by Eurostar
Loud noises begin to be heard resonating in the ship. "It's some sort of alarm!" shouts Rhyme Guardian. "Quick, we need to find refuge!"
The hallway where they had entered is seemingly infinite and slightly curved, so that the two ends are concealed by the bending floor. "This is a corridor running all around the ship," says Exile. "There's an artificial gravity."
"Best to go right to the center, I think!" shouts Rhyme Guardian, blasting his way through the organically shaped steel containment.
The room on the other side of the metallic wall is enormous. The ceiling, shaped like a dome, is one hundred meters above them. On the floor, scattered around, are dozens of strangely shaped devices, looking like giant dragonflies.
"I recognize these," says Sente.
"Well?" asks Rhyme Guardian.
"They are Murmulan fighters."
"Murm... what?" mumbles Spark.
"Murmulans... a dead race of intelligent, koala-like creatures. They had the most advanced technology this side of the galaxy. Seems that these Basilisks have found a lost arsenal of that culture."
"Basilisks? Dead race? What are you saying? I can't follow you," says Rhyme Guardian, nervously watching the hole he opened in the wall a minute before.
"In the time from which I came, the Earth has previously fought a great war with a reptilian race that roams the galaxy preying over developed planets. They are called the Basilisks. After the war, that ended with the defeat of the Basilisks, we found many evidence of other lost alien cultures on Earth, on the Moon, and other planets in our solar system. Among them were some Murmulan ships buried on the Moon. I had studied them in my time to capture some of their advanced technology."
"Ah," says Rhyme Guardian. "Do you know how to pilot one of those things?"
"Yes, I know. Leaving before some unknown menace attacks us is the best move."
"No, you don't understand. I want to fly right into the centre of the ship." The Rhymer smiles.
The others stare at him, amazed, when Exile shouts, "Minds -- all around us!" And in that moment, a firestorm rages all around the group of metahumans.
"Quick! Inside the fighter!" shouts Rhyme Guardian, while from every direction, out of dozens of apertures in the hangar walls, come armed people firing at them with laser bazookas.
"What -- what are they?" wonders Disco Stave, looking at the strange attackers. Half of them were aliens, bipedal and somewhat smaller than average humans, and gray skinned, with big heads and black, enormous eyes.
"Basilisks," says Sente.
"They don't look like reptiles!" objects Rhyme Guardian.
"Yes, they are," insists Sente.
"But they're not scaled," notes Rhyme Guardian.
"They make eggs," says Sente, firing up the motors of the fighter.
Disco Stave projects a large monster toward the attackers, slowing them a little and diverting their fire from the fighter, which is about to take flight.
On the dragonfly-shaped aircraft, Sente is at the pilot seat while Rhyme Guardian is outside, just over the front window. Exile is at the co-pilot seat, and Disco Stave and Spark are behind, fighting the attackers with their respective powers.
While the fighter takes velocity, Rhyme Guardian shouts, "I will open hole after hole in the walls -- you fly right through them, Sente! Exile, full telepathic link among all of us." The Rhymer closes his mouth and begins communicating with the others mentally. "Exile, you have to scan for areas of the ship densely inhabited. Disco, Spark -- you're our artillery. Use your powers at full extent. Disco, you're an expert, so there's no need for tips from me. Spark -- freeze every molecule of water inside our opponents' bodies!"
"But they'll..."
"...die. Exactly. It's the only way we could end this mission. It's either them or us."
"Hey, only about half of them are aliens," says Disco Stave, perplexed.
"What are the others, then?" asks Rhyme Guardian, still firing at wall after wall, opening holes just wide enough for the fighter to fly through.
"They're humans, and dressed strangely!" shouts Spark, forgetting the telepathic link.
"I think I know what are they are," says Disco Stave. "I've just studied them at school. They are... No, it's too absurd..."
"Tell us!" orders Rhyme Guardian.
"Well, they are... musketeers! Modern-day French musketeers!"