February, 1098

The clock on my dorm wall ticks over. It is the 4th of February.

I am buried in the oversized bulk of my shark plushie. It makes a good backrest while I lounge on my recessed mattress in my kitten hoodie, distressed denim shorts, and thick tights. Arranged around my pillow like an honor guard are my anchors: the brown Amiya plushie with its blue button eyes, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis plushie, and the little squishy cake mom gave me for my first birthday.

I tap at the glass of my digital slate.

Ms. Closure's latest puzzle game is a nightmare of engineering logic disguised as brightly colored blocks. I groan, my tail thumping against the mattress as a red 'GAME OVER' flashes across the display for the fifth time in a row.

The pneumatic locks disengage. The door panels slide apart.

"Good morning, Lethe."

I drop the slate onto the blankets, smiling up at her.

"Good morning, mom!" I chime.

She steps into the room, her translucent tactical coat shifting over her shoulders. I look down at her left leg. Her strides are even, without the dragging limp that plagued her for weeks. The bandages around her thigh are gone. She is healed.

My heart gives a bittersweet twist. I'm relieved she is no longer in pain, but her recovery means the inevitable. The medical wards are behind her, and she is back on the frontline, ready to march into the dark and the burning ruins of whatever Catastrophe Rhodes Island is chasing.

Mom tilts her head, scanning my un-professional sprawl on the bed.

"No work for you today, Lethe?" mom asks, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

A prickly flush warms my cheeks. I duck my head into the collar of my hoodie.

"Miss Lena says I need a break to relax…" I mumble, twisting the drawstrings of my hoodie. "…after I miscounted the suppressants again."

I had stared at the stacks of boxes in the medical supply cabinets so long the labels blurred together. I nearly logged a crate of Oripathy suppressants as medical herbs, and Miss Lena evicted me from the Convalescent Garden, gently but firmly, before I could collapse the medical supply chain single-handed.

"But," I pivot, "at least I can go shopping at Ms. Closure's today! I'm taking Opal with me."

Mom chuckles.

"Shopping, huh?" mom teases, her thumb brushing my cheek. "Just make sure you two don't spend all your internal credits on sour gummies again, Lethe. Or I'll have Dr. Warfarin audit your snack intake."

I pull my crossbody bag into my lap, where my ID card is stashed.

"I wouldn't!" I protest. "I'm going to buy her something nice! It's an official outing!"

"If you say so."

She doesn't look convinced. Her eyes drop from my defensive posture to the plushie collection guarding my pillows. The volume of expensive merchandise on my mattress is a testament to where all my internal credits usually go.

She opens her mouth, a remark sitting on the tip of her tongue.

But before she can speak, the warmth of the dorm is punctured.

Ping.

The synthetic chime slices through the air—from the slate on my blankets, echoed by the communicator clipped to mom's belt.

[PRTS Comms]: Attention all personnel. We are nearing Rim Billiton borders. Prepare for sudden evasive patterns. Several Catastrophes have been detected currently active within the region.

Beneath us, the subsonic thrum of the engines pitches up. The floorboards vibrate as the treads shift, adjusting the city's trajectory around the weather ahead.

My hands tighten around the shark plushie.

Mom breathes out, slow, the sound rattling in her chest.

"Well." The playful lilt goes out of her voice. She reaches down, her fingers brushing the medical pouches on her belt. "Lethe, that's my call. I need to get ready."

I loosen my grip on the shark and sit up straight.

"Don't forget your own breakfast," mom orders.

"Okay. Stay safe, mom."

"I will," she promises.

She pulls back, giving me one last look of affection before she turns on her heel.

Left alone in the quiet of my dorm, I scramble off the mattress and slip my feet into my sneakers, arming myself in civilian armor.

Mom told me not to forget my breakfast. I take that medical directive seriously.

Instead of heading to the cafeteria for the mandated oatmeal and steamed greens, however, I make a tactical detour. I slip past the rushing logistics Operators and secure a golden-crusted Lungmen bun with a melting slab of butter from the bakery section, paired with a cold milk tea from Ms. Closure's vending machines.

I take a bite as I walk, the buttery crunch washing away the taste of anxiety. Mom would approve of this caloric intake. 100%. Or, at least, that is the ironclad medical justification I tell myself to silence the threat of her finding out.

With my sugar levels restored, I make my way toward the high-security quarantine wards.

I step inside the ward.

Opal is sitting up on her mattress, her own Amiya plushie resting beside her lap. She holds a spoon, taking small methodical bites from a warm ceramic bowl of oats dotted with berries.

She is unaware of the weather alerts echoing through the upper decks. She doesn't know we are sailing back into Rim Billiton, the howling wasteland that shattered her life and buried her parents in the rubble.

And I am going to make sure she stays that way.

"Good morning, Opal!" I chime, stepping in with the brightest smile I can project.

Opal blinks, her spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes drop from my face to the fleece-lined hoodie and the sleeping black kitten printed across my chest.

"Good morning, Lethe," Opal replies, her voice steady. "New clothes?"

I do a little twirl, my tail swishing behind my shorts.

"This is my off duty outfit!" I step up to the edge of her mattress and lean in with a conspiratorial grin. "Want to go shopping with me today? We can check out Ms. Closure's general store!"

Opal pauses. She looks down at her bowl of oats, then back up at my beaming face. Curiosity flickers in her, hesitant.

She looks at the brown plushie against her leg, then gives a small, brave nod.

"Sure."

I wait by the edge of the mattress while Opal scrapes the last berry from her bowl. When she is finished, I help her slide into her padded slippers.

We step out of the high-security ward, our joined hands a steady anchor in the corridors.

I keep our path centered, steering us away from the outer hull, insulated in the artificial warmth of the inner sectors. But Rhodes Island sprawls, and to reach Ms. Closure's general store we have to cross one of the primary observation connectors.

As we approach the reinforced glass panes, I pick up the pace, hoping to breeze past.

But the devastation outside the window catches Opal's eye.

Her slippers stop dead against the steel grating, hard enough to jerk my arm backward.

"Opal?" I ask, turning around.

She isn't looking at me. Her eyes are locked on the landscape framed by the glass.

I follow her gaze.

Stretching toward the horizon is an arid wasteland of cracked sand, canyons, and withered scrub brush. But the desolation of the dirt is dwarfed by the monolith dominating the skyline.

Erupting from the canyon walls, piercing the bruised sky like the spear of an angry god, is a dark shard of Originium. Its geometric edges cut through the clouds as dust and secondary Originium shards cascade from its shattered base.

It is the footprint of the Targangils Prime Vein.

The air in the corridor shatters.

The sweet plums and berries that had been blooming around Opal go out. A void rushes in behind them, thick with crushed stone, cold copper, and grief.

Opal starts to shake.

"Mom… Dad…"

The two words slip out of her, barely a whisper, thin as cracked glass.

Her knees buckle. Her plushie hits the floor and bounces away.

"Opal?!"

I drop my Arts Unit, the petrified wood clattering against the floorboards, and lunge forward as a breathless sob tears out of her.

She goes down, but I catch her before her knees hit the grates. Her collapsing weight drags me with her. I hit the floor on my knees, hands locked at her back.

"Opal!" My heart hammers against my ribs.

She buries her face in the fleece of my hoodie, her hands fisting tight into the fabric. She is hyperventilating, her chest heaving with shallow gasps as the wasteland outside bears down on her healing mind.

I pull her flush against my chest, wrapping my body around hers to shield her from the window.

Eyes shut, I dig into the core of my chest and gather up the warmest sensations of safety I have: mom's hugs, the melting clouds of Trimounts pancakes, the starlit shores of Siesta. I channel it outward, wrapping it like a sun-warmed blanket around the brittle edges of her panic.

"It's okay." I press my lips to her hair. "You are safe. You are safe here."

She sobs against my collarbone, and her sorrow burns the back of my throat.

"I have you, Opal." My own eyes prick as I hold her. "The rocks can't reach you here. I promise. I promise."

The sobs wracking her feel as though they are tearing through my own chest. I hold on as tight as my arms will allow, pressing her face into the fleece of my hoodie.

"Breathe, Opal." I speak into her dark hair. "Just breathe with me. We're inside. The landship's armor is thicker than any rock. You're safe."

Slowly, the void of her panic begins to thaw. The crushed stone dulls into an exhausted sorrow. Her ragged gasps smooth out into wet, stuttering hiccups.

I loosen my grip, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her face is pale and streaked with tears.

With the cuff of my baggy sleeve, I wipe the saltwater from her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Opal rasps. Her fingers shake as she reaches down for her dropped Amiya plushie and pulls it back against her chest.

"Don't apologize." I smile at her. "It's a scary world out there. But we don't have to look at it."

I stand, knees aching from the steel, and pick up my Arts Unit. My free hand closes around hers, pulling her to her feet.

"Come on." I turn our backs to the observation window. "We're walking through the inner corridors. No more windows. Just solid Rhodes Island walls all the way to Ms. Closure's store."

Opal gives a shaky nod.

We navigate the landship's metallic arteries slowly. I keep my promise, steering us through the windowless center of the residential and logistics blocks. By the time the blast doors of the general store come into view, the shaking in Opal's hand has mostly subsided, though she stays tucked against my side.

The doors hiss apart, releasing machine grease, fresh fabric, and the electric hum of inventory terminals.

Ms. Closure is lounging behind the checkout counter, balancing a glowing slate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other, her dark hair shifting as she looks up at the sound of the doors.

"Well, well, look who decided to grace my humble establishment." Her signature smirk stretches across her face. She tastes the way she always does, of ozone and expensive coffee. "If it isn't the kiddo and her ward. Come to finally empty that plushie fund into my registers?"

I step up to the counter, keeping Opal partially shielded behind me.

"Good morning, Ms. Closure. I want to buy some civilian clothes for Opal."

Ms. Closure lowers her mug. Her eyes sweep over my oversized hoodie, then drop to Opal hiding behind me.

The air in the store shifts. The predatory buzz of capitalist anticipation flatlines into something quieter.

Ms. Closure sighs.

"Right. Off-duty gear." She sets her mug down on the counter with a soft clack and waves a hand toward the densely packed aisles of apparel. "Aisle four has the casual wear. Take your time, kiddos. Try on whatever you need."

"Thank you, Ms. Closure." I nod.

I tug Opal's hand, guiding her into the fabric-lined forest of the clothing aisles.

"Okay, Opal." I pitch my voice bright, to chase away the lingering shadows. "No more sterile hospital gowns or medical sweaters today. You need real armor for exploring the landship!"

Opal looks at the endless racks of clothing, her ears giving an overwhelmed twitch.

I step into the role of personal stylist, combing through the hangers with a mindful eye on Opal's medical needs.

"Here, feel this one." I pull out a muted-orange cotton tee and hold it up to her. The neckline is wide and scooped, sitting low on the shoulders—the loose collar won't rub against the dormant black Originium crystals piercing the skin near her collarbone.

Opal reaches out, her fingers brushing the breathable cotton. "It's soft," she whispers.

"It goes in the pile!" I drape it over my arm.

Next, the pants section. I bypass the stiff denim and tactical gear and pull out a pair of thick, fleece-lined joggers in a warm charcoal grey. They are practical, warm, and soft enough for lounging in the Convalescent Garden or playing board games on the floor.

Then comes the most important piece: the jacket. I know how protective an oversized jacket can feel when the landship corridors get too loud or the world feels too big.

I dig through a rack of heavy winter wear until I find it: an insulated parka in a creamy beige, lined with thick faux-sheepskin fleece, with a fluffy hood big enough to swallow her whole head and her ears with it.

I pull it off the hanger and drape it over Opal's shoulders.

The warm weight of the jacket settles over her frame. Opal blinks, pulling the edges of the coat around herself, burying her chin in the collar. A ghost of a smile touches the corners of her lips, and she finally sweetens—diced strawberries, faint.

"It feels safe," Opal murmurs.

"Perfect," I beam, my chest swelling with pride. "Now, just shoes!"

We finish the ensemble with a pair of sturdy high-top padded sneakers—dark brown with thick white laces, built to give her plenty of support.

With our haul secured, I carry the stack of clothing back to the checkout counter.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for financial ruination, and reach into my bag for my Rhodes Island ID card. I am ready to sacrifice every internal credit I have hoarded to buy Opal her new armor.

I place the clothes on the counter.

Ms. Closure steps up. Without a word she picks up her scanning tool and works methodically through the tags: the orange tee, the fleece-lined joggers, the padded sneakers, the beige parka.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The total tallies up on the digital screen facing me. I stare at the number and blink.

"Ms… Ms. Closure?" I stammer, pointing at the display. "I think your register is broken. The decimal point is in the wrong place."

The total is absurd. It barely covers a single cold milk tea from her vending machines, let alone an entire wardrobe of high-quality clothing.

Ms. Closure leans across the counter, rests her chin in her hand, and fixes me with a deadpan stare.

"The register isn't broken, Lethe." She waves a sharp-nailed finger at the pile of clothes. "It's an emergency inventory clearing event. Last season's stock. Ninety-five percent off. You're doing me a favor by hauling it out of my sight so I have room for the new engineering shipments."

I stare at her.

The tags hanging from the apparel are pristine, brand new, current season. There is no inventory clearing event. I wouldn't be able to afford any of it otherwise.

A teary-eyed gratitude swells in my chest.

I slap my ID card onto the scanner.

"Thank you, Ms. Closure."

Ms. Closure rolls her eyes and sighs as she bags the items.

"Yeah, yeah. Just take your clothes and get out of here before I change my mind and charge you a packaging and shipment fee," she mutters, though the smile returning to her lips is warm. She slides the bag across the counter and winks at Opal. "Enjoy the new gear, kiddo."

"Thank you."

I hand Opal the bag, taking her hand once more.

As we step out of the store and back into the quiet, windowless corridors, I look down at Opal. She has already pulled the beige parka out and draped it over her arm, and the void of her panic is gone, replaced by the hopeful promise of tomorrow.

The walk back to the ward feels different this time. We aren't shuffling through the hallways in silence, weighed down by the world outside. Opal walks with a careful purpose, her free hand clutching the crisp paper bag from Ms. Closure's store.

As the heavy doors shut behind us, sealing us inside the sterile, climate-controlled room, I take the bag from her.

"Okay, Opal." I give her an encouraging nod. "Go ahead. Let's get you out of that hospital gown."

Opal takes the clothes and steps behind the privacy screen in the corner of the ward. I hear the rustle of the starchy medical gown pooling onto the floor, discarded. A few moments later she steps back out into the light.

The transformation is breathtaking.

She doesn't look like a shattered Catastrophe victim anymore. She looks like a normal, comfortable girl ready to spend an afternoon in the garden.

"You look great, Opal!" My tail gives a joyous swish. I clasp my hands together, my chest swelling. "It fits you perfectly!"

Opal looks down at the fleece of her joggers, then back up at me.

"It's warm."

"We have to save this." My mind jumps to the expanding void in my temporal lobe. My Oripathy might burn away the exact moment she smiled, but the landship's technology can anchor it to the physical world.

I reach into my bag and pull out my communicator.

"Come here!" I chirp, stepping up beside her and raising the terminal, flipping the camera so we can both see ourselves on the screen.

Opal leans in, her shoulder brushing mine. She holds her plushie up a fraction so it makes it into the frame. I stretch my face into the widest smile I can muster, my horns framing the top of the shot.

Click.

The screen flashes, freezing the moment in time.

I lower the communicator and turn the screen toward her. "See, Opal! Let's go print this photo out later. We can hang it right next to your bed!"

Opal stares at the image of the two of us. Her eyes soften, and she gives a slow, deliberate nod.

"Okay."

Before I can slip the communicator back into my bag, a sharp chime shatters the quiet of the ward.

It vibrates in my palm. I tap the notification banner dropping down from the top edge of the screen.

[Amiya]: Lethe, come to the Upper Deck cafe, I want to discuss something with you.

My brow furrows. A direct summons, and to the Upper Deck cafe. Is it about a new logistics mission? Or did Dr. Kal'tsit find out about my near-miss with the molten cheese fondue?

I tap out a reply on the keyboard.

I lower the device and look at Opal. I had promised her the morning, and she has only just put on her brand-new armor.

"Sorry, Opal." I rest my fingers against the sleeve of her new orange tee. "Amiya needs me really quick. I have to go up to the administrative decks."

I give her a reassuring smile, hoping to chase away any lingering shadow of abandonment. "But I'll be back for lunch. We can go to the cafeteria together, and then I'll print the photo for you. Okay?"

Opal looks at me, and nothing in her wavers. She gives a small, brave nod.

"Okay," Opal whispers, her voice a quiet anchor in the room. "See you soon."

I leave her ward and head toward the elevators.

The hum of the elevator comes to a smooth halt. The heavy metal doors part, depositing me onto the Upper Deck.

I step out into the quiet of the executive cafe. The air here is scrubbed clean, carrying only roasted espresso, steamed milk, and melted chocolate.

I spot her immediately.

Amiya is sitting alone at a small polished table next to the floor-to-ceiling observation window, holding a steaming cup of cocoa between her hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.

She isn't looking at the datapad resting on the table. Her gaze is fixed on the world beyond the reinforced glass.

I stop at the edge of the table.

"Amiya."

Amiya blinks, pulling her focus away from the desolate wasteland. Her long ears perk up, and the cafe sweetens with spun sugar—hers, as always. But today the sweetness is steeped through with something darker, a robust tea. She is carrying a weight.

"Lethe." Her voice is a gentle chime. She gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Have a seat."

I slide into the chair and rest my hands in my lap.

"Any drink you want?" Amiya asks.

I look at the steaming mug cradled in her hands. After Opal's panic attack by the window this morning, a heavy dose of sugar sounds like a necessity.

"I'd like a cocoa too, please," I reply.

Amiya nods and taps a quick sequence onto the glowing screen of her slate.

"Someone will bring it over, Lethe." She sets the slate back down on the table.

"Okay. Thank you."

I sit quietly for a moment, the subsonic thrum of the landship's engines vibrating through the floorboards. The silence between us isn't uncomfortable, but the steeped weight in her makes my heart give a nervous flutter. Amiya doesn't usually summon me to the Upper Deck just to share a cup of hot chocolate.

I lean forward, resting my forearms against the edge of the table.

"What do you want to discuss, Amiya?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Amiya doesn't answer right away. Her fingers tighten a fraction around her ceramic mug. She looks back out the window, her eyes tracing the rusted peaks of the Rim Billiton canyons, before she turns her attention back to me.

"About Opal."

The name drops onto the table like a lead weight.

My breath stalls. Miss Sussurro's exhausted face in the corridor flashes in my mind.

Months. Not years.

"Is…" My hands knot together. "Is she getting worse? Did the suppressants stop working?"

"No." Amiya shakes her head, her long ears swaying. She reaches across the table, her hand resting over my clenched fists. "But Lethe. Our Medics have stabilized her as much as we can now."

Amiya lets out a slow sigh. The dark tea in her thickens, laced with an aching sorrow.

"I'm thinking we drop her off at a Sunvalley-owned platform," she continues, her voice steady but very quiet. "They're the only mining conglomerate with the basic ethics to give her a community for the… final months…"

"Amiya…" My voice cracks. "She had a panic attack just looking at the landscape earlier this morning."

I look at her across the table.

"She was hyperventilating," I plead, my voice rising. "She dropped her plushie. She was terrified. You can't just leave her out there!"

Amiya closes her eyes, pain crossing her features. Her regret stings, and it tastes like bruised peaches.

"I know it's harsh, Lethe." She opens her eyes to meet my stare. "But think about what her life is here. She's confined to a high-security quarantine ward. She's surrounded by the constant alarms of a paramilitary organization that drives toward Catastrophes and warzones."

Amiya leans forward.

"We're a mobile hospital, but we're also a battlefield. Sunvalley has schools. They have parks, homes, and other Cautus families. They can offer her a chance to just be a normal child. Is living in a sterile, windowless box really how she should spend whatever time she has left?"

I stare at her.

The logic is sound, and it hurts. I want to argue that we love her, to scream that mom, Miss Lena, Podenco, Lisa, and I are her family now. But Amiya is right. We're a family that runs straight at Catastrophes and wars. We can't promise her a sky that never fills with smoke from some burning city. We can't give her an ordinary, boring childhood.

But abandoning her to strangers in the wasteland feels like a betrayal I can't stomach.

I take a deep breath, forcing the panic down, and lean over the table.

"Then let her decide," I propose.

"Don't just drop her off," I press on, my eyes locked on hers. "Let us take her to the platform. We go with her. We let her see the community, the schools, the people. If she hates it—if she's terrified and wants to come home—we bring her right back to the landship. But if she likes it… if she smiles, and she wants to stay…"

"…then she stays."

Amiya stares at me for a long second. The dark-tea sorrow clears, and the spun sugar comes back in a rush.

Her lips curve into a soft but proud smile.

"You're right, Lethe. It will be her choice."

Amiya picks up her digital slate, her fingers tapping across the screen as she drafts the official deployment parameters.

"I'll send Fourteen, Zip, Fres, and Savage with you." Her tone shifts back into the crisp authority of the leader of Rhodes Island.

I recognize the names instantly. Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip, the heavily armored Field Ops I had treated after Rim Billiton and Chernobog. Ms. Fres, the Caster who had survived the slaughter of Area 0 in Kazimierz. And Savage, a seasoned Operator who knows the treacherous Rim Billiton outback better than almost anyone else on the landship. It is a formidable escort.

Amiya lowers the slate and gives me an encouraging nod across the table.

"Go inform Opal. You leave in two days."

I stand up from my chair, my tail swishing against the floorboards. The cocoa that had just been delivered to our table steams away, the sweet smell lost on me now.

"I'll go tell her." I offer Amiya a small, solemn bow before turning on my heel.

"Take the drink with you, Lethe." Amiya stands, walks to the counter, and grabs a takeaway cup and lid. She pours the dark liquid in, seals the lid, and holds it out to me.

"Okay. Thank you, Amiya."

I take the cup and march out of the Upper Deck cafe, carrying Opal's future all the way back down to the quarantine wards.

The elevator lets me out into the medical wing. The walk to the high-security quarantine ward feels heavy.

Mom is already here.

She is kneeling by the edge of the mattress, adjusting the zipper of Opal's new beige parka.

"It's so soft. Lethe has an excellent eye for these things. The fleece joggers look warm, Opal."

Opal is sitting on the edge of the bed, her padded sneakers dangling just above the floorboards.

I step fully into the room, gripping the dark shaft of my Arts Unit until my knuckles ache.

"Mom. Opal."

Mom turns her head. Her warm smile falters the moment her eyes lock onto my face.

"Lethe? What's wrong?" Her voice drops, guarded, as she stands up.

I look at Opal, then drop to my knees on the cold floor beside mom, bringing myself to her eye level.

"Opal." I reach out, resting my fingers over her small hands where they grip the plushie. "Amiya and I… we were talking about you."

Opal blinks up at me with quiet, trusting innocence.

