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Chapter Text

Cold…

Loki was surrounded by nothing but cold. Nothing but darkness. The last noise he heard before the water had muffled all sound completely were the frantic cries of, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” He could no longer see the surface rolling above him, and the pressure in his chest was unbearable. He had given up struggling, as it was futile to fight against the waves that tossed him about to their will. Though this torture felt as if it has lasted an eternity, only mere minutes had passed, and it wouldn’t be long before Loki would finally succumb and drown.

He sank further into the deep, black as ink, no longer tossed and thrown by the unforgiving swell. He closed his eyes, hoping to find peace. But whoever said that drowning was a peaceful end was a wicked liar. 

He begged for it to end.

His heart was pounding in his ears, his chest growing tight as if being pulled into a knot. He drifted into the blackness alone…

Alone…

He wasn’t alone. He was startled by a paranoid sense that a great shadow was watching him. He opened his eyes, and looming either above or below him (he couldn’t quite tell) were two huge, glaring ovular shapes, like a pair of glowing eyes. 

He couldn’t believe the sight was real. He thought he must have been dead or near death. 

But he felt something touch his chest, like the brush of a fingertip, humane and warm.

And suddenly a great agony overtook him, worse than the desperate strain of his lungs. His screams were muffled by the water as his muscles and bones from the waist down pulled and contorted. He recoiled, writhed, wailing, gasping…

Gasping…

He was breathing!

He panted, and the water entered his lungs and exited. And instead of a burning, scorching pain, it tingled, filling him with life. The pain soon subsided. He didn’t dare move. He remained floating in the darkness for a moment, confused and afraid.

Then he was stopped, curling up on something soft and warm, as if he were being held by two large hands.

“Rest,” a feminine voice spoke. “The worst of it is over. Just rest.”

Chapter Text

Four years later…

The deck was in chaos. Sylvie wiped the sweat from her brow as she ran across the main deck, keeping up with the captain’s demands. She wanted to stop and rest, but unless she wanted to be caught by the storm that was creeping up behind the ship, she had to keep moving just like the rest of the crew.

“Drop some weight!” Captain Odinson ordered. “Get rid of any cargo that we can afford to lose. Brunnhilde? Where’s Brunnhilde?”

“I haven’t seen her since dawn,” Sif answered.

As if there wasn’t enough confusion without the first mate missing. 

“Never mind that now,” Thor said. “Answer to my previous order.”

“Yes, captain,” Sylvie, with the muscles in her legs burning, swiftly made her way down to the hold, where she recalled seeing some cargo that would otherwise be forgotten. She was followed by Volstagg and Fandral, Sif and Hogun staying to man the deck. She drew her attention to a collection of kegs, and she flagged her shipmates’ attention to assist her.

“The mead?” Volstagg said. “You want to dispose of the mead?”

“We can do without it,” Sylvie said. “We can always make more when we reach port.”

Whenever that may be.  She thought.

“She’s right,” said Fandral. “It’ll only weigh us down if we hang onto it.” 

“Alright,” Volstagg sighed, his shoulders slumped.

Sylvie and Fandral helped each other to lift one keg at a time, while Volstagg had no trouble carrying one in each arm. All three of them went back and forth to carry each keg back to the main deck until they had tossed the last one over the side.

When she returned to the hold, she noticed a large bag of wheat leaning against the back of the steps. Whether it was for rations or to sell at port, she counted it as another thing they couldn’t hurt to be rid of. She pulled the cumbersome sack to the side and jumped a little at the sight of someone sound asleep on another bag of wheat. It was Brunnhilde, holding a half-empty bottle in her hand as she slept. She had been drinking again, which meant spirits were low.

“Well, Brunnhilde isn’t dead,” Sylvie said.

At this, Fandral and Volstagg came to her. Fandral sighed and shook his head, pitying her and the state she had drained herself in. He knelt to her and nudged her shoulder. She didn’t wake at first, but after receiving a harder shove, she finally stirred.

“Brunnhilde,” Fandral gently whispered. “The captain’s worried about you.”

“Of course he is,” Brunnhilde chuckled, her words slurring. “The poor bastard worries about everything.”

“I’ll handle the wheat,” Volstagg said. “You take care of her.”

