Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Applause used to echo through the gymnasium, shoes spiking, buzzers, and cheer. Now it echoes hushed murmurs, fans whirring, and machines beeping through the tense atmosphere as it keeps the weak alive. The gymnasium now housed rows of makeshift cots, emergency tents, thin mattresses, and playmats. The air reeked of must, bleach, antiseptic, and something metallic.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A six year old stoat sits cross-legged on a sleeping bag with her shoulders tense, running a small plastic comb through a stuffed animal with singed long fur. Her fingers move slowly with the “tangled” strands, like if she does it gently enough, she could undo the melted synthetic fur.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Behind her, her mother stares at the repurposed LED screen as it stayed idle on the last released statement from the SMILE Headquarters, silently wishing something new would show up as she mindlessly folds a sweater that doesn’t belong to her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Across the room, a cluster of older toykins play a card game with torn pieces of cereal boxes. Their laughter doesn’t quite reach their eyes, one of them has bandages wrapped around his jaw, another keeps staring at the boarded up window to the gymnasium’s storage room before snapping out of it and playing a turn.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ On one cot, a teenage lemur with a makeshift sling clutches a tablet with her good paw, flipping back and forth between a broken headline feed and a blurry image of SMILE operatives and resting victims. She zooms in on the fallen’s faces, trying to find if one of them were familiar, she hopes not. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ An antelope with broken horns on the highest bleachers lies on his side, curling into the fetal position as his hoof held a cracked picture frame upright. His blank eyes stay on a doe with three kids, their smiling faces slowly fading from the water damage.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A white raven’s radio crackles in the background as she lays still on the stretcher. It blared old stations with static almost muffling it out, songs played randomly and pre-recorded advertisements sang. Not many reports have been coming through lately.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Volunteers in blue armbands pass through the rows, offering cups of reheated broth. Most are accepted, a few are waved off to be given to the children.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A wall of photos are stapled near the main entrance, it isn’t organised, not neat. Just stapled and taped, overlapping, and curling at the edges. Most were memorabilia forced to be given up just to be slapped onto a piece of cardboard with words scribbled with dry markers. Some lost its original ink and colour, dripping, staining the one below.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A bunny runs across the floor, cackling too loud as he watches his plastic cape blow behind him from his speed, a puma stopped and hushed him, he was too loud. The bunny opened his mouth to whine but the stares that pricked his fur made him quiet.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ An elderly quokka knits by the heater, her hands working on autopilot as she hummed something soft and old for the tired wombat who glared at the air for being too airy. He grumbled, “my head is killing me.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The quokka hums, tugging on the yarn slightly. “It’ll feel better if you slept, dear.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No.” The wombat’s eyebrows furrow. “Not until… I know we’re safe.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Two volunteers stood a few steps away from the slightly open entrance of the gymnasium, one fidgeting with their blue armband, eyes flickering to the broken outside world before going back to where their friends and family were sheltered. “It’s… weird.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “What’s weird?” A labrador looks up from where she crouched by the door, scratching at an itch on her ankle. The bumblebee sighed, wings fluttering a bit from their unease. “I just… you know, we haven’t got reports… The SMILE people are helping, it's just that they don’t tell us anything.” They sighed, rubbing their tired eyes.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I mean- I know that they’ve done a lot for us and I’m grateful but I just want to know why it's been so quiet. It's too eerie-”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The bee looked back out and her voice snuffed out quickly, the glimmer of an orange-yellow hovercraft with SMILE mobiles following it made her pause. The labrador almost shot up from excitement, her tail wagging fast. “Oh my god- it’s- that’s DogDay’s hover mobile!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The hovercraft landed with a soft thrum of displaced air, kicking up dust and a few loose flyers from the cracked sidewalk. Its sleek, compact design gleamed under the ashen sky, the SMILE emblem pulsing faintly on its side; a bright, hopeful grin against a tired world.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The labrador practically bounced where she stood, her voice hushed but buzzing with excitement. “That’s really him! DogDay’s here! I didn’t think he’d come to this zone!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The bumblebee reached out quickly, catching her by the arm. “Easy, Dee. Don’t crowd them, okay? They’re probably—”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hover doors hissed open. The SMILE operatives stepped out first, their muted uniforms contrasting the emotional stir they always caused, reflective yellow stripes shining like it glowed under the dull light.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Then he emerged.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay, tall and broad-shouldered in his armor, scanning the area with that focused stare of his. Not cold, but assessing. The kind that made people straighten their backs, even if they weren’t sure why.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He wasn’t smiling, not like on the posters. His features were drawn tight, fatigue tucked around his eyes like shadows, ears low with tension. But there was a presence to him; warm, heavy, reliable. The kind of presence that made the ground feel steadier just by standing near him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The labrador’s tail wagged hard enough to thump the wall.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Beside DogDay, Bobby Bearhug jumped down from the back of the craft. Towering, muscular, her fur tied back in a practical braid, she was unmistakable even without the big red heart on her gear. She immediately began unloading supplies, arms full of large medical kits as if they were pillows.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ On the bigger aircraft, PickyPiggy opened up the entrance, the door slanting into a ramp. She begins commanding the onboard personnel to move the crates out and into the centre. “O’leah! Let the cooks go first and then you lot trail behind!” She pats the back of one of the critters that lifted the portable kitchen parts.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay scanned the two of them before offering a soft nod, watching them stand up and inch closer as the SMILE people moved around them as if DogDay was the one rock that blocked the waters.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You two the volunteers on outside watch?” His voice was rougher than expected, not cold, but not at all like the voice they heard from the canine last time.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Y-Yes, sir,” the bumblebee said quickly, straightening up under his gaze. “We’ve kept the entrance clear. Inside’s stable. Rations are still decent, but... some of the victims aren’t waking up when they should.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “We didn’t know if it was stress or something else,” added the Labrador, her voice cracking with excitement when DogDay’s eyes looked over. “But we’ve kept logs! We’ve got them ready- if you want them- I mean, if you need—!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay’s tired gaze softened just slightly, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth as he spoke to her directly. “Thanks, pup. That means a lot.” The Labrador visibly melted, her tail thumping even harder behind her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He turned, signaling to the SMILE team in black gear. “Go around, check every corner, every hall for any stragglers or smoke. Bobby’s going to assess the downed victims. Picky’s with me on supply.” As the operatives moved around the building, DogDay lingered a moment longer.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I know it’s been quiet,” he said, addressing both of them now. “That’s not a bad thing. Ever since they stopped, we found… a lot of things we couldn’t uncover under the smoke.” The bee and the lab exchanged a glance.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay gave a final nod. “We’ll take it from here. Get some water, alright?” He stepped toward the doors, where Bobby’s broad form waited, flanked by PickyPiggy sorting a box of nutrient packs on a trolley.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They entered the gym and the two volunteers stood in silence for a moment longer, the Labrador still beaming, the bee chewing her lip.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “…He looked really tired,” the bee whispered.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I know,” the lab whispered back, quieter now. “But… he still came here.”




‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The gymnasium doors groaned faintly as they opened wider, a sound that cut through the lull of soft murmurs, slow breathing, and the occasional clink of metal from the makeshift food corner. The air, thick with heater warmth and the scent of wet blankets, seemed to still. And then the sound of wheels and too many footsteps.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎On a cot near the far left wall, the wombat blinked away the sleep that threatened to take him. His leg was wrapped up tight, too tight, maybe, but no one had dared undo it. He tried to shift and grimaced, shoulder aching like it had been ground through glass. Still, he squinted across the gym, eyes tracking the silhouettes entering.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Near the heater, the elderly quokka in a hand-knit shawl looked up from her yarnwork. Her needles paused mid-click. ‎“You seein’ what I’m seein’, Ern?” she rasped without turning.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The wombat snorted softly. “Unless I’ve gone fully delirious, yeah.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Bearhug entered first, ducking just slightly under the frame even though the doors were tall enough. She was bigger than most of the critters here, muscle wrapped in calm, warmth trailing in her steps. She didn’t look like the hero in the faded posters, not with her without the gear and in a shirt still faintly smudged with blood and unknown stains. Her eyes scanned the room sharply, already tallying the weak and the asleep.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Behind her came PickyPiggy, tugging a crate on wheels, muttering something under her breath as she checked it. She was already veering toward the makeshift kitchen corner that expanded thanks to their portable kitchen, making a beeline for the food prep volunteers.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Then came DogDay.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The quokka let out a soft hum. Not surprised. Not excited. Something gentler. “Told you he’d come.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The wombat shifted again, jaw clenching. “Too late for some.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎DogDay’s gaze passed through the room after lingering on the wall of missing people for a beat too long, not with the weight of command, but with a heaviness that dragged. He sees everything, feels it and hears it as clear as day. Every cough. Every curled-up child. Every person watching him like he might say it’s all over, like he might say it’s not. Every single eye that sparked with a bit of hope when they saw him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Some of the SMILE operatives fanned out and went towards everyone, some already scanning vitals on the unconscious evacuees, others speaking softly to volunteers. There was a ripple in the room. Not panic. Not relief. That middle thing; hope, buried under disbelief.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The quokka resumed knitting slowly. “They’re not miracle workers, y’know.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The wombat’s mouth twitched. “Tell that to the kid who’s been unconscious for three days. If Bobby so much as touches her, I swear she’ll sit up and ask for porridge.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎They shared a rough, tired laugh. DogDay knelt beside an old mastiff missing half his fur and murmured something that made the mastiff cover his eyes and cry, DogDay leaned in but hesitated. Bobby was crouching by one of the far cots, hand warm on a feverish brow. Picky was giving instructions to a teen handling the soup ladle.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎DogDay was soon making his way past the row of cots, steps even but slower than usual, like his boots had picked up more than just dirt out there and he didn’t want to track it all over the place. The dome of his helmet gleamed faintly in the light, visor retracted so the room could see his face. Tired. Focused. A little gaunt around the eyes, like rest had become a fleeting memory.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Pardon me, sweetie,” the elderly quokka said, her voice a little louder now, soft but certain, “DogDay, dear, if you’ve got a second for an old lady and her grumpy neighbor?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He slowed down, turned. Not sharply but like a clock hand ticking back to the center. His gaze met hers, and something in his expression untensed. Just a bit. He approached, kneeling without hesitation despite the stiffness in his frame. “Ma’am,” he greeted, voice like honey left in the cold. “Didn’t mean to miss you. You need anything?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Nothing for me,” she said, holding up her hand. Her yarn had been tucked into a small pouch — a half-finished project still dangling from the side — but what she held out was already done.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A circular knit badge. The sky blue yarn was a bit darkened by being dropped one too many times, yellow and orange yarn knitted like a sun, a tail curling around it in the same hue as his fur.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎DogDay stared at it for a second, then took it delicately. His thumb brushed over the stitches. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “I don’t think anyone’s ever made me anything like this.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Not even a lil card written with crayon?” she teased.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He huffed a brief laugh. “Maybe. But I was never good at keeping things safe anyway.” That left a bitter taste on his tongue. Lavender…

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“You’re here now, though.” She patted the side of his arm. “That’s safe enough for a lot of us.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Beside them, Ern shifted with a groan. His voice was a little raspy, but sharp. “Yeah, yeah, we’re all moved by your humble hero act, but maybe you could let us in on what’s actually going on? Everyone’s tight-lipped out there and the board’s not moving.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎DogDay glanced over. No flash of offense, no frustration. Just that same visible sorting of thoughts before he spoke.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Your sector, six, has been cleared,” he said gently. “That’s why it’s quiet. No movement, no sound. SMILE confirmed it this morning. We had to be sure before sending support in.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ern frowned. “You mean... gone quiet, like ‘safe quiet’? Or gone quiet like ‘nothing left to make noise’?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A pause. A shift in DogDay’s jaw. “We’re still determining that.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The quokka nodded, as she’d expected. “Well, as long as we’re still breathing and you lot are still walking with us, I figure it’s not all over.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“... Yeah.” DogDay agreed. He looked at the knit badge again, then clipped it to the strap around his torso, nearest to the collar. A flash of the sun against dulled gear. “Thank you. Both of you. For holding on.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He stood slowly, offering a subtle nod. The badge shifted as he moved, a tiny, hopeful shape clinging to a tired frame. As he walked on, Ern let out a breath and sank a little deeper into his cot. “Still don’t trust him not to burn out.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“You’re just mad he’s got a better jawline than you,” the quokka teased, resuming her knitting with a smile.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ern grunted. “Hey, I had a great jawline before that second-floor beam got friendly with it.”





‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Further down the gymnasium, the sharp smell of antiseptic mingled with sweat and heater-dried air. Cots formed a patchwork of exhaustion, some held curled-up bodies under thin blankets, others were empty but for bags or folded towels. At the far end, Bobby knelt beside a younger kangaroo lady, her brow slick with fever-sweat, her lips cracked despite the water bottle tucked beside her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The evacuee blinked slowly, murmuring something incoherent. Her eyes didn’t quite focus. Bobby shifted closer, one gentle paw resting on the girl’s shoulder, the other holding a small squeeze packet of electrolyte gel.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Hey, sunshine,” Bobby murmured, voice a low rumble softened by concern. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Here, let’s try a little of this, okay?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She guided the gel toward the kangaroo’s mouth, patient as the woman weakly turned her head. Bobby didn’t press, just waited for her, breathing slowly and steady. Eventually, the girl accepted it. Not all of it, but enough to ease the tight line of her throat.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“You’re safe,” Bobby said again. “You’re in the shelter. You made it.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The evacuee’s voice was dry and shaking. “I… thought I was still in the stairwell…”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“I know. It felt like it didn’t end, huh?” Bobby kept her hand steady, rubbing slow circles on the kangaroo’s back as she sat more upright. “But you’re not there anymore. You’re with us. SMILE’s here. DogDay’s already moving through with the team.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The name seemed to bring some clarity, even if it was faint. The evacuee’s shoulders shook once— a little sob? A laugh? Maybe both.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Bobby adjusted the blanket around her. “You’re gonna need to rest, but I’ve got a warm drink coming soon, alright? Picky’s putting something on for those who can hold down food.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎There was a pause, and then, with the one of someone who hoped too many times, “You’re real?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Bobby smiled, a soft, tired thing. She took the girl’s hand, pressing it gently to her own cheek, where the fur was warm. “Real as it gets. And real people don’t vanish, so I’ll still be right here when you wake up properly.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎From behind her, one of the younger SMILE medics— a fox in a tactical vest —approached with a clipboard. “Bobby? We’ve got a few more coming in from the east side. Looks like dehydration and one possible concussion.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Bobby nodded and turned back to the girl. “That’s my cue. You’re in good hands. Promise.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She stood slowly, stretching her back. Her hair was up in a loose, messy bun, held back by a clip shaped like a daisy. It was a little silly. She knew that, but the kid who’d given it to her was safe in this gym now, and she liked these precious little gifts.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎In the farthest corner, it had been repurposed into a food station. Folding tables lined with crates of rations, old lunch trays, and emergency burners gave the space a strange air of a school cafeteria and war tent combined. And at the center of it, PickyPiggy stirred a pot with a wooden spoon thicker than most wrists.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Steam lifted in lazy curls from the bubbling broth, a mishmash of lentils, chopped root vegetables, and seasoning packets scrounged from old supply bins. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm, and more importantly, it didn’t taste like the fear in the air.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Not yet,” Picky muttered under her breath, wagging the spoon at a squirrel teen who leaned over the counter a little too eagerly. “You try to sneak a ladle early, and you’ll lose that whisker to my tongs, kid.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The squirrel laughed nervously, backing off with a grin. “Y-Yes ma’am.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She winked. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A few others chuckled nearby, loosening the knot of tension in their chests. It was always like that with Picky. Her sharp tongue was more of a knife through dread than anything else. And she made sure the food came with it; something warm, chewable, maybe even a little sweet if she could manage it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Alright,” she called out, voice slicing through the ambient noise with ease, “first round’s almost ready! If you’ve got little ones or brittle bones, you’re up first. Don’t make me sort you by knee creaks.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She turned her back to the pot, grabbing a worn apron from a nail on the wall and tying it around her waist with practiced ease. The fabric was stained, patched, and embroidered with a single line of cross-stitched text along the hem: Whatever happens, we’re eating it!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Behind her, one of the younger volunteers approached, sheepishly holding out a mismatched pile of bowls. “We— uh- we found more under the folding tables. Figured you’d want them clean?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Picky took them, eyeing the grime. “Good eye. You got dish soap?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“…We got a hose and some salt.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“Good enough.” She passed the pot off to another SMILE operative— a stocky pangolin who looked terrified of messing it up —then marched toward the cleaning area like she was heading into a street fight.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“You know,” someone muttered near the benches, “I always figured SMILE types just shot things. But she’s… I mean, she’s really doing this.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Another voice, an older deer in a knitted shawl, nodded sagely. “PickyPiggy only hits folks who try to take from the vulnerable. The rest of us? She feeds.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎At that moment, as if summoned by their words, Picky turned her head back with a playful scowl. “I can hear you,” she said, pointing a ladle back at them. “Talk louder if you’re gonna give me a compliment. I wanna savor it!”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The light from their shoulder-mounted lamps cut thin, crisscrossing beams through the scorched hallway beside the gym. The further they moved from the main area, the more the smell changed; sweat and old food giving way to wet ash and something faintly metallic.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Their boots crunched over shattered tiles and debris. What might have once been the school’s locker rooms or pool wing had collapsed inward, ceiling beams now bowed like the ribs of a dead animal.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Operative Vale, a black-footed ferret with a tech scanner slung across her chest, adjusted her grip on her sidearm. “This place was hit hard.” She ducked under a hanging beam, voice tinny under her filtered helmet. “At least the gym’s not as shat on.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Not as bad as Zone 9,” muttered her partner, a wolf named Juno, who kept a steady rhythm with his footfalls. “At least this one didn’t stink of copper and rot. Remember the walls back there? Breathing.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vale made a face behind her visor. “God. Don’t remind me.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The third in their team, a grey tabby named Mez, knelt down near the edge of a scorched cot left overturned near an exit. “Signs of panic,” he murmured. “No blood. They got out clean, or—”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Or they vanished,” Vale finished.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Silence followed for a breath. The kind where everyone tried not to listen to the thoughts crawling around the edges of their minds.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A flicker of red from her scanner drew Vale’s eye. Static, gone before it resolved. She gave the screen a gentle thump. “Something flared for a second. Corner of the collapsed hallway.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The trio moved as one; disciplined, cautious, ready. As they passed under the broken banner of a school motto with a familiar cyan elephant on it— Work Hard, Dream Big! —the air grew colder. A silence pressed against them, deeper than the ordinary quiet.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And Juno asked, unprompted: “Why didn’t the Prototype hit evac centers?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Mez snorted. “What, like you want him to?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No, I mean— think about it. The labs, the roads, the towers, yeah. But evac centers? Public shelters? Nothing. Even when they were lit up on the grid.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vale paused, the beam of her light catching a child’s drawing half-crumpled beneath a pile of insulation. Crayon streaks showed three figures holding hands. One of them had an orange cape. “He could’ve leveled this place like a tin can.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “But he didn’t.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They stopped. The gym door stood just ahead, but this wing of it— the collapsed side —was twisted and rusted shut, unreachable. It felt cut off. On purpose.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Mez straightened, lifting his scanner again. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But I’d rather chase ghosts.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They turned back toward the main gym, heavy boots echoing in ruined silence. None of them noticed the red fur that was watching them behind a pile of rubble disappear. The path back to the gym wasn’t long, but their nerves made it stretch. “I still don’t trust it,” Mez finally muttered, pushing aside a dangling strip of tarp fluttering against a warped door frame.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Trust what?” Juno asked, eyes flickering to a cracked wall.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “CatNap.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vale let out a soft sigh. “You’re still stuck on him?