May, 1097

The chaotic two days in Trimounts are already gone.

I'm halfway through my month-long vegetable hell. True to her word, mom has been ruthless. Every meal has been a parade of steamed broccoli, baked potatoes, and unseasoned greens, balanced and monitored. My biology might be stable, but my morale is in shambles.

I'm slumped over the cool glass of the break room table. My cheek is pressed flat against the surface, my horns point at the wall, and my tail lies limp. Hollowed out. Deprived of sugar.

A tentative pressure against my cheek.

Amiya pokes my face.

"I need something…" I groan, the words a muffled whine against the table. "…anything sweet."

A bright little sound floats through the air. Amiya giggles.

I go still. A light chime, and one I've barely heard from her since the ashes of Chernobog.

"Here," Amiya says.

I peel my face off the table, blinking. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small pouch, carefully made.

It's made of semi-translucent paper, tied at the top with a thin crimson silk ribbon. Through the frosting, small round pastel orbs sit nestled together. Amiya unties the ribbon and folds the paper back.

They're small rice cakes, plump and soft-looking. Each is dusted with a fine layer of sweet white powder that clings to the pillowy surface. They look like they might melt if I hold one too hard.

Amiya's long ears give a playful twitch.

"For our Higashinese Djall."

My eyes blow wide. I don't hesitate. I tear into the pouch.

I grab one of the rice cakes. The outside is soft and elastic, yielding under my grip. I take a huge bite. The sweetened rice dough stretches, then melts on my tongue. Inside, it gives way to a dense center of earthy matcha paste.

The burst of sugar overrides the phantom taste of two weeks' worth of steamed broccoli. I close my eyes and purr, long and pathetic and relieved, savoring the chew of it and the sweet powder coating my lips.

I swallow the last bite of sweet paste and dust the white powder off my fingertips. I look up, expecting Amiya's teasing smile.

Instead, her expression has shifted.

The spun sugar in the air banks down into a focused stillness. Amiya stares at the surface of the break room table, gone deep into thought. The giggling friend has stepped back, and the CEO of Rhodes Island has returned to the forefront.

"So, Lethe," Amiya begins, serious now. She looks up and meets my eyes. "I've been thinking about authorizing an excursion for you outside the landship. I need to know what you think."

My tail pauses its contented swishing.

The world outside the landship. The thought sends the familiar shiver down my spine. Dr. Kal'tsit approved my participation in low-risk logistics operations months ago in the command room, but stepping into the wastelands is a different thing from wandering the clean streets of Trimounts.

"Outside?" I ask. My hands come up and close on my jacket hem. "Where?"

"The Columbian barrens, with the logistics teams," Amiya explains, her tone steady. "To map out potential water sources and Originium fields."

My mind races. The barrens. The untamed stretches of land between the nomadic cities.

I remember Podenco's smirk in the Convalescent Garden, declaring me her official logistics assistant before plunging me into hours of identifying toxic nightshades and healing herbs. I remember my promise to Miss Adele—that I wouldn't hide from the world, but step into it to understand it.

"Podenco will be there?" I ask, leaning forward.

Amiya's warmth bleeds back in.

"Of course," Amiya says, offering an encouraging smile. "With Podenco there to catalog local flora for study and preservation. Columbia has small-scale, stationary settlements and farms out in the barrens, so there are plenty of safe harbors if we need them. And Field Ops will provide armed protection."

I straighten my spine and look Amiya in the eyes.

"Okay, Amiya," I tell her. "I will go."

Amiya clasps her hands together, bringing them to her chest.

"That will be a lovely experience for you!" Amiya beams, her eyes shining.

"Amiya," I ask, my voice tipping into nervous practicality. "What do I need to prepare? Do I need to, like, carry sacks of food and water and stuff?"

My mind conjures the image at once: my body, already fighting the lopsided weight of my horns, folding into the dirt under a stack of logistics crates and oversized water jugs.

Amiya giggles.

"Nothing like that. We have vehicles and Castle bots that will follow the team."

The boxy Castle bot with its quiet treads and flat chassis flashes in my mind. My shoulders drop forward in the chair and the dread unwinds in me at once. Thank Terra for Rhodes Island engineering.

"Okay! When do we leave?"

Amiya's smile falters, softening into something apologetic.

"In three days' time," she replies, her voice dropping into something careful. "But. We need you to go to the training hall to meet the team if you're going. We do need to get a baseline of your mobility and endurance, as well."

My tail freezes mid-swish.

I get winded just running down the corridors.

Mobility and endurance?

I swallow. The sweetness of the dessert has turned into a rock at the bottom of my stomach.

Amiya's smile doesn't falter as she delivers the worst possible news.

"I'll make sure Dr. Warfarin will be there personally to oversee your testing. Don't worry Lethe. You will be safe."

Is that supposed to be comforting?

My jaw unhinges. I stare at Amiya while my head fills with Dr. Warfarin standing at the edge of a running track, holding a gleaming syringe like a starting pistol. If I collapse from exhaustion, Dr. Warfarin won't offer me a water bottle and a towel. She'll take my collapsed state as a valid excuse to draw three vials of blood just to measure my lactic acid buildup.

But the flavor coming off her is clean and undiluted, a sugary wave of sincerity. She believes she's doing me an enormous favor by securing the Medical Department's most senior doctor to watch over my physical testing.

"Okay. Amiya," I manage to squeak out, my voice shaking despite my best efforts. "When is the testing?"

Amiya pulls her digital slate from her jacket pocket, her thumb skating across the screen as she brings up the administrative and training schedules.

"How about tomorrow at 1500?" she asks, looking back up with the same bright optimism.

Tomorrow.

I have a little more than twenty-four hours to figure out how to develop the cardiovascular endurance of a Field Operator, or resign myself to becoming Dr. Warfarin's favorite exhausted lab rat.

"Okay," I say, resigning to my fate.

The next twenty-four hours drag by so slowly that mom's enforced, month-long steamed vegetable purgatory starts to feel like a minor inconvenience.

I go through the motions in the Convalescent Garden. The trauma I siphon there tastes like nothing next to my own impending dread.

14:50.

It is time. I peel myself off the curved wooden chair. My legs have turned to liquid lead, but I wave a quiet goodbye to Miss Lena and start the slow march to my doom.

The corridors of the training sector are even more utilitarian than the medical ones, built to take real punishment. Trudging down the hall, I catch sight of a small group walking ahead of me.

I recognize them. The sharp-eyed one, the nervous one, the relaxed one. Fang. Beagle. Kroos, if I remember correctly from the brief encounter in the cafeteria.

Stitched onto the shoulders of their new, tailored uniforms is the badge of Reserve Ops. They have officially joined the ranks, and found a permanent home here on the landship.

They turn into one of the earlier training halls, their overlapping chatter fading behind the heavy doors. I keep walking until I'm standing in front of my own destination.

Training Hall 4.

I brace for Amiya's encouraging smile and Dr. Warfarin's pristine syringes.

But then I step inside.

The air hits me at once, and it isn't the metallic tang of the good doctor. It's machine grease and roaring exhaust, unapologetic fire, layered over a smooth ozone-laced static.

"Ms. Blaze?! Rosmontis?!" I gasp.

Ms. Blaze spins around, her dark hair whipping over her shoulder. No chainsaw today, but she's dressed in sleeveless tactical gear that makes it clear she could bench-press this entire room. A grin stretches across her face the moment she spots me.

"Kiddo!" Ms. Blaze's voice booms across the cavernous training hall, vibrating through my ribs. "You joining the Elite Ops now?"

Beside her, Rosmontis stands still, her ears giving a small twitch as she offers me a slow nod of greeting.

My heart drops into my sneakers. My hands shake as I dig into my bag and pull out my slate. Amiya's message on the glowing screen, read over and over again.

Training Hall 4. 1500.

I triple-check the notes. Reality stares back at me. I'm in exactly the right place, about to have my physical endurance tested by a chaotic Elite Ops and a telekinetic powerhouse who can level city blocks.

The locks of the training hall disengage again before my brain can finish panicking.

"This is a gross misuse of my time," a sharp voice complains as the doors part.

Dr. Warfarin strolls onto the training mat. She is holding a diagnostic slate in one hand, ignoring the Elite Ops. "I have highly sensitive centrifuges running, and Kal expects me to stand around in a sweaty gymnasium just to watch a child run in circles."

Then her eyes lock onto me, frozen where I stand. The copper flavor of her predatory amusement spikes in the air.

