Confused, Willow flew out the control panel and peered out the windshield to find a much bigger ship immobilizing theirs.

“Who are these guys?!" she shouted.

“It appears you have been captured by the Nebularauders, the third most notorious gang of criminals in the universe," F.I.O.N.A. explained. “Unlike this vessel, they are in possession of deadly weapons, so I suggest you do not attempt to fight back and just give them whatever they want."

“Not if they want my baby!" John Dory hollered, jumping out and running up to yank Hope out of Viva's arms. Naturally, the abrupt force made Hope cry.

“John!" Floyd scolded him. “You could've broken her neck!"

Suddenly, they heard a banging at the ship's entrance. The door opened, activating a clear shield for some of the gang members to slip through without any air escaping, and the Bergen-sized beings surrounded the six Trolls with gun-like weapons pointing at them.

“We come in peace! We come in peace!" Trollex insisted, raising his arms up. Willow, on the other hand, wasn't backing down so easily.

“Lower your weapons, and nobody gets hurt!" she warned them with electricity crackling in her hands.

“Wait!" Viva interrupted. “Can you just let us explain?"

“You got ten seconds," one of them growled.

“WecameherebecauseourfriendCrimptoldusmyboyfriendhasakillswitchmadebyGenesisandwefiguredourbestbettooverrideitwastofindrecordsthatmaycontainapasskey!" Viva answered rapidly, then took a deep breath.

“How many seconds was that?" Willow asked the Nebularauders.

“Six."

A that moment, a smaller creature jumped down from one giant's shoulder and glared at the Trolls with sharp red eyes. She was about the same age as Willow, but slightly taller than the average Troll. Her skin was a sleek silver, she had thin purple antenna sticking out of her white and grey hair, which had pink and purple streaks and was tied up in a bun, and her ears were shaped almost like gingko leaves. She wore thin, pointed boots, a black tank top, a ruby red skirt, and lilac eyeshadow.

“Does that mean you'll let us go?" Viva asked.

“Not quite," she said. Then, one of the bigger thugs dropped folded up, tacky jumpsuits in front of the Trolls.

“What are these?" Floyd asked.

“Troll-sized Genesis uniforms," he answered. “You're gonna have to wear these to move through Olympus without attracting attention."

“This isn't my color," Trollex argued. The big Nebularauder picked the Techno king up and glared at him.

“What did you say?" he snarled.

“It clashes with my eyes," Trollex tried to explain, only for the rest of the gang to laugh at him. Floyd couldn't help, but let out a sheepish chuckle.

“Put it on!"

“You guys go ahead," Willow said to her friends. Viva, Trollex, and Floyd went to go get changed while she looked over at the girl. “So, how did you know we were breaking into Genesis beforehand?"

“Crimp offered me a thousand glirocs to help you on your mission and I spent it all on this," she explained, holding up a humorous diorama of Alexander Clamilton. “So you Trolls are under my supervision until further notice."

“Uh, I'm sorry, but not letting my best friend's life rest in the shiny hands of some teenager," Willow argued.

“And who are you?" she asked.

“I'm in charge of this quest."

“Oh, really?" the girl asked. “Didn't your mama ever tell you no one likes a hypocrite?"

“No, she didn't," Willow spat.

“What, did she die?"

Willow didn't answer. She just growled and clenched her fists, refraining from letting her magic loose.

“Uh, I should probably give Hope a new diaper," John Dory said, hoping to avoid teenage drama. Before he left, he whispered, “Remember what's important, Will."

“Genesis is in possession of some of the most advanced cybergenetic IP in the universe," the big guy explained, “so they're heavily guarded by the deadly Genesentries. Now, I know you don't have documentation to dock, so you'll have to get in there on your own with tools we're gonna supply you with. Once in, Miss Plasma will lead you to the records, where maybe you can find the passkey to override the kill switch and help you save... the flounder. But if you get into trouble, we will not be able to bail you out."

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Five-year-old Synth loved the water, but what he didn't like was having it blasted on his body via a giant pressure hose. Not that he had a say in how the Idealist experimented on him.