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Are you not?!” Mez turned his scanner toward the ground again, slower now. “That freak gassed four bunkers in a week. Fucker wasn’t even subtle about it either, walked in, yawned, and just released it. Like it was- it was pesticide!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “And always left the doors open on his way out,” Juno added bitterly. “Spreading the gas more.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vale’s face was unreadable through the helmet. “We lost volunteers in those attacks. And he never— he didn’t even try to finish off the rest. Just hit fast, made them panic, then left.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Like he was testing something,” Mez muttered. “Or scaring us.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The hallway narrowed again as they passed by a sealed stairwell. Pipes twisted like roots along the corners. The static hum of the scanner broke the quiet every few seconds.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “And then one day,” Juno continued, scoffing a bit, “he just walks- straight into the Containment Room. Doesn’t resist. Doesn’t talk. Just curls up on the floor.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Didn’t even look at us,” Vale added. “He hasn’t moved since.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Quiet returned again, heavier this time. It filled the corners between their thoughts, letting old memories brush the edges. The way evac centers emptied without warning. The quiet sobbing from children when the red smoke thinned. The sound of claws against metal.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I don’t know,” Mez finally admitted. “Maybe he’s not working with the Prototype anymore. Maybe he just got tired.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Or maybe the Prototype doesn't need him now,” Juno said. “Maybe he’s already done what he was meant to.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vale's scanner gave a quick beep, all clear. She looked toward the main doors ahead, where light spilled from under the gymnasium’s plastic seal. “Or he’s useless now.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Either way,” she sighed, “I don’t want to be here if he wakes up hungry.”

✿

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The training yard was quiet, all golden light and long shadows cast by the modular foam structures standing like mismatched buildings. They were repurposed from older obstacle courses, padded for safety but still massive, monolithic, meant to simulate the weight of real-world ruins. Beyond the synthetic skyline of blue and grey foam, the sun crept up slowly and bright, catching on every edge, every contour, until the grounds looked like they’d been dipped in honey.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay stood near the center tower, fur already clinging to the sheen of exertion, chest rising in steady breaths. The others had wrapped their drills three hours ago, leaving only him and CatNap.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The purple feline moved with an elegance DogDay would never admit aloud was mesmerizing. His paws were soft even when they landed hard, his tail flicking behind him like a slow metronome, keeping time not just with the rhythm of their mock-fight, but with DogDay’s heartbeat.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Soft constellations shimmered faintly on CatNap’s coat despite the morning light, the magic in him never fully dimming. He didn’t move like a hero, didn’t move like how they trained them to. He moved like something that danced with silence and shadows long before he was under SMILE’s hands.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay lunged forward again, claws dulled by full training gloves, and was met with a sidestep so effortless it almost annoyed him. CatNap blinked at him lazily and slowly. His eyes, onyx with sharp crescent highlights, followed DogDay even as he pivoted behind the foam wall.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I can hear your breathing,” CatNap said, voice smooth and steady. “You need to stop holding it when you leap.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay grunted, crouching behind the corner, using the beaten up riot shield to spot that purple figure. “I hold it so I don’t accidentally groan when you dodge like a slippery eel.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There, a twitch of a smile. Barely there, just tugging at the edges of CatNap’s normally stoic mouth, but enough to be real. He never talked much, if he did, he’d be using sign language – so whenever he talked to Dogday, he had to beat up his excitement from extending to his tail whenever he heard that sweet lullaby.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That was the thing about CatNap. He didn’t give much. Not like CraftyCorn with her wonder, Bobby with her endless praise, or Bubba with his warmth, or even KickinChicken with his high-fives and cheers. CatNap's approval was rare— like a coin minted only once every few weeks —and DogDay had started to crave it in the silence.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Because when CatNap smiled, truly smiled, it felt earned. Like you’d passed a test you hadn’t even known you were taking.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And for reasons DogDay never examined too closely… he liked being the one to make him do that.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I saw that!” DogDay said now, stepping out with a mock swing that stopped inches from CatNap’s side. “You smirked. So much for being “mister stone face”.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I didn’t.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You did.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I didn’t,” CatNap said again, tail curling lashing out behind him like a whip as his eyes briefly flickered away before finding their way back to the canine. “But even if I had… you still can’t land a proper hit.” The corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You’re doing it agai- wha- Hey!” DogDay barked with exaggerated offense, brows furrowing and chest puffing.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “C’mon, dear sun, are you really just all bark and no bite?” CatNap hummed, ears tilting as he hops back, tail reaching and helping himself onto a higher surface. “Must you present the same as the chief?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He glanced at the structures around, paw patting it for a solid surface before attempting to reach the cat. “Well—” grunt “---it’s not like I’m as uptight or grizzly! I’m just- Woah!” The foam wall sank under his weight, dipping inward like a sponge.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You’re just loud,” the feline offered smoothly, watching the leader struggle beneath. “And too eager.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s not a flaw!” DogDay barked, chest rising with half-laugh and half-grunt as he scrambled again. “Eager- means determined.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Eager means reckless.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay paused, grip and balance steady but his ears twitched forward. His natural smile downturned a little, his sun pendant dimmed just a touch as if it was hesitating. CatNap watched him as he slowly sank, head tilting. “You’re trying too hard.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I’m training.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No.” CatNap said a little more sharply. “You’re mimicking.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The foam gave even more under DogDay’s knee, he wobbled but didn’t hop off. He’d spent too long copying the chief by then, his step, his tone, the way he folded his arms and cocked his head during critiques. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And for what? Praise that came dry as dust and twice as cutting? He still remembered the first time Grizzle said he was “finally shaping up.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay spots the purple tail brushing against his nose before offering itself like a rope, the lavender scent immediately hugging his heart. He smiled a little, gently holding it as it slid around his waist. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You think I’m trying to be like him?” He muttered as CatNap helped him up to the ledge he stood on, looking out to the fake city block training grounds elongated by holograms and digital displays.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You always tense up after his evaluations.” CatNap hummed. “You started barking more, commanding like you’re ordering an army.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s what leaders do.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s what he does.” CatNap’s ear flicked in slight irritation.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay’s lips pulled back, not in anger, maybe doubt. “He made us.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Doesn’t mean we have to fit the same mold.” The feline whispered.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They sat in the hush after that, DogDay couldn’t reply. So they just look out at the fake field, scattered buildings, climbing walls, light towers, all bathed in the soft blue hue. It was their playground, their battlefield, their home, and their cage.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ CatNap didn’t push it, he rarely ever did, just sat beside him with his tail loosely looping at his side.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I envy you, you know.” DogDay said after a while.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The feline blinked, turning his head just enough to glance at him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You don’t need praise,” the spaniel went on, the faintest edge of weariness curling in his tone. “You don’t chase it. I feel like I’m made of paper sometimes, waiting for someone else to… I dunno, write me right.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ CatNap was quiet for a long stretch, not that DogDay noticed how long it truly was. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You think I never chased anythi-” “Wrap it up, you two.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Chief Grizzle’s voice came over the overhead speakers, making CatNap pin his ears down against his skull as his fur stood on edge. Sighing as he forces them down, watching as DogDay’s posture straightens up immediately. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Five minutes, debriefing room”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay moved, CatNap frowned.