"Well," Dr. Warfarin purrs, a smirk stretching across her lips. "I suppose gathering the absolute limits of physical exhaustion on my favorite little anomaly is a decent consolation prize. Do try to push yourself until you collapse, Lethe. The cardiovascular data will be fascinating."

The assembly is a horror. Amiya has scheduled the Elites of Elites to oversee my tests, and Dr. Warfarin is here to document my inevitable demise in detail.

I shrink back.

"What… what do we do?"

"Oh, we're not the tester," Ms. Blaze laughs, waving her hands. She leans against a nearby equipment rack. "Boss bunny just decides to use our training hall. We're just wrapping up our own drills."

Before the relief of her words can begin to thaw the ice in my chest, the blast doors cycle open one last time.

The deliberate click of boots echoes off the floor.

A tall Perro walks in. Her Rhodes Island uniform is immaculate, pressed to military perfection without a single stray wrinkle or scuff. Her ears stand at attention, and her face is carved into stony discipline.

The moment she crosses the threshold, the air in the training hall shifts. The roaring fire of Ms. Blaze and the starry static of Rosmontis are forced into order.

Her presence hits me with a staggering weight. It tastes like cracked black pepper, stiffly pressed canvas, and the pitch-black unsweetened espresso that Miss Sussurro favors.

She stops a few paces away, her sharp eyes sweeping over my oversized jacket, my lopsided horns, and the black monitor locked around my throat.

I swallow hard, the phantom taste of black pepper drying out my mouth.

I'm in so much trouble.

She stops right in front of me and looks down without blinking.

"You may address me as Dobermann. Trainee Lethe," she states, her voice cracking like a whip without her touching the actual whip resting at her hip.

"Yes. Ms. Ms. Ms. Dobermann," I stammer, bending into a frantic bow.

"Since you are a non-combatant, you are expected to pass the physical baseline to survive and not get in the way of Field Ops," Ms. Dobermann explains, her tone flat. "We will test your Physical Strength, Mobility, Endurance, and Tactical Acumen."

She turns on her heel and marches toward the center of the training mat. I swallow the dry lump in my throat and shuffle after her, aware of Ms. Blaze's amused grin and Dr. Warfarin's analytical stare boring into the back of my head.

Ms. Dobermann leads me to a reinforced striking pad mounted on a steel pillar. The digital readout above it flickers to life with a red zero.

"Strike the pad with everything you have," Ms. Dobermann commands, crossing her arms. "No Arts. Pure physical output."

The pad is huge and covered in scuff marks.

I take a deep breath. I clench my fists, pull my arm back, and throw my whole body weight forward into a lunging punch.

My fist hits the dense leather. It's like punching a brick wall. Pain shoots up my wrist and I wince, pulling my hand back to cradle it against my chest.

The readout above the pad blinks. It barely manages a double-digit number.

A long silence falls over the training hall.

Then Ms. Blaze loses her composure. She doubles over, and her laugh rattles the equipment racks. "Oh, kiddo, I think a passing Originium slug could hit harder than that!"

Dr. Warfarin sighs, tapping at her slate. "Fascinating. Her muscle density is practically nonexistent. I am updating her chart."

Ms. Dobermann doesn't laugh. She looks at the readout, her ears staying upright.

"Fail," Ms. Dobermann declares. "Moving on."

We step into a cordoned-off grid on the training floor. Ms. Dobermann taps a control panel, and several low-hovering training drones hum to life, their mechanical eyes glowing yellow.

"Navigate from this line to the far wall," Ms. Dobermann instructs. "The drones are set to non-lethal suppression. Dodge the foam projectiles. Keep your center of gravity low."

The buzzer sounds. I bolt forward.

Thwip! Thwip!

Foam projectiles shoot from the drones. I yelp and throw myself into a clumsy dive to the left. I hit the padded floor and scramble back to my feet, ducking under another volley, swaying as my tail whips out.

In a stroke of dumb luck, a foam projectile aimed squarely at my back is swatted out of the air by the tip of my thrashing tail.

I tumble across the finish line, crashing to my knees and gasping for breath.

Ms. Dobermann watches me untangle my limbs from the floor mat.

"Unorthodox and highly uncoordinated," Ms. Dobermann critiques, jotting a note onto her clipboard. "However, you maintained forward momentum and avoided complete suppression. Normal."

"Three kilometers. Uninterrupted pace," Ms. Dobermann commands, pointing to the indoor track that rings the perimeter of the hall. "Go."

By the second lap, my lungs are burning. My throat is lined with sandpaper, and the phantom taste of cold copper fills my mouth from the exertion alone.

My vision blurs. I want to stop. I want to drop onto the floorboards and just lie there.

"Keep those legs moving," Dr. Warfarin's voice drawls from the sidelines, carrying over my ragged wheezing. "If you drop before the baseline, I'm immediately drawing two vials to test your lactic acid thresholds."

Terror injects a fresh spike of adrenaline into my veins.

A thin sound escapes me. I squeeze my eyes shut and force my burning legs to keep moving. I stagger, my posture folding into a hunch, but the threat of Dr. Warfarin's pristine syringes keeps me propelling forward.

I cross the final marker and go straight down onto the training mat, heaving.

"Baseline achieved," Ms. Dobermann announces, looking down at my wheezing form. "Normal."

After allowing me exactly five minutes to catch my breath and drink a cup of cool water, Ms. Dobermann gestures toward a tactical terminal.

"You are a Medic, not a Field Ops," Ms. Dobermann states, pulling up a glowing schematic of a standard logistics route. "But you must know how to read the field. A Catastrophe warning has been issued by the Catastrophe Messengers. The primary evacuation route for the civilian convoy is blocked by a sudden terrain collapse. Hostile scavengers are approaching from the southern flank. Field Ops are engaging. What is your immediate protocol?"

I study the map.

"I do not engage," I answer, still breathless but steady. "I stay back behind the Field Ops. I help the logistics team move the Castle bots so they can clear the other path. While they're doing that, I use my Arts to siphon some of the panic from the people in the convoy, so nobody stampedes and everyone gets away safely."

Ms. Dobermann's eyes lock onto mine. Her flavor doesn't sweeten, but the unforgiving tension in it gives a little.

"You understand your role, and you do not overstep your capabilities," Ms. Dobermann notes. "Standard."

Ms. Dobermann powers down the terminal. She turns to face me, her posture immaculate, as Ms. Blaze and Rosmontis wander over to hear the final assessment.

"Strength: Fail. Mobility: Normal. Endurance: Normal. Tactical Acumen: Standard," Dobermann reads aloud from her digital clipboard. She lowers the device. "Your physical output is abysmal, but your survival instincts and situational awareness meet the necessary requirements. Acceptable for a non-combatant."

"Okay…" Relief drops through me in a shudder, my shoulders slumping forward.

"Don't celebrate too quickly," Dr. Warfarin chimes in, sauntering over with her signature smirk. "Now that we know exactly how fragile you are, I have an entirely new set of dietary and vitamin protocols to submit to Caladria."

I groan, dropping my head into my hands.

I just crash back onto the mat.

I don't even try to brace my fall. My knees evaporate beneath me, and I hit the padded floor of the training hall in a sweaty, grey-haired heap. The cool synthetic material presses against my flushed cheek. My horns clatter against the floor, and my tail lies dead behind me.

I am a puddle of defeated Sarkaz.

A heavy shadow falls over me.

"Don't move," Dr. Warfarin's voice echoes above me, dripping with that razor-sharp amusement.

The air spikes with the familiar taste of unfiltered clinical hunger. The crisp snap of a medical glove, the clink of a glass vial.

Any other day, the mere implication of her syringes would send me scrambling backward, begging for mercy. But the bone-deep exhaustion pinning me to the floor overrides my survival instincts. I don't flinch. I don't pull my arm away. I only groan into the mat, long and muffled.

The pinch bites into the crook of my elbow. I lie there and let her draw her impromptu sample of my lactic-acid-flooded blood.

"Fascinating," Dr. Warfarin purrs, whisking the needle out and pressing a cotton ball to my arm. "Hold that. Try not to bleed out before dinner."

The deliberate click of boots cuts through my ragged breathing.

Ms. Dobermann steps past my line of sight.

"The baseline is recorded," Ms. Dobermann states. "I am needed in Training Hall 2 to oversee the Reserve Ops squad. Clean up your stations before you leave."

"Yes, Ms. Dobermann," I wheeze, the words buzzing against the padded floor.

She gives a single nod and turns on her heel, her boots clicking away until the doors shut behind her.