“It doesn't seem to be reacting, sire," Bralø pointed out.

“Odd," the Idealist admitted, “given how the rest of the Elemental Class had become one with their respective elements. Merged with their DNA. H2-Omicron, however, looks like any other specimen of its breed."

“A bad egg in the batch," Ræm said. “Shall we dispose of it, sire?"

“Perhaps," the Idealist replied. “Turn off the water."

Once the hose was turned off, the three of them found the test chamber completely empty!

“Where is it?" Ræm asked.

“Tiny thing must've slipped through the drain," the Idealist figured. “I'll have maintenance close the valves so it doesn't escape."

Synth wasn't quite sure where he was going, but noticed another drain and slipped out of it. He found himself in a bright room surrounded by more of the Idealist's creations, this group named the Artisan Class. One of them was painting a crude-looking picture and another was playing with some sort of keyboard.

“Whatcha guys up to?" he asked them curiously.

“Hello, H2-Omicron," one of them greeted in a robotic tone. “I am painting the island pier I saw outside today. It is the only time I have ever been outside."

“Very blue," Synth said, pointing to parts of the painting.

“Yes," the robot confirmed. “When sunlight reaches the atmosphere, blue light scatters more than the other colors, resulting in an endlessly blue sky."

“Sky," Synth gasped in awe. “Can I see the sky, too?"

“Maybe someday, if sire will let you," the robot confirmed. Synth went to the robot making various blank tones with the keyboard.

“I am attempting to create music, but I cannot seem to capture the emotional depth other songs contain," they explained to the little Techno Troll.

“Music," he muttered to himself. He liked the sound of it. Then, he noticed many dials on a board. “What's this thing?"

“It is called a synthesizer," the robot answered. “It allows me to alter audio frequencies."

“Synth-izers..."

“Ah! There, you are, H2-Omicron," the Idealist said as he stepped into the test chamber with his two pale assistants. “How are you feeling?"

“Like I was hit by a water cannon," Synth replied honestly.

“Ah, yes. Sorry about that," the Idealist apologized, scooping the little Techno Troll up with his giant hands. “Do you feel better after spending a little time with the Artisans?"

Synth nodded. “This one's playing music."

“If you can call that music," the Idealist muttered before placing a cassette tape into a tape recorder, playing a song sung by a choir. “This here is a very ancient type of song. Almost three thousand years old. ‘Mo Ergastee Förn, Mo Ergalone Förn Nort.' Which, translated, is ‘Be not as you are, but as you should be.' It's our sacred mission, to take the cacophony of sounds around us and turn it into a song."

Synth tilted his head in confusion before the Idealist squeezed it with his giant, soot-colored fingers.

“To take an imperfect clump of biological matter such as you," he continued, squeezing Synth's head tighter, “and transform it into something... perfect. And we're halfway there, aren't we?"

“What do I have to do now?" Synth asked.

“You will go with Ræm, he will escort you to where you need to go next," the Idealist answered, but just before he could hand Synth over, they heard a clattering noise above their heads.

“Sire?" Ræm muttered.

“Don't tell me they forgot to shut the water off again," he groaned.

“I won't," Ræm assured him. “Though that does appear to be what happened."

“Open the valves! Now!" the Idealist shouted in a communication device, but it was too late. Part of the ceiling broke off and slammed into the floor.

Synth remembered in a previous, more painful test that water and electricity don't mix, so he knew the Artisan robots were in danger. Unsure how else to react, Synth raised his hands up and winced in panic. When he opened his eyes, Synth found himself and everyone else in the chamber were completely dry, while the walls and most of the floor were wet.

“Fascinating..." the Idealist muttered, putting the little Troll back down. Synth just stared at the water still on the floor. Curious, he held his hand out towards it and some of the water rose up from the floor and flowed towards his hand. Synth laughed gleefully as his tiny brain made the water move around.

“Sire?" Bralø said, interrupting the Idealist's train of thought.

“Change of plans, we're not euthanizing him yet," he told the others while Synth was distracted. “But go ahead and junk the Artisans. Clearly, though it can replicate, artificial intelligence cannot create true art."

See what I did there? 😏