A scream tore through the throne room, raw and sharp. Roy stared at the monitor on the bridge, his expression a frozen mask. He watched Lady Brinevein grind her foot into Eryndra's unconscious face, a casual act of desecration. Behind his eyes, something locked shut.
A quiet clank of metal footsteps came from behind. JFK, his presidential suit immaculate despite the chaos, stood at attention.
"Captain," JFK said, voice calm and steady, a baritone that cut through the oppressive silence. "I have monitored the situation. FDR and Truman are engaged on the lower decks. A third Super Elite may be required to subdue Lady Brinevein. I request permission to depart."
The monitor showed Lady Brinevein flinging a cluster of sizzling water sprites. They burst against Zehrina's hastily raised dust barrier, forcing her to skid backward into the wreckage where Eryndra lay. Roy's voice stayed flat, devoid of anything. "Go. No more injuries."
JFK snapped a crisp salute. "Acknowledged." He turned on a heel and left, steps quick and exact, almost soundless.
Roy's gaze flicked to a side monitor, brig feed. Kaelor, Sorrowclaw, and Riven leaned against their bars, grim as they watched the same horrific display. He opened the comm channel, voice low. "How many damn sprites does she have?"
Lutrian answered from his station, steady despite the tension. "They come in many forms, Captain. Many colors. The green and brown ones bind to living wood. Given the size of her fleet, she could command over a hundred ancient forest sprites."
He took a measured breath. "When a forest burns, it often grows back stronger. Fire sprites are rare, but it only takes one to start an inferno. Water sprites are more common. If her domain extends to the sea, they might be the most numerous."
Onscreen, a cluster of small, shimmering white sprites intercepted a strike of dust and swallowed the hit. "The white ones are different," Lutrian said. "Entities of raw force. Smaller. Unstable. Many elementals route power through them."
Roy squinted at the chaotic swarm. "Let me guess. Yellow or light blue is lightning, purple is poison.
A flicker of surprise crossed Lutrian's eyes. "Exactly. How did you deduce—"
"Lucky guess," Roy cut in. "Please tell me that's all."
"Rarer sprites exist," Lutrian said, more hesitant now. "Pale red, borderline mythical. They inhabit living beings, stir aggression. Alone, they make someone irritable. In numbers…" He paused. "When I was a child, my mother slapped me, for asking for more dessert. She had never struck me. Moments later, several pale red sprites drifted out of her skin."
Roy exhaled through his nose. "This just keeps getting better."
"I haven't seen those on the monitors," Lutrian said. "For now, we may be safe."
"Great. Anything else in her magical menagerie?"
"The rainbow sprites."
"The what?"
"Sprites that shift color constantly. Every spectrum. They're amplifiers, unmatched. Physical prowess, magical capacity, cognition, everything climbs. They're so rare most places never confirm more than fifteen at once."
Serenity cut in from the console, clinical as ever. "Confirmed, Captain. Sensor analysis shows fifteen rainbow-type sprites entered Lady Brinevein moments before she struck Eryndra."
"Perfect," Roy said, deadpan. "Just effin' perfect."
Lutrian hesitated. "Well… it could be worse."
"Don't you dare curse us," Roy said. "Not one more word."
"There is… the Black Sprite," Lutrian whispered.
"You bastard."
"It's not possible for her to have it," Lutrian pushed on. "The oldest legends agree, there is one. Not a species, one sprite. Period."
Roy glared across the dim bridge. "You're still cursing us. This is exactly how people die in horror movies. Three weeks. Vendor-stall crap only. Mystery meat skewers and stale festival bread. No more lobster tail. No more truffle mac and cheese!"
A tiny gasp. "You wouldn't."
"I already wrote it down."
"...The Black Sprite doesn't corrupt or amplify," Lutrian continued, quieter. "It unravels. Anyone who claims to have seen it doesn't live long. Most think it's myth. The few accounts end the same way, the witness dies. Always. Within weeks."
"So glad you told me," Roy said, monotone. "Feeling super blessed right now."
Movement on the monitor pulled him back to the throne room. FDR, Truman, and JFK stood together at the entrance, an imposing trio. Polished shoes tapped with quiet precision across debris-strewn wood. Suits immaculate. Posture regal. Three titans of metal and circuitry dressed like gentlemen from another era.
Lutrian spoke again, softer. "One more to be cautious of, Captain… the chartreuse sprite."
"We're still doing this? The hell is shartoose anyway…"
"The sprites of rot," he continued. "Decay. Old roots, fungal mats, bone mulch. They're everywhere. Most are small and harmless. But the large accretions, the ones that form over decades, are dangerous. In a living ship like this—"
"Alright, alright." Roy cut him off with a shaky laugh. "Enough flexing that big, terrifying brain. Let's lock in."
A small nod from the prince. "Yes, Captain."
Roy kept his eyes on the screen. "Thanks, though. The sprite talk kept me sane for a minute. Things were getting a little too real."
Polished floors ran quiet under soft shoe leather. Suits sharp. Faces sharper. The three Super Elite's paused at the threshold's shadow and took the measure of the ruin beyond.