"Well, you survived!" Ms. Blaze's voice booms through the floorboards and into my aching ribs.

I peel one eye open. She is standing over me, hands on her hips, her usual grin plastered across her face as she takes in my liquidated form.

"You look like a squashed dumpling, kiddo," Ms. Blaze laughs. She leans down, extending two gloved hands toward me. "Want a lift back to your dorm? Or I can drop you off in the garden with Perfumer. Just say the word, and the Blaze Express is ready for boarding!"

The memory of being tucked horizontally under her arm like a sack of flour flashes behind my eyes.

"No…"

I get one hand off the mat and swat at the air to fend her off.

"No… one… carry me…" I huff, my face squishing flatter against the padding. I have no dignity left, but I refuse to be hauled around like freight ever again.

Ms. Blaze slaps her knee, her laugh bouncing off the reinforced walls. "Suit yourself, Lethe! But you can't sleep on the training mat forever!"

She ruffles my sweaty hair, ignoring my muffled protests, before turning to gather her tactical gear from the racks.

The heat of her presence moves off, leaving a quiet gap in the air.

Then a pair of small shoes steps into my peripheral vision.

Rosmontis stands beside me and looks down at me, her expression flat and distant, but her aura carries that faint undertone of soft serve.

"Lethe," Rosmontis says, her voice quiet and steady.

I turn my head, peeling my cheek off the mat to look up at her.

"Lethe wants dinner together?" she asks.

I still have to figure out how to peel myself off this floor. But the thought of a quiet meal with her pushes back the exhaustion just a fraction.

"Yes…" I whisper, letting my arm drop back onto the mat. "Just… give me a minute to remember how my legs work."

"The little Djall's blood is always so intoxicating," Dr. Warfarin declares behind me, the purr in it lifting the hair on the back of my neck.

She turns, her dress snapping, and saunters toward the doors without looking back, waving one dismissive hand at the air.

"The little anomaly will be fine," Dr. Warfarin calls out, aiming her parting instructions at the girl standing over me. "But her physical output is a disaster. Ensure her caloric intake is met immediately, Rosmontis. Do not let her skip dinner."

The blood-hungry tension in the room evaporates.

Rosmontis steps closer. Thin plastic crinkles.

"Here," Rosmontis says quietly. She crouches down and holds out a chilled plastic bottle. "Some water."

I don't even hesitate. My hands shake so badly that my fingers fumble against the smooth plastic, but I get the bottle out of her grip. I twist the cap off and press it to my lips.

I gulp it down. The water is freezing—a shock straight through me. The bottle is gone in seconds, a few stray drops spilling past the corners of my mouth and dripping onto the turtleneck beneath my jacket.

I lower the empty bottle and gasp for air, loud and ungraceful.

It takes every last bit of willpower I have, but I plant my hands against the padded training mat and push. My arms tremble under my own meager weight. I drag my knees beneath me and stagger upward.

I sway. My legs have been replaced with wet noodles, and the lopsided weight of my horns pulls my neck into a tired slouch. But I am standing. I am off the floor at last.

I offer Rosmontis a tired smile, the empty bottle still clutched in my hand.

"Want to go to the cafeteria now?" I ask. My stomach gives a hollow twist right on cue. "I think… I think I really need those calories Dr. Warfarin mentioned."

The walk toward the cafeteria is a slow shuffle.

Beside me, Rosmontis matches my exhausted pace. She is quiet, her eyes down on the small screen of the terminal in her hands. She is reading her memos.

A sharp pain hits the center of my chest.

Rhine Lab.

The name echoes down the hallways of my head. The corporation that gave her those Arts and broke her memory apart. Because of what they did to her, Rosmontis can't remember anyone without those digital notes. Not Amiya. Not Doctor. Not me. Not even herself. If she doesn't read the names, everyone ceases to exist in her world.

Her profile is pale in the light of the screen. And then the dread arrives, cold and creeping.

I'm getting there as well, a little at a time.

The realization isn't a shock; it's a heavy blanket of ice.

I try to reach back. The very first time I saw mom's light purple eyes. The exact moment Lisa ran up to me with her nine fluffy tails. The cup of tea Miss Lena first poured me in the Convalescent Garden.

I reach for the foundation of the family that anchors my entire existence.

There is nothing. My life begins in a blood-stained triage bay, the metal of an Arts Unit slipping from my numb fingers while I tried to siphon the agony out of a dying Cautus girl who had no name to me yet.

Everything before that screaming room is a void.

Beside me, Rosmontis keeps walking, silver-haired and quiet, her eyes still tracing the text that tells her who I am.

I swallow the phantom ash and step a fraction closer, letting my arm brush hers in the quiet corridor. Solidarity, with nothing said.

Dinner with Rosmontis is as quiet as ever.

We sit at our table in the cafeteria, the noise of the landship washing over us. On my tray are mom's mandated baked greens, per her strict nutritional orders, and a piece of baked fish, which mom allows. I chew my way through it. Rosmontis eats in her own focused silence.

When we finish, I give her a weary smile and wave goodbye. She nods, clutching her digital memo terminal as she heads back to her quarters.

I don't go back to my dorm. My feet carry me through the arteries of the landship instead, pulled by a sickening panic toward the high-security laboratory.

The doors open on that familiar scent of clinical bleach, ozone, and steel.

Dr. Warfarin is standing at her terminals. She turns under the glare of the overhead lights.

"Back so soon, little anomaly?" Dr. Warfarin drawls. "Don't tell me you missed my needles already. Or are you here to donate more of that fascinating blood out of the goodness of your heart?"

I just stand there. Dreading the truth.

"Dr. Warfarin… I… I was too scared to tell before… I… don't remember anything before April, 1096. Is the Arts Unit no longer working?"

The predatory smirk vanishes from Dr. Warfarin's face. Her taste flatlines, replaced by a wall of hard focus.

She sets her slate on the counter with a clack and closes the distance between us, her eyes locking onto my face.

"The artifact is functioning exactly as it was designed to, Lethe," Dr. Warfarin states, her voice dropping all theatricality. "But a shield only absorbs so much impact before the shockwave bleeds through."

"During the Chernobog and Lungmen crisis, you didn't just sit in the garden and sip tea. You actively subjected yourself to the unfiltered trauma of a war. The sheer magnitude of the suffering you ingested caused a massive spike in your neurological stress. That stress agitated the Originium lesions in your temporal lobe. Your Oripathy progressed, Lethe. The Originium consumed the neural pathways closest to the lesions."

Dr. Warfarin tilts her head, her focus dropping to the dark Kazdelian artifact in my hands.

"Tell me," Dr. Warfarin demands, her tone sharp and precise. "Do you hold that Arts Unit twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?"

I look down at the petrified wood. I shake my head.

"No…" My voice is barely a breath. "When I'm sleeping, eating, or just relaxing… it's put aside."

Dr. Warfarin exhales through her nose.

"Well, that would perfectly explain the further memory loss," Dr. Warfarin states. "Especially in the cafeteria. Your monitor collar restricts your active output and muffles your passive Arts; it does not entirely sever them. You are a Djall. Every time you sit down to eat, you are passively casting Arts over dozens, if not hundreds of Operators, absorbing their ambient emotional bleed without your shielding."

I dip my head. Resignation settles over my shoulders, heavy as a wet coat.

"I'll just have to detail every single day in my slate…" My fingers tighten on the grip of my staff. If I document every conversation, every meal, every single moment I spend with my family, my Oripathy cannot erase them. I will build a fortress out of digital ink.

"I would suggest you keep the most important details only," Dr. Warfarin interrupts, her tone slicing through my spiraling plan.

I look up, blinking. "But… if I write everything down, I won't lose anything."

"You are missing the point," Dr. Warfarin explains, her voice taking on the clinical tone of a lecture. "Your memory center is already heavily compromised by Oripathy. If you force yourself to frantically comb through thousands of words of mundane, daily diary entries, you will induce severe cognitive fatigue."

She pauses. Her fingers tap against her elbow.

"Memory relies on anchors, Lethe. If you wake up one morning and the void has expanded, you will need immediate, potent context to ground yourself before the panic sets in. A concise note of absolute truths. Who you care for, who protects you, the core promises you have made. This will anchor your memories far faster than an encyclopedia of daily trivia. If your brain is burning its own library, do not fill the remaining shelves with garbage."

Dr. Warfarin drops her hand and holds my gaze.

"Document the absolute pillars of your existence. Discard the clutter. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dr. Warfarin," I whisper, offering her a solemn little bow. "Thank you."