Sylvie nodded before she and Fandral grabbed hold of Brunnhilde's arms and helped her to her feet. Each of them draped an arm around their shoulder and carefully helped her up the steps to the main deck. They struggled under her weight as she stumbled up each step.

“God, you can barely walk,” Sylvie said. “How much did you drink?”

“It’s not that bad.” Brunnhilde cheerfully reassured her.

“Brin, you once told me a deep gash across your leg wasn’t that bad,” Sylvie said. “It’s  that  bad!”

“You know how he feels about this,” Fandral said.

“Hey, I’m the first mate here!” said Brunnhilde.

“You are when you’re sober,” said Sylvie.

After much struggle, they managed to drag Brunnhilde onto the main deck, where Thor caught sight of the drunken Brunnhilde. 

“Oh no,” he sighed. “Brin…”

“I know,” she groaned. “I know what I said last time.”

Thor approached them with his arms outstretched. 

“Give her to me,” he said. 

Sylvie and Fandral allowed Thor to catch her in his arms, leaving him able to get her into her quarters.

They knew without having to be told to get back to work, and Volstagg had already thrown the two large sacks of wheat overboard. And so, they once again returned to the hold.

They looked through everything in the hold, sacrificing whatever they could afford to lose. 

Gunpowder. They hadn’t encountered any reason to fight in months. 

Apples. They were already starting to rot. 

Honey.

Pelts.

Timber.

Everything was tossed save for barrels of water and necessary rations. The weight of the ship was noticeably lighter, but it could still go faster.

Sylvie turned to three large wooden crates, each branded with a large hourglass shape. The crates held many mechanical parts, gears, bolts, springs, and even expensive power cores that only a man like Thor would be trusted to handle without pawning them for himself. Sylvie smirked. She knew exactly who they belonged to, and she couldn’t care less. She picked up a crate in her arms and turned to her crewmates.

“What about this junk?” she said.

“No. That we cannot afford to lose,” Fandral said. “Do you have any idea how much those are worth?”

“The navy will have our heads!” Volstagg chimed in.

“They’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Sylvie said. “We’re a month behind in the delivery, anyway. And they’ll never get it either way if we’re drowned in the storm.”

She began to turn away with the crate in hand, but Fandral swiftly caught her by the arm.

“Even if we evade the storm alive, we’ll still have the navy to answer for,” Fandral said. “We could be branded as pirates!”

“To hell with them,” said Sylvie. “The captain said to get rid of anything that we can afford to lose. And the parts that make their fancy engines certainly won’t work on this old splinter.”

Fandral and Volstagg wanted to argue with her, but they knew it wouldn’t do any good. Sylvie took the crate onto the deck, dumping the array of mechanical parts into the sea as if they were a bundle of old laundry.

“Sylvie!” Sif cried, having looked up from tying the line. “What are you doing?!” 

She ignored her, tossing the crate over with its lost contents and turning back for the next one. She returned with the second crate, giving the costly bobbles inside the same treatment as the first. Just as she had tossed the second crate, the sound of mighty running steps alerted her to her captain’s presence.

“Sylvie, enough!” Thor exclaimed.

At the sonority of his voice, Sylvie let go of her triumph. She glanced down at the deck, folding her hands behind her back.

“I’m sorry, captain,” she said. “Keep the last one if we must.”

Thor sternly nodded. But before he could turn away he looked up at the sky. Sylvie saw it too. The ominous black cloud that had been pursuing them was now falling farther and farther behind. Thor wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling in relief. He put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Sylvie,” he said. “You’ve done enough.”

__ __ __

Log: October 6

Sylvie Lushton

It’s been a while out here. We’re a little late shipping cargo to Vanaheim and Quantum, and things are going about as well as you’d expect. The captain’s getting agitated, Fandral is recovering from being violently seasick, Brunnhilde is hungover, we dumped half of our cargo to avoid being caught in a storm, and I haven’t bathed in two weeks so I feel absolutely disgusting. But that’s really the worst of it. I’ve heard of sailors having harder luck.

I keep having weird dreams. At least I think it’s dreams. They feel real. Or maybe I’m hearing things. I might be going insane. I hope that’s not the case.

Every night, I hear this voice singing in the distance. But there’s no one nearby that I can see. No ships or fishing boats. Nothing. It’s a beautiful voice, haunting all the same.