✿

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The industrial lights hummed, shining against the cots and cobbled-together shelters that filled the space. Small conversations stirred from one corner to another, often hushed, always wary. The scent of hot food still lingered in the air, a welcome distraction from the unease that crept like a second shadow.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ PickyPiggy had just finished overseeing the last of the food prep. Her apron was stained, but her expression was content as she watched the volunteers, a young goose and a stooped mouse, begin handing out bowls of steaming soup to the evacuees. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her work done, she wiped her hooves clean and ambled across the gym toward where Bobby Bearhug and DogDay stood near a stack of medical crates and emergency supply bins.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay’s attention was on the digital tablet in his paw, brows pinched as he read over the latest perimeter scan. His usual warm posture had grown stiff with strain. Bobby stood beside him with her arms crossed, not looking at the screen, but rather at the evacuees huddled along the far wall. Something in her silence felt more weighted than usual.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ As the dog fiddled with the tablet, Bobby softly cleared her throat, shifting slightly. She clears her throat louder. DogDay glanced up briefly, ears twitching, then went right back to focusing on the screen. “You need something?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Just checking in.” Bobby hummed, watching as his eyes stayed glued on the tablet, jaw working. “You’re… running yourself thin.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I’m fine.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You’re not.” She tilted her head. “You know you can take a break right? Just for an hour or… five?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay looked at her, brow fighting to stay relaxed rather than furrowed. “Bobby… We’ve got half a district displaced, things crawling through sectors, and a cat in our containment block who can just break the glass whenever he wants. I don’t have the luxury of ‘taking a break’.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She didn’t flinch at his tone, she could hear his exhaustion mixing with stress. “Mhm, and you’re tiring yourself out even more by bending yourself into knots to fit Chief Grizzle’s every order and expectations. Don’t think we haven’t noticed-”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “This isn’t about him.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “It is about him.” Bobby frowns a bit, “You’re running on fumes. You don’t even see it- or maybe you do and you just don’t care.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The tablet is lowered against his side, “That’s leadership, Bobby. You think it’s supposed to be easy?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No, of course not.” Her tone sharpened. “But it’s not supposed to grind you down until you’re a shell either.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His snout scrunches up. “You think I can just- walk away? You think I can tell him no when he—”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Maybe you should.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The words landed heavier than she meant, DogDay’s pendant dimmed slightly, his grip on the tablet tightening until the casing creaked. “You don’t understand. He made us. He made me. Without him-”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Without him, you’d still be here. Maybe you’d actually breathe for once.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s not what I-”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Hey so the kitchen is up again. They’ll need some help handing out but everyone’s calmer now.” PickyPiggy’s voice cut through as she walked over, patting her shirt as if to get rid of any dust or smell that clung to her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby exhaled, unclenching her jaw and DogDay swallowed his words. Picky pressed a packet into the bear’s paws. “Here, energy bars for both of you.” She said, blissfully ignoring the weight in the air. “Eat, or keel over if you don’t, be my guest.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Picky filled the space beside Bobby as she carefully (and hesitantly) opened the packet and handed one towards the dog. A few seconds passed before DogDay took it from her paw.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They stood together for a moment, the warmth of the evacuees eating properly doing little to thaw the chill that had settled between them. From the far corner of the gym, just loud enough to be heard over the soft clatter of bowls and rustle of blankets, a voice drifted across the room.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I saw him last night. Out near the tree line.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It was a young evacuee— a raccoon child, wrapped in a blanket too large for their frame —speaking in a hush to an older hare who sat beside them.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “He was glowing,” the child added, eyes wide with certainty, one arm flying out. “Stars all over him. He looked at me!”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The older hare shook his head gently. “You were dreaming, sweetheart. Just a dream.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Picky’s ears twitched slightly. Bobby’s eyes narrowed.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “More ghost stories,” DogDay muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. “They’ve been popping up since they stopped attacking.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “They’re scared,” Bobby murmured. Her tone was flat, almost distant. “They’ve got every right to be.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He glanced over at her. She wasn’t looking at him. She hadn’t really looked at anyone since they arrived. Picky leaned one shoulder against the wall beside them, arms folding over her chest. “They think it’s him,” she said plainly.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby exhaled slowly, the breath shaky at the end. “He’s in containment.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It came out firmer than she meant it to be. She didn’t repeat it.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The silence that followed sat between them like a wedge.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The truth was, she hadn’t been herself since last night, not since the dream.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She hadn’t told anyone. Not DogDay, not Picky, not even Hoppy who was there when she opened her eyes. But it clung to her still, refusing to fade like dreams were supposed to.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the dream, CatNap had been young; smaller, still soft around the face with fur not yet marred by age or war. But his eyes had been wide with terror, filled with something she couldn’t unsee. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He was trembling, barely able to stay upright, and his deep violet fur was slicked and heavy with blood. It wasn’t his. She knew that instinctively. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He had looked at her through the fog of the dream, desperation etched into every fragile breath.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Help me,” he had begged, the words rasping out of him like glass being dragged across jagged stone.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His voice had sounded strangled, barely alive, as if something inside his throat had been crushed and reassembled wrong. His paws trembled as he reached for her, eyes pleading, voice cracking again as he tried to walk towards her, legs moving like they barely held him anymore.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Please, Bobby… save me…”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Then the ground shifted beneath them and the darkness surged in, CatNap cried out— and she woke up gasping, drenched in cold sweat, her hands gripping the edge of her bed so hard her claws had left grooves in the wood.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Now, standing beside her team in a gymnasium filled with survivors and soft-spoken rumors, the echo of that dream lingered like smoke in her lungs.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Across the room, the child whispered one last time.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “He looked sad…”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bubba stared at the floating screens separate from his main desk, picking out screenshots of surveillance footage within the confines of the containment chamber to place on the document he had on the cat. The photos show CatNap from his first day within SMILE walls ever since the war all the way up to recently.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ As he stared at each while fixing them to their respective places within the digital document, he noticed something. Pausing, he re-opens the files and arranges them side by side, messing with image settings to fix and brighten it up. He noticed something.