"We're holding near the Rim Billiton outback," I explain, pacing my words so as not to overwhelm her. "There is a mining platform nearby, owned by a company called Sunvalley. They are… they are good people, Opal. They have schools. They have parks. There are other families there, and other Cautus children."

Opal stares at me.

"Amiya thinks…" I force the words out, my chest aching as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "She thinks living in a windowless hospital room on a landship isn't fair to you. She wants to give you a chance to be a normal kid."

Beside me, mom freezes.

Her hand, resting against the side of Opal's mattress, goes rigid. Her honey is punctured by cold iron and crushed petals.

Mom closes her eyes. A slow breath shudders through her. She swallows the sorrow down and opens her eyes again, giving me a small nod to continue.

I squeeze Opal's fingers.

"But we aren't just leaving you there," I promise, my voice steady in the quiet ward. "Amiya authorized an expedition. We're taking you there in two days. Me and a team of Field Ops. We'll walk through the platform together."

I lean closer, holding her uncertain gaze.

"You can see the schools and the parks. If you look at it and you hate it… if you're scared, or if you just want to come back to the garden with Miss Lena, Podenco, and Lisa… we'll turn right around and bring you home. But if you see it and you want to stay… you can."

The ward falls silent. The diagnostic monitors on the wall are the only sound.

Opal looks down at her hands, then at the beige fleece of the parka I bought her. She traces the floppy ears of her plushie with a thumb.

She looks up at mom, and then into my eyes.

She takes a slow, shaky breath.

"I want to see it," Opal whispers.

Her voice is thin as cracked glass, but it doesn't waver.

"I want to go."

"Let's go get our lunch…" I ask. "…and do you want to… say goodbye… to the garden crew and everyone else?"

Opal stays quiet for a long moment, ears drooping, before she gives a small nod.

I reach out and close my fingers around hers. Mom steps up behind us as we navigate the corridors.

The walk to the cafeteria feels heavier today. The expedition to the Sunvalley-owned platform sits like a cold stone.

As the double doors of the dining hall slide apart, the clatter of the room washes over us. But today my ears pick out a voice carrying from the open kitchen counters.

"…But if you just braise it, you lose the smoky bite, Mr. Matterhorn!"

It is Gummy, leaning over the serving counter, waving a spatula to make her point.

On the other side of the counter stands the envoy from Karlan Trade, a Forte man built like a mountain, wearing a white chef's apron over his heavy attire.

So his name is Matterhorn.

"I concede the merit of your preservation techniques, Miss Gummy," Mr. Matterhorn rumbles. His deep voice is polite, at odds with his size. "However, in Kjerag we rely on the slow integration of dried alpine thyme and juniper. It tenderizes tough mountain game without overpowering its richness. A heavy smoke would mask the delicate profile of the broth."

"That's why you use the sour pickles to cut through the fat!" Gummy counters, bouncing on her toes. "It balances the broth and keeps you warm from the inside out when the tundra freezes over!"

Gummy spins to grab a spice shaker, and the moment she turns, her eyes lock onto us.

"Lethe! Opal!" Gummy waves the spatula in the air, a beaming smile stretching across her face. "Hi, Caladria!"

"Hi, Gummy. Hi, Mr. Matterhorn," I reply with a small wave.

But my voice comes out flat. I try for a smile and the muscles refuse to cooperate. The thought of Opal leaving this landship, stepping out into the barrens, drags my shoulders down.

Gummy stops mid-bounce. Her spatula lowers.

The air around her ripples. Under the bubbly exterior is still that pitch-black abyss of rotting copper and survival guilt. But I remember my promise to Miss Lena, and I refuse to touch her bandages. I focus instead on the fabricated sunshine she projects to protect herself.

Gummy leans over the counter, pointing the spatula at my face.

"You look down, Lethe," Gummy says, her voice ringing with culinary authority. "And that's not allowed!"

Beside her, Mr. Matterhorn crosses his arms. He looks down at Opal's nervous posture, then at my dead tail. A competitive spark ignites between the two of them.

"A dreary spirit is a disservice to a growing body," Matterhorn rumbles, reaching for a heavy iron skillet. "Miss Gummy, I believe an intervention is required."

"Ursus intervention coming right up!" Gummy cheers.

Mom guides Opal and me to a nearby table. We barely have time to settle before the culinary warfare overtakes our space.

Our table is buried in food.

It is a clash of two snowy nations.

From Gummy's side of the kitchen comes a steaming bowl of soup, thick and brick-red, loaded to the brim with chunks of smoked sausage, briny chopped pickles, and a melting dollop of sour cream in the center. Next to it she slams down a plate of golden-fried sweet cheese fritters buried under crushed powdered sugar and tart cherry preserves.

Not to be outdone, Mr. Matterhorn steps up to the table with a rustic iron platter. Resting in a pool of butter-whipped cornmeal is a slow-roasted mountain beast shank, the meat falling off the bone, infused with juniper berries and alpine herbs. To counter Gummy's sweets he sets down a golden-braided sweet bread, glistening with honey glaze and studded with toasted mountain walnuts.

I sit staring at the volume of food burying our small table.

"Eat!" Gummy says, wiping her hands on her apron. "You cannot be sad when your stomach is full!"

Mr. Matterhorn gives a deep bow. "Please, enjoy the warmth of Kjerag, young ones."

I look at Opal. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the braided bread and the powdered sugar fritters. A spark of awe pushes through the quiet.

I pick up my fork, a helpless giggle bubbling up. The dread in my chest doesn't vanish, but the absurd kindness of the landship's chefs pushes the dark back a fraction.

"Thank you, Gummy. Thank you, Mr. Matterhorn." I reach for the cherry-drenched fritters. "We will eat it all."

I push my empty plate away with a contented groan, slumping back into my plastic chair, tail dropping limp.

I am stuffed. The braided sweet bread and the cherry-drenched fritters were perfect, but the volume of the Ursine and Kjeragian culinary warfare has left me immobilized. I don't think I could manage another bite even if Ms. Closure offered me the entire stock of her vending machines for free. Though I would take her up on the offer.

Beside me, mom lets out an undignified huff of defeat and rests a hand over her stomach, leaning back in her chair. Her strict medical dietary rules have been obliterated by the mountain feast, but she tastes like a lazy pool of satisfied honey.

I look across the table at Opal.

A smudge of powdered sugar sits near the corner of her mouth. She sets her fork down on her cleared plate, her other arm holding the Amiya plushie against her beige parka.

Opal looks up at the two chefs standing behind the serving counter.

"They are tasty."

Mom gives a tired, grateful smile and wipes the powdered sugar from Opal's cheek with her thumb.

"Thanks, Gummy. Thanks, Mr. Matterhorn," mom adds, her voice thick with appreciation for the caloric intervention.

"Anytime!" Gummy beams, vibrating with pride behind the counter.

Beside her, Mr. Matterhorn folds his arms over his white apron and offers a deep nod of agreement.

I sit back and let the warmth of the meal anchor me.

I sit up and look between mom and Opal, bracing for the hardest part of the day.

"Okay. Let's go to the garden to say goodbye to Miss Lena, Podenco, and Lisa."

The walk off our decadent lunch is a slow shuffle through the metallic arteries of the landship. With every step toward the garden, the farewell presses a little heavier against my chest.

As we turn the corner near the primary medical intersection, the click of sensible shoes echoes down the corridor.

Miss Sussurro is walking briskly toward us, a digital clipboard tucked under her arm. As she approaches, Opal stops. She lets go of my hand, turns to face her, and dips into a tiny bow.

"Thank you, Miss Sussurro."

Miss Sussurro halts mid-stride. Her brow furrows and her ears give a perplexed twitch. She looks at Opal, then up at mom and me, silently asking why her patient is thanking her in the middle of a hallway.

Mom steps forward, her voice dropping as she fills her in: Amiya's decision, the expedition to the Sunvalley mining platform, and the hope that Opal might find a sunlit childhood there instead of spending her remaining months in a sterile ward.

I watch Miss Sussurro process it. The tension in her spine melts, and the clinical edges of her dark chocolate soften.

She looks back at Opal. Her stern expression doesn't quite break into a smile, but her eyes are gentle.

"Don't mention it," Miss Sussurro replies, her voice steady. She gives a single crisp nod. "Stay warm out there, Opal. Make sure you take your suppressants on time."

Opal gives a tiny nod in return.

Miss Sussurro adjusts the clipboard under her arm, gives mom and me a brief glance, and continues her brisk march down the corridor, disappearing back into the demands of the medical wing.

We resume our walk and reach the doors of the Convalescent Garden. As we step into the sensor's range the locks disengage, and the metal plates slide apart with a soft hiss.

Thankfully, Lisa is here today.

She's standing near the botanical workstations with Podenco, her tails swaying in a relaxed rhythm. Deep in the foliage, Miss Lena is managing a flowerbed.

"Opal! Lethe!" Lisa's bright voice rings out.

Opal squares her shoulders and steps off the main path, into the heart of the sanctuary to meet them.

I don't follow her.

Instead I stop near the threshold, loosening my grip on my Kazdelian Arts Unit and leaning my weight against it. Mom pauses beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.

I watch from a distance as Opal approaches the table. I watch Lisa gasp as Opal explains the Sunvalley expedition, her tails dropping for a fraction of a second before puffing back up with supportive optimism. I watch Podenco give Opal an encouraging grin and hand her a pressed flower from her apron as a parting gift.

And I watch Miss Lena step out from the planters and kneel down to offer a gentle embrace.

I stand in the shadows of the entrance. It aches to watch her say goodbye, but with the love and safety bleeding off my friends on my tongue, I know we are doing the right thing.

We are letting her step out into the light.

I don't remember what happened yesterday.

It wasn't the Originium in my temporal lobe burning the memory away as fuel for my Arts. It was just a blur of dread clouding my mind. I think I was in Opal's room the entire day, sitting by the edge of her mattress, holding her hand while the monitors beeped their indifferent rhythm.

But today is the day. We are taking Opal to the Sunvalley-owned platform in the Rim Billiton outback, just as Amiya authorized.

We gather in the logistics hall. The air is cold and smells of machine grease and filtered exhaust, nothing like the humid comfort of the garden.

Mr. Fourteen is there, standing near the heavy treads of our transport, methodically expanding and folding his buckler shield. Clank. Hiss. He repeats the motion, checking the mechanisms, before pulling out his sword to test its weight in the cold air. Beside him, Mr. Zip is checking the edge and balance of his longer sword. Seeing them gear up brings a bittersweet comfort to my chest; these are the men whose nightmares I siphoned after Rim Billiton and Chernobog, and now they are standing as our vanguard.

A few paces away, Ms. Fres paces in a tight circle. She is the Caster who barely survived the slaughter of Area 0 in Kazimierz. Her Raythean focal unit hangs heavy on her belt. She ripples with anxious static, but under it is a bedrock of determination. She survived the underbelly of Kawalerielki, and she is prepared to walk into the barrens for us.

Near the front of our sand rover, Miss Whislash is deep in conversation with Miss Savage.

Amiya assigned Miss Savage to our escort because she knows the Rim Billiton outback better than almost anyone else on the landship. I look at her closely: long silver-grey hair and tall, alert Cautus ears, a dark tactical outfit with insulated thigh-high boots, and slung across her frame an industrial hammer that looks like it could shatter a boulder in a single swing.

As I step a little closer, my Arts brush against her.

She tastes solid. Not the cold iron of the medical wards or the volatile ozone of the Casters—slow-roasted carrots, sun-baked earth, and forged steel. It is a taste built to endure the sandstorms of Terra, and my dread settles.

The click of boots against metal draws my attention away from the armored rover.

I turn toward the hallway. Mom steps in, her hand resting on Opal's shoulder. Opal is bundled in the parka, her arms wrapped around her plushie.

I step forward to meet them.

"Ready, Opal?" I ask.

"Ready," Opal replies.

Mom lets go of Opal's shoulder and steps over to me. She kneels to my eye level and pulls me into a brief, tight hug, burying her face in my R.I. jacket as if she could imprint her safety onto my bones.

"Stay safe out there, Lethe." The words go into my shoulder, thick with love.

I wrap my free arm around her neck and squeeze back just as tightly.

"I will, mom," I promise into her ear.

She pulls back with a watery smile and brushes my asymmetrical fringe out of my eyes with her thumb. Then she stands and steps back to let the mission begin.

A few paces away, Miss Whislash steps forward, her posture snapping to attention. She taps the screen of her digital slate, projecting a topographical map of the barren terrain into the air between us.

"Sunvalley mining platform is about fifty kilometers out," Miss Whislash announces, her voice carrying across the cavernous hangar. "Given the Originium interference saturating the Rim Billiton outback, air transport is impossible. Long-range communication will be difficult, if not severed, once you leave our vicinity."

She traces a highlighted route across the digital dirt, her expression dead-serious.

"With the provided transport, it will take about two hours to reach the platform," she continues, lowering her slate. "Sunvalley has been informed of our arrival, and they are expecting you."

She steps back and gives our squad a sharp salute.

"Good luck out there," Miss Whislash finishes.

Miss Savage steps up beside the armored hull of the sand rover and turns to look at us, the industrial hammer slung across her back.

"I had known people on that platform before," Miss Savage says.

Her voice is calm, carrying warmth. She looks at Opal and gives her a reassuring smile.

"They are good people," Miss Savage promises, the sincerity hanging in the air. "They will take care of Opal."

She turns to the rest of the squad, her expression firming into the authority of a veteran who has crossed these sands many times.

"Let's go." She pulls open the armored door of the rover. "Everyone mount up."

Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip move to secure the perimeter of the transport, weapons clanking as they climb into the forward guard seats. Ms. Fres slides into the middle row, hands clutching her focal unit in her lap.

Opal's free hand finds mine. Together we climb the metal steps of the rover, leaving the safety of the landship behind for the howling rust of Rim Billiton.

The treads of the sand rover grind against the arid earth, the engine thrumming through the soles of my sneakers. I keep my face near the reinforced glass, staring out at the landscape rolling past.

Canyons of rust-colored stone stretch out beneath a hazy sky. The desert seems to go on forever, cracked dirt and withered scrub brush, none of the green of the garden or the snows of Kjerag.

"Have you guys been in Rim Billiton before?"

Miss Savage's voice cuts through the mechanical hum of the cabin.

I tear my eyes away from the window and shake my head. Up front, Mr. Zip shakes his head too, and so does Ms. Fres beside me. Mr. Fourteen doesn't. He only grunts and turns toward the window; Rim Billiton is where his nightmares came from.

Opal doesn't answer at all. She sits quietly beside me, the plushie tucked under her chin, eyes out on the sprawling canyons of her homeland.

Miss Savage glances back at us from the driver's seat, her tall ears perking up.

"Opal!" Miss Savage calls, flashing her a beaming smile through the rearview mirror. "We need to introduce them to classic Billitoner carrot cuisine! I could use a barbecue party."

I blink. My tail, resting against the seat, gives a slow, suspicious twitch.

"Carrot…?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

I know exactly what a carrot is. It is an orange, crunchy root vegetable that mom mandates I eat alongside my steamed broccoli to maintain my nutritional baseline. It is a vegetable. It is not barbecue party material.

"Yes, Lethe! Carrots!" Miss Savage laughs, unbothered by my skepticism. She takes one hand off the steering wheel to gesture into the air. "Roasted carrots. Boiled carrots. And…"

She pauses for dramatic effect, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

"…Carrot cake."

My jaw unhinges.

"Carrot cake?!" I gasp, leaning forward against my seatbelt, staring at her as if she has just suggested we bake Originium slugs. "Carrot can make cakes?!"

A full-chested laugh vibrates through the cabin.

"Of course," she answers, brimming with Cautus pride. "It is rich, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, and topped with the thickest, sweetest cream cheese frosting you will ever taste."

From the forward guard seat, a low chuckle rumbles over the engine noise.

Mr. Fourteen shifts his buckler shield, glancing back over his shoulder at my scandalized expression. His earthy grounding ripples with a toasted-grain amusement.

"Our little palliative care's sweet tooth is as legendary as it is rumored," Mr. Fourteen says dryly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his scarred face.

"It is not legendary!" I protest, sinking back into the upholstery and glaring at him. "I just didn't know you could put vegetables into a dessert without ruining it! It sounds exactly like a trick mom would use to make me eat my greens!"

Laughter fills the armored transport. Mr. Zip chuckles from his seat, and even Ms. Fres lets out a quiet giggle. The anxious static in her finally begins to melt, soothed by the mundane banter.

I look at Opal.

A tiny smile graces her features as she listens to us argue over pastries.

We continue our journey peacefully. That is, until the suspension of the heavily armored sand rover groans in protest.

I am thrown sideways, my shoulder bumping against Ms. Fres as the vehicle lurches over another dip in the dirt road. I scramble to right myself, hands flying to the grab handle above the window, tail clamped around my thigh to keep from flailing.

Miss Savage takes a sweeping turn around a rocky bend without tapping the brakes, the heavy treads kicking up a rooster tail of red dust.

"Watch for the medical supplies, Savage. Sunvalley are expecting them." Mr. Zip grips his own handle in the forward guard seat, his voice dry with veteran exasperation over the roaring engine.

"Don't worry," Miss Savage calls back, her eyes on the barren horizon. She handles the steering wheel easily.

I look down at Opal. She is squeezed between me and the far door. I rest my hand over hers, keeping her anchored against the jostling of the rover.

After two hours of rusted canyons and sprawling desert, we are there.

The sand rover slows to a rumbling crawl as we cross the threshold of the nomadic platform. Miss Savage brings the transport to a halt and cuts the engine.

I unbuckle my harness and push the heavy armored door open, stepping out into the dry, dusty air. I reach a hand back to help Opal down the high metal steps.

This isn't the glass metropolis of Trimounts, nor the snow-capped serenity of Kjerag. It is a monument to industrial survival. Structures of rusted metal and corrugated iron loom over the streets, webbed together by thick black cables, exposed pipes, and heavy scaffolding. Yellow cranes jut into the hazy sky, standing like metal giants over silos and shipping containers stacked haphazardly along the paved roads.

Yet despite the grease-stained architecture, the town is bustling with life. The streets are busy with Cautus workers carrying tools and supplies, long ears twitching in the dry wind, and a few Zalak darting between the heavy pallets and machinery. It doesn't feel like a dying wasteland; it feels like a community carving a living out of the dust.

Opal shrinks against my side, her eyes darting across the rusted metal and the Cautus faces. It must look a great deal like the home she lost. I squeeze her hand to buffer the anxiety.

The crunch of polished shoes on gritty pavement draws my attention.

A man walks over to us.

He stands out against the grease-stained overalls and worn canvas: a sharp suit, the company logo pinned to his lapel, a sun-like symbol. The fabric is free of dust, his posture rigid and practiced.

My Arts brush against him. He tastes artificial—stale mint, starched linen, a cool calculating detachment. There is no hostility in it, but there is no warmth either.

"You must be the Rhodes Island team," the man says smoothly, his eyes sweeping over our uniforms and the transport rover.

Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip don't wait for a formal introduction. They move to the rear of the vehicle, dropping the heavy cargo ramp with a clank, and start unloading the reinforced crates of medical supplies.

A few paces away, Ms. Fres steps away from the vehicle. She doesn't help with the crates. Instead she unclips her Raythean focal unit, her eyes scanning the multi-tiered scaffolding and the bustling crowds. She is on guard. Freezing static, hyper-vigilant. She is making sure no one interrupts the drop-off.

The man turns his attention from the cargo to us. He looks at Miss Savage, then down at Opal hiding quietly behind my leg.

"The company has informed me to expect your… donations…" The word hangs in the air with a bureaucratic condescension. "…and give you a tour of our facilities for the young Cautus. Please allow me."

Donations.

They are Oripathy suppressants and trauma kits made by the best medical minds on the planet, not pocket change thrown into a charity bin. But I keep my face polite. We are here for Opal, not for corporate gratitude.

Mr. Zip hoists a heavy crate onto his shoulder. He looks over at Miss Savage.

"We will make sure the supplies are safely delivered," Mr. Zip says with a firm nod. "You go ahead with the kids, Savage."

"Alright," Miss Savage replies, heaving the industrial hammer into a better seat on her shoulder. She turns to me and Opal with a warm smile. "Let's go see what Sunvalley has to offer, shall we?"

I look down at Opal and give her fingers one last squeeze.

"We are right beside you," I tell her.

Opal looks up at the towering, rusted cranes, then at the Cautus children running through the distant streets. She holds her Amiya plushie tighter, takes a deep breath of the dusty air, and gives a small nod.

The man turns to lead the way. But as I step forward to follow, his polished shoe pivots. He raises a manicured hand and presses it flat against the dusty air between us.

"I am afraid the… Sarkaz needs to stay here," the man says.

His voice doesn't lose its bureaucratic smoothness, but his lips thin into a tight line.

"We don't want to scare the children now, do we?"

The noise of the unloading zone evaporates.

The heavy, reinforced crate in Mr. Zip's hands halts mid-air. Beside the transport, Ms. Fres's spine snaps straight, her static spiking into anger.

Even Miss Savage stops dead in her tracks. Her sun-baked earth hardens into cold steel. Her grip tightens around the shaft of the industrial hammer. She opens her mouth, eyes narrowing into a glare aimed squarely at the corporate liaison.

But I don't let her speak.

I pull my hand gently out of Opal's grasp.

Shame burns the back of my throat, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek. I know what happens if Miss Savage or Ms. Fres starts a shouting match with a Sunvalley executive in the middle of their own platform. The tour ends before it begins. The doors to the schools, the parks, and the sunlit future all slam shut, and Opal goes back to the windowless quarantine wards of the landship.

I swallow the phantom ash. We're already paying for Opal's ticket to a normal life with our medicines. If it costs my pride too, fine. I can pay that part.

"It's okay." I step backward until I am flush against the armored treads of our sand rover.

I put a smile on. I can feel how little of it reaches my eyes.

"Okay. Good luck, Opal." I look past the man to her. "Miss Savage."

Opal hesitates. She looks down at her empty hand, then up at me. Her ears droop a fraction.

"Go on," I urge. "I will stay here and help Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip guard the boxes. I'll be right here when you get back."

Miss Savage looks at me. Her eyes are dark, carrying a silent apology. She gives me a slow, solemn nod.

She turns back to the man. The polite, diplomatic facade she had worn earlier is gone.

"Lead the way," Miss Savage says, her voice dropping into a low octave that leaves no room for further commentary.

He gives a stiff nod and turns on his heel to guide them into the metal-clad labyrinth of the mining town. I watch them go, tracking the soft beige of Opal's parka until it disappears behind a stack of rusted shipping containers.

The moment they are out of sight, the fabricated smile drops from my face.

I slump back against the cold, dusty armor of the rover, hands curling around my Arts Unit. My tail drops into the dirt, and the sting of the rejection settles into my chest.

Clank.

Mr. Fourteen drops the medical crate he was holding onto the loading pallet with far more force than necessary.