Sylvie was used to being tossed around by life. Her life had been changed over and over, first feeling as if her life had ended, and years later as if it had started again. Writing in her journal was a way she felt she could make sense of the strangeness of her life. 

But when she wrote about her dreams… or what she thought were dreams… about the mysterious, distant voice, it only puzzled her more.

It’s a male a voice I assume. It’s deep enough to be a male voice. Its distant sound is eerie to hear, but the melody is pleasant, warm, like a lullaby. I can’t make out exactly what’s being sung. The only words I can seem to make out are, “Come home.” 

If it is a dream… I wonder what it means. “Come home?” 

Her writing was interrupted by the heavy sound of boots coming down the wooden steps. She looked up to see Brunnhilde, sobered up now, gently approaching her. She noticed the journal and quill in her hands.

“Something on your mind?” she said.

Sylvie shook her head. “Nothing of value. How do you feel?”

“Fine, save for the migraine I had when I woke up,” said Brunnhilde. “The captain wants to speak to you.”

“I expect he does,” Sylvie said. 

“Between you and me, I share your sentiment,” said Brunnhilde. “Those stuck up privateers can shove their ritzy gizmos up their asses! Frankly, everyone was acting as if you were throwing a person overboard.”

“I might as well have been,” Sylvie said. “Apparently we could be branded as pirates for destroying their property.”

“Well, we still have one more,” said Brunnhilde. “I think you’ve made your statement clear enough without putting us in complete jeopardy.”

“I’ll take that,” Sylvie said. “I should probably go talk to the captain then.”

Brunnhilde patted her on the shoulder as she stood. Sylvie smiled at her before grimacing.  

“God, you still smell like mead.”

“Alright,” Brunnhilde said with a playful shove. “Get up there.”

Sylvie followed the steps to the main deck. The wood of the ship was lined with a warm glow, as the distant sky became pink and amber with the fading sun. It was a fairly quiet evening, serenaded by the steady creaking of the ship and the brush of water against the hull. She took a deep breath in as she approached the door to Thor’s cabin. But that’s when she heard it. A very faint hum, barely audible against the other quiet sounds around her. She stopped for a moment, straining to listen. But she heard nothing. She shook her head, figuring that her strange dreams were playing with her waking mind. She put it behind her and stood before the dark mahogany door. She gently knocked, which was met with the response of her captain on the other side.

“Come in.”

Sylvie opened the door, entering the cabin to see Thor sitting at his writing desk, his head in his hands as he haggardly scanned the map in front of him. He looked up to see her in the doorway, erasing his worn expression to give her a kind smile and a nod. Sylvie closed the door behind her and approached his desk. She stood with her hand folded behind her back, showing her captain respect.

“Is everything alright, captain?” she said. “You seem troubled.”

“Yes, it’s alright,” Thor said. “The storm may have turned us around a bit, and we may not see port for another week.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I think you know why I called you here, Sylvie,” said Thor.

“Yes sir.”

“You know what you were throwing overboard?”

“Yes sir.”

“You know that I had the honor of being trusted by the Maritime Variance Authority to transport their property, right?”

“Yes sir, I do.”

“I expect you think I’m angry with you,” Thor said. “And if I’m honest… I’m actually impressed by your guts.”

Sylvie blinked. “What?”

“If it were any other situation, I probably would be angry,” said Thor. “But your tenacity probably saved our hides. And I’ll be honest with you, even if they hired me, I kind of think they’re assholes anyway, so I won’t lose sleep over it.”

“Here I was prepared to be told off,” Sylvie chuckled. “Not that I would blame you, but I wouldn’t be sorry either way.”

“Your crewmates care about all of our well being,” said Thor. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” said Sylvie. “Fandral tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen.”

No one aboard the Stormbreaker had a home to go to anymore. They all called Asgard home in distant, golden days. But with the land destroyed, the Stormbreaker was their home. So Sylvie couldn’t blame anyone for the dread of having the crew’s name dashed for becoming pirates.

“In your defense, Fandral is a slave to civility,” Thor said. 

She and Thor shared a laugh.

“Just don’t take it the wrong way,” Thor said. “I like you, Sylvie. I really do.”

“Why’s that?” Sylvie humored.

“I don’t know,” Thor said with a smile. “I guess you remind me of my brother.”