The walk back through the landship is a solitary march. When the door to my dorm hisses shut behind me, the silence in the room sits heavier than usual.

I cross to my recessed mattress and gather my anchors. The brown Amiya plushie with its blue button eyes, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis plushie, the squishy little cake collectible mom gave me for my birthday. I carry them to the desk and set them in a protective semi-circle around my digital slate.

I wake the screen. My fingers tremble as I open the application where I've been storing my personal logs.

Dr. Warfarin was right. My eyes crawl over the sprawling walls of white text, memo after frantic memo cataloging mundane meals, the exact layout of the garden, fleeting daily conversations. Desperate clutter. If I wake one morning and the freezing void has swallowed another piece of my mind, this wall of text won't ground me; it will only put panic into an empty head.

I tap the glass, highlighting paragraphs upon paragraphs of daily trivia.

Delete.

The blocks of text vanish into the digital ether and leave a blank canvas behind. I brush my fingertips over the soft fabric of the plushies for courage, and I begin to rewrite. My entire world, distilled down to its undeniable pillars.

Mom. Erika, codename Caladria. She pulled you out from the Kazdel Catastrophe aftermath. She contracted Oripathy during that rescue because your horns broke her respirator mask. You love her with all your heart.

I blink the sting out of my eyes and type the next line.

Lisa, codename Suzuran. She reads you Victorian fairytales. She is the blinding light of your life.

My thumbs move over the smooth glass with methodical precision. I keep going, building a fortress of digital ink against the Originium in my skull. I carve out the truths for Miss Lena and her warm lavender presence, for Podenco and her competitive board game streaks, for Amiya's spun-sugar sincerity, for Rosmontis's quiet company. Opal's steady recovery. I even draft strict, foundational entries for the ancient glacier of Dr. Kal'tsit and the clinical brilliance of Dr. Warfarin.

I trace a finger down the cold glass. The blocky white text glows against the dark.

Just a handful of paragraphs. The distilled points of my life.

It is a fortress. These words are the walls Oripathy will crash against.

I read the lines again.

My entire life.

It's such a small thing, really. A few kilobytes of data resting inside the plush barricade of my plushies. But as my eyes trace the letters of their names, I don't feel the freezing void of my fading mind.

Instead the names fill my chest with the phantom warmth of sugar, the grounding aroma of steeped tea, the fizz, and the fierce honey.

A beautiful life. So much of it started in Catastrophes and rubble, but it's still beautiful. And it's mine.

I sit back in the chair. My focus drifts past the slate to the oval window of my dorm.

Outside lies the sprawling expanse of Terra.

In two days I will walk out of the landship's steel belly. Not to stand frozen on a deployment ramp staring up at the glass towers of Trimounts, but to step into the untamed dirt of the Columbian barrens. I will walk beside Podenco, charting the logistics routes and cataloging the wild flora to help restock our medical supplies.

The thought still sets off a nervous flutter under my ribs.

I will take one more step into being a true Operator. I won't just hide behind the glass of the Convalescent Garden, waiting for everyone to come back hurt. I'll go out into the barrens with my friends and help too, even if my knees are shaking.

I reach out and press the physical power button on the side of the chassis. The screen goes black and the dorm drops back into quiet dark.

I set the slate down, gather the plushies into my arms, and pull the blankets up to my chin. My head nestles into the pillows, the lopsided horns angled so they don't catch on the fabric, and my eyes fall shut.

I am ready for Terra.

And Terra is coming.

The wind on the outer deck is a living thing. It whips across the open expanse.

Beneath my thick sneakers, the reinforced steel groans, and the rattle goes through my bones. The hydraulic lifts are engaging, raising the VTOL aircraft out of the cavernous lower deck storage.

"You have your medical supplies? Your emergency rations?"

Mom's arms are wrapped around my shoulders. I'm tucked under her chin, surrounded by the rich honey of her presence. But today, the sweetness is pierced by a vibrating spike of tart lemon. She is terrified.

"I have everything, mom," I murmur into her shoulder. I wrap my arms around her waist and squeeze once, hard. "I have my new PRTS communicator, my ID, and my Arts Unit. I won't leave Podenco's side."

"Good," mom whispers, pressing a long kiss to my forehead. She pulls back, her hands resting on my shoulders. Her worried eyes search my face for the trembling child she had pulled from the Kazdel ruins.

I give her my bravest smile.

Off to one side, Podenco is in her element. The wind catches her light blonde hair, her ears twitching against the gale. She has on her deep teal-green jacket with the yellow stripes down the sleeves, a yellow ribbon tied at her collar. As she reaches up to adjust her respirator, the hem flares open on a tactical row of glass vials strapped to the inner lining, filled with glowing liquids in purple, yellow, and clear white.

She lowers her hands to her Arts Unit—a mechanical staff capped with a circular focal point that pulses magenta. She checks the grip with practiced efficiency.

The outer deck is bustling with the rest of our escort detail.

Miss Almond stands nearby, her ears swiveling as she works through her climbing gear and grappling hooks. The flavor bleeding off her is crisp and methodical, polished aluminum and sharp peppermint.

She is chatting with Miss Franka, who looks unbothered by the deployment to a frankly alarming degree. Her weight rests on one leg, her posture loose. What comes off her hits my throat like carbonated ginger ale spiked with the metallic heat of a thermal grill. She flashes a confident grin, as though the hostile Columbian barrens were an afternoon stroll.

Then, there's Miss Beanstalk.

She is vibrating in place. Her presence tastes like roasted seeds and sun-baked hay. She triple-checks the tension on her crossbow, muttering a checklist under her breath. Swarming around her boots, metallic claws clicking on the steel deck, is a cluster of her metal crabs. They scurry in little circles, ignoring the landship around them.

The deck shudders.

With an echoing clank, the hydraulic platforms lock into place. The armored VTOL, the Bad Guy as the logistics crews call it, sits on the tarmac, thrusters whining as they cycle up for departure. The rear ramp lowers and hits the deck with a final thud.

"That's our ride," Podenco calls out, her voice cutting through the roar of the engines. She turns to me, bright eyes finding mine. "Ready, Lethe?"

I look into the dark, yawning interior of the aircraft.

I look back at mom and give her one last nod.

I gather my Kazdelian artifact off the deck, step out of the safety of her arms, and march for the open ramp.

The cabin of the Bad Guy is loud with the thrum of heavy Originium engines.

Through the scratch-resistant porthole opposite my seat, the secondary transport helicopter holds formation alongside us. Suspended beneath its undercarriage are our reinforced all-terrain vehicle and the two boxy Castle bots, dangling over the sprawling barrens.

I press my knees together. The metal bench vibrates through my insulated stockings. I'm trembling with nervous anticipation.

A hand covers mine. Podenco. Her presence is a warm weight pushing back the sterile chill of the aircraft cabin.

"Lethe, right?"

The voice cuts through the mechanical roar.

Across the narrow cabin, Miss Franka leans back against the metal chassis, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks at home in the rattling aircraft, her posture loose and unbothered.

"Yes," I reply.

Miss Franka tilts her head. Her amber eyes drop from my face, down to the floorboards where my tail is twitching.

The flavor in the cabin shifts. A carbonated burst spikes the air.

"You know, the barrens are completely crawling with wild Originium slugs," Miss Franka drawls, a playful smirk stretching across her lips.

She leans forward a fraction, her eyes glinting. "And out in the wild, they get pretty desperate for a meal. If one of those oversized, acidic bugs decides that blue tail of yours looks like a tasty Kazdelian snack… you'd better know how to swat it away. Because if you can't fend it off yourself, I'm just going to sit back and watch it happen."

My tail snaps rigid. It shoots up from the floorboards like a startled snake, coiling tight around my thigh and tucking the tip out of sight.

"They… they eat tails?!" My head swings from Miss Franka to Podenco.

A ringing laugh escapes Miss Franka and bounces off the walls of the Bad Guy.

Podenco sighs, loud and exaggerated. She doesn't even look at Miss Franka, keeping her eyes forward as she adjusts the straps of her respirator.

"Ignore her, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice dry with exasperation. "Originium slugs eat raw Originium and minerals. She's just hazing you because you're the newest face on the manifest."

She shoots Miss Franka a small glare. "Stop trying to traumatize my assistant before we even hit the dirt, Franka."

Miss Franka chuckles, unrepentant, and waves a hand in the air. "Just keeping the rookie on her toes! A little situational awareness never hurt anyone."

