The Extra's Rise

I didn't run. That would've made it worse.

I lifted both hands, palms open, and tried a smile that said I knew I was in trouble and was prepared to suffer bravely.

"Tea?" I offered.

"Sit," Rachel said—warm tone that makes the world behave.

I sat. Valeria settled at my hip with a quiet, pleased weight. A faint hum brushed the bone of my wrist—approval for choosing surrender over sarcasm. "Wise," she whispered along the steel, not sound so much as certainty.

Cecilia swung onto the arm of my chair like she owned the furniture and me by extension. "Item one," she said. "If a literal goddess tries to flirt through a dying demon again, you do not make eye contact."

"I didn't—" I started.

"You did," all five said.

"…I did," I admitted. "Hard to miss."

Seraphina eased onto the couch opposite, posture perfect, glacier-calm. "Second," she said, "we treat charms and projections like ambushes: call it out, anchor fast, no one takes it alone."

"Agreed," I said, and meant it.

Rose folded beside Rachel, tablet on her knees. "Third: you do not accept 'boons,' 'blessings,' or 'marks' without prior review." She tapped the screen. "I have a form. Six signatures. Yours occasionally counts."

"That's a joke," I said.

"It isn't," Rose said, perfectly serious.

Reika leaned against the wall, hair in a loose knot, arms crossed like a kept promise. "Fourth," she said. "You don't carry all this solo. Moon, Earth, Seven politics, demons, Alyssara—we divide loads, assign roles, and put guards on your blind spots."

"I don't have a martyr complex," I said, reflexive as breathing.

"Mm," said Rachel, which landed harder than a sermon.

Cecilia squeezed my shoulder, crimson eyes bright with chaos. "Fifth. You are ours. We are yours. Say it out loud so your brain hears it."

I breathed once. "I'm yours," I said. "You're mine."

Rachel's mouth softened. Seraphina's shoulders loosened a fraction. Rose's eyes warmed. Reika's nod was a whole sentence. Cecilia stamped the declaration with a quick kiss to my cheek.

"Good," she said. "Now, smaller business. Make us breakfast."

Finally—a fight I could win.

The galley was narrow, honest, and stocked like Reika had bullied Logistics into doing it right. I cracked eggs; Valeria hummed domestic approval. Rachel put water on for Northern tea—gold-flecked blend from home—because ritual calms her hands. Cecilia filched fruit with the shameless grace of a practiced thief. Seraphina laid plates like a ceremony, edges aligned to invisible lines only she sees. Rose found a single packet of her favorite jam, smiled like a secret, and it hurt me in a good way. Reika watched the door and me in alternating beats, the steady metronome of the room.

We carried everything to the table. Cups warm, steam rising, the habitat's morning cycle throwing pale light across us and the viewport's slow-turning Earth.

"Luna," Rachel said, once the first sips were in. "We should speak of her now."

The room went careful, not tense.

"I like her," I said. No dance. "As a person. As a woman."

Cecilia made an offended little sound, then sighed like a queen signing a treaty. "Of course you do."

Rachel's blue eyes—with that small, buried gold—searched my face. Her voice came warm, sure. "Thank you for saying it plain."

Rose set her cup down. "Then we set boundaries now so no one bleeds from logistics later," she said. "If—when—you two choose to explore that, we agree on terms first. Time, truth, care."

Cecilia rubbed her temples. "Fine. I'll be the villain and say the obvious: if she hurts you, I light her shrine on fire."

"She doesn't have a shrine," I said.

"I'll build one," Cecilia said sweetly, "and then light it on fire."

Reika's mouth twitched. "We're not voting on Luna today. We're voting on honesty. He passed. Table the rest until the Moon stops smelling like demon."

"Tabled," Seraphina said, neat as a gavel.

We ate. It helped. Breakfast always drags the world back toward ordinary.

When plates were pushed back and Rachel had bullied the teapot into staying hot, the room turned serious again on its own.

"Lysantra," Seraphina said. She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't need to.