“Huh! You have a brother?”

Thor’s smile suddenly faded, his eyes staring blankly into an unexisting space.

“Well… had a brother.”

“Oh,” said Sylvie. “I’m so sorry…”

Thor sadly smiled without even looking up.

“If you don’t mind my asking, captain,” Sylvie said. “What happened to him?”

Thor seemed to suddenly shift back into reality, yet still struggling to look her in the eye.

“He, uh…” he sighed. “He was lost at sea over four years ago. We had been caught in a terrible storm. I was trying to keep control of the ship, he was standing right next to me. A huge wave washed over the upper deck. I managed to keep hold of the helm, but he had nothing to hold onto and… and he was swept overboard.” Thor stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I remember… I saw his head barely over the water, and then… and then he was gone.”

Sylvie had no words. She could only manage a soft, “I’m sorry.”

Thor looked at her, his eyes vulnerable. With a sigh, he smiled.

“You should get back to work.”

Chapter Text

True to the reputation that it was meant to uphold, the Hourglass was truly a sight. A graceful vessel with rich, intricate designs of amber, copper, and gold on its outer side. But its respect wasn’t earned by its appearance. The Hourglass was armed with foolproof weapons and efficient aim, making even the boldest pirates unwilling to attack. It was equipped with engines that allowed it to travel through the water with ease, impossible to be outrun. Such revolutionary technology couldn’t be seen outside the supreme forces. And the Maritime Variance Authority knew this well.

Captain Revonna Renslayer kept her head high, her hands folded behind her back as she walked across the deck. She was followed by Mister Don M. Mobius, who held the roster. The navy sailors stood stiff and silent, waiting for their serial numbers to be called in order for them to speak.

“C-20, are you on deck?”

”Yes, captain.” a young woman answered.

”B-15, are you on deck?” 

“Yes, captain.” answered another woman, who stood as still a soldier ready for battle.

”D-90, are you on deck?” 

Mobius checked the roster as each sailor’s number was called in the repetitive sequence.

“X-5, are you on deck?” 

“Yes, captain.” answered a young man, his voice dripping with self-confidence.

“Ouroboros, are you on deck?” 

No answer this time.

“Ouroboros, are you on deck!” Captain Renslayer repeated, her tone firm.

Mobius sighed knowingly, tucking the roster under his arm. “OB?” he called.

From the deck below, there was a deafening clang of metal tools being dropped, followed by frantic footsteps running up from the hold. The ship’s engineer scrambled onto the main deck, red with embarrassment as he wiped the smog off of his spectacles with his sleeve.

“Yes, I am on deck, captain,” he said with a sweet, nervous smile, adjusting his spectacles back onto his nose.

Renslayer hummed as she gave him a disapproving stare. “Is there a reason for your tardiness, Ouroboros?”

Bradley Wolfe, the young man who answered to the number of X-5, held back a smirk at the engineer’s expense.

OB fiddled with his hands as he spoke. “I was finishing up on one of the engines, ma’am. I didn’t hear you call the assembly.”

“I suspect that the whistle can be heard over the machines. Is that not so?” Renslayer said, integratively.

OB was visibly becoming more nervous and embarrassed. “Sorry, ma’am.”

That’s when Mobius placed a hand on her shoulder. “Lay off of him for now,” he whispered. “At least he wasn’t screwing around. He was doing his job.”

Renslayer clenched her jaw but nodded. She trusted Mobius, he was a reliable, reasonable man. So, she silently walked away from the fidgeting engineer to continue her roll call.

“Casey, are you on deck…”

“Thank you, Mobius,” OB muttered. 

With a soft smile, Mobius nodded. “Just don’t do it again. I was lucky to pacify her.”

Renslayer scanned her crew like a lioness, making sure she had each and everyone of them paying attention.

“Now,” she began, her voice carrying across the deck. “We will be reaching Quantum shortly. Two more days, give or take.”

Mobius held back a sigh. Two days seemed like two years at this point. Time seemed to move at an uncanny pace when they were out on the sea. He couldn’t wait to reach port, relax a bit, and recollect himself. He wanted a strong drink and a nice slice of pie. He looked forward to seeing his sons, telling them his stories while they told him theirs. And overall, he wanted a break from the tension. Everyone tended to be pissy on these voyages. Save for Mobius, who was a proclaimed professional at keeping his cool. And OB, who almost always seemed to be in a good mood. No matter the hours he spent on repairs without help, how that worksheet of his kept piling up, or how much Bradley pushed him around, he looked at life with a childlike bliss that Mobius envied. 

