands over antique binoculars like a child showing off a drawing he’s secretly proud of.
Arkion pairs with a buoy-system instead, eyes silvering over.
Two Zodiacs glow right beneath the surface—bait in a trap big enough to swallow nations.
“You won’t be able to get close by boat. Quite a clever way to set it up,” Alexander remarks.
“Did Daegan ever reach them at that distance?”
“I doubt he seriously tried. How do you plan to cross over?”
“Like spiders,” Arkion grins, fingers dancing like he’s already weaving filaments out of weather, spite, and love.
“So, you’ll be stuck here, facing whatever the Nords come up with, and we’ll meet Vinu for the Anomaly.”
Arkion perks up a little, “Will Hel be there?”
Alexander grins, “no, she’s actually away checking something out about the Pilgrimage.”
Arkion asks, a little sheepish, “she called?”
Alexander smirks. “Jealous?”
“A little.” Hel was a wonderful friend. “Do you have any of the charts?”
Alexander pulls a folded printout from his robe like a magician who’s given up on wonder and switched to bureaucracy.
Arkion studies the chart. The black spike—massive, world-ending potential. The red spike after it—smaller, but still outstanding.
And then: faint, discolored, wrong. A pale line that looks like the fax machine had a stroke.
And at the end: the cube. Blushing white. Pearl-pink. Impossible.
“Why would you doodle on this?” Arkion asks.
“This bit here?” Alexander taps it dismissively. “Either the fax machine’s dying, Hel’s equipment is possessed, or she’s finally discovered drugs and is having very creative moments. Ignore them.”
“There’s a spike of red long after the anomaly is set to peak…” Arkion mutters. “And the anomaly peak itself looks… Wrong.”
Alexander chips in with a high-pitched suggestion: “foreign?”
Arkion chuckles, “I’ve a feeling Vinu has been greenlighting the jacking because we brought something from Siberia.”
Alexander’s voice jumps an octave and speeds up. “That would be a very expensive mistake. If you have ANY clues to indicate we—you are cause of the cause… We should leave now. I’ve got my stuff packed, and I’m ready to go.”
“If it comes from us, it comes from us—any way we try to play this. If I find out now it comes from you and I throw you off this saucer right now—Somehow—You falling off this cliff makes it happen, alright?”
Alexander imagines falling down, growls, “oh you nihilistic, fatalistic—”
“I’m not gonna throw you off this saucer.” Arkion smiles, looks back at the chart and speaks while he tracks the lines, “I’m saying we’re already inside the attractor pattern and there’s no escaping it with the nitty-gritty—but we can look out that it blows over without too many people getting hurt, alrig—Aha!”
The red line sits after the black peak—on the other side of the page.
“Why are you looking for red?” Alexander asks.
Arkion flicks a finger against Alexander’s shoulder, sharing information about the red he’s carrying.
Alexander stops breathing, “are you clinically insane? That’s more than the entire fleet—”
“Just preparing for the Anomaly.”
“Are you listening to yourself? If some Gisnepo bullshit or your purple little thingy takes you under, we’re all in trouble.”
“Well, it’s not like my zerk can ever syphon through it all at once. You can handle me.”
“Well, fine. You don’t butt into my strategy, I won’t butt into your—” Alexander wiggles his fingers at Arkion, “tactics… But for now—Just break off from this saucer before the second spike.”
The prediction signal warns that the very spot they’re standing on will be at the bottom of the sea. The best guess: this branch of the Sampo—sliced off clean.
Arkion grins, “If escaping via Capricorn won’t work out, Vegas-B is ready to help. Bratka’s elevator is cleared.”
Alexander looks worried for a moment, then remembers they’re all certified in what they do—it’s just been a while—what if I’m too out of shape for this?
Arkion smiles when he sees the little worry. “You’ll be alright. The pack’s waiting.”
Alexander throws his head back and howls—clear, wild, gentle as water, loud as revolution.
The sound falls like a stone into the sea below—swallowed before it can echo.
From every scrap of naked lace still fluttering over the Baltic, a single collective voice rises—soft, fond, and utterly shameless:
Up next: a chaotic bard gives a quick tour around Continental, Sampotree.
Continue reading:
Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 15 - Continental Riot
Mid-afternoon light filters through the dome in soft, artificial gold—simulated 2:17 p.m. sun that never quite warms.
I make jewellery at my desk and show them on my beautiful gift shop - males, females, or anything you want to show up on the ballroom (some of the pieces are even suitable for cats!)
Original shelf: https://sskosmos.ee/eysin-ace-trilogy/ch-14-gluten-betrayal/