FDR glanced to Truman first, then to JFK. "You took your time, John. I was beginning to think we were facing fear itself."
JFK's gaze held level. "Do not mistake preparation for reluctance." His sensors pulse as he scanned the area near the chamber door. "Take the lead."
FDR's mouth barely moved. "As if you could say otherwise."
Truman set his shoulders. "Let us carry the battle to her."
FDR stepped forward, the decision already finished. "On me."
They entered.
Three polished silhouettes cut through smoke and splinters. They jumped down to the collapsed floor, shoes clicking on broken planks. Their immaculate suits tracked nothing, as if they hadn't been in a battle. FDR in front with a king's posture. Truman a pace behind, calm as a countdown. JFK last, gaze mapping the room like a surveyor under fire.
A damaged Presidroid knelt in front of Warrex and Takara, frame sparking as it absorbed a storm meant for flesh. Lady Brinevein treated the tableau like a lazy rehearsal, fingers barely moving while green and blue sprites chewed at joints and plates. The floor hissed where water met raw wood; the air snapped with static.
FDR spoke first, voice even. "Priority is the shield unit. Truman, ensure an open lane. JFK, hold response."
"On vector," Truman said, moving right to split the angles.
"Acknowledged," JFK answered, posture tilting into readiness.
Pinned near the wrecked bed, Zehrina strained under a knot of sprites that pressed her into the boards. Ozone stung. Weight landed with a single sentence.
"Forgotten Tongues: Gravity Magic."
Sprites crashed to the deck like lead shot. Light guttered out before it reached the boards. Zehrina hit one knee, coughing. A gloved hand entered her view.
"On your feet, madam Zehrina," FDR said.
"Standing," she answered, grip firm as she rose.
Black dust listened before she finished the word. The mass streamed low across the floor and vaulted the barricade of broken furniture, then rolled up around Warrex, Takara, and the damaged unit. A shell formed, tight as a second skin, catching the next spray of water and shunting it aside with a dull hiss. A second current split off, thin as ribbon, and crossed the chamber toward Eryndra. The ribbon widened over her torso and neck, a steadying pressure that slowed the bleed and locked her vents in a half-open hold.
Truman kept the line clean of stray sprites. "Evac team inbound, prioritizing freeing Eryndra."
From Truman's hand, a glowing core of pure, unstable energy pulsed. "Fundamental Magic. Fission: Little Girl." He hurled the miniature glowing football shaped device. It was not a lob; it was a straight, lethal line. A green sprite and two white sprites intercepted it mid-flight. The blast detonated inside a perfect, silent, heatless sphere of energy. The air barely stirred.
Brinevein, her back still to them, continued to gaze out a shattered window toward the dark ocean, utterly indifferent.
Truman's optical sensors narrowed. A low hum emanated from his core. "Oh, ho! Let's see if you can handle this, then." His hand opened again, this time revealing not one, but a cluster of the glowing cores, a whole bundle of Little Girls. "Fission: Girl Squad."
Roy's incredulous laughter howled over the comms. "Girl Squad?! Are you kidding me?! I love it! That's perfect!"
FDR quickly raised his voice. "Limit the blast radius!"
"Will do," Truman responded.
The bundle of mini-nukes tore across the ruined chamber. The sprite barrier, designed to stop a single, powerful blast, collapsed under the sheer volume of the multi-pronged assault. The series of contained explosions drove Brinevein off Eryndra's still form, her regal posture finally broken, though she herself remained completely unharmed.
She stopped. For the first time since the fight began, she turned and looked at someone directly. Her gaze, cold and ancient, settled on Truman. "Ugh," she said, her voice laced with the profound annoyance of a queen disturbed from her nap. "You forced my attention? I hope you are willing to pay the price for such an impertinence."
Reinforcements flowed in from the hall without fanfare. Elite Presidroids, silent and precise, took their assignments without needing to be told which bodies mattered first. One stepped in front of the dust shell and picked up Warrex and Takara together, a single bridal carry.
"Put me down," Warrex barked, voice bouncing off the ribs of the ship. "I can walk."
"Statement noted," the Elite replied, pleasantly neutral. "Request denied."
Another Elite slid arms under the damaged Presidroid and lifted with care that kept stressed plates from tearing further. "Securing officer for repair," it reported on the open channel.
A third Elite crouched beside Eryndra, reading the dust wrap like a medic reads a chart. "Weight balanced. Mind the vents," it murmured, then raised her as if she were glass. Additional Elites gathered the freed crew and guided them into the hall under the sheltering edge of black dust.
Truman's voice stayed crisp. "Extraction in progress. Priority medical."
"Copy," came the corridor reply. "Med teams inbound."
FDR tracked the line of metal and flesh until the last pair cleared the threshold, then shifted attention back to the center of the room. "Now that they are clear."
Splinters settled across the planks like ash, and the nearest sprites drew back toward Lady Brinevein as if the room had just remembered its tide.
"I am not leaving," Zehrina said. The dust around her spine thickened, edges hardening from haze to blade, the sound like sand grinding in a kiln.
"Keep your altitude," FDR answered.