Renslayer gave the order to get to work, and so they did. The hunters, such as B-15, C-20, and X-5, began their lookout and patrol for smugglers, pirates, and other maritime criminals. The analysts, such as Casey, kept to the control panel, ensuring the transfer of the ship’s fuel and power was balanced out, and that all cargo was accounted for. The agents, such as Mobius, ensured that the ship stayed on course and that the crew was kept in line. All while Renslayer stood at the helm. In terms of manual labor, there wasn’t much to tend to, as these steam vessels weren’t as high maintenance as the common wooden ships. That is, they were low maintenance for everyone but OB. 

The ever dutiful engineer returned below deck to the engine he had been working on, and the mess he had left in his hurry to answer to Renslayer. His tools were laid on the floor in a clutter, his rusty green kit lying open beside them. He began to collect the dispersed gear and put them back into their respective casing. But as he had just gotten two handfuls of tools into his kit, a boot kicked the metal box, sending it and its contents flying across the floor all over again. OB looked up to see Bradley, X-5, sneering down at him. 

“Keep your shit out of where people walk, kid.”

OB let him walk past, picking up his kit and resuming his cleanup without a word of complaint. Besides, he could detect the briny smell of fog in the air. He had to keep working, lest the Hourglass’s journey be slowed down. 

Once his tools were organized, he turned to the engine of the rudder stock. He had already replaced the power core, he just needed to make sure the coverings were securely in place. He craned his wrench to tighten the second bolt in place, when he heard the voice of Verity Willis, B-15.

“Sharp rocks on both the port and starboard side,” she called. “Keep to the center, or they’ll graze the hull.”

In a rare moment of distraction, OB stopped working, his blood running cold. Rocks? Sharp rocks? A disturbing familiarity coursed through his mind. He had to keep working and keep the ship running properly. But the flutter in his stomach told him to pull away, just for a moment. He set down his wrench, leaving it and his tool kit beside the rudder engine.

He ran up the stairs onto the main deck, looking out past the port side. There was a chill in the air. Not cold by any means, but a distinct feeling that made his spine shiver. As he had smelled earlier, a spectral fog surrounded the ship at all sides, barely revealing the foreboding forms of sharp, black rocks. An anxious feeling tugging at his chest, OB fiddled with a pocket on his vest, and the folded parchment peeking out of it. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but he knew that if he said nothing, his conscience would pester him until he acted. He spotted the quartermaster, discreetly rushing to him and grabbing his shoulder.

“Mobius…” he whispered.

The man looked up from his roster, narrowing his eyes. “OB? I thought you were working downstairs.”

“I need to talk to you, Mobius,” OB said, his voice hushed but urgent. “Privately. Please.”

Seeing the anxiety in the eyes of his usually perky friend, Mobius looked around for prying eyes and tucked his roster under his arm. 

“Sure,” he said, matching OB’s hushed tone. “I can talk, but only for a bit.”

Mobius led him under the stairs beneath the quarter-deck, his back turned towards the outside to ensure that OB had some privacy for whatever he was about to say. The engineer swallowed a lump in his throat before he finally spoke.

“Mobius, this place doesn’t feel right.”

Mobius couldn’t help a small smile of amusement. “I know, the fog always gives me the willies. But the hunters haven’t spotted anything, so we should be fine.”

“It just…” OB continued. “It reminds me of something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, unfolding it for Mobius to see. The parchment was flimsy and tanned, but its markings were clear, written in runic symbols.

Mobius leaned in, trying to make sense of the scribblings. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” said OB. “I found it in the hold. It was torn out of a book or something. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but I don’t get a lot of free time–”

Mobius held up his hand to stop him from rambling. “Hold on, hold on. What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’ve translated this with my tempad,” said OB. “It’s an old Viking text about Rán.”

Mobius blinked. “About what? ”

“Rán,” OB repeated. “The goddess of the sea. She lives in a great hall at the bottom of the ocean, and if sailors enter her domain without an offering, she catches them in her net and drowns them.”

