Pixie skipped out of the house as her footsteps were light but seemingly deliberate. She made her way toward the van. She yanked open the back door and rummaged until she found the battered metal can of petrol.
As she hopped down from the van, the teddy bear clutched in her left arm, she murmured under her breath — just loud enough for the air to carry her words.
"Pixie's not in the mood to play with bad guys… Pixie just wants to get this over with… so she can spend more time with Chumpkin."
Her voice had a sing-song quality, but her eyes did not look liike those of a child.
Holding the can in her right hand and the teddy in her left, she bounced her way back to the house, her pigtails swaying with each hop.
Inside, she didn't look at anyone. She set the can down with a faint thud, then leapt onto the dining table in one smooth motion.
She crossed her legs, pouting ever so slightly. The expression screamed I'm offended, but in the way of someone who wanted everyone in the room to notice — without her having to actually say it.
Alistair adjusted his glasses, glanced at her, and then quickly looked away. The guy in the cowboy hat just tilted his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. The man in the winter coat gave that odd, misplaced smile again, as if enjoying the tension.
Pixie hugged Chumpkin closer, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh.
Alistair adjusted his stance, one hand still resting on the table. His voice was calm but carried a weight that made the air feel heavier.
"I'm sorry," he began, looking directly at Melissa. "Sorry for not telling you about the mission beforehand. I knew you'd react this way, but… I thought it was better you didn't hesitate right before we even set out. I wanted to show you why it was necessary before it actually happened."
Melissa folded her arms, her glare still sharp, but she didn't interrupt.
Alistair took a breath, ready to explain the situation in detail—
"Pixie saw some bad guys outside," Pixie suddenly announced from her perch on the table, swinging her legs. "But Pixie doesn't want to fight."
The room went still.
The cowboy tilted his hat just enough to reveal a curious smirk.
The man in the winter coat stopped smiling, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Melissa's irritation flickered into confusion.
Alistair's gaze shifted to Pixie, his voice measured. "Can you tell which faction they are off?"
Pixie hugged Chumpkin tighter, her tone as sweet as it was unsettling. "Mmhmm. I don't know..."
Alistair's voice was steady but urgent. "We don't have much time. Better we get this over with. Frost—protect the van. Colt—don't let anybody into the house. Pixie—"
Before he could finish, Pixie, still sitting on the table with her teddy in one hand, interrupted lazily. "Pixie doesn't want to fight."
He gave her a flat look but didn't argue. "Melissa, come with me."
Without another word, he led Melissa toward the far wall. A low rumble shivered through the floorboards, and a concealed panel slid open, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward.
When they reached the bottom, Melissa froze. She had no idea her mother had anything like this beneath the house. The space felt like a hidden library, shelves crammed with books in every size and color, some bound in materials she couldn't name.
Her fingers itched to pull one down, to skim through the strange symbols and faded handwriting—but Alistair's voice cut in sharply. "We don't have much time."
He nodded toward the far corner.
Melissa followed his gaze and saw an unassuming metallic box, sitting at the center of a circular pattern etched into the floor. The markings glimmered faintly in the dim light, and something about the air here felt heavier.
As Frost stepped out of the house, the sight of several shadowy figures closing in on the van made his jaw tighten. He parted his lips as if to speak—but then thought better of it. Instead, he took slow, deliberate steps toward the vehicle, his boots crunching lightly against the gravel.
"I'm not very good with words," he said evenly, his tone almost casual but carrying an edge that cut through the air, "so I'd advise you to step away from the means of transport."
Without any warning, Frost stamped his foot against the floor. A sharp crack split the air as ice spread outward from beneath him, racing toward the intruders. Jagged spikes shot up from the ground, impaling some of the figures mid-stride.
He didn't slow his pace, continuing toward the van with the same unhurried steps. His voice rose this time, louder, carrying a cold finality.
"I'll just advise you—whatever you do… don't get close to the means of transport."
Colt stepped out of the door, guns already in hand. He fired off precise shots, dropping several figures advancing toward the entrance.
Glass shattered behind him as another assailant crashed through the window. Without so much as glancing back, Colt's arm swung behind him, his finger pulling the trigger in a motion so fluid it was clear—this was something he had trained for his entire life.
A few more figures emerged through the windows, their focus locked on the same target Alistair was after.
Pixie, still perched on the table and lazily swinging her legs, pretended not to notice. Instead, she called out casually, "Colt, we've got company—more of them just slipped in."
Colt slid back inside without missing a beat. He tossed the guns in his hands into the air, kicked them toward the nearest attackers, and in the same motion, drew two more from his sleeves. The air cracked with four rapid shots—each one finding its mark.
Pixie's eyes widened, glowing with excitement. "So cool," she whispered in awe.