"Tsk."

He crosses his arms over his chest. The earth in him has gone to scorched timber.

"Don't take it to heart, Lethe," Mr. Fourteen says, his voice a gravelly growl as he glares at the space where the executive had been standing.

Ms. Fres steps closer, her tail lashing behind her Caster uniform. "They have no idea what you do for us. They just look at the horns and assume the worst."

I let out a ragged exhale. The dry air of Rim Billiton scratches at my lungs.

"I know…" My thumb traces the polished base of my staff.

I look down at the ground, kicking a clump of rusted dirt. My mind flashes back to the blood-stained triage bay during the County Hillock influx, to the Feline amputee screaming at me to stay away. To the Browntail scouts in the Kjeragian snow, retreating into the pine trees the second they realized what I was.

"It is not the first time…" I murmur, my voice dropping. "And Dr. Kal'tsit told me it wouldn't be the last. It's just Terra."

Mr. Zip steps up, resting a hand on Mr. Fourteen's shoulder to calm the bristling anger. He looks down at me, his eyes full of a quiet camaraderie.

"Well, out here, it's just Terra," Mr. Zip agrees. "But on the landship, you're Lethe. And that's what matters. Come on. Help us log these crates. It'll make the time pass faster."

I spend the next half hour checking off supply manifests on my digital slate, letting the repetitive task anchor my racing mind. The howling wind of the outback whips around the armored hull of the rover, carrying machine grease and baked dust. Eventually a small crew of Sunvalley logistics workers—grimed in dirt, avoiding my gaze—arrive with heavy lifters to haul the pallets of medical supplies away.

Then the crunch of boots against the dirt signals their return.

I snap my head up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Miss Savage steps out from behind the rusted shipping containers. And walking right beside her is Opal.

The change in her is small but unmistakable. Opal is happily munching on a piece of brightly wrapped hard candy. Tucked under her free arm, right next to the brown Amiya plushie, is a small square cardboard bakery box.

But it is her taste that brings the relief flooding into my chest. Sun-warmed strawberries, bright and simple. She is safe.

"I think she is ready to stay here," Miss Savage says, her voice warm and satisfied as they stop in front of the rover.

I lower my slate, my breath catching. It is the best possible outcome. We bought her a future. But the reality of saying goodbye puts an aching lump in my chest.

Opal steps forward, closing the distance between us. She holds out the small cardboard box, pushing it gently toward my chest.

"Lethe, for you." Her voice is still thin, but it rings with certainty. "Carrot cake."

I look at the small box, the spiced aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and sweet cream cheese filtering through the cardboard.

The tears spill over my lashes before I can stop them.

I don't just take the box. Dropping to the ground, knees hitting the dry dirt of the outback, I bring myself to her eye level. I take the box with one hand, and with the other I pull Opal into a fierce embrace.

"I will miss you so much, Opal," I sob into the soft fleece of her parka, squeezing her as tightly as I can. "Thank you."

Opal's chin settles against my shoulder. She hugs me back, the gesture small but anchoring.

Above us, the grown-ups start on their forms, like our goodbye is just in the way.

Mr. Zip steps forward, his expression flat as he shoves a clipboard toward the corporate suit. The man takes it, his shoes shifting against the gritty pavement as he looks through the manifests.

"The numbers match what Rhodes Island has promised," the man says, the stale mint of him empty of gratitude. He hands the clipboard back to Mr. Zip. "We will process the paperwork for the child. I believe my business here is done."

Without a single word of comfort to Opal or a polite farewell to our squad, he turns on his heel and marches back toward the towering administration buildings.

I ignore him. Mr. Fourteen scoffs at the man's retreating back, but my focus is on the girl in my arms. I hold her, anchoring this moment into my heart, knowing that even if the Originium in my mind eventually burns this memory to ash, she will be living safely in the light.

I pull back from the embrace, my hands resting on her shoulders, and try to memorize the spark of life that has finally returned to her eyes.

"Guess this is goodbye now, Opal," I whisper, forcing my tear-stained smile to stay in place. "Enjoy your life."

Opal looks up at me, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. She pulls the brown plushie a little tighter against her chest, drawing strength from the stuffed toy we gave her in the dark.

"I will miss you and everyone, Lethe." Her voice trembles a fraction, but it rings with strength.

Miss Savage steps forward, the hammer shifting on her back.

"Come," Miss Savage says, offering Opal a gentle hand. She throws a disdainful look toward the towering administration building where the executive had disappeared. "I will give Opal a real tour of the town. Not the corporate one."

Opal looks down at the outstretched hand. She looks back at me one last time, and then, with a final nod, she takes it.

As they turn to leave, Ms. Fres shifts her weight, the fabric of her Caster uniform rustling in the dry wind.

"I will stay here with Lethe," Ms. Fres says, her voice flat. She nods toward the two other Field Ops. "You two can go."

Mr. Fourteen pauses, his hand resting on the rim of his folded buckler shield. His ears twitch. He looks at me, sitting in the dirt with my small bakery box, and then at her.

"You sure?" Mr. Fourteen asks. "I don't mind staying."

Ms. Fres doesn't hesitate.

"Yes," she replies firmly.

Mr. Fourteen nods. He exchanges a look with Mr. Zip, and the two Field Ops turn to join Miss Savage.

"Okay," Mr. Zip says, giving us a small wave. "See you two later."

I stay on my knees in the dirt, clutching the small cardboard box of carrot cake to my chest, and watch them walk away. The soft beige fleece of Opal's parka blends into the bustling, rust-colored labyrinth of the mining platform, small beside Miss Savage and the two vanguards.

I watch until they disappear around the corner of the scaffolding, stepping into her sunlit tomorrow.

Pushing myself up from the cracked dirt, knees aching, I brush the dust off my skirt with the box held against my chest.

I look up at Ms. Fres. The freezing static of her hyper-vigilance has mellowed into something quieter, companionable.

"Well. Ms. Fres." I manage a small smile. "Do you want to share the carrot cake?"

Ms. Fres blinks, her attention dropping to the bakery box. The lines around her eyes soften.

"Sure, Lethe." Her voice loses its military edge.

We climb back up the metal steps into the rover. The armored door swings shut with a thud that cuts off the wind and the noise of the mining platform. The cabin is cool and quiet, and smells of machine grease and worn canvas.

We sit side by side, and I pop open the cardboard tabs of the box.

The spiced aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and baked sugar fills the cramped space. Inside is a thick slice of carrot cake under a generous layer of cream cheese frosting. I hand Ms. Fres one of the tiny wooden forks tucked into the packaging and take the other for myself.

We dig in. Miss Savage was right. The cake is moist, the earthy sweetness of the carrots holding up against the spices, all of it wrapped in the tang of the frosting.

We eat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Ms. Fres." I lower my fork. "I never asked. Why did you join Rhodes Island? Why do you fight so hard? If you don't mind telling."

Her hand freezes mid-air.

The rover goes cold. The sugar of the cake vanishes under a heavy wave of cold, stagnant smog, rusted iron, and the bitter ash of despair.

Ms. Fres lowers her fork onto the edge of the box and stares at the floorboards.

"I… I am a Taran." The words scrape against the quiet of the cabin. "From the Victorian Empire. A city called Sidmouth."

She reaches over with her free hand, grips the cuff of her tailored Caster uniform, and pulls the fabric up.

Protruding from the pale skin of her forearm is a dark cluster of Originium.

"I got infected in an industrial accident in a factory." Her voice is hollowed out, no anger left in it. "No one will offer me a job after that."

She looks up and meets my eyes.

"I am infected, I am Taran, I have no use to any of the aristocrats."

The words drop into the cabin like a lead weight.

"Sorry…" I whisper.

Ms. Fres rolls her sleeve back down, covering the crystals until her uniform is professional again.

The air in the cabin shifts again. The smog of her past goes down with it, and what comes back is polished steel.

"No." Her voice steadies as she picks her fork back up. She looks at me with a faint, brave smile. "It is the past now. Rhodes Island offered me the only place I can find a life again."

"Me too… Ms. Fres…"

The last crumb of carrot cake disappears from my fork.

I fold the box and set it on the floorboards. Beside me, Ms. Fres lowers her own fork.

We don't have to wait much longer.

The crunch of boots against dry dirt announces their return. The armored door of the sand rover pops open with a groan.

Miss Savage climbs into the driver's seat, her hammer clanking as she stows it. Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip pull themselves into the forward guard seats and drag the door shut behind them.

Opal is not with them.

"Miss Savage?" I ask.

She turns around in the driver's seat, a smile breaking across her face.

"A nice family that I knew before is willing to take her in," Miss Savage says, a warmth in her voice that fills the transport. "They are a big family. She will be safe."

She chuckles, and the sound cuts through the quiet of the rover. "They even treated us to a quick barbecue."

The image blooms. Opal at a loud, crowded table with a real family. No diagnostic monitors. No white walls, no blast doors. Just the smell of barbecue, the sun, and the chance to be a child again.

"That's good." I smile wide and lean back against the seat, exhausted and happy.

"Now, let's get back to Rhodes Island." She turns back to the dashboard and the ignition. The engine thrums to life. "So you two can get food as well."

"Thank you, Savage," Ms. Fres says beside me, her posture loosening.

The treads engage, grinding against the cracked earth as we turn around.

I press my cheek against the cool, reinforced glass and take a long, lingering look at the sprawling, rusted labyrinth of the Sunvalley-owned platform as it shrinks behind us. I cannot see the house or the family, but I don't need to. Opal is safe in the light. That is all that matters.

The barrens of Rim Billiton roll past in a blur of muted reds and dusty browns. The hum of the engine and the sway of the vehicle almost lull me into a dreamless sleep. My eyelids are heavy with the crash of the day.

But before the exhaustion can pull me under, a smudge on the bruised horizon catches my eye.

I blink, sitting up to peer through the dusty glass.

Rising from the ridges in the far distance is a towering plume of dust. It billows into the hazy sky, staining the clouds dark.

I grip the edge of the window frame.

"What's that?" I ask, pointing at the glass. "Is that a Catastrophe?"

The post-mission calm inside the cabin vanishes.

Mr. Fourteen shifts his weight, his buckler clanking against the console as he leans forward to peer through the windshield. Beside him, Mr. Zip's ears snap up, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

Miss Savage's sun-baked earth hardens into cold steel.

She narrows her eyes against the dusty glare of the outback.

"No," Miss Savage says, her tone dropping low and guarded. "That looks like a convoy."

The treads of our sand rover grind to a halt. Miss Savage doesn't kill the engine; she walks the transport behind an outcropping of rusted rock, keeping our profile off the valley below.

I press my face against the glass, breath fogging the pane, as the dust cloud on the horizon begins to part.

It isn't a Catastrophe. It is an invasion.

A militarized convoy is carving a path through the arid Rim Billiton outback. Dozens of armored vehicles roll over the cracked earth, exhaust stacks spewing black smoke into a bruised sky. Marching in synchronization alongside the transports are ranks of soldiers—crossbowmen and sword guards, moving with a disciplined efficiency that sets them apart from the rusted scavengers who usually haunt these wastelands.

But it is the heavy infantry behind them that freezes the blood in my veins.

"Columbians?!" Mr. Zip's voice is tight with alarm.

I stare at the towering figures trudging through the dust. They aren't just wearing armor; they are encased in mechanized exoskeletons. Blocky metal plates bolted with heavy rivets cover their thighs and chests. Every step is carried by external hydraulic struts and pneumatic pistons running the length of their legs, hissing over the roar of the engines. Their faces sit behind angular slatted visors, stripping away anything human and turning them into faceless walking tanks.

And resting in the grips of those skeletal metal gauntlets are rocket launchers.

Mr. Fourteen narrows his eyes.

"That's not Pioneers or Paramilitary, those suits," Mr. Fourteen says, low and gravelly. "That's Rhine Lab tech."

Rhine Lab.

The name goes down my spine like cold water. The same corporation that designed the life-saving machines we use, the same minds that built the centrifuges keeping my blood stable, are the ones who forged the things marching across that valley.

My tail coils tight around my leg.

"What… What are they doing here?" I ask, and it comes out very small.

"Victoria is crumbling," Miss Savage says, her eyes locked on the convoy marching across her homeland. "Columbia must have seen this as an opportunity to claim Victoria's share of Originium here in Rim Billiton…"

This isn't a border skirmish, and it isn't a riot. It's a whole country on the move. Columbia is sending a Rhine Lab army straight across Rim Billiton to grab whatever Victoria can't hold on to anymore. I think that's what Miss Savage means.

The air bleeding through the reinforced glass doesn't taste like Reunion's burning rage, and it doesn't carry the drowning sorrow of refugees. Engine oil, new-milled metal, calculated greed. It's like one giant machine that only wants the black crystals under the ground, and doesn't care who's standing on top of them.

I shrink back.

"Do… do we go back?"

The silence inside the cabin shatters.

"We need to intercept them."

Ms. Fres's voice is flat and clinical.

"What? Just the five of us?" Mr. Fourteen barks, gesturing at me, his earthy warmth spiking into scorched timber. "Lethe is not a combatant, we cannot risk her."

My physical strength rating from Ms. Dobermann's test flashes in my mind. Against a horde of wild Originium slugs I would be a liability. Against a Columbian force in Rhine Lab exoskeletons carrying rocket launchers? I am dust waiting to be scattered.

"If they reach the Sunvalley-owned platform, it stands no chance to defend itself," Ms. Fres says. "That is not a diplomatic mission of polite asking."

Sunvalley.

My eyes drop to the floorboards, where the cardboard box that held the carrot cake still rests. We had just left Opal there. We had just bought her a ticket to a sunlit future with our medical supplies.

If that war machine marches into the platform, the schools and the parks and the community we promised her go under the rubble.

In the driver's seat, Miss Savage shifts her weight.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens until the leather groans.

"We fought for our freedom from the superpowers," Miss Savage says, her voice dropping into a rumble that carries through the chassis of the rover. "They keep wanting to take it again, and again."

She doesn't hesitate. The engine roars as she throws it back into gear.

"Zip! Try to contact Doctor!" Miss Savage orders, her tone snapping into the authority of a Rhodes Island squad leader.

"On it!" Mr. Zip shouts back, dropping his hand to the communications terminal on the dashboard. His fingers fly across the dials, trying to punch a signal through the Originium interference saturating the outback. Static hisses and crackles from the cabin speakers, a wall of noise over our only lifeline to the landship.

Miss Savage yanks the wheel, turning the armored hull away from the cover of the ridge and angling us onto the intercept path.

"We buy time!" Miss Savage calls over the engine and the static. "Fourteen, you focus on keeping Lethe safe!"

"Understood!" Mr. Fourteen grunts, sliding his buckler off his back and locking it onto his forearm.

I press my back flat against the seat. My heart hammers against my ribs, and my mouth fills with the taste of metal.

I am terrified. The scale of the mechanized infantry marching across the valley is paralyzing.

But the memory of the training hall anchors me. The foam projectiles. The heavy lethargy I had shoved into Vigna's mind, putting her down before she could strike.

"I am a Supporter," Lisa's voice says in my head. "Our job isn't to hit the bad guys hard. Our job is to control the battlefield."

I am an Operator of the Medical Department.

I slide my hands down the shaft of my Arts Unit until I am holding it across my body, and shut my eyes for half a second, drawing up the heaviest, most paralyzing things I have hoarded in the dark of my mind—the liquid-lead exhaustion of the triage bays, the apathy of the void.

My eyes open on the approaching Columbian convoy through the dusty glass.

I am ready.

"I sent a message out!"

Mr. Zip's voice cracks over the static of the dashboard terminal. He slams a hand against the console, abandons the comms array, and reaches for the buckle of his harness.

In the driver's seat, Miss Savage doesn't flinch.

"That's good enough for me," Miss Savage growls.

She yanks the steering wheel hand over hand and slams her boot down on the brakes. The treads of our sand rover scream, locking up and tearing gouges into the dry earth. The transport skids sideways in a blinding cloud of red dust and stops dead.

She has parked us broadside, turning the armored hull into a barricade across the narrow canyon route.

Through the dust-streaked glass, I watch the war machine react. The vanguard of the Columbian convoy grinds to a halt. The synchronized hiss of their pneumatic brakes and hydraulic struts echoes off the canyon walls like the breathing of a mechanical dragon.

They are staring right at us.

"Everyone out!" Miss Savage orders.

She kicks her door open, grabs her hammer, and vaults out into the howling wind. Ms. Fres is right behind her, uniform snapping as she drops into a combat-ready crouch in the dirt.

I try to move and my muscles lock. The mechanized army staring us down has emptied me out. My fingers are clamped around my Arts Unit, but my legs refuse to carry me to my harness buckle.

Mr. Fourteen twists around and lunges back over his seat. He doesn't ask me to move; his gloved hands clamp onto me.

With one heave, he drags me bodily out of the cabin.

"Woah!" I yelp, my sneakers barely grazing the metal steps as I am hauled into the dry wind of the outback. Mr. Fourteen doesn't stop. He drags me backward and throws us both behind a rusted rock outcropping a few meters from the vehicle.

The second we clear the rover, the air splits.

A high whistle that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck.

Mr. Fourteen drops to his knees, shoving me down into the dirt and raising his buckler over my head.

Boom.

The impact is deafening. A rocket, fired from one of the towering Columbian exoskeletons, hits our sand rover in the center of its chassis.

The explosion tears the world open. A searing flash of orange and black, and the transport is gone. The shockwave arrives a half-second behind it, a wall of concussive force and heat that washes over the rock outcropping, rattles the horns on my skull, and sends hot shrapnel and burning debris raining across the canyon floor.

I bury my face in the dirt while Mr. Fourteen's frame takes the brunt of it above me.

Our ride, our only way back to the landship, is gone. We are stranded.

"Hold the line!" Miss Savage's voice booms over the flames of the destroyed rover.

I open my eyes, gasping, and burning machine grease and scorched earth flood my lungs.

The ringing in my ears from the incinerated sand rover is a high, agonizing whine. Choking plumes of black smoke wash over our rocky cover, and the synchronized hiss of the Columbian exoskeletons marches right through it.

Ms. Fres doesn't hesitate. She steps out from the edge of our cover.

She raises her Raythean focal unit, and an arc of white-hot Arts erupts from the tip.

It cuts through the howling dust like a blade.

The beam strikes one of the approaching Columbian sword guards in the chest. He doesn't scream. He doesn't have time to stumble. The momentum of his march stalls, and his body drops, crumpling into the dry dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.

The void where a life used to be hits me—cold copper, rotting ash, a candle pinched out.

My stomach heaves.

I slap my free hand over my mouth, gagging on bile. I cannot stop looking at the body bleeding out into the Rim Billiton dust.

This is war.

This isn't the Convalescent Garden. I am not putting sterile bandages on scraped knees, and there are no armored bulkheads of Rhodes Island between me and the dying. People are slaughtering each other right in front of me.

I am not ready for it.

"Lethe! Stay behind me!"

Mr. Fourteen's voice is a roar that breaks my paralysis. He shifts his stance, planting his boots into the dirt, and slams his shield down in front of my huddled frame.

My eyes squeeze shut.

I am a Supporter.

I have to help them.

I dig into my chest for the warmest, steadiest things I have.

But I cannot.

I cannot think. I cannot cast.

Through my tear-blurred vision, the world erupts into motion.

Miss Savage and Mr. Zip do not wait for the Columbian line to reach our broken cover. They go forward.

They cross the dusty expanse in a blink.

Miss Savage leaps into the towering shadows of the infantry, her industrial hammer raised over her head, and crashes into the center of the frontline.

The air above our rusted rock cover tears open with the whistle of heavy crossbow bolts. They strike the stone and the burnt chassis of our rover with cracking thuds, kicking up sprays of rock and dust.

Ms. Fres refuses to back down. She leans out from our barricade, her Raythean focal unit blazing. Arcs of Originium Arts shoot from the tip, slamming into the advancing line of Columbian infantry. Another swordsman drops to the ground, his armor scorched black, limp.

But the mechanized army is more than they can hold.

In the vanguard alone I count three of those towering suits… five or six vehicles and a dozen or so heavily armed soldiers…

Two of the towering figures walk in front with shields, covering the rest of the Columbians from Ms. Fres's Arts.

Ms. Fres's breathing turns ragged. Her chest heaves. She is panting, reaching her limit, and the Columbian war machine isn't slowing down.

I shut my eyes against the rotting taste of it.

Then I open them again, and out of the corner of my vision I notice the sky.

I look up past the armored silhouettes of the approaching exoskeletons. The bruised, hazy daylight has been smothered by a vortex of dark, swirling cloud. A storm front is flattening out across the heavens, pressing down on the jagged mountain peaks in the distance. Against the sickly, pale light bleeding through the horizon, a flock of black birds is silhouetted in exodus, fleeing the epicenter of the forming maelstrom.

The air pressure drops fast enough to pop my ears.

When the wildlife flees en masse, Lethe, and the sky bruises into a swirling vortex… the earth is about to rupture.

Miss Adele has told me.

They are the telltale signs of an impending Catastrophe.

The blood drains from my face. We are not just trapped in a warzone; we are standing at ground zero of the thing that is coming.

I scramble forward in the dirt and grab Mr. Fourteen's armored sleeve.

"Mr. Fourteen!" I gasp, my voice a squeak over the roar of the battlefield. I point toward the swirling black above us. "We need to leave! A Catastrophe is coming!"

Mr. Fourteen's grey ears snap up. He surges out from behind the rock, and his roar cuts through the mechanical hiss of the Columbian advance.

"Savage, Zip! We need to retreat!"

At the frontline, Miss Savage hears the call and doesn't hesitate. She pivots with a fluid grace, hoists her industrial hammer high above her head, and brings it crashing down on the hood of an advancing Columbian logistics vehicle.

The metal crumples with a screech of tearing steel. She uses the shockwave to break engagement, bounding backward toward our position.

A few paces away, Mr. Zip moves to follow her retreat.

He spins, his sword coming up in an arc to parry a strike from a guard. Steel rings, and a shower of sparks lights the dust.

But there are too many.

He is outflanked. Another soldier steps into his blind spot.

A blade goes straight through Mr. Zip's abdomen.

It is withdrawn.

Mr. Zip gasps, his weapon slipping from his grip. His knees buckle, and he begins to fall.

Before his body can hit the dry dirt, a crossbow bolt whistles through the air and punches through his head.

The empathic tether snaps.

There is no fading. There is no lingering pain. The taste of his life is there and then it is not, and what fills the space is cold and has no bottom.

"Zip!"

Mr. Fourteen's scream is a bleeding tear in the fabric of the world. It is the sound of agony, a primal howl of grief.

But there is no time to mourn. The sky above is churning, and the army is marching over the corpse of our friend.

Mr. Fourteen's hands clamp down on the collar of my jacket. He chokes his grief down where I can still taste it.

"We need to go now."

The world dissolves into red dust and black smoke.

Behind us, Ms. Fres holds.