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ At first he thought it was a trick of the light, a distortion from the camera itself. Though, the longer he stared, the more certain he became. The leather collar, that was issued to them by SMILE way back when, was pulled to the tightest it could be and wrapped around his neck twice. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Turning to the main console, he opened the surveillance footage he saved before the brass-issued security cameras wiped their own memories again. Looking closely at CatNap's neck ever since he surrendered before the headquarters.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The collar was the same as it is right now, but comparing it to the footage he had of CatNap during the war, the collar was loose. Catnap right now was breathing so slowly that if you were to view him live, he'd look like he wasn't breathing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Was this another way of punishing himself? That was the first thought in Bubba's brain, assuming that he did it to himself, or maybe was it from the prototype? Bleeding out gallons of blood was one thing, restricting his airpipes is another.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Maybe this was the cause of CatNap's lethargy, his silence, not that he talked a lot before anyway.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Whatever it was, they missed this detail. Not because they weren't clever, but because they didn't want to look too closely anymore. DogDay had sworn off visiting the containment area, Bobby covers her unease with warmth and comforting others rather than letting herself feel, Crafty buried herself in distractions, and the others didn't dare approach the glass again.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ So it fell to him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It's not that he forgives CatNap, he didn't, he's just doing this so he can understand what happened to the bright and healthy moon cat they all once knew… and if the things the professor did to CatNap was related to it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He reached towards the comms.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A shrill tone sliced through the faint hum of machinery and monitors, his gaze snapped to the holographic screen that popped up and flashing red. A glowing string of reports scrolled across it: Zone 7B Breach, possible remnant activity, active red gassing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Damn it.” Bubba huffed, shifting from observer to strategist, the part of him that always belonged to SMILE. Overriding the part that cares about the fact that CatNap had been suffocating himself.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The collar. The pendant. The slow-breathing feline… He shoved all of those thoughts into a locked corner of his busy mind. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Later.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It would have to be later.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Duty demanded priority and duty did not care about the cat in containment.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A sharp ping pierced the static-laced air, shrill and immediate, slicing through the quiet tension like a blade. DogDay’s paw flew to his communicator before the second alert could even chirp. The small screen blinks red, a containment breach warning flaring like a wound in the center of the map display.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Zone 7B. The ridge-side evacuation quarter.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ His heart dropped.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That zone had been the first to be declared secure weeks after the silence from the attackers, last time he checked, they were just starting to re-build the areas out of the evacuation centre. Bringing back normalcy.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Kickin, Hoppy, Crafty— check in!” DogDay barked, already switching channels as he turned toward the side exit of the gym, tension etched deep into the lines of his face as he ignored the alerted faces of the evacuees. “Zone 7B, Red smoke breach. I repeat— zone seven beta is compromised.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The static hissed for only a second before a voice crackled back; smooth, cocky, a little too calm for the situation.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Copy that, big boss. Already in the sky.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Wind howled through the communicator, static interwoven with the quiet yet sharp sound of reinforced wings cutting through the wind. Then came the sound of KickinChicken’s voice, low, cool, but clipped with urgency.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I see smoke— lotta red, southwest end. We’re five minutes out.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay pressed his free hand to the wall for balance, steadying himself as his mind calculated a dozen scenarios at once. He zoomed in on the scan. A flare of motion in a town already emptied.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “We’re seeing it too,” Crafty’s voice filtered in, measured, calm, but with a tremor just beneath. “Evac tents are overturned. Doesn’t look like a struggle, but something… spooked them. The air’s too quiet.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Confirmed,” Kickin called from above, angling into a descending spiral. “I’m dropping in. Visual scan’s incomplete from up here, can’t make out any movement inside the main shelter or around it. Deploying personnel to check the surrounding area.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Go fast,” Hoppy breathed, pushing herself into a blur as she darted to the fence, slipping through a gap in the wire without so much as a rustle. “If they’re still in there…”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Then we get them out.” Kickin flared his wings wide, slowing his descent as pods darted past him and towards the centre. The red smoke hung thick over the perimeter, curling like long fingers around the doorframe of the makeshift shelter ahead. It pulsed faintly, like it knew it was being watched.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ From above, the town looked like a spilled chessboard; rows of broken houses, rooftops half-swallowed by overgrown ivy, windows blank as eyes. KickinChicken soared high over it all, the metal planes of his geared-up wings catching the orange light of the sun like flames dancing. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He could see Hoppy, already a blur of green and yellow below, zigzagging through the street grids with a grace that made her look like lightning given legs. A flicker of white and blue to his right marked Craftycorn's silhouette, already weaving her way up through the hollow wreckage of what used to be a town square.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin angled his wings, letting himself fall into a swift, spiraling descent. The smoke curled thickly near the edge— red, angry, and low to the ground. It poured out of a shattered structure like the breath of something rotten. The stink of it caught in his throat even from this high up.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Landing hard enough to crack dust from the pavement, Kickin clenched his fists. “Let’s not make this another name on those lists.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Behind him, Hoppy was already sliding a mask over her nose, goggles lowered into place. “Agreed.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty’s horn gave off a faint shimmer as she summoned a barrier spell around her chest. “Let’s go.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The three of them approached the shelter as the smoke began to shift as if it were slithering back into the ruins it had bled from.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “DogDay,” Kickin spoke quietly into the comm, wings tucked tight, “we’re going in, we’ll keep you posted.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The door creaked open with a reluctant groan, hinges rusted from weeks of cold wind and ashfall. The three stepped in as one, masks sealed, boots silent.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Inside, the light was poor, half of the bulbs on the emergency rig had burned out, the others flickering like weak fireflies. The air was sour, thick with the unmistakable copper-bite of red smoke residue.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Empty,” Hoppy murmured. Her voice was muffled, distorted through the filter of her mask, but still laced with dread. She moved between the cots, checking them one by one. “No bodies. No burn marks. No signs of retreat.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty bent down beside an overturned chair, she ran a hoof across the concrete floor. “They left in a hurry. See the scuffs? Some fell, but there are no drag marks.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin hovered near the back, where a collapsed partition curtain revealed what had once been the play area. Toys were scattered across the ground; soft dolls, colorful cubes, a child’s sketchbook open to a shaky crayon drawing of the sun— that looks almost like DogDay’s pendant —and a purple cat sleeping under it.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He stared at it, a strange chill catching the back of his neck. “...Did they see something?