As the shot’s echo faded, they could hear Emilie’s whispers.
"Aloft all hands, strike the top-masts and belay;
Yon angry setting sun and fierce-edged clouds
Declare the Typhon"s coming.
Before it sweeps your decks, throw overboard
The dead and dying - ne"er heed their chains…”
“Get her.”
Hunter grunted, “I can’t see her. No idea where she’s hiding. She must be on all fours.”
“Hope, Hope, fallacious Hope!
here is thy market now?”
“Nooo.” Forest cried from below.
Emilie stood up, just a few meters in front of Juniper and Hunter, her face angelic and blissed out, her eyes raging.
“It’s done. Project Sileo is on. My papa won. Against all of you.”
She turned and disappeared into the stairway.
“That poem triggered the drones,” Hunter mumbled, distressed. Thirty meters below, Forest