She stands her ground in the howling chaos, sweeping her projectiles across the canyon floor, laying down a wall of suppressing fire that slices through the dust and buys us the seconds we need to put distance between ourselves and the advancing infantry.

A whistle splits the air.

The first rocket screams past her, missing by meters. It detonates against the canyon wall and rains stone and pulverized rust down on us. The shockwave makes my knees buckle, but Ms. Fres's polished steel holds perfectly steady. She adjusts her aim, locked onto the towering Columbian exosuits.

Then the second whistle pierces the dust.

The flash of orange and black consumes her.

Another empathic tether snaps.

The woman who had survived the underbelly of Kawalerielki, who had looked at me in the sand rover and told me that Rhodes Island had given her a life again…

She is just gone, and where she was there is nothing.

I stop dead.

I twist my shoulders, tearing my jacket right out of Mr. Fourteen's grip.

"Lethe! Keep moving!" Mr. Fourteen roars.

I don't move. I turn around and look at the faceless metal titans marching through the smoke.

They killed Mr. Zip.

They killed Ms. Fres.

They are marching their Rhine Lab war machines toward the Sunvalley-owned platform, where Opal is finally learning how to smile. Why do the big countries always take, and take, and take? Every time somebody finds a little light in the ruins, they stomp it out.

If they are just going to kill us. If they are just going to slaughter everything we love.

Then I will make sure they feel it. Every bit of the rot I have ever tasted, the nightmares I swallowed to keep this landship breathing and the ones I didn't.

I drop my stance, planting my feet into the dirt, and raise the dark shaft of my Arts Unit until it is straight.

I rip my monitor off.

The world fears my kind. I will show them why they should.

I pour every bit of my willpower into the focal point. I tear the iron doors of my mind off their hinges.

I look at the advancing Union Army, and I project everything.

It isn't a gentle push. It is a tsunami.

I gather the rotting, acidic sludge of the Chernobog slaughterhouse. I pull up the bleached horror of the infected being butchered in the dark of Area 0. The despair of the Wolumonde Blood Shamans and the gnawing starvation of Peterheim Middle School, dragged up to the surface. The senseless hatred between the Taran and the Victorian. I forge all of it into one wave of madness and hurl it straight down the empathic channel into the minds of the Columbian soldiers.

"Lethe? Lethe! What are you doing?!"

Miss Savage's voice tears through the canyon.

I don't stop. My vision strobes with the strain of the output, but I clench my jaw and push harder, forcing the venom of Terra into their skulls.

The vanguard of the infantry breaks at once.

A towering exosuit freezes mid-stride. The heavy hydraulic struts lock up with a screeching hiss. The pilot inside lets out a raw, tearing scream of terror, and the mechanically enhanced arms swing wildly into the air.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

He pulls the triggers. Rockets fire blindly from his shoulder mounts, untargeted. They streak through the sky and detonate against the canyon walls, the dirt, and his own advancing ranks.

In the chaos of the broken formation, the infantry line shatters.

Through the thick, choking smoke, I watch a Columbian sword guard drop his weapon. The steel clatters uselessly against the dirt. He falls heavily to his knees, his hands flying up to his face, tearing at his visor, clawing at his own skin as if he could rip the nightmare out of his eyes.

I stand there, my chest heaving, my hands shaking around the staff as the taste of their breaking minds fills my mouth. It is toxic. It is rotting my senses from the inside out, and I refuse to close the channel. I want them to drown in it.

Then a shadow falls over me.

"Sorry, Lethe."

Mr. Fourteen's voice is low and sorry, right beside my ear.

Pain erupts at the base of my skull.

The Arts Unit slips from my numb fingers. The channel is severed.

My knees buckle, and the world collapses into a peaceful void.

I open my eyes.

The world is a blinding white. The air bites at the inside of my nose, sharp and stinging, smelling heavily of ozone and sterile bleach. Beneath the mattress, a low, subsonic vibration hums steadily against my bones.

A shadow falls over the bed.

I blink, squinting against the harsh light to bring the shape into focus. Standing beside me is a woman. Pale downy feathers frame her face, and her eyes are a watery light purple. She looks exhausted, shadows bruised beneath her lashes.

But what hits me before she even moves is the taste in the air.

Burnt honey. Sweet and scorched, with a sorrow under it that coats the back of my tongue like ash.

"Lethe? Lethe! You are awake!"

The woman gasps, her voice fracturing into a wet, breathless sob. She doesn't hesitate for a second. She lunges forward, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and pulling me flush against her chest, burying her face in my hair, her whole frame shaking against me.

I lie there, stiff and unmoving in her arms.

My hands rest limply on the blankets. I don't know how to hold her back. The warmth of her body is comforting, but my mind is empty. There is nothing there. No names, no faces, no history. Just a sprawling canvas of freezing static.

I push my hands against her shoulders, pulling back just enough to look up into her tear-streaked face.

"You… you are?" I ask.

My voice scrapes against a throat that feels raw and unused.

The woman freezes.

The arms holding me go rigid. The burnt honey in the air shatters into freezing shards. Her light purple eyes blow wide, staring at me as if I have just driven a blade through her chest.

Before she can force a word out, the heavy doors of the ward hiss apart.

The temperature in the room drops toward zero.

A woman with sharp green feline ears walks into my view, dressed in an immaculate white coat, her hands folded behind her back. She tastes of glaciers, cold iron, and stone.

"The result is exactly as expected," she says.

Her voice is a flat, measured strike that echoes off the white walls, with none of the grief drowning the room.

"She bypassed the safety limiters of her Originium Arts dampening unit and projected a localized psychic cascade of that magnitude. It induced an Originium spike within her temporal lobe," she continues, stepping to the foot of my bed. Her green eyes lock onto mine. "To sustain the output, the infection incinerated the neural pathways housing her cognitive anchors. It is a complete loss of memories."

The woman beside me lets out a broken sob.

She pulls her hands away from me, pressing them hard over her mouth as she folds into herself.

"Her slate… her slate was crashed when Fourteen knocked her down to stop the Arts…" she cries, her voice muffled. "Her anchors… the notes she wrote to remember us… they are gone!"

The doctor does not move at the display of heartbreak. She simply watches the weeping woman.

"Closure is currently recovering the information from the terminal's damaged chassis. The storage drives were dented by the shockwave, but the data is not unsalvageable. We will rebuild her baseline."

I pull my knees up to my chest, my long tail curling around my ankles.

On the mattress, I look between the weeping woman and the doctor. I have no idea who they are, or where I am. I don't even know who I am.

I am alone in the dark.

"My little Lethe."

The woman leans in again. Her embrace is trembling, but she holds me as if I am the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.

The name echoes in the hollow cavern of my skull.

It is just a sound—a cold, empty label.

"I am Lethe?" I whisper, my hands hovering in the air, unsure what to do with themselves.

"You are," she chokes out, her face buried in the crook of my neck. Her tears are hot against my skin. "You are my Lethe."

I blink at the sterile white wall behind her. The possessive weight of the phrase catches me off guard.

"Yours…?"

"Yes," she cries, squeezing me tighter.

The burnt honey in the room ripples. She is fighting through the ash of her own grief, trying to project a wave of warmth into the space between us. "I love you with all my heart."

I don't know her name. I don't know her face. But the size of what she is pouring into my empty chest is undeniable. It is heavy and terrifying and safe, all at once.

The pneumatic locks of the ward clank again. The doors hiss apart.

I flinch, looking over the woman's shaking shoulder.

A young Cautus girl steps into the room, brown hair, her long ears drooping. Her blue eyes are fogged over with sorrow.

As she crosses the threshold, my Arts brush against her: spun sugar smothered under grey dust and bitter petals.

She stops near the foot of the mattress, her eyes locking onto mine.

"She is awake," the girl breathes out. Her voice is a musical chime that trembles in the sterile air. She turns toward the doctor. "Does she…?"

She doesn't finish the question.

The doctor closes her eyes for a fraction of a second and shakes her head.

The girl's shoulders collapse. The spark of hope in her goes out, leaving behind only the grey dust.

"Oh…"

She just stands there, silently weeping.

"Lethe."

She takes a shaky step toward the edge of the mattress. She reaches up and wipes the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her oversized jacket, trying to build a steady facade.

"I… I am Amiya," she says, her voice trembling with an aching sincerity. She gestures a hesitant hand toward the doctor at the foot of the bed. "And she is Dr. Kal'tsit."

I look between them. Amiya. Kal'tsit.

They are hollow sounds, stripped of context, history, or meaning. I search the blank canvas of my brain for their faces and find only static.

But my senses do not lie. Amiya's sweetness is thick with a protective honesty, while Kal'tsit simply exists as an immovable truth in the room.

Amiya takes a breath, her long ears giving a sad sway.

"You are on Rhodes Island," Amiya continues, her blue eyes on mine, pleading with me to understand. "Your home since the 2nd of January, 1096. You work and live here."

2nd of January, 1096.

I stare at the white blankets covering my lap. The date means nothing to me. I don't know what a 'Rhodes Island' is, or what kind of work a girl with horns and a tail could do in a place that smells of bleach and cold ozone.

The woman holding me lets out a wet, shuddering breath. She pulls back, far enough to look into my eyes, her hands sliding from my shoulders to cup my cheeks. Her thumbs brush away the tangled strands of my grey hair with a touch so practiced that it makes my breath catch.

"And I am Erika…" she says. Her eyes are bloodshot, brimming. "…I was the Medic responsible for taking care of you."

I look at her face and the clean lines of her uniform.

Erika.

Nothing.

"Erika," I repeat. The name comes out as a thin chime in the quiet ward.

I reach up and hold her wrists.

"I don't… I don't remember." Fresh tears well in my eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you. But…"

Leaning my cheek into the warmth of her palm, I close my eyes against the clinical white lights of the room.

"…But you taste like home."

The burnt-ash taste of Erika's grief shatters, and honey floods in behind it—hers, the same honey as always, and more of it than I can hold.

Erika lets out a breathless sob. She doesn't pull away; she squeezes me hard, her arms wrapping around my frame, her face buried in my hair. I can feel her heart hammering against my ribs.

I sit stiffly in her embrace.

"What date is it now…" I ask. "…is it still 1096?"

"It is the 10th of February, 1098," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "You have been unconscious for four days."

I freeze.

1098…

I am a ghost haunting my own flesh.

Before the thought can close over me, a chime cuts through the chill.

"Do you want to go to the garden, Lethe?" Amiya asks.

I blink, tilting my head.

"Garden?" The word feels foreign and heavy on my tongue.

"Yes." Amiya offers a brave smile. "That's where you work. It is a beautiful place."

A spark of hope flutters in my empty chest. If I have worked there, if I have spent my days there… maybe the place itself holds the key.

"Will…" I hesitate. "Will it help me remember?"

The warmth in the air stalls.

"It will not."

Dr. Kal'tsit interjects. She steps to the foot of the bed, cutting off Amiya's gentle approach. She folds her hands behind her back, her posture rigid.

"Your Originium Arts are fueled by cognitive consumption, Lethe," she says. "Under normal parameters, your monitor collar restricts your output so the Originium localized in your temporal lobe burns only expendable memories to sustain your empathic siphoning."

She looks at me, her gaze unyielding.

"Four days ago, you bypassed those safety limiters. You projected a localized psychic cascade of unprecedented magnitude. To sustain that output, the infection required fuel, immediately and in quantity."

Her ears twitch a fraction.

"It incinerated the neural pathways housing your cognitive anchors. The structures that held those two years are destroyed," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "They are not repressed. They are not locked behind trauma. The garden cannot trigger a recall. The memories are gone."

The silence after it is total.

I stare at Dr. Kal'tsit. The spark of hope in my chest goes out, and what is left is empty.

I look down at my hands against the white blankets. My mind sifts through the ruins of the conversation, looking for anything solid to hold onto.

A word flickers in the dark.

"The slate…" I whisper. I look up at the tear-stained face of the woman holding me. "You mentioned something called a slate earlier. What is it?"

Amiya steps closer to the edge of the mattress, her long ears swaying.

"It is an electronic device. We all get one on Rhodes Island. You can do a lot of things on it. But for you, Lethe… you used it as a journal. You wrote down all the people you cared for in it, so you would never lose them."

A journal of my lost life.

"Closure is attempting to extract the data from the ruined chassis," Dr. Kal'tsit says. "She is also restoring your Arts monitor and rebuilding your Arts Unit. Until those are functional and your baseline is deemed secure, your containment parameters are absolute."

"You are permitted to visit the Convalescent Garden under supervision, and nowhere else." She turns on her heel, her coat snapping. "I have a meeting with the Columbian representatives. You are in Caladria's care."

The doors hiss apart and seal shut behind her with a clank.

The moment she is gone, the glacial pressure in the room evaporates. The air softens, leaving the burnt honey of Erika's grief and the sweetness of Amiya.

Erika lets out a ragged exhale. She pulls back from the embrace, wiping the lingering tears from her own cheeks with her thumbs before looking at me, and straightens.

"Are you hungry, Lethe?" Erika asks, her voice trembling a fraction.

I shake my head. My stomach feels like a hollow, bottomless pit, incapable of processing food right now.

"No. But… I want to see the garden."

Erika nods, her feathers fluffing up. "Of course. I can take you right now. Lena and the others will be so happy to see you awake."

I don't move.

A thought creeps in.

"But…" My breathing turns shallow. I look up, my eyes darting between Erika's bruised, exhausted face and Amiya's sad blue eyes.

"Wouldn't it hurt them?" I whisper.

Erika freezes. "Hurt them? What do you mean, little Lethe?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, and a hot tear carves a track down my cheek.

"I don't know who they are," I sob, the truth scraping against my raw throat. "I don't know what we did together. I don't know why they love me. If I walk into that garden, they are going to look at me and see their friend. But I won't know how to look back."

I open my eyes, staring helplessly at the two of them.

"I am just… I am just a ghost wearing Lethe's face."

Erika moves.

Her hands dart out.

Her fingers pinch both of my cheeks.

"Ouchie!" I yelp, the sting short-circuiting my dread.

My hands fly up, rubbing my pink cheeks as I look up at her with watering eyes. "What's that for?"

The air in the ward shifts. The burnt honey of her grief is incinerated by a wave of authority that snaps like pressed starch and warm sunlight.

Erika leans in, her eyes locked onto mine. She doesn't let me look away.

"Don't ever say that." Her voice drops the mourning and rings instead with a protective clarity that leaves no room for argument. "You are not a ghost. You are Lethe."

"Sorry…" I mumble.

Beside the bed, Amiya lets out a breathy giggle and nods.

Erika sighs. The tension goes out of her shoulders. She reaches out, her thumbs brushing the spots on my cheeks she had just pinched, her touch back to its old tenderness.

"Let's go to the garden." Her tone softens into a coaxing lilt. She stands up from the edge of the mattress and offers me her hand, palm up. "Some tea and a cookie would be nice."

I look at her outstretched hand.

My hands come out from beneath the blankets, and my trembling fingers wrap around hers.

"Okay. Let's go."

I slide off the edge of the mattress, my bare toes shrinking from the industrial chill of the floor, and slip into the padded grey slippers Erika has ready for me, the soft fabric shielding my feet from the cold steel.

A deep breath, and I step out of the quiet isolation of my quarantine ward.

The hallway outside is loud. Too loud.

The corridor is a labyrinth of brushed metal and heavy bulkheads. The blue glare of the wall monitors and the big white insignias make everything look cold and too clean, like a hospital for soldiers.

I stop by the insignia for a second, my hand reaching out to touch it.

So this is Rhodes Island?

"That's our logo, Lethe," Amiya says. "The true Rhodes Island is the people on our landship. It is our home and our future."

"I see…" I linger.

"Come on, Lethe, let's go," Erika says, moving us along.

Then a psychic hurricane hits me.

Hundreds of overlapping emotions bleed through the reinforced walls. The volume of it crashes into my senses.

I press myself into Erika, my hands gripping her plum shirt, and duck my head.

"What's wrong, Lethe?" Erika stops walking, her arm wrapping around my shoulders.

"It is so loud. It tastes… bad."

The hallway is a sludge—the acid bite of stress off passing Medics, and under it the grey flavor of bone-deep exhaustion off people carrying weapons.

Erika strokes the top of my head.

"We will be in the garden soon, Lethe. Just a few more steps. I've got you."

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath against the flavors, and let her guide me blindly down the rest of the hallway.

The locks disengage with a clank. The blast doors hiss and slide apart.

As we walk into the garden, everything changes.

The transition is jarring enough to make me stop. The sterility of the hallway gives way to a humid wave of warm air. The space is vast and breathtaking. Tall white pillars and crisscrossing beams support a high ceiling of frosted glass that floods the room with diffused daylight. A living canopy of broad-leafed ferns, trailing ivy, and greenery hangs suspended overhead. Scattered across the smooth floor are abstract seating arrangements, golden-brown wooden benches curved like crescent moons. Hovering above them is a large translucent yellow light fixture shaped like a butterfly, casting a warm glow over the room.

I let out a long, shuddering exhale as the bitter taste of the hallway evaporates.

Deep within the foliage, the garden is bustling with quiet life.

A young Vulpo is with an older one, the two of them studying a large leafy fern near one of the crescent benches. The older woman moves with a serene elegance, and she tastes like warm lavender and steeped chamomile. Beside her, the girl's nine fluffy auburn tails sway in a mesmerized rhythm. The goodness bleeding off her hits my senses like light.

A few paces away, a Perro girl adjusts dials on a row of glass pods, calibrating the glowing habitats, her ears twitching with focus. She tastes of sun-ripened yuzu and green tea.

And tucked near the back of the greenhouse, a Reproba is with a bunch of critters, vibrating with entrepreneurial pride. Crabs scurry around her, claws clicking against the floor tiles. She crouches and lifts one—some of them are bigger than her head—to inspect its carapace with dead-serious adoration.

I loosen my grip on Erika's coat. The cold knot under my ribs thaws, replaced by the earthy scent of damp soil and blooming flowers.

"See?" Erika smiles down at me, her eyes crinkling. "We are safe here, Lethe."

"Amiya! Miss Erika! Lethe!"

The chiming voice echoes through the humid air of the greenhouse. The young Vulpo turns from the fern she was inspecting. She doesn't walk; she becomes a blur of auburn tearing down the winding path.

She crashes into me.

The impact nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs. She throws her arms around my waist, her nine fluffy tails enveloping my legs in a warm shield.

"Lethe, you are safe!" She squeezes me as if I might disappear into the mist.

A few paces away, the greenhouse stalls. The Perro girl stops adjusting her glass pods, the older Vulpo turns around, and the Reproba sets down her clicking metal crabs. They all turn to look at us with the same relief.

But I don't hug her back.

I stand there. My arms hang limp at my sides. My eyes stare over her shoulder.

"Lethe?"

She pulls back, her tails drooping a fraction as she looks up into my face.

Amiya steps up beside Erika.

"Lisa… she doesn't," Amiya says. Her voice is a trembling whisper that shatters the quiet of the canopy. "She doesn't remember anything."

A sharp pain tears through the garden. The light coming off Lisa shatters, replaced by crushed glass, damp ash, and burnt caramel.

My stomach heaves. The size of the sorrow I just inflicted on her is agonizing.

"Sorry…" I shrink back, my tail coiling around my ankle as I press deeper into Erika's honey. "I'm so sorry…"

The garden falls into a mourning silence. The older Vulpo closes her eyes, an aching sadness settling over her posture, while the Perro girl lowers her head, ears pinned flat against her hair.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the sanctuary is Lisa's soft, wet sniffling in front of me.

She scrubs at her eyes with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

But then, Lisa stops crying.

She lowers her hands and takes a shaky breath, dragging the humid, earthy air of the greenhouse into her lungs. She wipes the last of the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her sleeves and forces her chin up.

Her tails, which had been resting limply against the floor tiles, give a hesitant but deliberate swish.

The bitter ash in the air begins to recede.

Lisa looks into my eyes and stretches her tear-stained face into a brave, wobbly smile.

"We just have to be friends again," Lisa says, her voice trembling but certain. "Like what we did two years ago. Right, new sis, Lethe?"

New sis.

I look at her brave smile and loosen my grip on Erika's coat.

A hesitant step forward, and my hands are trembling as I reach out to grasp her fingers.

"I… I…" My own smile comes out watery. "I would like that…"

"Then, let's start with introductions!"

Lisa steps back.

"I am Lisa. My Operator name here is Suzuran! And you, Lethe, are my friend."

The Perro girl walks over, her steps light and purposeful.

"I am Podenco, a botanist, and logistics Operator," she says, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "And you were my best, clumsy assistant."

The older Vulpo steps gracefully to Podenco's side.

"I am Lena. Operator Perfumer," she says, her voice a melodic hum beneath the greenhouse canopy. "I manage the garden, and you work in palliative care under my watch."

From the back of the group, the Reproba waves.

"I am Beanstalk! Professional metal crab breeder!" she announces. A tiny creature clicks its claws near her boots. I stare at the scurrying little critter. It is kind of cute.

I look between all their smiling faces. The volume of information is a lot for my newly hollowed mind.

"Uhm…" My brow furrows as I try to process the dual identities they are giving me. My voice is still adjusting to the shape of the words. "Do we all have Operator names?"

Amiya steps closer, her eyes shining with a gentle warmth. A soft giggle escapes her lips.

"Not everyone," Amiya says, her long ears swaying. "I am just Amiya, and you are just Lethe. And some onboard don't use their old names anymore; people are free to choose their identity here."

Free to choose.

I turn and look up at Erika, standing by my side.

"What about you, Erika?" I ask.

Miss Lena turns her head, sharing a knowing look with Erika.

Erika just smiles, a fond expression that reaches all the way to her exhausted eyes. She shakes her head.

"Well, Lethe. My Operator name is Caladria."

"I will go make some tea," Perfumer says, her steps turning toward the small wooden counter tucked in the shadows of the hanging ferns. Her tail swings under the canopy light.

I stand awkwardly near the crescent bench, forcing my spine straight, trying to be polite to people who are looking at me with that much affection.

"Okay," I reply. "Thank you. Perfumer."

The bustling activity of the greenhouse stalls. Perfumer's tail stops dead.

The air in the sanctuary ripples. The warm lavender and steeped chamomile spikes with a sharp note of bruised, wilted petals.

I did it again. I hurt them again.

Perfumer turns around.

She doesn't let the sorrow linger. Her serene smile doesn't falter, and her eyes stay soft. She steps back toward me.

"Call me Lena, sweetie. If you don't mind."

My lower lip trembles.

"Sorry…" I mumble, ducking my head to hide the fresh tears pricking at my eyes. "Okay… Lena… Miss Lena."

A sharp clap shatters the heavy, mourning quiet of the canopy.

Podenco steps right into my line of sight. She plants her hands on her hips.

"Well!" Podenco says, her tail giving an enthusiastic wag. "I think a garden tour is a must!"

She doesn't wait for my permission. Podenco reaches out, her hand wrapping around my wrist.

