act47side

Some fifty Propeller Paradise guards and Maylander agents block off every passage and cable connections, forming an impregnable cordon line with their bodies and weapons.

Beneath their feet, the classical black-and-white tiles form a chessboard, the two sides separated by a ten-meter-long open-air passage.

The eyes of the agents are fixed on the support platform on the other side of the passage. The Rhine staff and testers who had at one point disappeared from sight now assemble there.

Platform 7... the analysis was correct. This is where the hide-and-seek converges.

Our people are ready, but there are more of them than expected.

They took out our guys in the broadcast room. The intel was not accurate.

We're putting in everyone we have.

Strength in numbers alone isn't enough. Be on your guard. They have an advantage when it comes to the new weapons and lay of the land.

Propeller Paradise is about to dock with D.C. Do not let anyone pass.

Use force if necessary. I'll take responsibility.

Yes, sir.

Six elite squads...

We have numbers, but the guys on the other side are...

Hard to tell people to keep going when they're exhausted.

Get the word out to the others, Jelena. Anyone who's too tired to move, give someone else their core components, pick up any hover unit, and stay behind to guard the support platform.

You're betting on them being wary about unknown new products?

I hope it works.

Phew... made it.

Are you sure you want to go this way when it's like this?

Yes, this is the only way to Cloud.

Take my parachute. Things might get dangerous.

What about you?

Me?

Ferne gazes at the Maylander blockade with interest, as though she is going to meet an old rival.

The camera drones left Platform 7 half an hour ago. Nothing that is about to happen here will be seen in the broadcast room.

Everyone knows that conflict is inevitable. Neither side wants to delay.

Their eyes are fixed on each other. Everyone is waiting for a sign.

My tour is waiting for my signal.

Suddenly, a yellow-and-black warning flag is raised. A young Feline woman leaps out from the crowd, loudspeaker in hand.

The first day I snuck onto Propeller Paradise, a kind guide told me that no one in this place can be stopped, if even the sky is no longer off-limits.

From the exhibits to the underground lab, I memorized every strange and curious invention, the complex ideas behind them, and hundreds of thousands of words of descriptions.

I could tell you who made the flying toaster above our heads, its model, and the generation.

I could go on and on about how wonderful they are, but to be completely honest, I find the levitating plates less interesting than the sunset of Bleached Wasteland.

Then I remember what my father used to say to me: 'A story is always more interesting than an explanation.'

I've had many frustrating experiences in the years that I worked as an independent guide.

There's nothing wrong with seeking truth, but many people subconsciously disparage exaggeration, inspiration, and dreams yet to come true.

I swore I would never again label things that I've never seen for myself as 'impossible', and laugh at my own family with my neighbors, as I did I few years ago—

It was not until the day my father died that I truly understood what he said.

If Propeller Paradise needed a guide, I would rather tell the people of Columbia about the people I met here, about their stories.

Rice Bush.

H-Huh?

A cobbler from Bunkerhill whose dream was to leave a footprint on each of the twin moons, so that everyone who looks up with a telescope would see his shop's logo on the shoeprints.

There's no bigger billboard than the sky, after all...

Owen Fredericks.

...I'm here.

Hardware store owner who wants to put his own screw on the second Ring Lab, and earn a spot for his family when space colonization becomes reality.

Hey, never hurts to be prepared for the future.

Aspen—

I'll tell it myself.

Aspen, grocer from Northville.

After being tricked into taking out exploitative loans, I divorced my wife and left home, so the creditors wouldn't go after my family.

My wife and I came up with the name 'Lucky Cystybeast' together. We haven't spoken to each other in two years.

She was worried sick when I left. I promised that the name 'Lucky Cystybeast' would be on TV, so that she'd know I'm safe.

Now I know that the exhibition was one big, fat lie. But I want her to at least see this red balloon with the Lucky Cystybeast logo on it, even if all the pods crash.

Aspen, and all of you.

The things we want, whether they're based in reality or just a pipe dream, whether they're the result of blind conformity or superstition... they're much more important than Maylander and Gustave think they are.

Run! Jump! Fly!

We'll overcome everything that tries to block our path and change us, without ever trying to understand us. We're the ones who'll decide Propeller Paradise's path!

Ferne dashes forward like a fowlbeast, loudly blasting her signal, as the rest of the pack follows behind, charging at the Maylander blockade.

Exhibits fly over the heads of the pushing and squeezing crowd, carrying all kinds of contraband towards the sky.

Absurd, and flying free.

Phew... finally out of the woods. Good work, guys. We just have to hang in there a little longer.

Thirty-four contraband core components.... all intact. Looks like the landing module works quite well.

My work is almost done. All that's left is to deliver this to Gordon. Hope all is well on his side.

Next—

Put it down.

Turn around.

Y-You're Gustave's science consultant? What are you doing here...?

Outside the window, the pinnacle of the D.C. Government Office and the Columbian flag are already visible.

Gordon's eyes are fixed on the bottom-left of the broadcast, as the red dot on the map gets closer and closer to the District plate.

According to the plan, the devices on the list should have been delivered to Cloud more than ten minutes ago.

He forces himself to not look at the door. Gustave is bound to notice any sign of anxiety.

The plan isn't going the way you expected it, is it?

You're calmer than I expected.

Being willing to take risks is not a bad thing, but you're not good enough at assessing risk.

You didn't have time to prepare a Plan B for your reckless Plan A. All of you will pay a heavy price if it fails.

And what's YOUR Plan B?

It's all good and well to rediscover your confidence, but never forget who you're competing with. I told you that getting carried away will cause you to overlook fatal flaws.

What do you mean...?

You're late.

I was delayed.

Your science consultant...

More than just a science consultant. I needed insurance for my plan.

The tall, dark Kuranta walks towards Gordon. The box holding thirty-four Originium devices, safely contained by protective material, seems almost weightless in his hands.

He lifts his arm and hands the box over to Gordon.

What you wanted.

Thanks.

What are you doing?

I learned a lot from you. Of course I knew what your trump card was.

A rival to provoke competition. A scientific consultant with both brains and brawn. A fair and impartial outsider to give legitimacy to the hearing and plan.

Too bad you picked the wrong guy.

Gramophone made from the tentacles of fossilized Seaborn? Decorative, or specifically functional?

Oh, it's for—

I see, automatic tuning with the Seaborn's sound-producing structures...

The grooves on the edge indicate that the designer even tested whether Seaborn adjust their biostructure based on the music. An interesting idea.

Where does this golden skeletal hand come from?

The one on the wall is from Sar—

It forms a pair with the heavily corroded one on the shelf, doesn't it?

The construction of the joints and the level of wear-and-tear indicates that it originated from the western deserts of Sargon.

Ah, this runed dagger is a familiar face. It—