The gangplank groaned under their weight as Petra Ven and Topiaris Tidaltuff descended from the Marine frigate, their boots finding the worn wooden planks of the dock with practiced ease. The afternoon sun hung low over the harbor, casting long shadows across the busy waterfront where children darted between crates and dockworkers moved with the hurried efficiency of men doing their business quickly and quietly.
Petra's oversized Justice coat hung loosely over her shoulders like a shroud, the white fabric stark against her tattered olive-green sweater. Her dark, wiry hair was piled haphazardly atop her head with a single chopstick holding it in place, and her heavy-lidded eyes swept the crowded dock with the practiced assessment of a woman who had spent her life cataloging exits and threats. Her rough, pebbled skin appeared otherworldly with the 13 small dorsal spines along her spine lay flat beneath her clothing, invisible but always ready.
She cracked her knuckles—one at a time, always left hand first—and shifted her weight, her soft-soled boots making no sound against the wood.
Beside her, Topiaris Tidaltuff strode with the measured grace of a man who had never taken an uncalculated step. His voluminous silver-white pompadour swept high and back from his forehead with a meticulous cascade that defied the harbor breeze, and his light blue eyes surveyed the dock with condescending assessment as if the world was beneath his notice. His crisp, high-collared black dress shirt was buttoned to the top, polished silver cufflinks gleamed, and his form-fitting white trousers were tucked into knee-high, polished black leather riding boots that shined with almost offensive perfection.
He touched his fine-toothed, ivory-handled comb in his left breast pocket—a gesture of reassurance—and sniffed the air with distaste.
"Disgusting," he murmured, with that refined, theatrical cadence. "The smell of fish, unwashed bodies, and... is that sewage? This dock is an affront to the senses."
Petra's eyes never stopped moving. "It's a port, Topiaris. They all smell like this."
"This one smells worse. I can practically taste the poverty."
Petra's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "You'll survive."
They walked in silence for a moment, weaving between dockworkers who hurried past with crates and barrels, their eyes averted, their movements carefully neutral. A group of children played nearby, kicking a worn leather ball back and forth in a narrow alley between two warehouses. Their laughter cut through the harbor noise like a knife, bright and unselfconscious.
Topiaris watched them with visible disdain. "Look at them. Filthy. Unsupervised. They'll probably catch something and spread it to the whole dock."
Petra didn't respond. Her attention had shifted to a cluster of sailors unloading a merchant vessel, her eyes tracking their movements with the intensity of a hawk watching mice. "We've covered three ports now. Nothing. No sign of their vessel."
Topiaris pulled his comb from his pocket and ran it through his pompadour, his curls snapping back into place. "The Grooming Squad has been thorough. If the Oni Phantom's ship were docked anywhere obvious, we would have found it by now."
"Which means it's not obvious." Petra's voice was flat, deliberate. "They're hiding. And if they're hiding, they know we're looking."
Topiaris returned the comb to his pocket with a sigh. "Then we continue the search. We'll find them eventually. They can't hide forever."
The transponder snail in Topiaris's pocket began to ring.
He reached for it with the same theatrical gestures he applied to everything, his long fingers finding the small, spiraled shell with practiced ease. He pressed the receiver button, and the snail's eyestalks swiveled upward.
"This is Tidaltuff," he said, with that crisp, aristocratic tone that made even the most mundane statements sound like a proclamation.
The snail's mouth opened, and a voice emerged—sharp, efficient, carrying the clipped cadence of a man delivering bad news quickly. "Sir, we've located the submarine. It's docked in an abandoned port on the eastern coast. The facility is derelict, but the vessel is intact. It's clearly been used recently."
Topiaris's eyes narrowed. His fingers tightened around the snail's shell. "The eastern coast? That's..."
"An old shipbreaking yard," Petra finished, her voice flat. "Abandoned for years. No patrols, no witnesses, no one asking questions. Perfect."
The voice on the snail continued. "What are your orders, sir? Should we proceed?"
Petra shook her head before Topiaris could respond. "No. We need a plan."
Topiaris glanced at her, his light blue eyes sharp. "Explain."
