The wind screamed past Artie Grimly's ears as Bō-Zak's talons clamped around his arms, the world below a blur of green and red. The Tatanka Plains stretched beneath them like a rumpled blanket, the Red Rampart rising in the distance like a wall of rusted iron. Artie's plum-colored velvet tailcoat flapped wildly, his feathered tricorn hat long since lost to the wind, and his lavender ruffled cravat had come undone, fluttering around his neck like a desperate flag.
"PUT ME DOWN!" Artie shrieked, his voice carrying that high-crust theatricality that made even his terror sound like a Shakespearean soliloquy. "I AM A DIRECTOR! I AM AN ARTIST! I AM NOT A—A—A SACK OF POTATOES TO BE CARRIED ABOUT LIKE SOME COMMON CARGO!"
Bō-Zak's avian head swiveled, his gold-flecked brown eyes gleaming with amusement. The condor's beak parted, and his voice emerged, smooth and philosophical, with a lazy cadence that made everything sound like a meditation.
"Darling, you're not a sack of potatoes. Potatoes are useful. Potatoes don't scream like a stuck pig every time the wind shifts."
Artie's face went red. "You—you BRUTE! You SAVAGE! You have RUINED my hair! Do you have any idea how long it takes to achieve this level of disheveled chic? It's an ART FORM, you uncultured—"
"I can drop you."
Artie went silent. His wide, manic eyes fixed on Bō-Zak's face, and his voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "You wouldn't dare."
Bō-Zak's grip loosened, just a fraction. Artie slipped an inch, his feet kicking uselessly as he squealed.
"OKAY! OKAY! I'LL BE QUIET! I'LL BE GOOD! JUST—JUST DON'T—"
Bō-Zak tightened his grip, pulling Artie back up. "That's better. Now, where exactly did you see them last?"
Artie's voice was still shaky, but his indignation returned with the force of a tidal wave. "NEAR THE RED RAMPART! I TOLD YOU THAT! I TOLD YOU THAT ALREADY! WHY DO YOU KEEP—"
Bō-Zak dove.
The world tilted, and Artie's scream cut through the air like a blade as the condor plummeted toward the earth. The ground rushed up to meet them, and Artie's eyes went wide with terror, his arms flailing, his voice rising to an operatic shriek.
"NO! NO! NOT LIKE THIS! I HAVE—I HAVE WORK TO DO! I HAVE SCENES TO SHOOT! I HAVE—"
Bō-Zak released him.
Artie tumbled through the air, his velvet tailcoat billowing around him like a broken wing. He hit the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of him, rolling across the grass in a tangle of limbs and fabric. He came to a stop on his back, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving, his face pale.
Bō-Zak landed beside him, shifting back to his human form with fluid grace as though it were a dance. His unkempt dark hair, streaked with early gray, fell across his sharp, intelligent features, and his permanent smirk was firmly in place.
He looked down at Artie, his gold-flecked eyes gleaming with amusement. "That's a good look for you. Very... avant-garde."
Artie pushed himself to his feet, his face a mask of indignation. He brushed off his velvet tailcoat with frantic, theatrical movements, his sharp, bird-like nose twitching with outrage.
"YOU—YOU BRUTE!" he shrieked, his voice rising to that glass-shattering pitch. "YOU UNCULTURED SAVAGE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE? MY COAT! MY CRAVAT! MY—MY—"
He gestured vaguely at his hair, which was now a disaster of lavender and disarray.
Bō-Zak's smirk widened. "I think it's an improvement. Very 'avant-garde artist who just survived a mugging.'"
Artie's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Who do you think you are? You—you—"
"I'm the one who found you," Bō-Zak interrupted, his voice dropping to that smooth, philosophical register. "And I'm the one who carried you across half the island. So maybe you should show a little gratitude."
Artie opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "I—you—"
Bō-Zak turned away, scanning the landscape. The Red Rampart rose before them, its weathered cliffs a vein on the horizon in streaks of burnt orange and rusted iron. The ground was rocky here, scattered with boulders and scrub brush that had learned to survive the harsh winds.
"This is the place?" Bō-Zak asked, his voice flat.
Artie crossed his arms, defiantly pushing his chin into the air. With theatrical cadence that made even his defiance sound like a performance. "I will tell you nothing. I am a director of the highest caliber. I do not respond to—to—to BRUTISH MANHANDLING!"