My cheeks flush. The spike of terror curdles into something more humiliating. I uncoil my tail and let it drop back to the floor with an indignant thud. I lift my chin and meet Miss Franka's eyes.

The tense air inside the cabin shatters.

A wave of laughter ripples through the transport. I giggle, breathy, my cheeks still burning.

The VTOL shudders as our descent slows. The engines pitch down into a low whine, and the landing gear strikes the dirt with a bone-rattling thud.

Hydraulics hiss. The rear ramp descends and hits the earth.

The wind that rushes into the cabin isn't the filtered air of Trimounts or the sterile chill of the landship. It's harsh and dry, and it tastes of baked dust, scrub brush, and the static tang of Catastrophes.

I step forward and stop where the ramp ends. The barrens open out ahead of me, endless rolling plains of scrubland and rocky outcrops beneath a vast open sky.

Podenco steps up beside me. She adjusts the ribbon at her collar and flashes me a familiar smirk.

"Miss Sarkaz Royalty, ready?" Podenco asks, echoing the same tease she used when I was paralyzed at the Trimounts docking station.

"Hey!" I yelp, puffing my cheeks out once again.

I don't wait for her to offer me a hand. I force my chin up and take a deliberate step down the ramp, my sneakers crunching against the dry Columbian dirt.

A roar washes over us as the secondary transport helicopter hovers low over the landing zone. With a synchronized clank, the release cables disengage. The reinforced all-terrain vehicle and the two boxy Castle bots drop the last few meters and hit the ground hard and kick up a billowing cloud of dust.

As the helicopter banks away, leaving us to the quiet of the barrens, Miss Almond steps forward.

She pulls off one of her gloves and taps the screen of her thick-cased slate.

"Scans have picked up a few potential Originium fields about ten kilometers out," Miss Almond announces, her ears swiveling as she scans the horizon. "Looks like dense mineral residue left over from recent Catastrophes in the region. That will be our primary survey sector."

She slides the slate into one of her pouches and pulls open the driver's side door of the all-terrain vehicle. "I'll drive the car. Everyone mount up."

We pile into the heavy transport. The interior smells of machine grease and worn canvas. The suspension groans as the Castle bots secure themselves in the rear transport bed alongside our supplies. I slide into the back seat and wedge myself between Podenco and the window.

Sitting across from us is Miss Beanstalk.

She is ignoring the tactical talk in the front seats, something about planned routes and scans. Instead, one of her metal crabs rests in her lap. The little critter clicks its claws against her vest while she strokes its carapace.

Miss Beanstalk looks up from her pet. Her eyes lock onto me and Podenco with dead-serious earnestness.

"Lethe, Podenco," Miss Beanstalk says. "You two really have to convince Perfumer to expand the garden. We desperately need an incubation area for my crabbies."

"An incubator in the garden?" I repeat, blinking at her in bewilderment.

The flavor radiating off her spikes. The earthy taste floods with entrepreneurial enthusiasm.

"Yes!" Miss Beanstalk leans forward, bouncing in her seat despite the jostling of the all-terrain vehicle. "I've already talked to Perfumer about it. She says she'll consider talking to Dr. Kal'tsit about expanding the garden, taking over the nearby medical storage."

She hoists the metal crab into my line of sight. The little critter whirs and clicks, its legs flailing in the air between us.

"You two both work for Perfumer and are close to her!" Miss Beanstalk pleads, her eyes wide with unapologetic desperation. "You have to help me lobby her. Look at the crabbie! Aren't they the cutest?!"

The claws flail in front of my nose. My mind conjures an apocalyptic vision of the Convalescent Garden: a Catastrophe of hundreds of these clicking, scurrying crabs overrunning the flowerbeds, snipping the chamomile, trampling the broad-leafed ferns, knocking over Miss Lena's porcelain teapots.

And then I picture Miss Lena standing in the center of the ruins. My romance novel-loving manager's serene smile tightening into polite wrath sends a cold shiver down my spine.

"Miss Lena will turn us into compost if her garden gets ravaged by them…" I warn, shrinking back into the transport's upholstery.

"They won't!" Miss Beanstalk protests. She pulls the metal crab back and cradles it against her chest as if I had just insulted her actual child.

Beside me, Podenco leans forward, resting her chin in her hand.

"We'll think about it," Podenco muses. "A bigger greenhouse will give me space to grow fungus too, I always wanted that."

I whip my head around to stare at her. Fungus?

Between a breeding ground for a horde of metal crabs and a whole sector of spore-spewing mushrooms, Miss Lena's lavender-scented sanctuary is going to turn into a biological hazard zone. I push my breath out in a defeated huff, and I let my head fall back against the rumbling wall of the transport, resigned to the botanical warfare waiting for us back home.

Miss Franka twists around from her conversation with Miss Almond in the driver's seat. She leans an elbow against the headrest.

"Remind me to never visit the garden," Miss Franka drawls, a teasing grin on her face. "Staffed by a Djall who literally eats emotions, a poison specialist, and soon to be overrun by metal crabs. It sounds more dangerous than a Reunion squad."

"Hey!" I yelp. I flail my arms, scandalized on behalf of our peaceful sanctuary. "It's beautiful! It's nothing like that!"

Laughter fills the cabin again. Even Miss Almond snorts from the driver's seat.

I grumble under my breath. To hide my face, I duck my head and rummage through my bag for my metal water canteen. I unscrew the cap and take a long drink. The cool water is a relief against the baked dust already filtering through the vehicle's vents.

I cap the canteen and turn my attention to the window.

Outside, the Columbian barrens roll past in a blur of muted earth tones. So vast, and so empty.

As the vehicle crests a low ridge, the scenery changes.

"Look," I say, pressing my hands against the cool glass.

Sitting alone in the emptiness of the plains is a small, stationary farm. A fragile pocket of life in the scrubland.

A crooked wooden fence lines a rutted dirt path—a humble barricade against the wild. Beyond the dried reeds and yellowing grass sits a rustic barn. Its corrugated metal roof is stained with reddish-brown streaks of rust from years of surviving the Columbian elements. Beside the main structure stands a skeletal metal windmill, its blades turning, catching the pale overcast light of the sky.

And looming in the far distance, a majestic backdrop to the humble farm, is a range of snow-capped mountains.

The rusted roof, the spinning windmill. Amiya had mentioned these stationary settlements before, but seeing one with my own eyes fills me with an aching awe. Everywhere else, whole cities ride around on giant plates to outrun Catastrophes. But these people stay put. I think that's so brave.

They don't have heavy armor, and they can't drive away from a meteor shower. They just build their fences, harvest their land, and face whatever the sky decides to drop on them.

"It's so quiet out here," I murmur, my breath fogging the glass as the all-terrain vehicle rumbles past the rustic wooden gates, carrying us further into the untamed wilds of Terra.

The rumble of the all-terrain vehicle dies out, the suspension groaning as Miss Almond hits the brakes. The silence in the cabin is jarring.

"Everyone. Gear check," Miss Almond orders, her voice slicing through the quiet.

I don't hesitate. My hands fly to my bag for the standard-issue Rhodes Island respirator. The heavy straps go over my head, and I press the cold rubber over my nose and mouth, dragging the seals tight until the smell of the cabin is gone and all I taste is dry, metallic filtered air.

I turn my head to the reinforced glass of the window.

Sprouting from the dry dirt is a jagged field of black crystalline rocks. They jut out of the earth like the teeth of a buried beast, pulsing with a sickly yellow light that bleeds into the daylight. The zone is ringed with black crystalline structures coated in brownish dust. But Miss Adele has taught me those are inert Originium crystals that have stabilized.

"They're still active," Miss Almond states, leaning over the steering wheel to get a better look. She squints. "Inert, solidified crystals are present on the outer zones. But further in, the field is still hot. Originium shards can still be present here."

She turns her head, her eyes sweeping the cabin before locking onto me and Podenco.

"Do NOT get scratched by them," Miss Almond warns, her voice hard.

I swallow hard. I know exactly what a single careless scrape against an active shard means: an immediate, violent influx of Oripathy. I reach down and pull my oversized sleeves over my hands, insulating every bit of skin I can.

"Understood," Podenco replies, her voice muffled through her own mask.

"Let's move," Miss Franka commands.

The doors of the ATV swing open. We filter out, our boots hitting the dry earth. The wind out here is different; it carries a static charge that lifts the hairs on my arms, a reminder of the volatile energy trapped in the black crystals a few meters away.

Miss Almond pulls her slate from her pouch and taps the screen as the topographical map loads in.