"Come, Lethe!"

With a surprisingly strong tug, she drags me away from the emotional gravity of the seating area and into the heart of the sanctuary.

I stumble, scrambling to keep my padded slippers beneath me as she pulls me down the winding stone path. The life of the garden envelops us. The air here is rich, perfumed with damp soil and a hundred different blooming flowers.

"Over here are the primary planters!" Podenco chimes, gesturing with her free hand toward a multi-tiered wooden bed overflowing with serrated leaves and thick vines. "We cultivate a lot of the medicinal herbs for the medical wing right here. You have to be very careful with the watering schedules for these, or their roots get too soggy!"

She doesn't pause for breath, pulling me further down the aisle.

"And these are the micro-climate pods," she continues, pointing to a row of glass-fronted terrariums humming with a low vibration. Inside the thick glass, different environments are recreated; one is filled with a dense, foggy mist, another radiates a dry, arid heat. "We use these for the fragile, exotic samples we bring back from the field. You brought back the alpine samples, Lethe!"

I try to absorb the beauty of the greenhouse, the delicate bell-shaped blue flowers blooming near the edge of the path, the ferns brushing against the frosted glass ceiling high above.

I listen to her bright, sweet voice, and as I breathe in the earthy humidity of the sanctuary, my shoulders begin to drop. The terror in my spine begins to thaw.

They were my friends, and they still are. I feel safe.

The polished stone path leads us back to the wooden benches.

Podenco gently guides me by the wrist, her touch light and still careful. I shuffle my padded slippers across the floor and let myself be steered back into the warm, dappled light of the seating area.

Miss Lena is already waiting for us.

She sets a wooden tray down onto the low table. On it are seven hand-painted porcelain teacups, their delicate rims catching the glow of the butterfly-shaped light fixture above. A thin wisp of steam curls upward from the spout of a ceramic teapot, carrying the floral aroma of steeped chamomile and lavender into my lungs.

Beside the cups sits a large plate piled high with thick, freshly baked cookies.

"Have a seat, Lethe." Podenco presses her hands against my shoulders until I sink onto the smooth, golden-brown wood.

The moment I am seated, a blur of auburn fills the empty space beside me. Lisa doesn't sit so much as wedge herself against my side, her nine fluffy tails fanning out to form a barrier around our section of the bench.

Amiya is lingering near the edge of the foliage, her hands clasped in front of her jacket, watching us with a quiet, aching longing.

Miss Lena pauses her pouring.

"Amiya?" Miss Lena asks, her melodic voice floating through the humid air. "Do you have time to join us?"

Amiya blinks, her shoulders giving a surprised jump.

"Of course, Miss Lena," Amiya says. She steps out from the shadows of the ferns, a grateful smile touching her lips. "I would love to."

She walks over and takes a seat on the adjacent bench. Erika settles on my other side, and Beanstalk and Podenco fill the remaining seats, completing the circle around the low table.

The garden is peaceful.

Lisa leans forward, eyes locked onto the plate of cookies, and picks out a thick golden-brown one dotted with dark fruits.

She turns to me, holding it up with both hands.

"Here!" Lisa chirps. "This is your absolute favorite!"

I look at the cookie in her hands.

My favorite.

I take it from her.

"Thank you, Lisa."

I bring it to my lips and take a small bite.

The texture is soft, yielding against my teeth. The flavor blooms across my tongue—toasted oats melting into the tart burst of dried berries. Under that, sun-baked earth, warm hearths, and careful baking.

I chew slowly. I don't remember the last time I ate this, or the person who first declared it her favorite.

I don't need the memory to know it's good.

Lowering the cookie, I look at Lisa, who is holding her breath.

"It is good," I tell her. "It is really, really good."

Lisa lets out a gasp of relief, and the tension goes out of the greenhouse. Her tails swish back and forth in a blur, sweeping against the wooden slats of the bench.

"I knew it!" Lisa cheers. "Even if you don't remember, your tummy still knows!"

Across the table, Amiya's composure gives way to a giggle. Podenco grins. Erika lets out a long sigh.

Miss Lena smiles her tranquil smile and passes the steaming porcelain teacups around the table.

"Drink up, Lethe," Miss Lena says, setting a cup in front of me. "There is plenty more where that came from. We have all the time in the world to find your favorites again."

Erika watches me chew the last crumb, her shoulders slumping as the tension finally leaves her. The last traces of burnt ash in her dissolve into warm, exhausted honey.

"Guess our little sugar Djall is still intact," Erika sighs, smiling. "I am glad…"

I pause, my hand dropping to my lap.

"Djall?"

Erika turns toward me on the bench and rests her hand over mine.

"That's what you are, Lethe." Her thumb brushes my knuckles. "Our best little Djall."

I look down at our joined hands. The touch anchors me, but the emptiness in my head still echoes. I am sitting in a garden surrounded by people who look at me like I am the center of their universe, and I don't know a single thing about the girl who earned that.

"What was she like?" I ask, my misted eyes moving between Amiya, Lisa, and Erika. "I mean… what was me like?"

The garden goes quiet.

Erika doesn't let the question hang. She leans forward, her eyes locking onto mine.

"Exactly like you." Her voice is a rock that crushes the insecurity in my chest. "Because you are still her, Lethe. You don't need to refer to yourself in the third person, and you don't need to feel guilty for not remembering."

She squeezes my hand.

"You are still our Lethe."

I take a slow breath, letting the humid air of the greenhouse fill my lungs.

"Okay…"

Before the gravity can settle over the crescent bench again, a mechanical whirring cuts through the rustling of the ferns.

The doors of the garden part.

Crawling over the threshold is a small, boxy robot. Its treads click against the floor as it navigates the winding botanical path, oblivious to the sanctuary it is crossing. It comes to a jerky halt beside our low table, its optical sensor blinking green.

Resting flat on its chassis is a sleek black rectangle and a folded piece of yellow paper.

I blink and lean forward, peering over the edge of the table.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Oh! It's your slate!" Amiya chimes in. "Dr. Kal'tsit mentioned Ms. Closure was working on recovering your data from the crashed chassis."

I reach out, my fingers brushing the cold casing of the slate, then pick up the paper and unfold it. The handwriting is sharp, hurried, aggressively legible.

I clear my throat and read the note aloud to the table.

"From, Closure."

I pause, squinting at the next line.

"Kiddo, you are lucky Kal told me to not charge you for the damage. Or you will be working for free until the 13th century."

For a split second, the garden is silent.

Then Lisa bursts into a ringing peal of laughter. Beside her, Podenco ducks her head, and the air goes fizzy and carbonated with her amusement.

"That is exactly what Ms. Closure would say!" Podenco giggles.

A breathless laugh escapes Erika, breaking the last shreds of her exhausted grief. Amiya smiles, her eyes crinkling with fondness.

I look at the yellow note in my hands, then at the laughing faces around me.

Warmth blooms in the center of my chest.

The dark chassis of the slate on the table looks pristine.

"Closure must have recovered the data onto a new one," Miss Lena says.

"Open it! Open it!" Lisa beams, leaning over my shoulder until her hair brushes my cheek.

I reach out, my finger hovering over the power button.

I press it.

The screen flickers to life, casting a cool glow over the table. A stylized Rook logo flashes against the dark background, accompanied by a synthetic chime.

Then the home screen loads. It is almost entirely empty, save for a single pinned folder resting in the center.

Beneath the icon, the text simply reads: "My Life".

I tap the glass.

The folder opens on a list of names, each paired with a photograph and a profile.

I scroll, scanning the faces. I recognize the people sitting right in front of me, and tap the first familiar one.

Amiya.

I read the text beneath her smiling portrait, and my brow furrows. I lift my head and look across the table at the girl with the gentle blue eyes and the oversized jacket.

"Amiya…" I say. "You are… the CEO?"

I look around the greenhouse, and think about the armored corridors we had just walked through. "You are the leader of this entire landship… why didn't you tell me?"

Amiya's long ears sway. Her spun sugar carries no corporate authority, no bureaucratic weight. It is just warmth.

"Because I am your friend first, Lethe," Amiya replies, her voice an anchor. She smiles at me. "And CEO second. Always."

I stare at her for a second, give a tiny nod, and look back down at the glowing screen.

My finger traces the glass, swiping to the next entry.

Erika.

I stare at the profile. Below the crisp photograph of Erika in her medical uniform, a single word is typed in bold letters.

Mom.

My hands freeze. The slate feels heavy.

I look back up. Erika is sitting right beside me, her hands clasped in her lap, tears already spilling over her lashes to carve wet tracks down her cheeks.

"You are my mom?" I ask, the word strange on my tongue and exactly right. "You just said you were my Medic…"

Erika lets out a wet breath and covers my hands with hers on the edge of the table.

"That is an earned title, Lethe." Her voice breaks into a sob. "I am the Medic who pulled you out of the ruins. But being your mother… that is only a title of mine if you accept it."

She doesn't wait for my response. She slides across the wooden bench and wraps her arms around me, pulling me flush against her chest, burying her face in my shoulder as she weeps into the fabric of the hospital gown.

I sit rigid in her arms for a moment.

I look back down at the words glowing on the dark screen.

Mom. Erika. Caladria. She pulled you out. She gave you a future.

"It says…" I whisper, my voice catching as a tear escapes my own eye. "It says you gave me my life."

I press my face into the crook of her neck. The greenhouse air is saturated with the love pouring out of her.

"It says you taste like warm honey," I breathe out, my arms lifting to wrap around her back. I squeeze her, burying myself in the safety of it. "And you taste exactly like mom, too."

"You are mom."

We hold each other for a long moment. When I finally let her go, I wipe my damp cheeks.

I look around the table. Everyone is teary-eyed, and the air is a blend of relief and affection.

I look back down at the screen and swipe past mom's profile, my finger hovering over the next picture.

Lisa.

The short, distilled words are the ones I carved into my digital memory. "The radiant joy," I read aloud.

Lisa's nine tails are puffed up, swaying in a happy blur. The light and sugar and sunshine coming off her makes sense.

I swipe again.

Podenco.

"The reliable, teasing friend," I read, my brow furrowing as I look across the table at her. I tilt my head. "Guess we haven't gotten to the teasing part yet."

Podenco's ears perk straight up. The tears in her eyes vanish, replaced by a mischievous glint.

"Just you wait, Lethe," Podenco says, crossing her arms over her teal jacket with an exaggerated smirk.

A laugh escapes me. I drag my finger across the glass once more.

Miss Lena.

"Guardian of our sanctuary," I read.

Miss Lena pauses, hands resting in her lap, and offers me a serene smile that reaches all the way to her eyes.

"That's a heavy title," Miss Lena says, her voice soothing beneath the garden's canopy. "But I will gladly accept it, Lethe."

My tail thumps against the wooden bench. I look down at the slate, ready for the next heartfelt entry, and swipe.

Beanstalk.

I stare at the text, then lean closer to make sure I am reading it correctly.

"She cares more about her crabs than your tail," I read out loud, my voice flat.

The peace of the greenhouse is punctured.

"Hey!"

Beanstalk launches herself up from her seat, scandalized.

She scoops one of the clicking metal crabs up from the floor and holds it high in the air to defend its honor.

"But look at them!" Beanstalk protests, gesturing at the critter flailing its little pincers. "They are definitely the best!"

I pull my legs up, my tail coiling around my thigh, tucking itself as far from the crustacean as it can get.

The tear-soaked weight of the last hour breaks apart. "They are the best, Miss Beanstalk!" Lisa cheers, nodding at the critter.

"Of course!" Miss Beanstalk puffs her chest out with pride.

I look back down at the glowing screen in my lap.

My finger traces the edge of the slate, scrolling past the profiles we had just read. Row after row of faces and typed notes slide across the display—Casters, armored Defenders, stern medical personnel. It's a whole wall of memories I built so I wouldn't float away from this world.

There are so many on this list. So many people who apparently care about me, and who I cared about in return.

"I want to meet them all," I say, looking up from the screen. My voice is quiet, but it rings with the want to reconnect the severed tethers of my life.

Amiya leans forward from the adjacent bench. Her sweetness stays, but underneath it now is the crisp, steady mantle of Rhodes Island's CEO.

"After Dr. Warfarin clears you." Her tone drops into a gentle authority. "And Ms. Closure rebuilds your Arts Unit."

Amiya's eyes soften.

"We will make sure you get to meet them," Amiya promises. "As long as they are on the landship."

A vibration buzzes against the table, cutting through the warmth of the garden.

Amiya looks down at her communicator resting next to her teacup. The display flashes 1600.

"I really need to head back to do some work," Amiya sighs, offering an apologetic smile to the table. She stands, smoothing the front of her jacket. "See you, everyone."

"Okay. Bye, Amiya," I reply, raising my hand in a small wave. "Thank you."

"I will come visit you again soon, Lethe," Amiya promises, her eyes shining before she turns and makes her way out of the greenhouse.

With her gone, the domestic rhythm of the sanctuary resumes. Miss Lena and Miss Beanstalk stand up and start clearing the table, the clatter of porcelain teacups mixing with the rustle of the broad-leafed ferns.

"The requisition forms for the new nutrient soil are going to be a nightmare," Miss Beanstalk groans, stacking the cookie plates. "With the Columbian Union incident, the local trade channels are locked down. I can't even get the mineral feed for my crabbies!"

"We will have to make do with our current reserves, Beanstalk," Miss Lena replies. "We can re-allocate some of the secondary compost from the agricultural bays until the supply lines stabilize."

As they work through the logistics of a world I no longer remember, a hand rests on my shoulder.

"Well," mom says, her eyes scanning my posture on the crescent bench. "I will go to your dorm to grab your outfit. I won't have you wandering around the landship in a hospital gown all day."

I blink, looking down at the starchy medical garment draped over my knees.

"Outfit?" I ask, looking back up at her. "So I don't just always wear this?"

Beside me, Lisa gasps.

"Of course not, Lethe!" She vibrates in place.

Lisa pulls her own communicator out of her pocket, taps rapidly at the screen, then leans over and shoves the glowing device in front of my face.

"Look!" Lisa points.

She swipes to the first picture. It is a photo of me, standing in this exact greenhouse, wearing an oversized Rhodes Island jacket not unlike Amiya's over a white turtleneck, with a dark pleated skirt, insulated dark stockings, and padded sneakers. The girl in the picture looks put-together, professional, at home in the sanctuary.

Before I can process the image, Lisa swipes the screen again.

The second picture is different. I am lounging on a bed, drowning in the fleece-lined embrace of a hoodie with a sleeping black kitten printed square on the chest. My legs are covered in thick, opaque tights.

"You wear dark denim shorts with this one." She points to the hem of the hoodie. "But the hoodie is so oversized it just covers them!"

She swipes through a few more blurry thumbnails. "Of course, you have a swimsuit for Siesta, and a heavy winter outfit for Kjerag too. But we don't need them right now."

Lisa stops scrolling and brings the screen back to the two main options, her eyes wide and expectant.

"Which one do you want, Lethe?" Lisa asks. "The first one is your Operator outfit. The second is your off-duty one."

I look at the girl in the oversized kitten hoodie. She looks safe, sheltered, relaxed. But my eyes drift back to the first picture. The Operator uniform carries the medical cross and the crisp lines of duty. It says I belong here, working alongside Miss Lena, Podenco, and mom.

"I…" My chin comes up. "I want my Operator one."

Mom lets out a chuckle.

"Alright, Lethe. I will be back." She points at me. "Don't run anywhere. Or Dr. Kal'tsit will have my feathers."

The glacial image of Dr. Kal'tsit flashes in my mind. I nod, wrapping my hands around my knees.

"Okay, mom," I promise.

With a final, reassuring smile, she turns and heads out of the sanctuary.

I watch her go until the blast doors close behind her. When I turn back to the bench, Podenco is staring at me, arms crossed over her jacket, a scrutinizing glint in her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" I ask her, my voice going small.

"Nothing, Miss Sarkaz Royalty." She leans forward, cheeky, hands on the low table. "Just thinking about my win streak. I have to reestablish it again from scratch."

My hands drop from my knees.

Sarkaz Royalty?

I know Erika called me a Djall, but does that mean I am a princess? Is there a crown I forgot about? And what kind of win streak is she talking about? Did we fight?

"Wait," I stammer. "I am royalty?"

Beside me, Lisa bounces.

"Yes! The royalty of pastries!"

Near the botanical workstations, the rustle of paperwork and logistics manifests stops. Miss Lena and Miss Beanstalk pause their discussion of soil regulators and supply routes.

Miss Lena turns her head, smiling. Beside her, Miss Beanstalk lets out a snort. They are both looking at me.

I look at Podenco giggling across the table, and the glowing slate finally clicks into place.

The reliable, teasing friend.

A prickly flush warms my cheeks.

"Oh!" I yelp, dropping my hands to my hips and puffing my cheeks out. I glare across the table at her. "You were teasing me! That's why you are the teasing friend!"

"Well, for the record"—she leans across the table to point a finger at me—"you do eat more pastry and sweets than probably anyone else on the entire landship."

I drop my hand from the edge of the slate and point a finger at my own chest.

"I do?"

Beside me, Lisa nods so hard her hair bounces around her shoulders.

I look down at the slate in my lap and tap the glass, backing out of the curated profiles of the Rhodes Island Operators. I search the folders, scanning the organized notes the 'old me' left behind to fight the creeping void.

"I should write that down, too." My brow furrows, and I trace the edge of the dark chassis with my thumb. "There's actually nothing on this list about myself. I wrote down everyone I loved… but I didn't write down my favorite foods, or my hobbies, or what I like to do."

I look up, my eyes moving between the faces gathered around the bench.

"Why didn't the me before write them down?"

A pair of graceful hands settle over my shoulders, stilling my fidgeting.

"Because you are you, Lethe," Miss Lena says. "You didn't need to write yourself down, because your life isn't something to be archived in a machine. It is something to be lived. You just need to discover your life again."

I look back at her.

I look around at Lisa, at Podenco, at Miss Beanstalk grounded in the distance.

Miss Lena is right. I don't need a digital dossier to tell me how to be Lethe. I can just taste the world, eat the pastries, and let the people who love me show me the way.

I offer her a small, determined nod.

"Okay."

"And I can help with that!" Lisa cheers. She shuffles closer, wedging her side against mine, and raises her terminal into my line of sight. "Look at this one!"

I lean in, my shoulder bumping hers, as the screen lights our faces.

It is a picture of the two of us, sitting on the floor of a brightly lit dorm room, surrounded by a sprawling mess of handwritten notes and thick textbooks. My head rests on Lisa's shoulder, my eyes closed in exhausted sleep, while Lisa flashes a victorious peace sign at the camera.

"We fell asleep trying to do our Originium Arts thermodynamics homework," Lisa giggles, swiping to the next image.

Podenco leans over from her side of the table, elbows on the wood, to look at the screen with us.

"Oh, show her the one from the cafeteria!" Podenco chimes in, pointing at the glass. "The one where Gummy gave you a honey biscuit, and you got a chunk stuck to your nose."

"I have that one!" Lisa gasps, her fingers swiping through her gallery.

I sit in the middle of the bench, flanked by the warmth of my friends, while Lisa brings up picture after picture—stolen desserts, quiet moments reading in the garden, chaotic moments of training.

Lisa's finger drags across the terminal, swiping past the blurry dorm room selfies to reveal a new image.

It is a wide, brightly lit photograph of a gathering inside one of the landship's recreational rooms. Square in the center of a long table sits a fruit cake, its frosting decorated with vibrant berries and one lit candle.

I lean closer, scanning the crowd clustered around the dessert, and pull my recovered slate onto my lap, swiping through the dossier to cross-reference the faces smiling in the picture.

"So that's Amiya…" I murmur, my finger tracing the glass to find her near the center. I tap my screen, pulling up the matching profiles. "And that's Ms. Blaze. Ms. Raidian… Ms. Skyfire… Miss Adele… Opal…"

I look back at the screen, in awe of how many people are packed into the frame. "Almost everyone is there."

"Oh! That's your first birthday."

The voice comes from right behind my ear. I jump, my shoulder bumping Lisa's as mom steps up behind the bench and leans over to look at the screen.

"Brings back memories," mom hums.

I look back at the photograph, studying the happy scene.

But as my eyes linger on the high-resolution screen, my brow furrows.

My thumb and forefinger spread across Lisa's terminal, zooming in on the center of the crowd.

"But… everyone is smiling." I point at Amiya's face on the screen. "Why are Amiya's eyes puffed out? She looks like she had been crying."

I pan the image over to the right.

"Not just here…" I turn my head, looking at Lisa beside me. "Lisa, you have tear tracks on your face in the picture, too."

The bustling, cheerful atmosphere of the garden goes silent.

Lisa's nine fluffy tails drop, falling limp against the bench. Across the table, Podenco lowers her gaze, and Miss Lena closes her eyes, a shadow passing over her features.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to! Sorry!"

Mom's hand comes down, resting firm on my shoulder.

"Once Dr. Kal'tsit clears you for duty again"—her voice drops its playful lilt into something solemn that anchors the room—"I will take you to the memorial hall. You deserve to know that as well."

"Okay," I whisper.

Mom lets out a soft sigh, pushing the lingering shadows away.

"For now." Her tone goes brisk as she steps around the side of the bench. "Just focus on getting changed, Lethe."

She holds her arms out, presenting a neatly folded stack of clothing. On top is the oversized grey Rhodes Island jacket, with a crisp white turtleneck, a dark pleated skirt, and insulated stockings. My Operator uniform.

I look at the clothes, then around the brightly lit expanse of the Convalescent Garden.

"Do I just change here?" I clutch my hospital gown.

The mourning silence shatters. Podenco covers her mouth to muffle a fizzy giggle, and Lisa's tails fluff back up with renewed life.

Mom simply laughs. She gestures toward the broad-leafed plants lining the nearby walkways.

"I mean, we are all girls here," mom teases, shoving the stack of clothes into my hands. "You can just hide behind a fern."

The stack goes into my arms, and I shuffle my padded slippers toward the edge of the seating area, stepping behind a sprawling fern and letting its broad, humid leaves shield me from the rest of the greenhouse.

I take a slow breath and untie the starchy hospital gown. It slips off my shoulders and pools onto the floor tiles with a sterile whisper.

I change slowly.

The white turtleneck comes over my head, and I navigate the fabric around the lopsided horns jutting from my skull. I step into the dark pleated skirt, smooth the pleats down, and roll the thick, insulated stockings up my legs. The clothes fit.

Finally I pick up the oversized grey jacket and slide my arms into the sleeves, pulling it snug over my shoulders. The weight of the fabric settles on me like an embrace.

I lean down for my padded sneakers, slip my feet out of the hospital slippers, and tie the thick white laces.

After everything is done, I take one last breath of the earthy air and step out from behind the fern.

The rustle of the leaves draws their attention.

Mom steps forward, her hands resting lightly on her hips.

"How do you feel, Lethe?" mom asks.