Bō-Zak's smirk returned. "If you like, we can keep searching."
Artie stiffened.
Bō-Zak added, with a note of mock concern, "By air."
Artie's eyes shifted, his theatrical indignation warring with his survival instinct. He glanced up at the sky, then back at Bō-Zak's smug expression, and something in him crumpled.
"The lighting of this location has some resemblance," he admitted, his voice grudging. "The way the shadows fall across the cliffs... it's similar to what I saw from the air. Before you so RUDELY interrupted my work, that is."
Bō-Zak nodded, his smirk still in place. "Stay put. I'm going to let the others know."
He leaped into the air, his body shifting mid-leap into the massive condor form that had carried Artie across the plains. The spectral condor shrieked, its wings catching the wind as it soared upward.
Artie's voice rose in a desperate shriek. "YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE! WHAT IF—WHAT IF THERE ARE WILD ANIMALS? WHAT IF THERE ARE—"
Bō-Zak's voice drifted down, smooth and unbothered. "Try not to get eaten. I'd hate to have to explain that to your camera crew."
Artie's arms flailed, his face a mask of theatrical fury. "I HATE YOU! I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU! YOUR HAIR IS A DISASTER! YOUR TASTE IN CLOTHING IS ABYSMAL! YOUR—"
But Bō-Zak was already gone, a dark shape against the blood-red sky.
---
The battle below raged with the fury of a storm.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko moved through the chaos with the fluid grace of a woman who had long ago learned to flow through violence like water through stone. Her silver hair, usually loose and framing her sharp-featured face, was streaked with ash and dust. Her minimalist black tactical attire was torn across the shoulder, and Anathema sang in her grip, the black blade glowing crimson as it sensed the intent of her opponent.
Rear Admiral Jethro Cain faced her, his gaunt frame, a scarecrow in a uniform. His round spectacles glinted with cold, analytical intelligence, and his thin mustache twitched as he adjusted his grip on The Bailiff—the long-hafted man-catcher that had claimed more lives than any court document.
His voice was flat, toneless, the voice of a man who considered emotion a waste of energy. "You're persistent. I'll give you that. But persistence without efficiency is just... noise."
Aurélie's steel-gray eyes narrowed. "I've been called worse. Usually by people who were about to lose."
She lunged.
Anathema met The Bailiff with a shower of sparks, and the force of the impact sent a shockwave rippling through the air. Jethro's man-catcher was designed for capture, for restraint—but Aurélie's blade was forged for something else entirely.
"You misunderstand," Jethro said, his flat voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I don't need to defeat you. I just need to hold you here long enough."
"For what?"
Jethro's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "For them."
A shriek from above drew Aurélie's eyes upwards as she saw Bō-Zak circling. Aurélie nodded, glancing towards Jethro she announced, "We will have to conclude this some other time!"
Jethro calls out in frustration as Aurélie's wings burst forth and she pull away, calling out to Kaburo. Jethro twirls the Bailiff, "you do not get to decide such things!" and begins his pursuit.
---
Across the battlefield, Kaburo Gusaki faced Rear Admiral Goma Maddon with the cold, predatory focus of a man who had long ago learned that emotion was a liability.
Goma's lean, athletic frame moved with the fluid grace of a lifelong athlete, his dark brown eyes analyzing Kaburo's every movement with the intensity of a man studying a complex puzzle. His dual paddles—The Flatliner and Backspin Betty—spun in his hands, and a barrage of ping-pong balls whistled through the air toward Kaburo.
Kaburo deflected them with casual ease, Kalamaru's cursed blade humming with dark energy. The Ōdachi sang through the air, its serpentine forms writhing with the power of the Mythical Zoan within.
"Your technique lacks conviction," Kaburo observed, his dry voice flat and emotionless. "It's just... empty motion."
Goma's eyes narrowed. "Empty motion? I've been perfecting this technique for decades."
"Perfecting emptiness doesn't make it full."
Goma's jaw tightened. He adjusted his wristwatch—a ritual he performed before any serious engagement—and his eyes narrowed with renewed focus.
"Let's see how you handle this."
He lunged.
Kaburo's eyes shift as Aurélie hums past, "the location has been identified, fall back!"
Kaburo replies, "understood," sheathing Kalamaru he nods to Goma, "some other time then." Before Goma can retort Kaburo is gone.
Goma, stands blinking in disbelief, "you do not get to say when this is over!" As he begins to chase after them.
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