"Wait!" Cyrus stopped in his tracks, meeting the one good eye of the blue clad figure that had called out to him. There was no way he didn't recognize this one, Blaze de Bouff, with his famous escape from the Isle of Doom after a murder attempt by his traitor crew and his famous 'dead - eye' shooting skills.

"Blaze? What brought you here?"

The musketeer halted in his run, gasping for breath like he had ran from Avery's court all the way down to the docks. Once he gathered his breathing, however, the twenty year old leaned in, glancing around as though he could not allow anyone aside from Cyrus to know what he has to say. "Listen, don't go to Valencia, whatever you do... That is a trap set up by Ulysses Septimus, he wanted you to go there." The musketeer pressed a sheet of parchment into the witchdoctor's hand.

"Head over to the location here, trust me..."

There was no way to not trust Blaze's words, with his reputation around Skull Island as one of the fiercest opposers of the Armada.

"Thank you."

The musketeer chuckled, his one eye twinkling. "No need to, good luck." Cyrus replied with only a nod; unsure of how to reply. He would need his luck, for sure, considering the number of clockworks that could possibly be around Wolf's prison.

His fingers curled around the shaft of his staff that much tighter. Nothing, aside from death itself, frightened Cyrus more than the thought of the sheer number of clockworks that could be in the area, and what those cursed metal devils could do to him in this span of time.

Thanking the musketeer with a mumbled word, Cyrus marched up the tiny skiff - the Golden Snake - and turned it out of the dock of Skull Island. Never had he noticed the knowing, devilish smile that spread across the face of the musketeer the second he was out of sight, or the words that escaped the mouth of "Blaze", spoken with a sort of dreamy reverence.

"Per la gloria dell'Armata."

Perhaps he should have realized, that no one could have returned to Skull Island without some sort of aide, when both of their legs and one of their arms had been removed. Perhaps Cyrus should have realized, that lying is a capability within the veins of all men, and who says they had seen "Blaze" break the form of an Armada marksman and stealing his weapon? No one had seen him do it, only heard him claim so, heard words out of his mouth.

Who says he couldn't have been given the weapon?

Cyrus stepped off his ship, his staff poised in preparation for any confrontations. None faced him, of course, but that was far, far more unnerving than facing a full legion of clockwork warriors.

The calm before a storm, isn't this?

Nothing was calmer than the air right before a storm, which is often another reason why many storms could often catch unseasoned sailers by surprise. And Cyrus didn't like it, he did not like it one bit. It was too much like how one could feel if there was eyes on them, staring at them, watching them without them realizing where those eyes are: though he could not say he truly understands it, the witchdoctor was fairly sure this was what a hunter's target would feel.

He swallowed, feeling a drop of sweat coat his brow the more he went, pushing through the large double doors of the Monquistan styled building and entering. This place was absolutely deserted, with no one sign of living being in sight, yet the ashes in the brackets mounted on the walls looked fresh, still with a few bits of embers bright in it, and the swords mounted on the racks shimmered with each ray of light passing over them; a sign they had only been recently polished.

Cyrus could swear he could hear his own heartbeat then, each beat clear as his blood was pumped through his form.

Tha-dump, tha-dump.

He could hear it, hear each beat with clarity that could not have been possible for a living human, feel each drop of sweat as it trickled down his face and form; the back of his witchdoctor's garbs already damp with sweat. Cyrus frantically glanced over his shoulder and around him, hoping to be able to catch sight of even one enemy to calm his racing heart.

Nothing was more terrifying than enemies that could not be seen.

It was only after a few more minutes did the witchdoctor give up trying to see an enemy among what looked like the empty halls of the strange building. Perhaps he really was alone in this place.

Cyrus found himself before a door of steel, standing half open. There was a part of him that screamed at him to turn and leave, something was seriously wrong. But another part of him demanded, yelled at him that he had promised to save his comrade, his friend in this.

Steeling himself, the witchdoctor soon found himself pushing the door open, and walking through it, his fingers clenched so tight around the shaft of his staff his knuckles turned white. His heartrate could not have went any faster than it already was, but somehow it did, thundering within his torso with enough ferocity it almost felt as though it would jump out of his chest.

