CHAPTER 177: IN THE SOYUZ

Raphael chuckled, the sound low and amused, as Hermes clawed at the burning static flooding all six of his eyes.

His head felt like it was splitting, the stars bending into warped streaks around him, space itself twisting into a smear of fire and blindness.

Raphael floated there like it was nothing, a golden bird aflame, his smirk annoyingly patient.

"Sorry," he said, tone far too casual for someone who had just nearly seared another man’s brain in half. "I should have warned you. I’m immune to psychological powers. Always have been. If anyone tries to prod at my head, my body responds in kind."

He shrugged with that same careless grace that Hermes had grown to despise. "Consider it a failsafe, courtesy of my biology."

Hermes cursed his biology.

Then Raphael’s grin tilted sly. "But look on the bright side. You share Paragon now. Which means... congratulations, you’re immune too."

Hermes blinked through the lingering static in his vision, six pupils struggling to recalibrate against the void. Anger seethed sharp in his chest.

He wanted to roar at Raphael, wanted to demand just how many more gifts this alien planned to keep tucked away until it amused him to reveal them. Immunity to psychic powers, fire that devoured thought itself, strength enough to split planets...

How could anyone stand beside a man so invincible without feeling like a shadow?

Instead, Hermes only scoffed, his wings flaring in frustration, halos pulsing brighter.

He snapped his gaze forward, teeth gritted. "I see the Soyuz. Let’s move."

Raphael smirked but didn’t argue. Together, they accelerated, their combined radiance burning across the darkness.

The spacecraft hung suspended against the stars, white metal gleaming faintly under the sun’s far-off glare. Hermes pressed forward, his hand reaching to rap sharply against one of the capsule windows.

Inside, small faces turned.

Slavic children, pale-skinned, cheeks flushed under oxygen masks that connected them to portable tanks. They weren’t unconscious or drugged like Hermes had half expected. They were awake, sitting cross-legged on padded seats, their eyes wide but not afraid.

One boy in particular caught Hermes’ attention. His tiny fingers clutched a book, the cover clearly illustrated with a lone figure standing on a planet no bigger than a house.

The Little Prince, only the letters were Cyrillic, Russian words Hermes couldn’t decipher.

The boy lifted his head, eyes round as moons, and asked something in Russian. The voice was muffled through the glass, but the question carried plainly in its innocence.

Hermes’ six eyes narrowed. "What did he say?"

Raphael’s eyes flickered, understanding flashing without hesitation.

"He asked who we are." His tone was colder now, stripped of humor. "They probably don’t know. The government would never tell them the truth. They’ll have been fed lies and promises of comfort."

He glanced at Hermes, fire dimming in his pupils. "Children don’t board ships like these without being told fairy tales."

Hermes didn’t feel satisfied with the answer, but there was no time to dwell.

Raphael’s voice cut sharp again, all business. "We need an entry point. Once inside, we hijack the piloting cabin. Then we push it back to Earth. Simple."

His tone dipped lower, secretive. "And before reentry, we activate Rewind. Time stops. We vanish to look for my home, and the Stripes never know."

Hermes hesitated, still reeling from the image of the boy’s open book and wide-eyed question, but he gave a curt nod.

"Fine. Let’s finish this."

The entry was not graceful. Soldiers patrolled the docking hatch, rifles gleaming in the dim emergency lights.

But against two beings of fire and light, their training meant little. Hermes and Raphael descended like wrath itself, blinding brilliance drowning the narrow airlock. Helmets clattered, guns fell silent, and bodies crumpled under the impact.

Hermes ripped a uniform from one soldier, shrugging it over his glowing torso until the seams nearly tore. Raphael did the same, the disguise laughably thin, yet good enough for corridors where panic had not yet spread.

Together, they stalked down narrow steel passageways.

The capsule’s interior was cramped, sterile white walls lined with pipes and panels, the air thick with recycled oxygen. They passed compartments holding the children again, Hermes’ eyes instinctively flicking toward them.

He let Mindbloom unfurl, petals of thought opening around the young minds like fragile flowers. The voices whispered in Russian, meaningless to him, only tones of curiosity and confusion.

But then one girl’s thoughts fractured differently. Images spilled, a memory flashing vivid against Hermes’ inner sight.

She sat at a long kitchen table, her mother’s hands brushing her hair smooth while her father checked papers at the counter. Laughter filled the air, warm and unbroken. Not an orphan. Not abandoned.

Hermes pressed deeper, the vision shifting. A school, wide halls where other children gathered, all of them sparking faintly with power. Some levitated pencils, some sparked electricity between their palms.

They weren’t captives. They were students.

An exam followed, the atmosphere tense but proud. A seal stamped across her papers. Cheers from instructors. Then training grounds painted with the insignia of Roscosmos—the Russian space agency.

Rows of instructors in uniforms guided them through zero-gravity drills, oxygen mask drills, lectures on cosmic radiation. And at the end, they were given a choice.

To continue or to walk away.

Hermes stumbled back against the wall, breath catching, Mindbloom retracting in a violent snap. His six halos flickered, stuttering with unease.

This wasn’t kidnapping.

These children weren’t stolen from their homes. They volunteered. They trained. They were told the truth, or enough of it, to step willingly onto this vessel.

Hermes’ stomach lurched. His mind spun.

Did Raphael know? Had he been lying all along? Or had the Thirteen Stripes, the US government, painted a fiction to pit him against Russia, feeding him their propaganda until he believed it?

As they reached the piloting cabin, Hermes turned, voice harsh and unsteady. "Raphael. Did you know?"

Raphael froze, his hand lingering on the latch.

His expression was unreadable in the dim emergency glow. "Know what?"

"That they weren’t kidnapped. That they weren’t orphans. That they—" Hermes’ voice cracked, six eyes blazing. "They chose this. They trained for this. They were told exactly what they signed up for."

For the first time, Raphael’s smirk faltered. His golden gaze narrowed, jaw tightening as though he was measuring Hermes against invisible weights.

"That’s impossible. The Stripes had proof. They showed me reports, intelligence, files—"

"Reports can be forged," Hermes hissed. "Intelligence can be twisted. Tell me the truth. Were you lying, or were you lied to?"

The silence pressed heavy.

And then, before Raphael could answer, before Hermes could push further, a voice shouted sharp behind them.

"Amerikanskiye ublyudki!"

A soldier had turned the corner, rifle already raised. His eyes widened at the sight of Hermes’ blazing halos, but his hands didn’t hesitate.

The shot cracked like thunder.

The bullet slammed directly into Raphael’s skull!