"We need to map out the zone so the landship can drive right up and harvest the field," Miss Almond orders, her eyes scanning the jagged perimeter.

My eyes catch on the pulsing crystals.

The flavors bleeding off the Operators shift. The carbonated spark Miss Franka carried in the cabin evaporates, replaced by the freezing taste of cold water and shaved ice.

"Beanstalk, overwatch," Miss Franka orders, drawing her thermite blade with practiced ease. Her eyes scan the glowing ridges. "Call out any slugs."

"You got it," Miss Beanstalk replies, her voice tight and professional.

She motions with her hand, and the cluster of metal crabs scurries forward, claws clicking against the rocky ground as they spread into a perimeter. Miss Beanstalk picks her way up a rocky outcrop overlooking the glowing field, her crossbow raised to cover our advance.

I step closer to Podenco, clutching my Arts Unit to my chest.

The treads of the Castle bots crunch against the baked earth, breaking the silence of the barrens. Miss Almond stands at the edge of the glowing field, her fingers flying across the screen of her slate.

Following her digital commands, the two boxy machines roll forward. Their sensor arrays extend like metal snouts, sweeping back and forth over the black crystalline structures. They bathe the toxic amber crystals in a grid of blue scanning lasers.

I stand there with my eyes stuck on the active Originium jutting from the dirt, my heart hammering.

Before the glow of the crystals can freeze me in place, a hand wraps around my wrist. I flinch, but the air blooms with yuzu and tea. Podenco.

"Come on," Podenco says, and pulls me away from the active field.

She turns her head and raises her voice over the Castle bots and the sweeping wind. "We'll leave the charting to the experts! Miss Franka! Miss Beanstalk! We'll check the surroundings for plants!"

A short distance away, Miss Franka doesn't bother to turn around. She raises her free hand in a lazy two-fingered wave, her other hand resting on the hilt of her thermite blade. Up on her rocky vantage point, Miss Beanstalk gives a sharp whistle, her metal crabs clicking their claws in a ring around her boots.

I let Podenco pull me away, glad to go, and follow her. We put a safe distance between ourselves and the Originium field, moving toward a cluster of dried, twisted vegetation clinging to the rocky soil.

Podenco slows her pace, letting go of my wrist so we can walk shoulder-to-shoulder. She tilts her head, her eyes studying my blood-drained face.

"How are you holding up, Lethe?" she asks. The playful tease leaves her voice, and what replaces it is concern, tasting like warm steeped tea.

The horizon runs on in every direction, and without the landship around me I'm small and exposed.

"It… it's a little scary," I admit. "Are missions always like this?"

Podenco stops walking.

"The lands outside mobile cities are inherently dangerous, Lethe," she explains, turning her head to sweep the barren plains with the practiced eye of a seasoned Operator. "Out here, there are no walls. We have to worry about sandbeasts, desperate scavengers, and roaming Sarkaz mercenary bands looking for easy salvage. That's why we almost always operate with Field Ops."

She turns back to me, her expression resolute. Her hand drops to the hem of her jacket, and she flips the fabric back to reveal a neat row of glass vials strapped to the inner lining. The liquids inside catch the dull daylight in vivid shades.

"But we aren't helpless either," Podenco adds, her tone quiet and uncompromising. She taps a finger against one of the glowing purple vials. "Those aren't just for studying. They are potent, fast-acting poisons. Just in case."

The bright vials sit in their row against the inside of her jacket. My cheerful, flower-loving friend is also a trained Operator who could drop a hostile scavenger in seconds.

I turn my own hands over. My palms are delicate. I am a palliative care assistant with an abysmal physical strength rating. But standing out here in the unforgiving barrens, an urge to prove I'm not defenseless bubbles up in my chest.

"Okay… Podenco," I say, trying to inject a brave edge into my voice.

I shift my grip on my Arts Unit. Instead of holding it upright like a staff, I take the black shaft in both hands and hoist the petrified wood across my body. I widen my stance, mimicking the loose guard I had seen Miss Franka take a moment ago.

"Maybe I can bonk whatever wants to harm us," I declare.

Determined to demonstrate my newly invented combat style, I swing the staff forward. Then, I swing it again.

The curves of the ancient wood aren't balanced for melee combat. The momentum of the wild, uncoordinated swings yanks my center of gravity forward.

The wood cuts through the air with a clumsy whoosh.

Podenco yelps. She hops backward, dodging the swinging arc of the tree branch by inches.

"Lethe," Podenco groans, hands up in a placating gesture. She eyes the artifact in my hands like it's an unexploded bomb. "Put that down before you hurt yourself or me."

I stop. The brave facade shatters.

I pull the Arts Unit back against my chest and hug it like a stuffed animal.

"Sorry!"

Podenco shakes her head. Her laugh scatters the spike of panic, and her tail gives a forgiving wag. She pats the sleeve of my coat.

"I appreciate the protective spirit, Lethe, but let's stick to the botany," she teases, then turns back to the landscape, her eyes sweeping the dry earth and rocky outcrops.

Then her ears shoot straight up.

"Look, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice turning brisk and curious. She points toward a shadowed depression tucked at the base of a nearby rocky ridge. "There's a batch of greenery over there. Let's go."

We pick our way toward the shadowed depression. As we get closer, the yellowed scrubland gives way to a patch of actual greenery. It's a stubborn little pocket of life that refuses to be snuffed out by the wind or the proximity of Originium.

Podenco kneels in the dirt, unbothered by the dust coating her knee-highs. She parts a cluster of waxy leaves to reveal one small flower. Its petals are a muted lavender, huddled close around a dark center.

"Lethe," Podenco says, looking up at me with a teacher's spark in her eyes. "I taught you what this one is back in the garden. Do you remember?"

I step closer, leaning over her shoulder to inspect the bloom. My brow furrows at the pale petals and the shape of the leaves. My mind races back to the table in the Convalescent Garden, flipping through the pages of the botanical encyclopedia she had made me study.

"Oh! I know this one," I declare. "It's a Columbian Blue-bell. You steep the petals to make a sweet syrup that helps with coughing."

Podenco's ears twitch.

"Confidently incorrect," she chuckles, shaking her head. She taps the leaf, pointing out the silvery fuzz coating the stem. "This is a Dust-weaver. If you try to boil this into a syrup, your throat is going to feel like you just swallowed a mouthful of raw sand."

I groan, my shoulders slumping. "But they look exactly the same! The petals are the exact same color!"

"They do look incredibly similar," Podenco agrees, her tone sliding into a lecture. "That's intentional. It's a survival mechanism. The Dust-weaver mimics the Blue-bell so that local burdenbeasts will accidentally take a bite, get a mouthful of bitter irritants, and learn to leave this entire patch alone."

She reaches into her own bag and pulls out a set of sterile glass vials and a trowel.

"That's exactly why we don't snack in the wild," Podenco reminds me with a wink. She hands me a few of the empty vials. "Come on. We need to gather soil samples from the base of the roots, and carefully take a few plant cuttings for Miss Lena's greenhouse. Let's see what kind of nutrients are keeping them alive out here."

"He he he ha ha!"

The laugh shatters the quiet of the barrens.

It's a jagged sound, echoing across the empty land. My hands stop around the glass vial.

The air in the depression ruptures. The flavor that hits me is a blast of fermented fruit, battery acid, and the metallic tang of rust. It's unhinged. A spiraling static.

Podenco and I snap our heads toward the sound, up at the crest of the rocky ridge a few dozen meters away.

Stumbling into view is a man.

He laughs to himself, his head lolling to the side as he clutches a rusted shard of corrugated metal in his right hand. The makeshift blade is wet with running blood, the tip crusted with dried flakes of older crimson. He drags his feet through the dirt, oblivious to the wind and the expanse around him.

I stare at him, frozen.

Clusters of black crystal sprout from his forearms and tear through the tattered fabric around his legs. But the worst of it is his face. The Originium has erupted from the right side of his skull, the crystals swallowing his eye and ear, pulsing with a dim, sickly glow. His infection is so far along I can't tell his race anymore.

Late-stage Oripathy. I've read about it. The crystals have eaten into his brain, and I don't think he's in there anymore. His body is still walking around, just waiting to crumble into infectious dust.

Before the terror can force a gasp out of my lungs, Podenco reacts.

She drops her trowel, lunges, and yanks me down by the collar of my jacket.

I hit the dirt hard, my knees scraping the dry earth. Podenco forces me flat, pressing us both deep into the thickest cluster of the broad-leafed scrub brush.

