Zyanya was surprised at the question. "Of...of course," she smiled back. "But why would you want to? There's nothing special about me. I've only done one thing my entire life, fight Nixx, and I just lost that, so I'm kind of a complete loser."
Nixx on the other hand seemed enthused by what Aisha was saying. "That sounds like it! I want to smash into people. I've spent my whole life fighting, it would be a shame to quit now!"
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"That's why I have you, of course," Zenarchis replied, eyes already darting cautiously around the nearby area. He had the Thor's Iris securely strapped to his back, and the cord was in his hand ready to pull at a moment's notice. "All we need to do is get to the plane. After that it won't matter. If I live, Dragonstorm can always be rebuilt."
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Shelton opened his mouth and it instantly filled with seawater. He had no idea what direction he was facing.
Look in the direction of the light... something in his head told him. But it was so far away, and the salt was wreaking havoc on his contacts.
There was darkness around his vision. The end certainly seemed inevitable. With absolutely nothing to lose, he pulled Nixx's syringe out of his coat and jabbed himself in the arm, hoping for a miracle.
But nothing changed. He didn't feel a bit different. If he weren't drowning, he'd feel the urge to protest at the anticlimax.
But then something slid onto him, and strong arms grabbed one of his arms. Something wet repeatedly hit him in the side. His first wild thought was a kraken, but the water got brighter and less pressured until his head broke surf and he gulped air.
Spc. Crota grunted as he aimed his grappling hook at the railing. Firing with one hand, he couldn't keep his head above water long enough and the hook kept clanging off the hull or falling short.
"Gustave, what in god's name are you doing?" he shouted.
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Gustave actually didn't hear him; he just happened to be heaving the bodies of the hapless guards overboard when he spotted his allies and their predicament.
"Hmmm..." he glanced at the hull and saw a porthole. Crota could make that shot. Gustave bounded down to the next level and punched his way through walls until he reached an office, where a a potted plant on a desk blocked the porthole. He flung the pot out of the way and punched the porthole out. "Crota! Over here!"
A grappling hook came flying towards his face and he caught it, hauling the rope up arm over arm until his soggy teammates were in the room with him, both coughing violently.
Shelton rubbed his eyes for a full minute before he could see again, until eventually he felt strong enough to stand. He turned to his two rescuers, the very last people he'd have guessed would stick their neck out for him. "Thank you both...so much. I don't mean to be rude, but I...thought you hated me."
Crota tried to drain out his weapons and see which cartridges weren't waterlogged. "That'd be one hell of a bad reason to let you die. Like it or not, you tend to be the "get the thing done" guy, while we just shoot whoever is trying to stop you. Now make all this effort worth it and go get something done." Gustave didn't agree, but he didn't disagree.
Shelton decided to take this at face value. "Well, thank you again. Our goal, as before, is to get to the cargo bay. The lack of bone-shattering crashes indicates that our team failed, and the submarine hasn't deposited its payload yet."
Gustave and Crota nodded and darted out of the room to scout the area out. Shelton realized he still had the empty syringe in his hand. The useless, failed syringe.
He chucked it at the potted plant, lying in a heap of soil and pottery shards. "Figures that I wouldn't get any superpowers..." he grumbled.
"I feel really sorry for you. Would you mind putting my pot back together?" replied the plant, startling Shelton so badly he left the room as fast as he could.
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