Scene 1: The Gutter Current – En Route with the Pickup

The armored transport hummed along the coast road, tire treads crunching old coral deposits as the ocean loomed beside them like a silent god. Inside, the Gutter Current crew jostled and joked, squatting atop crates of stolen GEAR like overconfident sea rats.

“Do not let that dolphin chick touch my brain,” muttered Juke, checking the charge on his Manta-Blade Arm, the serrated fin humming.

“She blessed you,” Yibby replied without blinking, still strangely serene after her encounter with Tadpole Slim.

“I sneezed and blacked out.”

Lop leaned back, boot propped on a crate, Seal-Graft Underweave shimmering across his arms.

“She said we’re on the cusp of realignment, bro.”

“She also said to ‘walk like seaweed.’ I don’t know how to do that.”

“Means flexible, you idiot,” said Bassy, cracking his crab-shell knuckles.

Outside, a rocky overpass loomed ahead.

Juke squinted. “That road always been blocked?”

Lop frowned. “That’s not—”

BOOM.

The front of the road detonated, sending rusted metal and coral spines into the sky. The transport screeched sideways, tires shredding as it crashed into a derelict billboard pole. The cabin filled with static and alarms.

“AMBUSH!” Bassy roared, shielding his face with his shell rig.

Scene 2: The Ambush – Mandark Style

From the rooftops, Tye and Soule dropped first—Soule screaming with joy, Tye with grim focus. Wavi came bounding in from the far side, his knuckledusters cracking the truck’s cargo lock in a single sonic punch. Cuh burst through a nearby alley, fins flaring as his vest locked onto heartbeats.

Mandark’s voice crackled over their comms:
“Hit hard, hit fast. Cargo’s all that matters.”

“Not gonna mention we’re jacking sea cultists?” Tye muttered, charging his gauntlet.

“Nope,” Mandark said cheerfully. “Too late for regrets.”

Scene 3: The Clash

Juke was the first up, slashing at Soule mid-descent. The Lyrebird Gloves mimicked Tadpole’s clicking language, confusing him just long enough for a dropkick.

Bassy rushed Cuh, their bulk smashing into each other like surf and reef. His Crab-Spine Harness clamped hard—enough to crack ribs—but Cuh flipped them both into a side alley, tearing concrete with every blow.

Lop met Wavi, their punches a blur of speed and misdirection—Mantis vs. Seal, precise vs. heavy.

Tye intercepted Yibby—her eyes glassy, her movement too smooth. The Octo-Wrap Gauntlets she wore lashed out in fluid spirals, nearly trapping him until his eel-fist discharged, severing two tentacles and tossing her backward into the crate stack.

She didn’t get up.

Tye froze, pulse racing. “Shit—”

“She’s breathing!” Juke yelled, dragging her behind cover. “We’re good! KEEP FIGHTING!”

Soule dove, cape flaring, and body-slammed the cargo doors closed with a whoop.

“Crates in the truck! Let’s roll!”

Scene 4: The Escape

Smoke poured from the busted overpass as Mandark’s truck reversed into view, engine modified with octane boosters. Cuh stumbled in, bleeding from a deep gash on his side, vest flickering red.

“I got pinched,” he grunted, “but I gave ‘em hell.”

Wavi and Tye dragged the crates into the back. As the truck peeled off, Lop watched from the wreckage, holding Yibby’s hand.

“That it?” Juke asked, winded.

“No,” Lop whispered. “That’s just the surface.”