“OB, it’s okay,” Mobius said. “It’s just an old myth.”

“I thought so too,” OB said. “But where we are right now is just like the description in the text.” He pointed out towards the sides of the ship. “Fog that comes seemingly out of nowhere, tall jagged rocks… It's uncannily similar! And I can’t ignore that!”

“OB, take a breath,” Mobius whispered. “Let’s take a moment to think about this, okay? We’ve had a long trip, we’re all on edge, and you read a creepy old folktale about an angry sea goddess and freaked yourself out.”

OB began to stammer, but Mobius quieted him with a gentle hand on the shoulder.

“I think you just need to get some sleep. You’ve been working like a machine, you know. It’s taking it out of you.”

OB went silent, thinking over his friend's words. Then, the subtle, perpetual smile that Mobius recognized returned.

“Yeah,” said OB. “You’re right, Mobius. I freaked out over nothing. Sorry I wasted your time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mobius patted his shoulder. “You just need a break.”

“I guess so,” said OB. “I haven’t slept in three days.”

Mobius’s brows furrowed, his mouth going slightly slack. Three days?! Where does he keep his energy?

“Wow… You couldn’t tell.” Mobius said, trying to keep his tone light.

“Yeah,” OB smiled. “I still have to finish securing the power core covering on the rudder engine. But I’ll take a nap after.”

“You do that,” Mobius said, stepping aside to let OB pass. “Oh, and you should probably put that page back where you found it, it probably belongs to someone. I… don’t know who in their right mind would have that, but you never know.”

OB looked down at the runic text in his hand. “I will.” That’s what he said, but something inside him told him that it was safer in his pocket. And despite his mind being put at ease, the eerie figures of the rocks veiled by the fog still sent a shot of uncertainty through his mind. No. Mobius is right. It’s all in my head.

Once OB retreated downstairs, Mobius made his way back on deck, just in case the crew began to wonder where he was. The roster still tucked under his arm, he began to pace the deck, watching the hunters on their patrol.

“Mobius,” he turned as Renslayer’s voice called him from the quarter-deck. “Can you take the helm?” Ravonna gave orders to him differently. It never was worded like a direct order, but rather a suggestion. 

Mobius gave her a slight smile and a smooth nod of the head. “Yes ma’am.” he drawled. 

He walked up the steps to the quarter deck, taking the wheel of the helm from the captain. She gave him a fond smile, one that was only awarded to her quartermaster, and turned to watch the terrain around the ship.

Mobius kept a steady hand on the wheel, making sure to keep the ship in the middle of the wall of rocks. It was quiet up on the quarter-deck, with only the murmur of the patrolling hunters, the hum of hydraulics, and the whisper of water beneath the hull. 

But another sound caught his ear. A short, low hum. As if someone were softly singing but stopped themselves after uttering the first few notes. No one aboard the Hourglass was fond of singing, as far as Mobius knew. He never heard anyone humming to themselves as they worked, and that was likely the fault of a mask of professionalism that was expected of them. 

Then, another sound occurred. A soft chuckle. The kind of chortle a child would make when causing mischief, except it was the low voice of a man. Bradley, maybe. Mobius thought. He could have thought of a tasteless jibe and made himself laugh. But the sound didn’t come from below deck. It was at Mobius’s left ear as if it came from the side of the ship.

Against his better judgment, Mobius turned his head. And his eyes widened.

For a moment, Mobius swore he saw a figure, with long dark hair and a contemptuous sneer, sitting on the rocks, staring at him through the fog with an icy gaze. 

When he blinked in surprise, the figure had gone as quickly as it had appeared. His mouth hung open slightly, as he was unable to make sense of what he just saw.

“Mobius,” the captain’s voice brought him out of a confused stupor. She stood beside him, a look of concern in her eyes. “You alright?”

Mobius shook himself from his thoughts. “I’m fine. Just making sure the rocks aren’t too close.”

She smiled approvingly. “We’ll be out of them soon.”

Mobius smiled, continuing his focus on their course. At least, he tried. The image of the figure he saw… or thought he saw… wouldn’t leave his mind, even when he tried to focus on the way ahead.

What is wrong with me? He thought. Dammit, OB. You just had to plant thoughts in my head.