Petra's heavy-lidded eyes fixed on him, her voice dropping to that conspiratorial whisper that made people lean in whether they wanted to or not. "That ship is a fortress on the water. Armored hull, advanced propulsion, probably weapons systems we haven't even cataloged yet. If we approach directly, they'll see us coming. They'll either fight or flee—and if they flee, they'll go under."
Topiaris's jaw tightened. He raised the snail to his lips, with a sharp, commanding edge that made his subordinates snap to attention. "Stand by. Do not engage. We'll be there shortly."
The voice on the snail replied, "Yes, sir! Standing by!" and the line went dead.
Topiaris pocketed the snail, his expression thoughtful. "Okay. A frontal assault would be... inefficient. If they see us coming, they'll have time to prepare. Or worse, they'll submerge and vanish."
Petra had already turned away, her hand rising to touch her chin in a gesture of consideration. Her lips moved soundlessly as she worked through the problem, her dark eyes scanning the dock without really seeing it.
"We'll need to draw them out," she murmured, barely audible over the harbor noise. "Force them from the ship. Make them think they have an opportunity to escape."
Topiaris fell into step beside her, his polished boots clicking against the wood. "Even if we block their exit with a ship, they'll outmaneuver us. That submarine is designed for speed and agility. A conventional vessel won't be able to keep up."
Petra nodded, her eyes still distant. "And even if we could keep up, they can just go under. We can't follow them underwater. We don't have the capability."
"Then we're at an impasse." Topiaris's voice carried a note of frustration. "We've found them, but we can't reach them. How delightful."
Petra didn't respond. Her gaze had shifted to something else—a group of children playing soccer in the narrow street between two warehouses. The worn leather ball bounced between them, their laughter bright and unselfconscious, their movements chaotic and joyful.
Topiaris followed her gaze, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "What are you looking at? Those filthy children?"
Petra's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "Yes, the children."
Topiaris's brow furrowed. "I don't follow." Then, Topiaris's expression shifted. His eyes widened, and a slow, maniacal grin spread across his angular face. His light blue eyes gleamed with the light of sudden, terrible understanding. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, you are—"
"Disgusting?" Petra offered.
"Brilliant." Topiaris's grin widened. "You are absolutely brilliant. We use the civilians as hostages. Draw them out of the sub and commandeer the vessel and take the crew into custody."
Petra nodded, her expression unchanged. "Exactly. We need to draw them out."
Topiaris's fingers twitched toward his comb, then stopped. His eyes fixed on the children, still playing their game, still laughing, still unaware of the two Marine officers watching them with predatory intent.
"I'll need to coordinate with the Grooming Squad," Topiaris said, with sharp, commanding edge. "We'll need to position ourselves correctly. Create the right kind of disturbance. And we'll need to be ready to move."
Petra's eyes never left the children. "I'll handle the civilians. We will still need a ship to block their escape."
Topiaris laughed—a sharp, theatrical sound that drew glances from the nearby dockworkers. "Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! This is going to be magnificent!"
Petra turned away from the children, her eyes scanning the dock with renewed focus. "We need to move. The longer we wait, the more time they have to prepare."
Topiaris nodded, falling into step beside her. "I'll contact the Grooming Squad. We'll have the operation ready within the hour."
They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the harbor washing over them. The laughter of the children faded behind them, replaced by the cry of gulls and the creak of ships at anchor.
Petra's voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. "You know what the worst part is?"
Topiaris glanced at her. "What?"
She didn't look at him. "Those children. They have no idea what's coming. They're just playing a game. And we're going to use them as bait."
Topiaris's expression flickered—a moment of something that might have been discomfort, quickly suppressed. "They're civilians. Their safety is—"
"Secondary," Petra finished. "I know. I just... I wanted to say it out loud."
She cracked her knuckles again—left hand first, always—and picked up her pace.
Topiaris watched her go, his light blue eyes unreadable. Then he pulled his comb from his pocket and ran it through his pompadour, his expression settling back into that mask of theatrical superiority.
"Disgusting," he muttered, but there was something different in his voice now. Something softer.
He followed her into the crowd, his polished boots clicking against the wood, his silver-white pompadour a beacon in the chaos of the dock.
And somewhere behind them, the children kept playing their game, laughing, running, completely unaware that they were about to become part of something far larger than themselves.
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