"Divine-rank," Rose said quietly. "Projection only, and Tiamat barely held her."

Cecilia drummed fingers. "I hate that sentence."

Reika nodded. "So we don't touch her. Not anytime soon."

"I know," I said. "I'm not suicidal."

"Debatable," Cecilia murmured, but there was no bite.

Rachel reached across and laced our fingers. "You need to grow, Arthur," she said. Weather, not judgment. "Swordwork—keep walking it clean. Body—sleep, food, cadence. Mind—learn from Lyra without giving away the pieces she shouldn't see. And when you need an anchor, you call us."

"I will," I said.

"I'll run the numbers," Seraphina added. "Clocks, tolerances, drift. If we ever aim you at a god, we do it with math."

"I'll handle the paper world," Rose said. "Concord clauses, Seven schedules, jurisdictional nonsense. If someone tries to tie you down with silk, I cut silk."

"Reika handles the knives," Cecilia said brightly. "And I make the fireworks. Perfect ecosystem."

They all looked at me then. The plan was me.

"I hear you," I said. "But before the divine problem—before a god with a crown of lust—I want Alyssara. On Earth."

The temperature in the room dipped half a degree. Not fear—focus.

"She's the most dangerous human alive," Rose said. "Besides you."

"And she's killing to get stronger," Seraphina said. "She will come for us or for those under us."

"She already took Lyra's brother," I said. "I keep seeing his eyes when I try to sleep."

Rachel's head tipped, just slightly. "You want to go now."

"I want to prepare now," I said. "We still have to close this loop—yard safety, reports, crews. Then I want a week: training, coordination with Lyra, real air in Valdris. After that—"

"We go hunting," Reika finished, tone like a drawn line. "We pick the ground. No stage. No audience."

Cecilia's smile was all teeth. "I'll write something fun."

Rose's eyes turned very calm. "I'll write something legal."

Seraphina tapped a precise rhythm on the table. "I'll sharpen."

Rachel's thumb traced a slow warm circle on my palm. "I'll keep you alive."

Valeria purred under my skin. "And I?" she asked, edge like a kiss.

"You are perfect," I thought back.

"True," she answered, pleased.

A chime sounded at the door. Ian's voice came soft over the local. "Tycho Control wants you on the yard in twenty. Crater's stable, dead zones shrinking. Luna will meet you at the rim."

Cecilia's eyebrows arched. "Oh? Will she now."

"Be kind," Rachel said, but her lips curved.

We stood. Habit made each of them touch me on the way out—small, ordinary claims that always felt like shields and blessings both.

Seraphina fixed my collar, fingers cool. "Stand straight."

Rose slid a folded slip into my pocket. "This is the schedule you're pretending you don't need."

Reika knelt to tie my boot because she knows I forget when I'm thinking about gods. "Keep your center," she said.

Cecilia poked my sternum. "I get the first kiss after the inspection."

Rachel caught my gaze; the warm frequency of her voice smoothed the last sharp edge in me. "Breathe steady," she said. Not fours—just steady. It landed better.

I breathed steady.

The suite door hissed open. Earth hung huge in the viewport like a promise we still owed. We stepped into bright lunar morning as a unit—five fierce women and one very careful man walking toward work.

We passed the med bay; Rachel paused to give two quick notes to a tired tech and made him smile for the first time in hours. We crossed the main spine; Cecilia palmed three snacks for later and winked at a guard who nearly dropped his spear. Seraphina checked an instrument at a junction and recalibrated it by feel. Rose exchanged three words with a Concord engineer and changed their afternoon. Reika caught a loose strap on a forklift and fixed it without breaking stride.

At the airlock, Luna waited—amethyst hair braided, golden eyes bright, suit helmet under her arm. She took us in, read the room, and offered me a short, simple nod that meant later. Thank you.

We cycled out. The yard spread like a silver wound turning clean—crater rim chalked by engineers, Redeemer pylons breathing their quiet light, a dozen teams making a precise, dull miracle of repair.

Work first. Alyssara later. Lysantra much, much later.