"Don't move," Podenco breathes, her voice a thread of sound next to my ear. Her hand stays clamped over my shoulder, keeping me pinned to the soil.

We lie still in the dirt. My heart slams against my ribs. I squeeze my eyes shut against the rot and acid of his psychosis flooding the air, hoping the Originium growths on his skull have ruined his eyesight enough that he won't spot the misty blue of my tail or the yellow stripes of Podenco's jacket.

The laughter comes again, drifting closer over the ridge.

The broken laughter is on top of us now. My fingers dig into the dry dirt as I brace for the moment he spots us.

Then an orange and black blur tears across my vision.

It happens too fast for my brain to follow. A rush of displaced air, a flash of ignited metal.

A searing wave of heat rolls over the depression. It's an industrial furnace, and the dry air shimmers and warps above the brush.

I gasp, my eyes snapping open.

The sound of a body hitting the earth thuds against my ears. The infected man drops to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Rising from the crystalline growths on his skull is a thin puff of grey smoke, and with it the stench of scorched bone.

The air in the depression ruptures a second time. The static flatlines, and what is left is a cold void.

Miss Franka stands at the crest of the ridge, just clear of the corpse.

Her posture is locked into a killing stance. Her thermite blade points forward, the superheated metal still white-hot, hissing against the cold wind.

She holds the pose a second longer. Then she lowers the blade and lets the breath go out of her, slow and measured.

The heat of a ginger ale floods back into the air, washing out the void the dead man left.

"You girls okay?" Miss Franka asks, looking down at the two of us pressed flat into the dirt. Her voice is steady.

I stare at the thin wisp of smoke rising from the corpse. My lungs won't move.

"I…" I stammer, my voice a trembling squeak. I drag my eyes off the dead man and up to Miss Franka. "I am. We are."

Podenco pushes herself up first and grabs my forearm, hoisting me onto my feet.

I sway, my hands dropping to the front of my oversized Rhodes Island jacket and my pleated skirt, brushing at the baked dust. My fingers shake so badly I can barely get the fabric clean.

I look at the blade in Miss Franka's hand, and then at her calm eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Franka."

She gives one crisp nod, flicking the blade to cool the metal before she sheathes it.

"Perimeter clear! No other hostiles in sight!"

Miss Beanstalk's voice carries down from her rocky vantage point.

Boots crunch behind us. Miss Almond strides up, her eyes on the horizon.

"The scans are complete. Gather your gear, Lethe, Podenco," Miss Almond orders, her tone clipped. "We're moving to water detection and mapping. I'd rather not stay here."

"Understood," Podenco replies.

Podenco drops back to her knees and grabs her trowel. She works with a forced efficiency, scooping the soil from the base of the Dust-weaver plants into the vials.

I stand there a second, my hands gripping the base of my Arts Unit.

I want to go home…

I shake my head hard, then look around at Podenco, at Miss Franka, Miss Almond and Miss Beanstalk.

I need to be brave for everyone. So mom doesn't worry about me.

I kneel to help Podenco seal the vials so we can leave this graveyard behind.

The walk back to the vehicle is silent.

The smell of the dead man and the scorched bone still sits in my nose. I keep my head down, my sneakers kicking up small puffs of dry dirt, staying as close to Podenco's side as I can get.

We climb into the transport. The doors slam shut with a heavy thud, sealing us inside the cabin. I sink into the back seat, knees pressed together, my tail wrapping around my leg.

Miss Almond settles into the driver's seat, her tail swaying against the chair as she runs through her pre-ignition checklist. She reaches for the gear shift, but her hand stops. Draped across the center console is a fluffy sweep of orange fur.

"Move your tail, Franka," Miss Almond says. Her flavor pulses with dry exasperation.

Miss Franka shifts in the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. "Fine, fine."

Miss Franka pulls her tail out of the way, but as she does she twists around in her seat. She drapes an arm over the headrest, her sharp eyes locking onto me.

"You know, Lethe," Miss Franka starts. "If we don't find the water and the secondary Originium fields before sunset, we'll have to camp in the wilds."

My heart stalls.

"Camp?!"

My mind conjures the pitch-black barrens stretching out in every direction, with none of the landship's reinforced bulkheads or heavy armor anywhere in it.

"Yeah," Miss Franka says. "Tents. Open-fire MREs. Absolutely no fur maintenance." She leans in, dropping her voice to a spooky whisper. "And you have to watch out for the sandbeasts, the slugs, and the feral burdenbeasts that love to sneak up on you in the dark. All that good stuff."

My jaw drops open. Sleeping on the dirt while giant Originium-filled bugs and wild beasts prowl around a flimsy canvas tent sends a shiver straight down my spine.

"How…" I stammer, my breath going shallow. My eyes dart between Miss Franka and Podenco. "How do we find water! Do we need to dig? I can dig! I'll dig the whole field right now!"

I scramble for the door handle, ready to throw myself back out into the dust and claw at the earth with my bare hands if it means we get to sleep in my safe, climate-controlled dorm tonight.

A bright laugh cuts through the cabin.

Miss Almond shakes her head.

"Easy, kid," Miss Almond shifts the transport into gear. The engine roars to life beneath us, a steady vibration under the seat. "You don't need to dig anything. We have topographical scans. There's an indication of an underground stream nearby."

She taps the screen on the dashboard.

"We just need to confirm its exact coordinates," Miss Almond explains, "and run preliminary checks on the Originium density and pollution levels of the water source. If it's clean, we mark it for the logistics convoys."

I loosen my death grip on the door handle. My heart settles back toward a normal rhythm. I let out a long, shaky breath and slump back against the upholstery.

"Okay…" My tail gives a weak thump against the seat.

Beside me, Podenco glares at Miss Franka again, though the corners of her mouth are twitching.

"You're a menace, Franka," Podenco mutters.

Miss Franka winks at me and turns back to the windshield as the ATV lurches forward, carrying us deeper into the dusty expanse of the Columbian barrens.

The all-terrain vehicle rumbles on through the untamed wilds, its tires kicking up a steady cloud of dry dust. I keep my face near the reinforced glass, tracking the muted earth tones of the barrens.

Then the landscape shifts. The rolling scrubland parts, opening an unobstructed view of the snow-capped mountain range looming in the far distance. The peaks are a hard white against the overcast sky.

A blur of motion cuts parallel to our vehicle.

Tearing across the dry plains is a herd of galloping creatures. They're heavy and thick-built, covered in coarse fur that ripples in the biting wind. For all that bulk they move with a thundering grace, their legs eating up the distance as they race across the scrubland.

Framed against the frozen peaks in the distance, they look like something out of a fairytale.

"Whoa…" I breathe out, my hands pressing flat against the cool glass. "What are they?"

Sitting across from me, Miss Beanstalk leans toward the window.

"They're swiftbeasts," Miss Beanstalk explains, her voice quiet with awe. "Look at their trajectory. They're heading straight toward the coordinates of the underground stream."

In the driver's seat, Miss Almond hums, sharp and satisfied, her ears tracking the sound of the galloping herd.

"Could be a jackpot," Miss Beanstalk adds with a grin. "If the wildlife is migrating there to drink, the Originium density in the water table is likely perfectly safe."

I keep my eyes on the swiftbeasts as they gallop, their hooves kicking up plumes of dust that catch the afternoon light like spun gold.

The rotting horror of the infected man we had left behind on the ridge is suddenly very far away. The dread of Catastrophes, of destruction and burning cities, the dread that has been living in my nightmares, recedes, pushed back by the sight of the creatures running free beneath the mountains.

I hear Miss Adele's soft, airy voice again.

An aching warmth blossoms in the center of my chest. Her words ring true once more.

"It is beautiful."

The vehicle crunches to a slow halt. Miss Almond cuts the engine, and the mechanical roar dies.

I step out of the cabin onto soft dirt. A few dozen meters off, the herd of swiftbeasts has gathered along a clear stream that cuts a winding, improbable path through the dry earth. They lower their fur-covered heads and drink deep. Our metal transport doesn't seem to concern them at all; they hold a calm, animal stillness.

I take a step forward without meaning to, my eyes wide.

"Don't get too close though, Lethe," Miss Beanstalk warns. She keeps her voice soft so she doesn't spook the herd, but it carries a breeder's authority. "Their kicks are no joke. They could shatter your ribs without breaking a sweat."

I stop. Then I take one step backward, very quick and very careful, my tail tucking close to my legs. I wouldn't survive a swiftbeast kick.

Miss Almond steps past us, crosses to a rocky depression a short distance from the stream, and points down into a shadowed sinkhole.