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy’s ears twitched beneath her hood. “Maybe. Maybe it was nothing. Panic spreads fast in these places.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty stood slowly and pointed to the far wall, where someone had scrawled something, frantically, over a tarp with black marker. The handwriting was barely legible but the words stopped all three in place.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He watched us from the smoke.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He was smiling.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It was him.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It was- the text cuts off from there.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They stood in silence for a moment longer, listening to the stale wind push softly at the tarp walls. No footsteps. No screams. Only the stifling weight of what used to be safety.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “…Let’s sweep the rest,” Kickin muttered, more to break the silence than to command. “If anyone’s still hiding, they’ll be in the storage rooms or under the cots.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty nodded, drawing a soft glow from her pendant as they moved away from the tarp. The deeper they moved into the ruined evacuation shelter, the less the outside world seemed to exist.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The walls grew darker, the air heavier. Red smoke clung to the ceiling like mold, curling in unnatural shapes, refusing to rise or fade. It pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin led the charge, wings tucked close, every footstep measured. He was the fastest in the sky, but on foot, every sound echoed too loud. He caught the smell first, faint but unmistakable beneath the tang of smoke: ash, charred rubber, and something animal.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He stopped at a low shelf crushed under a beam. A tuft of fur had caught on the splintered edge.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Blue.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin reached out slowly, plucking the fur free. It shimmered in the light of his pendant as his visor scanned it silently and sent it to Bubba’s computer. “Crafty?” he called quietly.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She was near the stairwell, silent, focused. She stood frozen, staring at something just behind a half-open supply closet door.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Crafty?” Kickin said again, louder now, tucking the fur in a pouch.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I see something,” she murmured. Her horn lit up, using just enough magic to pull the door wide. Inside were two pale and wiry hands. Disconnected. Bent at the joints. Not critter-shaped. Not alive.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They were stitched and heavy, remnants of one of the early failed constructs SMILE had fought. Brought down in Sector 7 before CatNap surrendered. The ones that screamed static instead of words.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “What are those doing here?” she breathed.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “They were destroyed,” Hoppy said from across the hall. She was crouched by the base of a fractured wall, smoke swirling gently around her legs. “We wiped them out. Didn’t we?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin turned toward her voice, still holding the fur. “And now they’re here?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No,” Hoppy whispered, staring down the hallway that curved into shadow. “They’re not. But something else is.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She tapped her earpiece. “DogDay,” she said, voice steady but clipped. “This is Hoppy. The evac site is compromised in full. No sign of survivors yet. We found blue fur, unknown source. We found remains of the prototype's early weapons. And we found—”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She turned her head, eyes narrowing. At the far end of the hall, the red smoke curled more violently. It was thicker there, bubbling at the edges as though disturbed by something that had only just passed through.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her ears went flat. “We found where the smoke’s coming from.”

….

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The air was heavier here.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin’s feathers twitched slightly, his fingers tightening around the edge of a broken doorway. The red gas thickened just ahead of them, flooding through the warped corridor like spilled ink. He didn’t move. He stared into it.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Like it was looking back.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He hated this smoke.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He hated how quiet it made the world feel, how slow time seemed to move inside it. How it reminded him of those missions. Of the ones that didn’t end clean. Of the one that almost got him killed.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Yo.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin flinched as Hoppy’s voice broke through the thick silence. He turned just enough to see her beside him, a smirk tucked beneath her mask, one brow arched in amusement.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Don’t tell me Mr. Cool is scared of a little red fog,” she teased, stretching one leg lazily like they weren’t standing on the edge of a possible death zone.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He scoffed, brushing off invisible dust, unable to hold eye contact with her. “I’m not scared. I just hate this stuff, the smell clings onto you like fleas.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Then… good news.” She gave him a wink. “I’ll go first and clear the way so you don’t melt those fancy feathers.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She hopped once, twice, and dashed forward, disappearing into the fog like it was nothing at all. Her pendant flickered behind her like a streak of green lightning.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin scowled behind his mask, the joke stinging more than he’d admit. Not because of the tease— Hoppy was like that with everyone, miss-awkward-with-feelings —but because of how easy she made it seem. How effortlessly she vanished into the smoke, her green flicker swallowed whole by that blood-colored void.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ CraftyCorn lingered beside him, adjusting the glowing strap of her toolkit across her chest. “You… good?” she asked, not unkindly. Her voice, always a bit drier, held a current of concern beneath the sarcasm.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “You sure?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I said yeah.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty’s eyes didn’t leave him. She knew him too well, knew the exact tension in his shoulders that only showed up when walking into dense red smoke was involved. “Look,” she murmured, stepping just enough into his line of sight, “you’re allowed to hate it. Just- don’t let it freeze you. We need your eyes in there… We need you.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He met her gaze then, looking up, finally. Her tone wasn't patronizing nor was it pitying him, and that meant everything.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “…Thanks,” he muttered. “Let’s catch up before she gets herself blown up showing off again.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty gave a lopsided grin before walking in as one, slipping into the red haze with practiced coordination.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The corridor swallowed them instantly. The air was thick, almost wet, and the smell was worse inside; like scorched oil, metal filings, and old blood. Kickin resisted the urge to cough. Even through the filters of his mask, the taste was acrid.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Lights barely functioned above them, flickering in intervals like dying insects. The walls were stained where the gas had clung and curled, and the deeper they went, the more warped the silence became.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It was like sounds didn’t carry properly in the red.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Their footsteps felt distant, and the echo of Hoppy’s movement up ahead was muffled, as if she was walking through wool. Kickin’s feathers bristled again.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ That silence.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He had heard it before.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ In the mission where he was the only one who walked out without a stretcher.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He clenched his jaw. This wasn’t then. This wasn’t that. He was stronger now. Right? 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The red fog coiled tighter as they pushed deeper, Hoppy's green flicker darted through the haze a few paces ahead, bobbing in and out of sight like a stubborn firefly. The rabbit slowed down just enough for them to catch up, her usual spring in her step muted by the thickness of the air.