As each Moderator filed systematically into The Ethernet Corridor, they were overcome by a most preternatural experience: For the moment their data-clad feet spanned the portal’s threshold, they found themselves dazzled by a flare of white light, before they were whisked away to somewhere else entirely. 
Before it was even truly apparent what’d happened, they were soaring, weightless as they careened through some long, brass conduit: A tunnel, seemingly woven together out of thin, flaxen metals. 
Every few moments, a powerful golden pulse travelled its length, gaining on the Moderators from behind, before surging forwards and out of view…
The Moderators pursued, at slowly increasing speed.

All around them, data lingered: Thin screens of translucent material, which looked almost like glass, but- upon being touched- exhibited the consistency of water. 
Each screen betrayed a different collection of data: Profit margins, Q&A answers and dating profile details all came to orbit the team, before they slowly lost momentum, and disappeared behind the Moderator’s flanks. 

Oliver had taken the liberty of aligning himself horizontally, lying flat on his stomach with his arms to his side, his head craned towards the distance, where an inviting light- all shades of warm, autumnal colours- awaited them.
He remained still, and stoic… save for when a passing data chit loudly declared an interview with the ‘legendary Blue 42’, at which point he punched outwards, and shattered it into pieces.
“Virus did it,” he announced, unflinching, “Everyone steel yourself. ETA ten seconds. Nine… eight…”

“… one,” and as promised, they were delivered: Upon contact with that light, the Moderators passed out again into the real world.
And as they egressed, they felt their mass return to them: Oliver had shot forwards upon their exit, falling into a crouch and grazing his knee in the process. 
Still, he’d leapt to his feet moments later, keenly drawing his blade, and raising the sword skywards, “Worry not, the Moderators have arrived!”

Behind them, a rigid amber monolith, embellished with pulsating white binary, descended slowly back into the ground…
Around them, there was nobody. Oliver’s cheeks burned a red so fierce that they began to match his outfit.
“… I-Is what I’ll say, when we meet panicking people,” he added, clearing his throat and puffing his chest out, “Come on Moderators, let’s investigate.”

He led the group northwards a few metres, before a writhing crowd of worried onlookers became apparent: Clouds of steam seemed to be billowing into the air before them, and those who orbited the scenario were quickly backing away.
Oliver stopped the nearest civilian, an elderly figure with a firm brow but a slack jaw: He wore a fishing hat, and a tatty blue fleece. 
He looked startled, and was made no more comfortable by Oliver’s interference. 
“Hey, civilian: Can you tell me what’s going on here?”
“Shouldn’t you be tellin’ [i]us[/i] that?!”, he asked, clearly caught between the throes of terror and exasperation. 
“Uh- Well, I-”
“The ocean’s boilin’, that’s what’s happenin’! It’s swallowin’ up ships left and right, those boats’re our livelihoods!”
“Well, we-”
“What [i]took[/i] you so long?!”
“I-”
“An’ what’s with that accent? You wasn’t always Australian, Red, surely!”
“… I’m trying something new. Vacate the premises, we’re going to do what we can.”
“’Bout damned time!”, the older man huffed, before shuffling hurriedly away. Some of the crowd followed suit, but many stayed.

Oliver turned to the rest of his team, “I want these people [i]outta here[/i], pronto! We need space to manoeuvre and I don’t want any casualties on our first mission! After that, follow me!”
Then he turned, and disappeared into the crowd, shoving and shunting his way very impolitely towards its forefront.
There, he stared down into the harbour: The boardwalk- which had been made of a fairly sturdy metal-and-wood combo- had been completely demolished, leaving only the harbour walls between the ocean and Proto City.

The water below was caught in some bellicose maelstrom: A watery twister, which thrashed chaotically about the place, and snarled all the while.
It spat thick, malicious foam as it churned away below, letting forth primal growls and sharp hisses…
All about it were pieces of ships, made of both steel and wood alike, crushed and torn apart as though they were naught and left to drift as ghosts of once mighty sea-fairing vessels. 
Slowly, they were blackening, breaking down as their data joined the murk beneath them, or disappeared into the thick, viscous clouds of gas which were rising from the whirlpool’s centre. 
Oliver pointed his blade down at it, his jaw locking as he was faced for the first time with true threat.

He lingered there a moment, savouring the sensation of his father’s jackets upon his shoulders. 
It was time.
“Halt, virus!”, he called down to the growing disaster beneath him, “You have met your end, the moderators have arrived!”
It gave no response, save for a seeming seething.
“… You better start listening to me, and quick! I am Red-101, the crimson glare of justice! The blade of law, the-”

Suddenly, some long, moist limb shot from the ocean’s depths: A spindly thing, thin and made of what looked to be scarlet bone, surrounded at each side by wet, mottled muscle. 
It struck Oliver full-force in the head with its end, launching him backwards and sending him hurtling into the concrete wall of a nearby storage locker. 
He broke right through- with another sickly thump - before disappearing into the dark.
Slowly, more of those limbs began to clamber out from the maelstrom’s centre.