She starts pulling heavy coils of rope and carabiners from the back of the ATV.

"I'll rappel down to double confirm the water quality," Miss Almond announces.

I watch her cinch the tactical harness around her waist. The drop into the sinkhole looks dark and steep.

"Miss Almond, be safe!" I call out.

She pauses, shifting the climbing gear on her shoulder, and flashes me a smirk. "You got it."

As Miss Almond moves to the jagged edge to anchor her ropes, a hand taps my jacket.

Podenco already has her trowel and a terrarium in hand. She points to the lush patches of greenery and the moisture-loving flowers thriving along the stream bank.

"Lethe, let's collect samples," Podenco instructs, her tail swaying with academic enthusiasm.

The bank is a splash of vivid life blooming against the hard dirt.

"Okay!" I chirp.

I follow her down to the water, leaving my Kazdelian Arts Unit secured near the vehicle, eager to practice the botany lessons she had taught me in the safety of the Convalescent Garden.

The hours slip by in a methodical rhythm.

Kneeling by the water, I check the serrated edges and stems of the moisture-loving plants against the telltale signs of poison Podenco has taught me. I scoop the damp, nutrient-rich soil into clean glass vials and seal them tight. The work is tedious and my knees are coated in dry dirt, but the repetition is something to hold on to against the vastness of the barrens.

The whir of the winch breaks the quiet.

Miss Almond hauls herself up over the jagged lip of the sinkhole, her tactical harness clinking as she rolls back onto solid ground. She unclips her carabiners.

"Water's basically clean," Miss Almond announces, dusting off her gloves. "Nothing our filters can't handle."

Off to our left, Miss Franka pauses her perimeter patrol. She lowers her blade, the fading sunlight catching the dull metal. The sky above the snow-capped mountains is already darkening toward purple.

"It's getting dark," Miss Franka notes, her focus drifting from the horizon down to our muddy knees. "How's the botanical gathering?"

Podenco stands, brushing the dirt from her knee-highs. She holds up her container, the green cuttings sitting safe inside.

"My terrarium and vials are basically full," Podenco says, her citrusy presence humming with pride.

I scramble to my feet, holding up my own carefully packed glass vials to show them.

"Me too," I chime in, beaming. Not one poisonous plant picked by accident, and nothing sweet-smelling eaten off the ground.

Miss Franka gives a slow nod of approval. Her hand drops to her handheld comms device.

"I'm calling evac," Miss Franka decides as she types. "Another team can check out the secondary Originium fields. We're heading back for a hot dinner and hot shower."

My shoulders drop, and my whole body unclenches at once. The looming threat of sleeping in a flimsy canvas tent, surrounded by giant slugs and feral beasts in the pitch-black barrens, is officially off the table. No wildlife is going to try to eat my tail tonight.

We are going home.

I turn to Podenco and give her a triumphant smile. My very first logistics mission is a success.

The sky above the Columbian barrens begins to bruise, the overcast grey melting into streaks of fiery orange and twilight indigo. The vast plains stretch out and out as the sun dips below the horizon, laying long shadows across the scrubland.

I sit on the dry, cracked earth next to Podenco, my knees pulled up to my chest.

"And if you don't calibrate the calcium and Originium-mineral ratio in their feed exactly right, their carapaces get dull," Miss Beanstalk explains. She is sitting cross-legged across from us, holding one of her metal crabs up to the fading light to inspect its joints. "You really have to pay attention to the polish."

I nod along, slow and obedient, blinking hard.

I am looking right at the scurrying little critter, but my brain isn't processing a single word of the crustacean lecture. My legs still ache from the long trek to the stream, and the settling quiet of the barrens is pulling a drowsy fog over my mind.

Off to one side, Miss Almond works her way through the Castle bots' sensor arrays and securing latches, fingers quick across their chassis. Miss Franka leans against the tires of our all-terrain vehicle, arms crossed over her chest. Her posture is lazy, but her eyes keep moving, scanning the darkening horizon for scavengers or creeping sandbeasts.

Then the quiet of the plains breaks.

It starts as a thumping in the distance, rhythmic, coming up through the dry dirt beneath me. The sound builds into a bone-rattling mechanical roar as the silhouettes of the Bad Guy and the transport helicopter break over the mountain ridge.

They bank hard through the twilight sky, the VTOL's thrusters cycling down as they begin their descent.

The moment they hover over us, the downdraft hits the ground like a localized Catastrophe.

Dry dust and loose scrub kick up into a cloud I can't see through. The wind rips across the plain and slams into me. My oversized jacket turns into a parachute. The fabric billows out and peels me off the dirt, sending me across the barrens.

"Whoa!" I yelp, squeezing my eyes shut against the stinging dust.

I scramble to stay anchored, arms clamped across my chest, both hands fisted in the lapels of my jacket to hold it closed over my turtleneck. My long tail lashes against the ground, fighting to keep my center of gravity down.

The landing gear strikes the earth with an echoing thud. The engines whine down into an idling hum, and the gale begins to recede.

Hydraulics hiss in the twilight air. The ramp of the VTOL lowers and hits the dirt.

I open my eyes and brush the dust out of my bangs. Heavy boots march down the ramp in step.

I recognize the two Operators.

One is the Lupo Operator who had sat on the curved bench in the Convalescent Garden, crushed by the terror of the Catastrophe. The other had collapsed in front of me in the aftermath of Chernobog, sobbing over the squad he lost to the Reunion ambush.

I reach out before I can think about it.

The flavors that hit the back of my tongue are different now. The toxic sludge I had siphoned out of their minds is gone. The air around them tastes like dry canvas and oiled steel and earthy tea, the flavors of men steady in their work. They are healed. They stand tall, armor secure, eyes clear, ready to do their jobs.

Miss Franka pushes herself off the tire of the ATV.

"Took you boys long enough," Miss Franka drawls. She gives them a nod, lazy and respectful. "Fourteen. Zip."

They both return it.

Fourteen. Zip.

I look between the two of them, my hands coming loose from my jacket a finger at a time.

So those are their names.

Guilt twists in my chest. I had sat with them in their worst hours. I had reached into the deepest corners of their minds, swallowed their nightmares, watched them weep until they were wrung out. And in all those hours in the Convalescent Garden, they had only ever been 'the Lupo' and 'the Perro' to me. I had taken their pain and left them nameless in my own mind.

I think of Opal. Of how much it mattered to coax her name out of the freezing void, to anchor her to the world so she wouldn't disappear into the trauma. Amiya and mom always use names. They never treat the Operators like anonymous casualties.

I need to do better, I promise myself, my fingers curling into my coat. Next time I treat someone in the garden, I'm going to ask for their name before they leave.

Mr. Fourteen steps forward into the fading light, his posture crisp.

"We will secure the ATV and bots for transport," Mr. Fourteen states, his voice level over the idling hum of the engines.

Mr. Zip steps past us, his boots crunching against the dry earth.

"Get the kids some rest," Mr. Zip says, nodding to Miss Franka as he moves off to secure the perimeter.

Miss Almond doesn't follow us toward the ramp. Instead she turns toward the all-terrain vehicle, her hands already reaching for the latches.

"I'm helping," Miss Almond calls out. "The bots are expensive."

Miss Franka pauses at the base of the ramp, resting a hand on the back of her head.

"Suit yourself, Almond. Don't run to me when the cafeteria is out of apple wedges."

Miss Almond doesn't look back, already marching toward the suspension cables of the transport helicopter. "Save some for me!" she shouts over her shoulder, her voice carrying over the idling engines. "No onions!"

I adjust the strap of my bag, my fingers gripping my Arts Unit. Miss Beanstalk walks up the ramp first, her metal crabs packed away for the flight. Podenco and I follow behind, trailing after Miss Franka as we step back into the dark, vibrating cabin of the Bad Guy.

The moment my body hits the bench, the exhaustion of the day catches up with me. I'm hollowed out, trembling with a dull ache.

I stretch until my arms reach high above my head, and a yawn cracks my jaw open. My horns come within a hair of scraping the paint of the cabin, and my tail falls limp against the floorboards.

I slump sideways and let my head rest against Podenco's shoulder. The citrus of her is a comfort—an anchor against the mechanical roar of the aircraft. My eyelids flutter and start weighing a thousand kilograms as the adrenaline of my very first logistics mission drains out of my blood.

"Podenco…" I mumble, my voice slurring into her jacket. "Wake me up… when mom allows me to eat cakes again…"

She doesn't. I write this up the next morning with the engine noise still sitting in my teeth.