And the sight of the rows of cells on each side of him, each lined with instruments of pain that looked like they were used on animals than humans, did nothing to ease his nerves.

Something nagged at him that Blaze might have sold him to the Armada-

Cyrus halted in his tracks, shifting into his battle stance.

A single Armada marine stood at the end of the hall, his back turned toward him. The decorations on the soldier's armor told him that this was a captain, one of the higher ranked ones... a difficult foe to a witchdoctor like him.

His brows furrowed in determination: it would seem he didn't see me yet, good... then one quick strike should finish him off.

Mumbled words flew from the witchdoctor's mouth, as he gathered the energy needed to cast a large bolt that would kill this one with one strike; his words faltered in his mouth, however, when the marine turned around, his eyes locking into his own.

Yes, eyes.

One of his eyes was a piercing grey, but blank, void of any emotions in a way that Cyrus could swear would be the face of a clockwork had they possessed the eyes of a human; his other eye was a shining optical visor, a circular visor colored startling green with a ring of grey around it, as though it was trying to peer into his soul.

"Will you kill your comrade, who has been with you through all of this?"

Comrade?

Cyrus couldn't be more confused than he was now. But before he could mouth even a single word, the marine reached up... and plucked off the mask, the witchdoctor had to take a step back to prevent himself from gasping.

It was Wolf under the mask, there was no way for him to mistake that face.

Several seconds had passed before Cyrus could muster any energy to form coherent words. "Why...?" No part of him could understand why the buccaneer joined the Armada, more willing to believe he had been brainwashed by the Armada captain Ulysses, by the Mad Tinkerer Bishop.

"Why?" 'Wolf' took one step toward him, his razor sharp halberd shimmering dangerously in what available light in the dungeon. "Did you forget the fact your dear captain had left me behind to die?!" He roared out the last words with anger, anger that rattled the witchdoctor's form and heart.

"You pirates had fed me nothing but lies, now that I have seen the truth, seen who is the real villain. The Armada are the true heroes, Lord Kane the true and deserving king of the Spiral!"

Cyrus backed up, his throat now feeling as dry as sandpaper. His mouth opened, a pathetic attempt to reason with the wrath of the pirate - turned - marine, though no words fell from between them as though he had suddenly gone mute.

His back brushed against the door he had entered in from, and for that moment, a fleeting hope went through the witchdoctor.

If I can just make my way out.

The little shred of hope disappeared merely moments later, when he tried to push against it.

The door would not budge a single inch, as though someone was leaning against it with all their might.

Cyrus' heart dropped into his stomach, all but close to completely stopping when he felt cold fingers, black gloved fingers that belonged to the Armada marine, wrap around his throat... and roughly slamming him against the steel door.

"Perhaps if you would change for the good, I can put in a few words for you with the Commdore." 'Wolf''s voice hissed out in his audio, sending a jolt of fear down the witchdoctor's back. "But for now, rest." The buccaneer's fingers clamped down on his throat, right on a pressure point with enough force to knock the witchdoctor clean out.

The last sight Cyrus remembered, before darkness clouded his eyes, was the thin line of the buccaneer's mouth, his one cybernetic eye shining with absolutely no emotion.

Once he was sure he was completely out, Sentus Optimus found himself sighing as he strided back to where he had dropped his mask, setting it back onto his face. It left a sour taste in his mouth to pretend he actually valued the time when he was still affiliated with those accursed pirates; breathing another sigh, this one of content, once the cool metal of the white mask was once more over his features.

Both of his eyes, even the synthetic one, focused onto the figure entering the door. "Commdore."

The other masked man returned with a nod. "Well done... now bring him to the Interceptor... I must speak with him personally." Sentus found himself saluting mechanically, and returning in the same monotone as any clockwork.

"As how you command, Commdore."

Two updates in one day? What is this magic?

Haha, anyhow, we now see Cyrus in quite some bit of hot water, as Ulysses has a plan for some friendly conversation later with our "favorite" witchdoctor... which will be revealed in chapter 10, so check back later my dear readers!

Review please, it makes me write more and better!

-Hades