I stand in the dappled light of the butterfly fixture and raise my arms, looking at the baggy sleeves of the grey jacket. I shift my weight from side to side, feeling the swing of my tail against the pleated skirt.

"I feel…" I pause, dropping my arms to my sides, and blink at her, confused. "I don't feel special."

Mom lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Well," mom smiles, reaching out to adjust the collar of my jacket. "It is the outfit you wore every day. It is meant to be practical, not a ballgown."

I look down at my chest, my fingers tracing the thick, bold lettering printed onto the durable fabric near the front zippers.

RHODES ISLAND.

Then my eyes trail downward. Strapped around my thigh, resting starkly against the dark fabric of my skirt and stockings, is a tactical leg band. Fastened to it is a crisp symbol.

I stare at it. My head tilts up, my eyes tracing the clean lines of mom's uniform until they land on her arm band.

It is the exact same symbol.

It must be the symbol of a Rhodes Island Medic.

"I am part of Rhodes Island."

Mom's smile deepens.

"Yes, Lethe," mom promises. "You are."

The rest of the day passes quietly. The exhaustion of waking up to an erased life catches up to me, leaving me numb but safe.

I'm back in the white quarantine ward, exactly as Dr. Kal'tsit ordered.

The digital clock on the wall reads 03:00.

A hollow rumble vibrates through my stomach. I'm hungry. The oat and berry cookie Lisa gave me in the Convalescent Garden was hours ago, and my body is running on fumes.

I slide out of bed, slippers soft against the cold steel floor, and walk to the metal door. The control panel glows. Mom and Dr. Kal'tsit only had to touch it to make the door open, so I press my palm against the glass.

A soft beep. The locks clank, and the door hisses open.

I step out into the corridors. They're dim, bathed in amber. The clatter of daytime is gone. A few people are out, moving with heavy steps.

I make my way forward. I don't know the exact layout of the landship yet, but my stomach is a compass. Roasted grains, baked bread, savory broth—the smell clings to the recycled air, and I follow it. I'm so hungry.

After about ten minutes of quiet walking, the corridors widen and I reach a set of large double doors. I slip inside.

The cafeteria is mostly dark, a few overhead fluorescents lighting the serving stations and dining tables. The moment I step over the threshold, a voice shatters the quiet.

"Doctor! It's 3 in the morning! You need to stop running combat simulations and go to sleep!"

I flinch. Spun sugar hits me, familiar—but carbonated tonight. Amiya. She's at the far door, coming into the dining hall from another direction.

I scan the room. There's an anomaly at the water station.

A tall figure in a heavy dark coat, hood pulled up over his face. He's holding a large steaming electric kettle in his gloved hands, head tilted back, pouring the near-boiling water straight down his throat.

My tail, which had been swaying in anticipation of food, snaps rigid.

"Doctor, what are you doing! You're going to give Dr. Kal'tsit and me a heart attack!" Amiya sprints across the epoxy floor.

My Arts brush against his presence. What comes off the man is bizarre: beneath a deep, unfathomable ocean, a buzzing, chaotic static. It is the taste of chewing raw coffee beans while licking a live battery terminal.

I pull my hands up, clutching my jacket against my chest.

A heavy gulp echoes through the empty cafeteria.

He lowers the kettle, vapor hissing out from beneath the dark visor of his mask.

"It is efficient, Amiya," Doctor says. "Boiling instant ramen directly in the kettle saves time and energy."

Amiya groans into her hands, her long ears flopping forward. "You're really hopeless, Doctor."

Doctor tilts his hooded head toward the double doors. Amiya follows his line of sight, blinking through the dim fluorescent light until she locks onto me.

Her eyes widen, ears snapping straight up. "Lethe? What are you doing here?"

"Uhm… I… I'm hungry," I mumble, and it echoes strangely in the quiet cafeteria.

Doctor looks down at the kettle in his gloved grip, then extends his arm and points the spout at me. "You should try it as well."

"Absolutely not!" Amiya barks.

Amiya walks briskly across the room.

She reaches out and takes my hand.

"We have some chilled microwave food in the break room." She squeezes my fingers. "Come. It's at least real food."

I don't move right away. I look past her toward the dark corridors, my nerves pulling tight at the memory of Dr. Kal'tsit's voice earlier today—that glacial finality.

"Would I get in trouble?" I ask. "Dr. Kal'tsit said…"

A huff breaks from beneath Doctor's dark hood.

Amiya giggles, her shoulders relaxing as she guides me away from the cafeteria. "It's too late for that already, no? And don't worry, Doctor and I won't sell you out. Unless Ms. Closure reports you to Dr. Kal'tsit—but I'll make sure she doesn't."

I exhale and let Amiya lead me toward the break room. If the leader of the whole landship will help me sneak food, maybe breaking Dr. Kal'tsit's rules isn't so frightening after all.

We were just about to step away from the shadows of the cafeteria, my hand wrapped in Amiya's, when the locks of the double doors disengage with a clank.

The panels slide apart.

Dr. Kal'tsit is standing right there.

She doesn't speak. She stands in the threshold, her coat catching the dim fluorescent light, and her eyes sweep the dark cafeteria—the glowing water station, the steaming kettle, and finally us.

Amiya freezes.

"Dr… Dr. Kal'tsit," Amiya stammers.

I hear shuffling behind me, and I turn. In the shadows near the water station, Doctor's coat shifts. Very slowly, lifting one boot at a time, he attempts a step backward, trying to merge with the unlit corner of the room.

Dr. Kal'tsit's gaze snaps onto the retreating shadow.

Doctor freezes mid-step.

"Do not attempt to abscond, Doctor." Her voice cuts through the quiet room, flat, carrying the weight of a collapsing mountain. "Boiling processed instant noodles in a communal electric kettle is not tactical efficiency. It is destruction of Rhodes Island property and a failure of basic nutritional standards."

Doctor sags, the kettle lowering in defeat.

Dr. Kal'tsit turns to me. I shrink behind Amiya.

"Lethe. You are under strict medical containment parameters. Your neurological baseline is unstable. Wandering the unlit corridors of the landship at 0300 hours violates your recovery protocols."

Then the glacial gaze shifts to Amiya, still holding my hand.

"And Amiya. As CEO of this organization, you are to enforce these protocols, not enable Doctor's dietary habits and help a recovering patient break quarantine." She clasps her arms behind her back. "None of you should be awake. Sleep deprivation compromises cognitive function and immune response. Return to your quarters immediately."

The pressure in the room is heavy. Doctor stays motionless in the dark.

But my hunger gives another hollow growl that echoes in the silent hall.

The emptiness in my body eclipses my fear of her.

I step out from behind Amiya and look up at Dr. Kal'tsit, my fingers clutching at my jacket.

"Dr. Kal'tsit…" My voice goes thin under her stare. "I… I'm really hungry."

The quiet of the cafeteria stretches a single heavy second.

Dr. Kal'tsit's focus stays locked on my face. The pressure of the ancient glacier does not vanish, but the unforgiving edge of her cold iron presence pivots.

She turns her head and levels a glare back at the shadows.

"The processed sodium in instant ramen and the preservatives in chilled microwave meals are detrimental to cellular regeneration. Both are unfit for a patient recovering from severe neurological trauma."

Without waiting for a response, Dr. Kal'tsit crosses to the water station in three crisp strides and takes the heavy electric kettle out of Doctor's hands.

He doesn't even try to resist.

She turns on her heel and marches the confiscated kettle toward the open kitchen counters where the culinary team works.

"A patient waking from a four-day coma requires digestible, nutrient-dense food to safely restart the digestive system." She sets the kettle down with a clack and starts in on the pantry shelves. "Fortified oats, a clear bone broth, or lightly steamed eggs provide the amino acids and baseline calories without overwhelming the stomach."

She moves with the same efficiency she showed in the medical ward, pulling a small stainless-steel pot and a carton of fresh eggs from the commercial refrigerator.

"Furthermore," she continues, her voice carrying across the dining hall as she turns on the induction stove, "the circadian rhythm is a vital component of physical and psychological maintenance. That the CEO and the primary tactician of Rhodes Island are sabotaging their own REM cycles speaks to a systemic lack of discipline. Your cognitive decline in the coming administrative cycle will be your own fault."

I stand rooted to the floor.

I watch the ancient, frightening woman who froze the blood in my veins a few minutes ago meticulously crack an egg into a bowl and whisk it with scientific precision.

I take a small step backward until my shoulder bumps Amiya's, and lean in as close as I can get.

"Amiya…" I keep my voice so small that only her long ears could catch it over the hiss of the stove. "Is… Dr. Kal'tsit cooking for us?"

Amiya leans closer, her shoulder against mine. Her ears twitch.

"Yes…" Amiya whispers back, barely a breath. "Dr. Kal'tsit can be really scary when she lectures, but she cares about us more than anyone. Her steamed eggs are really good, Lethe. Just pretend you're getting Medicated. She prefers it that way."

I blink at her standing there in the open kitchen, and try to reconcile the glacial pressure she projects with the fact that she's cooking me a meal in the middle of the night.

I give Amiya a solemn nod, accepting her tactical advice.

"Okay," I whisper back. "I will."

Across the room, the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the whisk against the bowl stops.

Dr. Kal'tsit's ears twitch a fraction.

"A conspiracy between the Chief Executive Officer and a recovering patient under strict medical observation is incompatible with standard operational protocols," Dr. Kal'tsit says.

She turns back to the stove, pouring the whisked eggs into three heat-safe dishes and setting them into the steaming pot.

"The administrative hierarchy of Rhodes Island does not grant you immunity from biological necessity, Amiya," she continues, her hands moving with clinical precision. "Nor does it permit you to undermine the Medical Department by whispering behind my back while I am stabilizing a patient whose neural pathways are still vulnerable."

She replaces the lid on the pot, trapping the steam inside.

"And Doctor." Her gaze snaps back to the unlit corner near the water station. "Standing silent in the dark periphery of the room does not absolve you of complicity. Your disregard for your own cardiovascular health and your attempt to bypass dietary restrictions are a liability to the operational readiness of this organization."

A muffled, exhausted sigh comes out of the shadows.

Doctor shifts.

"The parameters for the upcoming Contingency Contract are brutal," Doctor protests, his voice drained. "The tactical simulations require uninterrupted focus. The caloric and caffeine intake is a strategic necessity to finalize the deployment rosters, Kal'tsit."

"Strategic necessity does not overwrite biological limits, Doctor," she counters, not turning from the stove. "A tactical plan formulated by a mind running on forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation and artificial stimulants is a compromised plan."

Beside me, Amiya's long ears droop.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Kal'tsit," Amiya says, small and thoroughly reprimanded. "I understand. I shouldn't have bypassed the rest cycle."

"Verbal acknowledgment does not offset the physiological toll of a protocol violation, Amiya."

A sharp beep chimes from the induction stove.

Dr. Kal'tsit turns off the heat and lifts the lid with clinical efficiency. A plume of warm steam billows into the air, carrying light soy, sesame, and perfectly cooked egg straight to my nose.

She retrieves three ceramic bowls from the steamer, sets them on a metal serving tray, and carries it across the cafeteria to the nearest lit dining table.

I stare at the table, unsure what to do.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps back, folding her hands behind her. Her eyes sweep over the three of us one last time.

"Sit," Dr. Kal'tsit commands.

Amiya, Doctor, and I scramble to the table, sliding into the plastic chairs in synchronized obedience. I pull one of the warm ceramic bowls toward me, my mouth watering at the smooth, custard-like steamed egg inside.

"You will consume this," Dr. Kal'tsit says, the lecture gone out of her voice. "You will return to your respective quarters. You will sleep. And this disregard for operational protocols will not happen again. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit," Amiya and I answer in unison.

From the other side of the table, a low grumble of agreement comes out from under Doctor's dark hood.

I pick up my spoon and dip it into the bowl. The soft egg melts on my tongue, and I look up at Dr. Kal'tsit watching over us in the dim light of the cafeteria. I keep Amiya's tactical advice in mind and treat the late-night meal like a medical prescription.

I scrape the last of the steamed egg from the bottom of the bowl. The warmth settles into my stomach, banishing the hollow ache that drove me out of my bed.

"Thank you, Dr. Kal'tsit," I say, setting my spoon down carefully so it doesn't clatter against the table.

"Your gratitude is unnecessary, Lethe. I require compliance. If you are caught leaving your quarantine ward for anywhere other than the Convalescent Garden again, I will have Mon3tr escort you back to your bed."

I don't know who or what 'Mon3tr' is, but the spike of lethal density that flares in her aura tells me it is not something I ever want to meet. My tail snaps into a tight coil around my ankle.

"Furthermore, your operational parameters remain suspended," she continues. "You will not be reinstated until Dr. Warfarin conducts a full evaluation of your physical health and Ms. Closure rebuilds your Originium Arts monitor and your Arts Unit. Until those conditions are met, your containment stands."

I nod quickly.

Dr. Kal'tsit turns her head and fixes Amiya and Doctor with a look that could freeze boiling water.

"As for the two of you." Her tone drops an octave. "If you are caught violating the mandated rest cycles and conspiring in the cafeteria again, I will suspend your administrative clearances. You will be covering Operator Aroma's janitorial duties on the middle decks in their entirety."

Amiya stiffens, her long ears shooting straight up.

Across from her, Doctor lets out a long, tragic groan.

I sit still in my chair, my hands folded in my lap. As frightening as she is, I am fed, and I have no intention of crossing her again.

Across the table, Amiya finishes her bowl in quiet, hurried scrapes of her spoon. Doctor mirrors her haste from the shadows of his hood, setting his empty bowl down with a defeated clink.

The pressure of her lecture still hangs heavily in the air, tasting of sharp ozone and clinical bleach.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps forward, her posture as rigid as the landship's steel bulkheads.

"Return to your quarters. Immediately. If PRTS logs either of your ID tags at a terminal or a simulation deck before the morning cycle begins, the consequences will be severe."

Amiya scrambles out of her chair.

"Goodnight, Dr. Kal'tsit! Goodnight, Lethe!" Amiya waves and turns on her heel, retreating into the dark corridors, followed close by the silent, slinking shadow of Doctor.

In a matter of seconds the cafeteria is empty again, and I am alone with her.

I set my own spoon down, my hands dropping to my lap. The savory warmth in me pushes back the chill of the room. But without Amiya's spun sugar to act as a buffer, the density of Dr. Kal'tsit's existence is a great deal to stand in.

"Come, Lethe. I will escort you back to the quarantine ward."

I nod again and slide out of my chair, my padded slippers hitting the floor tiles without a sound.

The walk back is silent. I stay a half-step behind her, eyes fixed on the hem of her coat. What bleeds off her is frightening: an age so vast and unfathomable that my mind aches just trying to process it.

We reach the metal door of my isolation ward.

I step forward, ready to shuffle back into the room and wait for the morning cycle. But Dr. Kal'tsit doesn't let the door slide shut. She steps up to the glowing control panel mounted on the wall.

Her fingers fly across the interface, inputting a long, rapid-fire sequence.

The panel lets out a sharp beep.

"Your cognitive baseline is too unstable to permit unauthorized interactions," Dr. Kal'tsit says, her voice echoing in the quiet hallway. She drops her hand from the panel and turns to look down at me. "I have overridden the local security matrix for this room. The biometric scanners are locked."

"Does that mean… I'm trapped?"

"It means you are contained," Dr. Kal'tsit corrects. "Until your monitor is rebuilt and your condition stabilizes, only Warfarin, Caladria, and myself hold the clearance to open this door. No one else on this landship can enter, and you cannot leave."

I look up into her eyes. The fear I felt when she first walked into my room yesterday has dulled.

It isn't a prison. It is a sanctuary.

"I understand, Dr. Kal'tsit." I bow deep. "Thank you for the food."

Dr. Kal'tsit's ears give one small twitch.

"Go to sleep, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit commands.

I step fully into the ward.

The door slides shut.

The isolation ward goes silent.

I shuffle over to the cot and kick off my slippers, then crawl beneath the white blankets and pull them up around my shoulders. My legs curl toward my chest, my tail wrapping around my waist.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Surrendering to the exhaustion pulling at my bones, I let the darkness claim me.

"Wakie wakie, my little Lethe."

The hum of the voice coaxes me out of the deep, dreamless void.

I flutter my eyes open.

Before my eyes can even fully focus on the feathers framing her face, my senses flood. Honey washes over me, warm and safe, hers.

Wound through it is a real smell: the bite of toasted cinnamon layered over warm stewed apples and plump, rehydrated berries.

I push myself up against the pillows, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"I got you some oats." Her lips stretch into a gentle, exhausted smile. "It's noon already. And there's someone who wants to meet you."

I blink, the fog of sleep burning away.

The warm ceramic bowl comes into my hands, the heat of the cooked oats seeping through the glaze, grounding my fingers. The porridge is dusted with cinnamon and piled high with fruit, and I look from it back up to her.

"Meet me?" I ask, my voice thick with sleep.

Mom nods.

"Yes, Savage wants to see you."

I flip through the glowing pages of the digital dossier I spent all of last night memorizing.

Nothing clicks.

"Savage?" I look down at the bowl in my lap. "She… she's not on the list…"

Mom's smile falters. She sits down on the very edge of the mattress, her posture slumping.

"You… you probably didn't have time to document her." Her voice drops low enough to scrape against the quiet of the ward. "Since you only met her… on the mission you lost all your memories."

The mission where I lost what little remained of my memories.

"She and Amiya want to honor the losses," mom continues, her thumb brushing a soothing rhythm against my skin. "It's okay if you don't want to go."

My heart lurches.

Loss…

I stare blankly at the steaming oats. The void in my temporal lobe wasn't the only thing destroyed out there in the dark. People died so I could wake up, even empty like this. Operators who probably smiled at me, who probably fought to protect me, didn't come back.

I don't remember their names. I don't remember their faces. I don't even know how they died. But the gravity of their absence takes the breath out of my lungs.

A hot tear spills over my lashes and drops into the porridge.

Mom leans forward.

"Lethe, it's okay. I'll tell them. You don't have to face it today."

I tighten my grip on the bowl.

I open my eyes and look up at mom, my jaw clenching around a newly forged resolve.

"No…"

"I will go." My voice steadies in the quiet of the ward.

"Wait." My brow furrows as I look up at her. "Dr. Kal'tsit said I can only go to the garden, though? If she catches me breaking quarantine again, she said she'd have Mon3tr drag me back here."

Mom chuckles.

"We talked to her." Mom reaches out to adjust the collar of my jacket. "She permitted it, since the location is sparsely populated and heavily secured. And you don't need to worry about the medical either—Dr. Warfarin already checked your bloodwork while you were sleeping."

Dr. Warfarin. The blood-obsessed doctor in my notes.

An invisible weight lifts off my shoulders.

"She did?"

"Yes. She says she doesn't have to check again until Closure finishes rebuilding your gears." Mom gives a conspiratorial smile. "So, no needles for today."

"Okay."

I pick my spoon back up.

I eat the rest of my breakfast in silence. When the bowl is scraped clean, I set it aside and slide off the mattress.

I slip into my sneakers. Mom takes my hand, her grip an anchor of warm honey, and we step out of the quarantine ward.

Mom guides me toward the industrial elevators. We step inside the metal cage, and the chassis drops into a long descent, down into the armored underbelly of the landship.

When the elevator comes to a smooth halt, the heavy metal doors part.

We step out into a cavernous hall.

The air here is different from the rest of the landship. It is cool, perfectly still, and carries the faint, dry scent of polished stone and ozone.

Towering before us, running the whole length of the hall, is a wall of polished obsidian.

Stark white lights wash the dark stone, casting sharp reflections against the floor.

Amiya stands in the quiet reverence of the hall, her hands clasped in front of her. Her spun sugar is steeped in that dark, heavy tea of sorrow.

Beside her is a tall Cautus woman in a practical dark tactical outfit.

A few paces away, in the shadows at the edge of the lights, Doctor stands silent.

My eyes are drawn to the base of the obsidian monolith.

A Sarkaz man in a heavy work apron steps back from the wall. The screeching scrape of his carving tool against the stone has just stopped. Grey rock dust hangs in the bright lights as he lowers his hands, his task complete.

I walk closer, gripping mom's hand, and look up at the fresh silver cuts gleaming against the dark steel and obsidian.

Three names.

Zip.

Fres.

Fourteen.

I stare at the freshly carved letters.

They are just shapes in the stone. I search the empty cavern of my mind for a face, a voice, one shared memory to attach to the names. But there is nothing. The void offers no answers, only a freezing static.

What I do know is that they are gone.

"Lethe," Amiya greets me.

I tear my eyes away from the fresh carvings and look toward Amiya and the tall woman beside her.

The tall Cautus woman steps forward, and my Arts catch her: warm, sun-baked earth, slow-roasted carrots, and the dependable strength of forged steel. An aura built to endure the harshest storms, and it steadies my nerves.

She looks at me, and a reassuring smile spreads across her face.

"Lethe. Glad to see you're okay," she says, her voice warm enough to push back the chill of the room. "I'm Charlotte. Savage is my codename."

I look up at the veteran standing beside me.

"Miss Charlotte… How did they…"

Miss Charlotte shifts her weight and looks up at the obsidian wall, her ears dipping.

"Zip and Fres lost their lives trying to stop the Union Army," Miss Charlotte says. "The military of the Columbian Union."

"After you stopped the army"—Amiya steps closer, her voice wavering—"Fourteen dragged you away. But before we were able to extract… a Catastrophe, a sandstorm, cut us off."

Amiya's eyes fall shut, her hands clenched together in front of her jacket.

"Fourteen shielded you," Miss Charlotte adds, and the truth drops onto the cold stone floor like a lead weight. "He passed away from his injuries before we could reach you."

Amiya opens her eyes, wet, and the guilt in them is hard to look at. "We were not quick enough."

The air in the hall goes thin.

"They protected me…" The words come out of me hollow.

I look back up at the silver letters. They marched into the path of an army and stood against a Catastrophe to keep me breathing. They traded their tomorrows for a girl who doesn't even remember their faces.

"Lethe," Miss Charlotte says. "You saved everyone on the Sunvalley-owned platform. Opal was there."

Opal.

The image clicks into place. A small Cautus girl with dark ears and a plushie.

"Opal…" My brow furrows as I look between Amiya and Miss Charlotte. "The young patient in My Life."

"She's no longer on Rhodes Island?" I ask.

Amiya gives a small, teary-eyed nod. The dark tea of her sorrow recedes.

"She is living safely with a family on the platform," Amiya says, her lips curving into a grateful smile. She looks at the memorial wall, then directly into my eyes. "You saved her future, Lethe."

I stand still in the quiet hall.

I look at the freshly carved names.

Because of them, and because of whatever I did out there, a girl gets to walk safely in the sun.

I lift my eyes from the fresh silver cuts of Zip, Fres, and Fourteen.

The polished obsidian stretches high above us, a monolith of memory. The white lights catch the edges of countless other carvings, column after column of them. My eyes trace the letters, reading the names etched into the cold stone. Some of the carvings are weathered; others are still sharp.