JFK straightened a cuff, chin tipping a fraction. "Ready whenever."
Lady Brinevein, focus now on her hands, gently caressed several sprites ominously. A quiet hum rose half a tone. Green climbed out of the living wood at her feet; blue curled down from the damp air. Sprites tightened their orbit with the indifference of planets. A wrist turned and the remaining attacks against the retreating path flicked sideways as if the world had changed its slope. She walked forward, eyes on nothing but her own arrangement of pieces.
Black dust answered movement with movement. A thin scythe-line licked out and erased a probing green sprite that was manipulating a vine that strayed too near the med corridor. The rest of the mass held its line around Zehrina, breathing with her.
FDR's stance narrowed. Truman set his feet. JFK's weight shifted onto the balls of his shoes.
Dozens of blue and green sprites shot from her swarm, ripping the air apart in a crosscurrent of lightning and water. The deck steamed and split beneath their trajectory.
JFK's hand lifted, fingers alive with crackling current, but FDR's gloved palm stopped him mid-motion.
"Not yet," FDR said, voice precise and steady. "Wait for the opportune moment."
A sharp nod from JFK, his stance settling back into stillness.
Truman didn't pause. The hum from his core deepened, light pooling in his palm before spilling outward in a bundle of miniature suns. "Fission: Girl Squad."
The Presidroids shifted together, angles tight, timing perfect. Their combined motion spun out a translucent, multi-tiered runic wall that flared and locked into place, catching the sprite barrage in a burst of static light.
From the bridge, Roy leaned in over the console, eyes wide. "Holy… they stacked that? Gravity, nukes, lightning, hell, I don't even know what the other thing was."
Kaelor's voice bled over the brig feed, urgent and fevered. "Roy...Captain...let me fight them later. You have to let me. You have to—"
Roy didn't look back. "Yeah, yeah, put it on your wish list."
The instant the impact of the sprites burned out, Lady Brinevein was already there. No warning. No telegraph. The sound of the air breaking preceded her arrival by a heartbeat. Truman took a palm strike square in the chest and went airborne. FDR caught a backhand that sent him into the wall hard enough to splinter beams. JFK's turn came with a spinning heel kick that treated him like a practice dummy and sent him skidding across the deck.
Her laughter followed, the crystalline chime of glass shattering under moonlight, as their armored bodies cratered into bulkheads and flooring.
Toes touched down with almost dancer's grace, but the planks under her groaned. A faint weight pressed against her, subtle but present.
FDR rose from rubble with the composure of a man adjusting his tie after a stumble. "You didn't notice, did you?" The tone carried a steel edge now. "Be careful when you touch me so carelessly. You might end up carrying a burden you cannot bear."
The runes hidden on their frames ignited, casting geometric firelight across the room. Sprites surged to meet the shift, but JFK moved before they closed the gap, one clean, unbroken punch that smashed into Lady Brinevein's face without a single spark of interference.
The blow drove her a half-step back. Her knees touched the deck.
For that heartbeat, the Presidroids committed. Angles tightened, strikes prepared, the final takedown locked in—
—and she laughed.
The sound rose wild, sharp, and delighted. She came up from the floor as if gravity had been a rumor, the pressure field FDR had woven snapping away like cobweb. Eyes brightened with predatory amusement. She caught JFK and Truman in each hand and hurled them into FDR, the collision a mess of shattered wood, crushed suits, and stolen momentum.
"Absurd." The word slid from Lady Brinevein's lips like fine wine poured over glass. "Pathetic. Offensive. You dared to think, even for the smallest flicker of a moment, that your clumsy magic, your pitiful, scrap-metal facsimiles of life, could make me stumble?"
She moved among them like they weren't even there, gaze fixed on nothing but the idea of her own voice. "The divine do not stumble. The absolute do not falter. The supreme do not cower. And I, little dolls, am purity itself."
FDR's palm struck the deck with the finality of a gavel. Timber groaned; iron screamed. A twenty-foot section of wall tore loose, spinning in the air before he wound back like an athlete with absolute confidence in the throw. Gravity folded into the mass. It cut forward in a perfect spiral, smashing through the clustered sprites in a thunderclap of splintered wood and snuffed light.
Shrapnel pattered around Lady Brinevein. She didn't flinch. The storm was background noise, nothing more. Her smile stayed easy, the kind worn by someone too far above the weather to notice rain.
"So eager," she murmured, each syllable brushed with mock admiration. "To hope, oh so desperately, that some brutish parlor trick will bruise true royalty. Bombs and stones, tossed like toys by children who've mistaken themselves for warriors. Your fury, your defiance…" Her head tilted, just enough for her shadow to spill over the three trying to rise. "…how charmingly impotent."
One step closed the distance to FDR. She bent at the waist until her presence was all there was, the taste of her voice as heavy as her stare.
"Watch closely. See how your bravado crumbles before it touches the hem of my gown. Witness how your grandest acts die in the air before they touch something real."
Her mouth curved into something exquisite and dangerous.
"No matter how violently you throw yourselves at the inevitable, you are what you began as."
That smile never softened.
"Nothing."