Ace. Scout. Yelena. Atro. Outcast.

I look at the sheer volume of text spanning the wall, and the invisible weight of their collective absence presses heavily against me.

"Amiya…" I gesture numbly toward the towering monument. "…there's so many names…"

Amiya steps closer to the wall.

The air around her shifts. The heavy dark tea of her sorrow doesn't vanish; it compresses. It hardens into something sharp.

"Lethe." Her voice wavers for a fraction of a second before she forces it steady. She looks up at the sprawling expanse of the obsidian, the lights reflecting in her eyes. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

She reaches out, her fingers brushing the cold, polished stone beneath the list of the fallen.

"I'll carry on this fight, for every sacrifice, and all those still alive." Her voice rings with a gravity that echoes across the cavernous hall. "The flames of hatred still spread. I'll try to extinguish them, no matter… how many times it takes."

I stand still, captivated.

Slowly, I turn my head.

I look at Amiya, at the determination etched into her tear-stained face.

I look at mom, standing by my side, her presence an anchor in the dark.

I look past the lights, into the shadows where Doctor stands. He stays silent. I think his head is always busy with everything going on outside, just so the rest of us can keep breathing.

And I look at Miss Charlotte, standing like sun-baked earth and forged steel, choosing to endure the barrens to protect the light of tomorrow.

I don't have my memories. I don't know much about this broken world yet, or who broke it, or all the fights we had to get through. But I know what it feels like to be loved.

I let go of mom's hand and take a step toward Amiya.

"Amiya."

Amiya turns her head.

"When I can work again," I promise, locking my eyes onto hers. "I will help you."

"Lethe…" Amiya breathes out. The ember of her resolve softens.

I stand straight, the oversized fabric of my Rhodes Island jacket settling over my shoulders like a mantle.

"Rhodes Island is my home," I say. "And you are my leader. Your goal is my goal."

The air in the memorial hall floods with spun-sugar.

Amiya closes the distance in a single step. She throws her arms around my neck, and I wrap mine around her back, holding just as tightly.

"Thank you." Her voice breaks into a sob against my shoulder. "Lethe. Thank you."

We linger a while in the light of the memorial hall.

I pull back from Amiya and wipe my face. I find the slate by touch, the screen lighting me up in the shadows of the hall.

"Amiya." I look past her, tracing the silver cuts etched into the dark stone. "Where did they fall? Tell me. I need to remember for myself, and for them."

Amiya turns toward the wall. She gives a small nod and steps closer so we can look at the screen together.

I tap open the curated My Life folder. Beneath the profiles of the people standing beside me, I create a new encrypted section.

"Ace. Scout," Amiya starts. "They fell in Chernobog. The Empire of Ursus."

My fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Yelena," Amiya continues, her ears drooping a fraction. "Lungmen. Great Yan."

Amiya tells me the names of forty others who fell in Chernobog and Lungmen.

"Atro."

Amiya pauses. Her head dips.

"Wolumonde," Amiya breathes out. "The Leithanian Empire."

Amiya's hand lowers, pointing toward the more recent cuts in the stone.

"Outcast. She fell in County Hillock. The Victorian Empire."

Finally, my eyes drop to the lowest section of the wall. The silver letters carved just moments ago.

"Zip. Fres. Fourteen," I say, my voice fracturing.

"Rim Billiton," Miss Charlotte adds from behind me. "The Rim Mining Industry Association, in full."

Zip. Fres. Fourteen.

Rim Mining Industry Association.

I finish typing and look long and hard at the names. I need to commit them to memory. However fragile my memories are.

With deliberate care, I access the landship's main database and pull their official PRTS profiles—the archived files of their Operator histories, their combat records, the ID photos that predated their sacrifices—and link each one to a name and to the soil that claimed it.

"Okay," I say, pressing the slate against my chest. "I will remember them…"

A solemn silence settles over us again. But before the chill of the obsidian can seep into our bones, the air shifts.

"It is getting late, girls," Miss Charlotte announces.

She shifts her weight and offers us a grounding smile that cuts through the stagnant air.

"You guys down for some homemade meal?" Miss Charlotte asks, tilting her head. "None of the cafeteria stuff."

I blink, tearing my eyes away from the wall. The concept catches me off guard.

"Homemade?" I ask, brow furrowing. I look up at her. "We can cook on the landship?"

Miss Charlotte lets out a full-chested chuckle.

"Of course. There are designated rooms in the residential blocks equipped with proper communal kitchens. We use them all the time when we miss the taste of home."

But before I can agree, mom steps forward and places a gentle, firm hand on my shoulder.

"Savage, we need to be careful with Lethe's digestive system," mom warns. "Her stomach can't handle anything heavy or highly processed right now."

I flinch, the phantom memory of Kal'tsit's late-night lecture echoing in my head.

"Don't worry, Caladria," Miss Charlotte beams. She looks at me and offers a conspiratorial wink. "I'll cook her the softest carrot mash in existence."

"What's carrot mash?" I tilt my head.

Amiya's sorrow—steeped dark tea—gives way to spun-sugar.

"Oh, Lethe, you'll love it." Her smile goes wide. "It's been a long time since I've had it, too."

I study Amiya's face, then glance up at Miss Charlotte's ears.

"Is it a special Cautus food?" I ask.

"It's a Rim Billitonian special," Amiya corrects.

"I mean, pretty much all the Cautus on the landship are Rim Billitonian or expatriates," mom points out, an amused smile touching her lips. "So Lethe isn't completely wrong. In a way."

Miss Charlotte claps her hands, the crisp sound echoing off the polished obsidian.

"Right or wrong. We're not here for a cuisine history lesson. The mashes aren't going to cook themselves."

She turns toward the shadows where Doctor is standing, then back to mom.

"Doctor, Caladria, you two joining?"

Doctor doesn't speak. He gives a slow nod.

Mom chuckles, the last of the tension in her shoulders melting into the quiet of the hall.

"Sure," mom replies.

Miss Charlotte leads us away from the memorial hall, down a short corridor to one of the communal break rooms. The room is outfitted with a stainless-steel kitchenette, softly lit and free of the clinical sterility that haunts the medical wings.

Miss Charlotte wastes no time. She sheds the outer layers of her tactical gear and pulls a chef's apron over her head, then moves around the kitchen with the practiced ease of someone who has done this a thousand times.

I shuffle to the small dining table and slide into the chair beside Amiya. Mom presses a plastic cup of cool water into my fingers, and I nurse it, letting the chill seep into my palms against the phantom ache of the names carved into the obsidian.

"How can I help, Savage?" mom asks, sleeves already rolled up as she moves to the counter beside Miss Charlotte.

"You can start on the root vegetables, Caladria," Miss Charlotte hums, sliding a cutting board and a knife toward her. "Dice them small. They need to boil down until they're soft."

Soon the quiet of the break room fills with the thwack-thwack-thwack of mom's knife against the wooden board.

In the far corner of the kitchen, leaning against the wall, is Doctor.

He just stands there.

The chopping and the bubbling of water fill the space until he breaks the silence.

"Lethe."

The muffled voice echoes across the kitchenette.

I look up from my cup of water.

"I would like you to be my assistant tomorrow," Doctor says.

The rhythm of the kitchen stalls. Thwack. Mom's knife stops dead, buried a fraction of a centimeter in the board.

Beside me, Amiya's ears snap straight up. She turns, blue eyes locking onto Doctor, a questioning spark of smoky rosemary cutting through her sugar.

I look up at the towering figure.

"Doctor? What is an assistant?"

Doctor shifts his weight, slipping his hands into the deep pockets of his coat.

"Officially, you assist me in finalizing logistical paperwork, organizing my desk, and running combat simulations on the PRTS terminals."

The blood drains from my face. The cup slips in my grip.

"But… but…" I stammer, my voice fracturing into a whine. I look up at him, eyes wide. "Doctor, I don't remember how to do any of that."

"Unofficially," Doctor continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "you lounge on the sofa in my office, eat snacks, and learn the ropes again at your own pace."

Beside me, Amiya giggles, the tension melting from her shoulders as she looks between me and Doctor.

At the counter, the thwack of the knife resumes, slower now, more deliberate.

"That's a very generous offer, Doctor."

Mom doesn't even turn around from the cutting board, her tone smooth and polite.

"But be warned. If she drinks a single drop of that terrible coffee of yours"—her knife slices through a carrot with a crisp snap—"your personal supply of Emergency Sanity Potions will be subject to a rigorous and permanent medical review."

A defeated sigh comes from beneath Doctor's dark hood. He sags against the wall, surrendering.

The laugh gets out before my hands do, and I have to duck my head to contain the rest of it.

"Lethe," Amiya murmurs, leaning closer. "Make sure Doctor actually takes his breaks tomorrow, okay? Remind him to drink his water, and make sure he has a snack here and there."

Amiya pauses.

"Just… be very careful when you lounge. Don't poke a hole in his sofa with your horns. If you ruin the upholstery, Ms. Closure is going to bill you for the repairs, and even I can't stop her when it comes to that."

My hands fly up, palms clamping over my lopsided crowns.

My mind flashes back to the digital dossier I curated to anchor my memories. The entry I wrote for Ms. Closure is brief.

Ms. Closure. She wants your plushie funds. Below that warning, I had attached a photograph of my most prized possessions: a soft brown plushie, a floppy-eared grey plushie, a little squishy cake, and a giant shark plushie.

My tail wraps into a defensive coil around the leg of my chair.

She is not going to take them.

I drop my hands from my horns and snap off a crisp salute. "Yes, my CEO!" My voice rings through the kitchenette.

Amiya laughs, bright and unguarded. At the counter, Miss Charlotte turns around, a sun-warmed smile stretching across her face.

"Dinner is served," Miss Charlotte announces.

She steps over to our table, balancing a tray, and sets down steaming orange bowls of her promised carrot mash in front of us. The aroma is rich and savory. The carrots have been roasted to caramelized sweetness before being mashed into a butter-whipped puree, seasoned with roasted garlic, a hint of thyme, and a dash of smoked salt that warms the back of my throat just to breathe in.

To accompany the mash, Miss Charlotte sets down small bowls of clear, slow-simmered poultry bone broth. Floating in the golden liquid are shreds of poached white fish and soft, steamed egg dumplings. It looks hearty, but there are no heavy oils and no harsh spices.

I pick up my spoon, the anticipation overriding the threat of Ms. Closure's invoices. I scoop up a bite of the velvety mash and let the savory warmth melt onto my tongue, ready to fuel up for my first day as a tactical assistant.

The daylight simulation in my ward brightens. I sit on the edge of the mattress, legs dangling, fully dressed, waiting. Mom promised to check on me before my shift.

The locks of my door disengage.

I look up, expecting honey. Instead the room drops to absolute zero. The air goes to the weight of an ancient glacier, threaded through with cold copper and expensive red wine.

It is not mom.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps into the room. Behind her saunters a pale, white-haired Vampire.

I scramble backward on the mattress, fingers blindly grabbing the digital slate on my cot. I tap the screen and open my curated My Life folder. My eyes find the profile that matches her.

Dr. Warfarin. I read the pillar I carved for myself in digital ink. She wants your blood.

I pull my knees to my chest, using my jacket as a shield.

"Look which little anomaly is a blank slate now," Dr. Warfarin says, her voice an amused purr off the steel walls of my ward. She crosses her arms. "I didn't think you could overload that little brain of yours so hard."

I press my back flat against the wall.

"No…" I whimper. "No… no… blood!"

Dr. Warfarin lets out a short scoff.

"The memory wipe didn't fix the fear of needles, did it?" she muses. She takes a slow step toward the edge of my bed, leaning in a fraction so her face catches the overhead light. A predatory smile stretches across her lips. "It definitely makes the blood draws more interesting."

Before the panic can force a sob out of me, the gravity of the room shifts.

"Enough, Warfarin."

Dr. Kal'tsit's voice slices through the ward. She steps forward. "Conduct the brain scan. She needs to be cleared for Doctor's office."

Dr. Warfarin rolls her eyes and lets out a dramatic sigh.

"As you wish, Kal," Dr. Warfarin mutters. She walks toward a console. An interlocking halo scanner lowers from the ceiling. She turns her focus back to me. "Sit still."

I squeeze my eyes shut, locking my jaw so my teeth don't chatter, holding rigid as the halo powers up and casts a grid of blue light across my face. The machine hums at a frequency that makes the inside of my skull ache.

The scan feels like it takes an eternity. Finally the humming spins down to a halt.

Dr. Warfarin lowers the device, pulling up the scrolling data on her slate.

"Well," Dr. Warfarin announces, and the silence in the ward goes heavy. "The results match the bloodwork."

I open my eyes, looking between the two doctors.

"Her Originium-cell Assimilation rate jumped to nine percent," Dr. Warfarin says. She turns the screen toward Kal'tsit and points at a cluster of data. "The burn of her Arts output was catastrophic. Her ability to hold onto memories is compromised. The lesions have expanded."

Dr. Kal'tsit does not flinch. She gives a single, slow nod.

"Closure has yet to finish rebuilding her bespoke monitor," Dr. Kal'tsit notes, her voice calm.

She reaches into the pocket of her coat, pulls out a device, and holds it out toward me.

"This will suffice in the meantime."

I look down at the object in her hand.

"It is a standard Rhodes Island Infection Monitor band," Dr. Kal'tsit adds. "Oripathy diagnosis, vital sign monitoring, condition tracking. We are sourcing the material to manufacture the advanced variant and to finish the reconstruction of your Arts Unit."

The exterior is a smooth, matte black material, marked with glowing ice-blue indicator lines that form an intersecting pattern of arrows. As she turns it, I can see the interior lining—a weave of exposed copper and gold circuitry embedded in a white synthetic frame.

I remember seeing this on Lisa's neck. On Amiya's neck, her left thigh, her hands. On mom's left wrist. It also looks like the band around my neck in all the pictures of me Lisa has shown me, though my old one had a prominent Rhodes Island logo.

The band is lighter than it looks when I lift it off Kal'tsit's palm.

"Put it on," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. "And proceed to the Command Deck. Doctor is waiting."

I trace the exposed copper and gold circuitry embedded in the white synthetic frame, then bring it to my neck.

The mechanical lock engages with a click as I wrap it around my throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shoulders tensing, bracing for some sudden change.

But nothing comes.

"I don't feel different." My hands hover near the glowing ice-blue lines of the band.

"It is not designed to suppress your active output," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "It is strictly a diagnostic and telemetry monitor. Your empathic channels will remain open."

The door opens again.

Mom steps through the threshold.

Her eyes dart across the room—the two doctors, the halo scanner hovering above my cot—and lock onto the new black band around my throat.

"Oh," mom breathes out, the panicked tension in her spine melting a fraction as she hurries to my side. "Is Lethe okay?"

"Her Oripathy baseline is stable, and the new monitor is functioning within parameters," Dr. Kal'tsit replies. "She is cleared to go to Doctor's office."

"Escort her to the office, then report back to the suppressant manufacturing plant, Caladria."

Mom straightens her spine and gives a crisp, professional nod. "Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit."

She turns back down to me, her expression softening. "Come, let's go, Lethe."

I don't hesitate. I slide off the mattress, grateful to escape Dr. Warfarin's gaze, and grab mom's hand.

We navigate the corridors, ascending toward the upper administrative decks.

We stop in front of a set of heavy, reinforced blast doors.

Mom gives my fingers a grounding squeeze. "Ready, Lethe?"

I take a deep breath, clutching my digital slate against my chest. "Ready, mom."

The metal panels slide apart.

I step through the threshold.

Doctor's office is massive, bathed in cool industrial light from the recessed ceiling panels. It is a sprawling room of brushed steel and dark greys, all calculated efficiency.

In the center sits a wide, sleek desk laden with stacked dossiers, a computer monitor, and a blue thermos. Behind it, a tactical board is plastered with maps and scattered white notes.

My eyes drift to the right side of the room. Just as Doctor promised in the break room, across from a low glass coffee table, is a plush black sofa. A thick blue blanket is already draped over the cushions, waiting for me.

And standing amidst the organized chaos of the office, is Doctor.

I loosen my grip on my slate and take a hesitant step into his domain.

"Thank you, Caladria," Doctor says, his voice muffled but carrying a resonant weight.

Mom gives a professional nod. "I am needed at the fabricators, Doctor." She turns to me and rests her hand on the top of my head, smoothing down my asymmetrical fringe. "I will pick you up when the day is done, Lethe."

"See you, mom," I reply, leaning into her touch for a second before she pulls her hand away. My tail gives a happy swish.

The doors hiss shut, sealing us inside the quiet office. I stand there, alone with Doctor.

"Take a seat wherever you prefer, Lethe." He gestures loosely toward the room.

I don't sit. My eyes go to the large observation window taking up the far wall. It is obscured by heavy, light-blocking blinds, but slivers of sunlight bleed through the edges, demanding my attention.

I rush over and reach out with my free hand, peeling back one of the blinds to look outside.

The world beyond the reinforced glass is breathtaking.

Endless plains of green grass stretch as far as I can see, swaying in rhythmic ripples beneath the wind like a terrestrial ocean. The sun-drenched earth is scarred by a network of fractured waterways—glittering silver streams that cut chaotic paths through the plains, breaking the green into a mosaic. And sprouting from the rocky banks of those rivers are clusters of Originium. The black crystalline structures jut out of the dirt like ancient teeth, catching the sunlight, pulsing with a silent grace.

"Woah…" I breathe out, my breath fogging the cool glass. "Doctor, where are we?"

The quiet rustle of paperwork echoes behind me. "We are currently in between the borders of the Leithanian Empire and Siracusa," Doctor replies, steady and informative over the low hum of the landship's engines.

"It is beautiful," I breathe, watching the glittering water weave through the dark rocks.

Reluctantly, I let the blind fall back into place, dropping that section of the office into a screen-lit glow. I turn around, my tail dropping behind me.

Doctor is seated behind his desk, already walled in by mountains of physical reports, logistical manifests, and digital slates. He is an unmoving shadow amidst the sea of documentation.

A pang of guilt twists in my chest.

"Oh! Sorry… Doctor!" I stammer. "Hopefully I am not disturbing your work."

Before Doctor can offer a word to ease it, the reinforced doors slide apart.

A small Feline girl steps over the threshold. She wears an oversized jacket that engulfs her frame, and her silver-white hair falls softly around her face.

She tastes like cool, smooth stone and the ozone-laced static that precedes heavy rain. Powerful, and safe.

I raise my slate. My eyes dart across the digital profiles until I find the matching photograph.

Rosmontis. The quiet anchor.

I let out a silent exhale, the tension melting from my shoulders. My friend.

I look back up. Rosmontis has stopped a few paces into the room, standing still, her head bowed. In her hands she holds her own thin, rectangular terminal. Her eyes are locked onto the glowing text, her ears giving tiny, deliberate twitches.

For a moment the command office is quiet.

Rosmontis lowers her terminal. Her expression stays flat and distant, but the cool stone softens.

"Hi," Rosmontis says, her voice steady. "Lethe."

I slip my slate back into my bag and take a step toward her.

"Hi, Rosmontis," I chime, keeping my voice soft. I puff my chest out a fraction and point to myself. "I am Doctor's assistant today. Can I help you?"

Rosmontis blinks, her attention drifting past me to the mountains of paperwork on the desk, then to Doctor seated behind them.

"I am here to sit." Her eyes stay fixed on Doctor. "Unless Doctor has missions for me."

The rustling of documents ceases. Doctor pauses, his hands resting atop a thick dossier.

"Not currently," Doctor replies.

"There is Leithanien-made chocolate in the drawer," Rosmontis says. "According to my notes."

"Chocolate. Chocolate."

I turn the word over in my mind, testing the shape of the syllables on my tongue.

Rosmontis sits on the edge of the plush sofa, hands resting in her lap, her silver-white hair falling around her face.

"They are good, Lethe. Especially the ones in Doctor's secret stash."

I don't hesitate. I crouch beside the document-laden desk and pull the lower drawer open. The metal tracks glide with a soft hush.

Resting inside the dark compartment is a row of wrapped blocks, the foil catching the dim glow of the office.

I reach in and take one, peeling back the wrapper. The aroma hits me—deep and roasted and earthy, and my stomach gives an eager flutter.

I take a small bite.

The contrast is staggering. The surface snaps against my teeth, sharp and a little bitter, but the moment it hits the warmth of my tongue it yields, melting into a creaminess that coats my whole mouth in sweetness.

My tail, coiled loosely a second ago, snaps to life and swishes hard enough to thump against the side of the desk.

It is the best thing ever.

I turn back to the sofa and talk around the mouthful. "You are right, Rosmontis. They are really good."

Rosmontis gives a tiny nod. She holds her own block in her hands, fingers folding the foil back with practiced precision. She takes a small bite, her eyes closing for a fraction of a second.

I look back at the mountains of paperwork and the figure buried behind them. He hasn't stopped working since I stepped into the room, hands shifting dossiers, tapping at his terminal.

"Do you want one too, Doctor?" I ask, pitching my voice to carry over the rustle of his papers.

I step forward, reaching across the sprawling expanse of his desk, and hold a freshly unwrapped block out, stopping my hand just in front of his dark visor.

The scratching of his pen ceases.

The void of his presence hums in the air, cold iron and exhausted fog. For a second I wonder whether offering a high-calorie snack to Doctor during working hours is a breach of protocol.

But then he raises a hand. He takes the chocolate from my fingers with a silent nod.

The crinkle of foil echoes from the shadows of his coat.

"After you are done, Lethe. Use the communicator to ring Closure up."

I swallow the last of the chocolate and lick a smudge of cocoa off my thumb.

Leaning over the desk, I scan the glowing interface of the communications terminal near Doctor's elbow, tapping through the encrypted departmental directories until I find the contact. It is marked with a stylized, grinning bat icon.

I press the call button.

The connection doesn't ring. It connects, and the quiet of the office is shattered.

"Doctor!" Ms. Closure's voice blasts through the terminal's speakers, loud, caffeinated, vibrating the chassis of the communicator.

"The procurement department is completely over budget again! The D32 Steel, the Solidified Fiber Boards, the Nucleic Crystal Sinters, you name it! Everything required to rebuild a certain kiddo's highly volatile focal unit is outpacing our LMD acquisition!" she rants. "We should just deploy a squad to the barrens and gather the basic components for manufacturing ourselves before the accounting department executes me!"

I freeze, my hand hovering over the terminal.

"Wait…" I lean closer to the speaker. "Is… is that kiddo me?"

The typing and metallic clattering on the other end of the line ceases.

"Oh. The kiddo herself!" The stressed edge in her voice vanishes.

"Well, this is perfect timing. Or, Doctor, if you prefer, I can seize her salary," she suggests. "She can work as your administrative assistant for free until the Gaulish Empire rises again. That should just about cover the cost of the custom limiter matrix I'm building her."

I blink at the glowing bat icon on the screen.

"Gaulish Empire?" I echo. "Is that… a rich place?"

A theatrical snort echoes from the speaker.

"It was a historical Empire, Lethe," Ms. Closure says. "A superpower that got itself dissected and wiped off the map by Victoria, Ursus, and Leithanien decades ago."

She pauses.

"It means it's never coming back. Which means," she adds, "you'll be working for Doctor for free for life, kiddo. A few hundred years, give or take, for a pureblood Djall."

My hands fly up to my head, clutching my hair in horror. Hundreds of years. Centuries of counting medical supplies, logging Oripathy suppressants, and organizing Doctor's desk without earning a single credit.

I look across the desk at Doctor, my eyes wide and pleading, and let out a long, tragic whine, puffing my cheeks out as I slump forward against the metal, ready to accept my financial doom.

My face stays pressed to the cool surface, my lopsided horns resting against a stack of tactical reports.

From the shadows of his heavy coat, a gloved hand extends over the desk. The scratching of his pen gives way to the tap of his fingers against his own terminal screen.

"I will authorize mercenary contracts for the Leithanian government," Doctor says, his voice level, cutting through my despair with calculated precision. "We can gather base materials while on the mission."

He taps the screen twice more, blue interface light reflecting off his opaque visor.

"I will also update the landship's output. We will focus more on trading to offset the acquisition costs."

I lift my head off the desk.

A static-laced sigh crackles through the speaker.

"Alright, alright," Ms. Closure grumbles. "I'll reassign the maintenance drones to the power plants to boost our efficiency, Doctor."

The audio feed shifts.

"Well, look at that, kiddo. Your funding is safe for now. You get to keep your plushie money. Tell Doctor thank you before I change my mind and charge you for the bandwidth."

The anvil of my financial ruin shatters.

I shoot straight up from the desk, hands planting on the polished surface. My tail, which had been lying dead against the floorboards, uncoils and starts to thump.

"Okay," I breathe out. "I am safe."

I lean forward, my eyes shining.

"Thank you, Doctor." I bow over the desk. "You're the best boss ever. I'll organize all your files today, I promise!"

"Look who's suddenly motivated," Ms. Closure laughs through the speaker, her voice laced with that caffeinated tease. "Alright, kiddo. I'll get back to the grindstone."

"Before you disconnect, Closure," Doctor interrupts. "Ensure the requisition of the advanced training modules is on schedule."

"Are you serious?" Ms. Closure groans. "Compressing a multi-week physical conditioning and tactical curriculum into a single day? Is that Dobermann's sadistic idea, or is this your own machination, Doctor?"

Doctor doesn't answer. He taps the screen once. The line goes dead with an electronic chirp, severing her protests and dropping the office back into a focused silence. The unreadable abyss of his presence doesn't ripple; he is already absorbed in his next calculation.

I turn back to the mess of the desk and gather the physical dossiers and logistical manifests Doctor has already processed, aligning the edges of the thick paper until they form a neat tower on the corner.

I glance over. Rosmontis is sitting still on the sofa, her memo terminal lowered, her eyes staring at nothing.

After a long stretch of quiet punctuated only by the scratching of Doctor's pen, a dull ache settles into my shoulders. I set the last folder down, square it with the rest, and step away from the desk.

I make my way to the corner of the office and climb onto the sofa.

As I sink into the cushions, I look beside me. Rosmontis has finally surrendered to the warmth of the room. She is fast asleep, her breathing slow and even, her silver-white tail curled around her legs.

The telekinetic gravity she usually carries is dormant. Her cool ozone static has softened into a sleepy hum that tastes like river stones warming in the sun.

I pull my knees up, my own tail curled around my ankles, and lean back, careful not to jostle the cushions or disturb her rest.

A new voice pulls me back out of the dreamless void.

"Senpai. I would like to go back to Leithanien for a few weeks. There are books that are only available in Leithanian universities that I need right now."

I sit up against the cushions, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Standing near Doctor's desk is a Caprinae. Her curling horns frame a face with soft, kind eyes. She speaks with a gentle melody, but what reaches me is her taste—roasted chestnuts and the warmth of a dormant hearth fire.

I reach into my crossbody bag and pull out my slate.

Miss Adele. Eyjafjalla. My gentle tutor.

Beside me, the cushions shift. Rosmontis sits up, stretching her arms above her head with a sleepy sigh, her tail uncoiling from around her legs and swaying.

But Miss Adele doesn't seem to notice our stirring.

"I don't need an escort," she insists, her voice unyielding. "I'll be back before we leave the borders."

Doctor doesn't reply. He pulls the deployment requisition form across the desk, signs it with administrative finality, and slides it back.

"Thank you, Senpai!" Miss Adele tucks the approved paperwork into her bag.

As she turns for the doors, her gaze sweeps past the center of the room and lands on the sofa. She blinks, and her whole face lifts at the sight of us stirring.

"Oh. Hi, Lethe. Rosmontis," Miss Adele greets. "You two are awake now."

"Hi, Miss Adele," I reply, shifting my legs to sit up a little straighter.

"Eyjafjalla," Rosmontis echoes beside me.

Miss Adele steps closer to the sofa.

"Sorry, Lethe. I won't be able to teach you for a few weeks. But I'm so glad to see you finally up and about again. Everyone was very worried about you."

I look down at my hands, my fingers gripping the edges of the slate. Mom told me the paper notebook I used to carry was in my old bag on the rover when the rocket hit. Nothing in it came back.

"Miss Adele… I…" My voice thins out. I look back up at her, my vision blurring. "I don't remember what you taught me. Ms. Closure only recovered my anchors of life from my crashed slate—so I just know who is who. The lessons… they're gone."

I brace for her disappointment, for the roasted chestnut in the air to sour with frustration. I had wasted so much of her time.

It doesn't sour. It swells.

"That's alright, Lethe." Miss Adele smiles, patient and serene. "When I'm back, we can go over everything again."

"Thank you, Miss Adele," I say. "If you don't mind… can you send me a list of reading material? I'll catch up before you're back."

Miss Adele's smile brightens.

"Of course, Lethe," she promises. "I'll get it done tonight."

"Thank you."

"See you girls." She gives us a gentle wave, then turns back toward the towering stacks of paperwork, her voice lifting. "And see you, Senpai!"

Doctor gives a single nod. Miss Adele steps out of the office, the heavy doors hissing shut behind her, sealing the recycled air back into the room.

I let out a slow exhale, the warmth of her fading, and look down at the digital clock in the corner of my slate.

14:00.

I blink at the numbers to make sure I am reading them correctly. I had curled up on the sofa to take a break around 11:30. That makes two and a half hours asleep.

And Doctor hadn't moved.

I scramble off the sofa, my sneakers hitting the floor with a soft thud, and march toward the cluttered desk.

"Oh no!" I gasp, my voice pitching up. I plant my hands on my hips, abandoning the quiet posture of an assistant. "Doctor! Have you eaten lunch? Did you drink any water today?"

Doctor lifts his head from the sprawling logistical manifests. The exhausted void of his aura ripples with a faint note of guilt.

He doesn't say a word, but the silence is a damning admission.

"Let's go get some lunch," I say, in the uncompromising tone I learned from watching mom and Dr. Kal'tsit. I point a firm finger toward the blast doors. "Right now."

Doctor doesn't move. He raises his hand from the sea of paperwork and points one finger at a low metal cabinet tucked against the wall.

I shuffle over and pull the handle. The metal door swings open.

Inside, stacked in neat, depressing rows, are dozens of brightly colored plastic cups.

Instant ramen.

I stare at the cups. My mind flashes back to Dr. Kal'tsit's midnight lecture. They are not proper food.

I slam the cabinet shut with a resounding clank and plant my hands on my hips.

"Absolutely not." I look toward the sofa. "Rosmontis."

"My profile notes say you can use telekinetic Arts," I tell her, pointing across the desk at Doctor. "Please drag Doctor to the Upper Deck cafeteria."

Rosmontis blinks. She stands up. The pressure in the room drops, an invisible gravity pooling around her frame.

Doctor pauses.

"I can walk." He stands.

"Good." I nod.

We flank him and march him out the doors, down the quiet steel corridors of the administrative deck.

The Upper Deck cafeteria is deserted. It's past the lunch rush, and the only sound is the hum of the refrigerators holding the rations.

I guide our small group toward the leftover station, where extra meals from the earlier shifts are packaged for anyone who missed lunch, and grab a tightly wrapped egg salad sandwich for myself.

The late lunch is silent, the cafeteria a hushed sanctuary of polished tables and cool lighting. I take the last bite of my sandwich, the soft bread and creamy filling a welcome, mundane comfort. Beside me, Rosmontis eats with her usual focus.

Across the table, Doctor sits still. His plate is already empty.

I chew slowly, my brow furrowing. I had been sitting right across from him the entire time, and I didn't look away for more than a few seconds. Yet I never saw him pull back the heavy fabric of his hood, and I never saw him open that opaque black visor.

I set my hands in my lap.

"Rosmontis?" I whisper, leaning toward her. "How does Doctor eat?"

Rosmontis pauses. She turns her head to look at Doctor, then back to me.

"The visor is his mouth." Her voice is quiet and steady.

My brain stalls. The gears grind to a screeching halt.

What?!

I stare at the smooth, impenetrable black of Doctor's visor. Does it unhinge? Does it dissolve the food on contact? An image flashes through my mind—Doctor shoving an entire bowl of instant ramen into the flat glass.

"No, Lethe. He is just fast. Freaky fast." A new voice rings out.

The voice booms across the quiet cafe, vibrating right through my ribs. Machine grease, roaring exhaust, and unapologetic fire hit the back of my tongue.

I whip my head around. A tall Feline strides toward our table, her long dark hair swinging over her shoulder, her two black ears twitching with competitive energy.

My heart gives a tiny flutter of uncertainty. I reach into my crossbody bag and pull out the aluminum chassis of my slate.

I read the entry I had carved into the digital ink for her.

Ms. Blaze. Do NOT let her carry you.

I blink, looking up from the screen at her.

"Uhm… Ms. Blaze," I start. "Why does it say on my slate to not let you carry me?"

Ms. Blaze pauses. For a split second, the fire of her aura flickers.

Then a wicked grin stretches across her face.

"You don't remember, do you, kiddo?" Ms. Blaze laughs, the sound bouncing off the reinforced glass windows. "Well, let me remind you! All aboard the Blaze Express!"

Before I can register the threat, she lunges.

I don't have time to gasp. She scoops me up with effortless ease, and I am tucked horizontally under her arm, my legs dangling in the air.

"Wait!" My tail thrashes blindly behind me. "Put me down! Ms. Blaze!"

"To Doctor's office!" she calls, already spinning on her heel. "The break is over!"

She breaks into a dead sprint. Every heavy thud of her boots bounces through my ribs. I am tucked so securely under her arm that my wiggling doesn't throw her off balance. The quiet of the Upper Deck cafeteria is annihilated as I am carried away, my protests drowned out by her booming laughter.

Ms. Blaze dumps me onto the plush cushions of Doctor's sofa.

I bounce, my oversized jacket bunched up around my ears, my asymmetrical fringe blown in every direction. My tail, still locked in a rigid coil, unravels to thump indignantly.

"Delivery complete."

I scramble to right myself, tugging the hem of my jacket down, smoothing my hair back into place around my horns. I puff my cheeks out and fix her with my fiercest glare.

"Okay! Now I understand!" I huff, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "The note is correct. No carrying again! Ever!"

Ms. Blaze lets out a full-chested laugh that rattles the heavy filing cabinets in the corner.

"No promises, kiddo!" She grins, unrepentant.

"Blaze. Rosmontis."

The voice cuts through the fire of Ms. Blaze's amusement like a sharpened blade. I turn my head toward the desk. Doctor sits perfectly still, his hands resting atop a freshly printed logistical manifest. The bottomless void of his presence sharpens into a frictionless streak of tactical focus.

"We have deployment orders," Doctor says.

The playful, carbonated energy evaporates. Ms. Blaze's posture snaps to lethal readiness in a single heartbeat. The bright fire in her banks down into a simmering ember that tastes of scorched iron.

"Where to, boss?" Ms. Blaze asks, her voice dropping to a gravelly octave.

"Stationary Security Service," Doctor replies, his opaque visor reflecting the blue light of his terminal. "A Leithanian border town. We are contracted to investigate."

Ms. Blaze rolls her shoulders, a sharp crack echoing from her joints.

"Got it, boss." She turns her head, her fiery eyes meeting mine one last time.

"Well, Lethe, looks like it's prep time for us." She reaches out to give my head one last, heavy pat that nearly pushes my chin into my chest.

Right beside her, Rosmontis steps forward, her ozone static humming in the air, dense and heavy.

"See you, Lethe."

I grip the edge of the sofa cushions.

I make myself smile, and this time I mean it. I look at Ms. Blaze and her chainsaw, and then at Rosmontis, whose mind got badly hurt once, my notes say.

"Good luck. Stay safe out there."

The doors hiss shut, sealing away the fire and the ozone. The sprawling command office plunges back into quiet.

I check the clock. I still have almost two and a half hours left on my mandated shift as Doctor's assistant.

I look toward the massive desk in the center of the room. Doctor is already lost behind a mountain of deployment logistics and supply manifests.

"Doctor!" I start, pitching my voice bright, hoping to distract him from all those war numbers for a minute.

The pen doesn't pause. He doesn't look up, a rigid shadow in the endless sea of documentation.

"Oh… you're busy," I murmur, my shoulders slumping. I duck my head, a prickle of guilt for breaking the silence. "I'll let you be. Sorry."

I slide off the plush sofa and wander the cavernous office, tracing the edges of the filing cabinets, peering at the tactical maps mounted on the walls. Doctor is an endless, silent machine grinding through the survival of our landship.

I circle back and stop beside his sprawling desk. As his officially designated assistant for the afternoon, I decide I should probably do some actual assisting again.

I start with the surface, aligning the scattered, haphazardly tossed dossiers and stacking them near the corners so he has more room to work. Emboldened by my organizational success, I reach down and pull open one of the deep lower drawers.

I freeze. My eyes blow wide.

I only noticed the chocolate before. In truth, it is a staggering hoard of high-calorie contraband.

Below the rows upon rows of rich Leithanian chocolate bars are vacuum-sealed bags of spicy Sargon jerky, brightly colored packs of imported Columbian gummy worms, and an alarming number of instant ramen cups. It is a treasure trove of sugar and sodium hidden right under Amiya and Dr. Kal'tsit's noses.

Before I can process the scale of Doctor's secret stash, the locks of the office door disengage with a sharp clank.

I don't even have time to turn around.

The air in the quiet office shatters. The exhausted void of Doctor's presence is buried under roasted meat, honey biscuits, and zero impulse control.

A golden blur materializes directly behind me, bypassing the threshold entirely.

"Someone said snacks!"

A head pops right over my shoulder, nearly knocking into my lopsided horns. Two golden Perro ears twitch in the air, and her eyes lock onto the open drawer with a predatory starvation that ignores Doctor sitting right beside us.

"Who… who are you?" I stammer, leaning away from the heat coming off her.

She doesn't even look at me. Her wide, golden eyes stay glued to the slightly ajar snack drawer I am trying to organize.

"My tummy demands snacks," she declares. It isn't a request.

I blink, my gaze darting from her to Doctor, who hasn't even paused his work. I reach a hand into the open drawer.

I bypass the delicate Leithanian chocolates and grab a thick, plastic-wrapped stick of dried, heavily seasoned meat.

"Uhm… okay…" I hold the package out toward her. "Here's a jerky."

She doesn't take it from my hand; she practically inhales it. With feral efficiency she tears into the tough plastic packaging, her teeth flashing under the fluorescent office lights, and bites down, tearing a chunk of the dried meat away.

"Oh." Her eyes go wide, sparkling. The campfire in the air goes to sweet chili and toasted grain. "Spicy. Yummy!"

She chews furiously, then leans over the desk, thrusting the half-eaten stick of jerky directly toward Doctor's visor.

"Doctor, you want some too?" she asks, her voice muffled around the spicy meat.

"I am fine, Ceobe," Doctor replies.

Ceobe's ears perk straight up.

"All mine!" she cheers, pulling the jerky back and taking another unchewed bite.

Doctor points one finger at a digital slate resting near the edge of his desk, the screen showing the active roster for the Stationary Security Service.

"You should be deploying soon too, Ceobe," Doctor says, shifting from snack-provider to supreme commander of Rhodes Island's military forces.

Ceobe pauses mid-chew. She looks at the screen, gulps the jerky down, and puffs her chest out. Her hands drop to grip the handles of the weapons strapped to her back—axes, javelins, swords.

The playful, hungry energy hardens into loyal combat readiness.

"Okay! Bad guys, I hit, Doctor!" Ceobe barks, her voice echoing across the cavernous office. "I will be back for more snacks after!"

Without another word, she bolts. The doors hiss apart and Ceobe disappears into the arteries of the landship, taking the roaring campfire and the chaos with her.

The reinforced panels slide shut with a definitive clank, and the office settles back into its echoing quiet.

I stand near the edge of the desk, my hands empty, the spicy scent of the jerky still lingering in the recycled air. I turn my head to look at Doctor, unmoving behind his mountains of paperwork.

"Uhm… Doctor…" I ask. "Was I hallucinating?"

Doctor doesn't answer. He reaches out, his fingers tapping the edge of the messy stack of requisition forms.

"Make sure the deployment logistics are on track," he replies, ignoring the absurdity of what had just transpired.

After a dozen or so minutes, I align the last stack of physical dossiers, edges flush against the corner of the desk. The volume of logistical paperwork required to keep a landship moving is staggering, and my brain is numb from staring at the blocky text.

I drag my feet across the floor and slump onto the plush sofa in the corner of the room, letting out a long, pathetic groan, my face sinking into the cushions. My horns catch on the fabric and I don't care. My tail drops dead against the floor.

Between the silence of Doctor, the roaring fire of Ms. Blaze, the telekinetic weight of Rosmontis, and the feral, spicy hurricane of Ceobe, my empathic senses are fried.

Please, I pray to whoever might be listening. Please just let the door stay closed.

The locks disengage with a sharp, resounding clank.

The panels hiss apart. I let out a muffled, tragic whine into the upholstery, refusing to lift my head, and peek one eye open, bracing for another Elite Op to burst in and demand I participate in some feat of physical endurance.

But the air in the corridor doesn't ignite with fire or crackle with cold ozone. Spun sugar washes in instead, banishing the sterile, recycled scent of the office.

It is Amiya.

She steps into the room, and her long ears perk up the second she spots my melted, defeated form on the sofa.

"Hi, Lethe." Amiya walks over to the edge of the sofa, an amused smile stretching across her face. "How's your day been?"

I peel my cheek off the cushion and push myself upright, hands limp in my lap.

"It… it… it is something, Amiya." I gesture weakly toward Doctor, still buried behind the desk. "Your company is quite… a lot."

Amiya giggles, soft and bright. She sits down on the edge of the sofa beside me, inviting the story.

I lean into her warm, sugary presence and run through the whole day for her. Rosmontis sleeping peacefully like a dormant stone fortress. The horror of Ms. Blaze tucking me under her arm like a duffle bag and vibrating the floorboards with her booming laugh. And finally Ceobe, inhaling a stick of spicy jerky whole before proudly declaring she was off to hit bad guys.

Amiya listens to every word, the smile never leaving her face.

"I always hope Rhodes Island is a second home for everyone," Amiya says, her eyes shining with sincerity as she looks at me. "I am glad it is."

She reaches out and rests her hand on top of my head, her fingers navigating the bases of my horns, smoothing down my fringe.

"Well, Lethe, you can go back to your dorm now." Her tone lifts. "Dr. Warfarin cleared you from your medical ward stay. You don't have to sleep in the quarantine box tonight."

My heart stalls for a fraction of a second before a thrill of relief goes off in my chest. My dorm. My own bed. I won't have to listen to the indifferent, rhythmic beeping of the diagnostic monitors in the dark.

"Really?!"

"Yes." Amiya nods, pulling her hand back. But as she stands up from the plush cushions, the flavor in the room shifts.

The spun sugar solidifies into a crisp mantle of authority. Amiya turns her back to me, her long ears snapping rigidly to attention as she faces the sprawling, paper-covered desk.

"But there's still lots of work that needs to be done, Doctor."

Her voice drops the gentle, friendly lilt and echoes across the cavernous office with a strict weight. Doctor, silent the entire afternoon, visibly stiffens in his chair. He pauses his typing.

"We can't afford to have you resting," Amiya continues, stepping up to the edge of his desk. She places her hands firmly on the polished wood and leans in a fraction. "I am here to relieve Lethe."

The heavy blast doors of the command office hiss shut behind me, severing the administrative tension and Amiya's strict CEO persona. I step out into the quiet, steel-lined corridor of the upper deck and let out a long, contented exhale, adjusting the sleeves of my Rhodes Island jacket.

Before I can take a dozen steps toward the elevators, a sharp, synthetic chime vibrates against my hip.

I pause, my tail swishing in curiosity, and reach into my crossbody bag to fish out my digital slate. A direct message banner drops down from the top edge.

Miss Adele.

I tap the notification, opening our secure channel.

[Eyjafjalla]: Since we are currently stationed near Leithanien, I think we can start with my homeland to rebuild your studies. Leithanien heavily relies on the academic study of Originium Arts, so it will be a perfect starting point for you to understand Arts theories again.

[Eyjafjalla]: Please read up on the War of the Four Nations, and the history of the Witch King. Then, when I am back from my excursion, we can review it together.

I stare at the glowing white text. The titles alone sound dark and intimidating.

Even though my brain is a compromised, Originium-laced void, I am determined to fill the empty shelves with exactly what my tutor asked for. I tap my thumbs against the glass screen.

[Lethe]: Thank you, Miss Adele! I will read every page. Good luck on your travels, and please stay safe!

The three pulsing grey dots appear almost instantly.

[Eyjafjalla]: Thank you. I will see you in a few weeks, Lethe.

I lower the device, but I don't slip it back into my bag just yet. Instead, I pull the cold aluminum chassis flush against my chest, hugging the slate securely over my white turtleneck. My eyes flutter shut.

Everyone on this landship is so busy, and every one of them keeps stopping.

I open my eyes, my chest swelling with an aching fondness that threatens to prick tears at the corners. I tap the screen once more, navigating back to my contacts to open the encrypted channel pinned right at the top of my list.

[Lethe]: Mom! I am officially off-duty from Doctor's office. Can we meet in the cafeteria for dinner?

I hit send, a bright smile stretching across my face as I imagine her exhausted, honey-scented relief at the end of her long medical shifts. I know she'll likely mandate a massive portion of steamed root vegetables to counteract whatever she suspects I ate in Doctor's office, but I don't care.

I slide the slate safely back into my bag, the flap clicking shut.

I take a deep breath of the recycled air, my tail giving a confident, rhythmic thump, and begin my march toward the elevators. I am ready to face my future on this landship all over again.