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Smells like burnt socks and regret.” She muttered, waving a paw in front of her mask. She tried to sound casual but her voice carried that nervous lilt that slipped through whenever things pressed too close.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin didn't comment, too busy keeping his feathers from trembling, too busy reminding himself to breathe. Every time the gas shifted with their movement, it seemed to force  to resurface from the depths of his mind. Rooms filled with this same red, silence stretching out too long, bodies not moving like they were supposed to.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy glanced back at them, catching the way his wings flexed against his sides. For a second, she opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure if teasing him further would snap him out of it or drive him deeper. So she just bumped her elbow lightly against his bicep when he was about to walk past her. “Hey, don't worry, ya got us beside you! We, uh, we're sticking close and together.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She pats his back, her tone was too breezy to be serious but he knew that was just her usual tone. Watching as she lingered an extra beat before moving forward. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ CraftyCorn noticed both of them, her gaze sharp even in the dimness as she adjusted her strap across her chest, keeping a hoof on the pouch that held her tools to keep her grounded. Her mind wanted to linger on Kickin's unease, wanted to step in and let him breathe, but they didn't have time to sink into emotions at the moment. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The sound of their steps felt wrong, muffled in the blood mist, bouncing off the walls too late and too early. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty's focus snapped forward when the red fog shifted unnaturally, swirling against a faint draft. She raised a hoof, signalling the other two to slow. Something was moving ahead. Hoppy saw what she did, backing up towards Kickin's side as her pendant began to glow slightly. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But then dark silhouettes, skittering across the floor in another room. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A shriek.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy sprinted forward before her brain fully made a decision, ignoring the stern shout of her fellow heroes as she cut through the bloody smoke. Ears fully perked as her eyes darted around to register what she was dealing with.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin stiffened as his feathers bristled, watching the green vibrant streaks disappear into the fog. He quickly glanced at Crafty, “Do- do we follow her?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The unicorn shook her head, shoulders subtly lowering as she let out a silent sigh. “Stay vigilant,” she said, eyes narrowing as she scanned the moving dark reds. “If we follow, we’ll get picked off too. Let her do her thing, we handle this side- I heard a shriek here too.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin let out a slow breath, trying to ground himself and shake off the memories of the red smoke clawing at him, the panic from past missions threatening to rise. He needed to watch CraftyCorn’s six. “Right… Focus,” his star pendant glowed, “eyes open.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay stood with his arms crossed, the sharp tang of disinfectant and hot metal still lingering faintly in the gymnasium air. His earpiece clicked softly, and the moment Hoppy’s voice came through, his eyes focused. Focused hard.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ No visual of survivors. Blue fur. Disconnected hands. Red smoke. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ PickyPiggy approached first, dusting flour from her hooves, her gear clicking into place as it slid into existence from her apple pendant. “We ready?”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby was a step behind, her own suit assembling over her red and pink fur, expression unreadable. She didn’t speak, just nodded when Picky looked up at her for longer than a quick check.

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay gave a slow exhale, then nodded his head once.‎ “We’re clear to go,” he said. “Stay sharp.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Great!” Kickin groaned, tightening his grip on the twin blades that spun cleanly into his grasp. Razor sharp stars that shimmered faintly as CraftyCorn her horn lit a faint gold, threads of light ribboning down to her hooves.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They face a whole cluster of remnants, their frames half-melted, half-furry and half-skin faces gouged and stretched, scraps of metal and cloth fused into their bodies.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Take left,” Crafty said quickly. The remnants screeched and lurched forward.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin met them head-on, flinging one of his stars, cutting through the fog and through a remnant’s arm, embedding deep into another chest before perfectly ricocheting back towards the running chicken’s grip. He pivoted, kicking one of its many faces before driving the second star into its neck.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty’s horn gleamed brighter, gold threads moving towards the tools in her thigh pouch and making them glow faintly. A brush dips into a golden thread as if it was ink, it shoots out from the pouch and its bristles touch the floor beneath the cluster, lines curling, geometric and perfect despite the chaos; a sigil. Stomping her hoof down, the sigil ignited, erupting in an upward burst of gold sparks that burnt and cut like glass.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Remnants staggered, sliced from below, their bodies burning from where the gold carved into them.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin whistled, he will always be enamoured by what the unicorn has up her sleeve, he catches a star mid-air from a rebound.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Focus!” Crafty yelled out at him when she noticed him staring, though her smile was audible. She sketched another sigil midair this time, her horn guiding the brush until the lines formed a glowing barrier. It slammed between two remnants that lagged behind the cluster, holding them at bay long enough for Kickin to swoop in with a flurry of strikes.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He moved like a dancer, reinforced feathers trailing arcs of silver as he spun through the cluster, the one star in his grip carved across the bundle of remnants.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But the cluster refused to go down.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A remnant forced itself away from the bundle, breaking itself in half, screaming in pain as wires snapped and screw flew from the bending metal. Kickin was about to move, to stop it before it could do something but from deeper in the haze came another sound.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Softer, delicate. A weak cough and call for help, then the clatter of something falling.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin staggered, Crafty kicked the half-remnant away as her brush frantically flew around. “Kickin, go!” 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Wh- what-?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Save the toykin!” She grunted as she held the remnant long enough to allow her to let the brush write on its battered chest, the glyph quickly bursting.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The chicken fully turned and ran to the new sound, it was a ceramic evacuee, their SMILE issued mask barely held together, movements sluggish from too much exposure to the red gas. “Shit-” Kickin shoved an empty shelf to the side.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The cluster’s eyes snapped to his direction, three remnants peeling off of it, jaws unhinging with that horrible broken screech as they rushed the downed evacuee. Kickin threw his star, cleaving into the first but he had to twist his whole body to shield the survivor with his wings.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty’s horn sparking as she made another sigil midair, blasting the other two back with a quick burst. But more crawled from the smog, broken and in pieces, slowly filling the space.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin was about to slash frantically, but the shine of Crafty’s barrier made him turn back to the evacuee and quickly check her with his shaky hands.The barrier buckled as another slammed its sharp body into it, claws raking against the glow. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty’s horn sparked dangerously, she bit back a whimper when she saw the cluster look back at her. She was about to reach for her comms as the cluster screeched and surged at once.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A blue-furred arm shot out of the fog, curling around the cluster.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bones and metal cracked and bended like splintering wood, tar splashed across the walls. Flinging the cluster into a wall.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy darted through the halls and rooms, ears straining. The shriek had been so clear, someone was in pain, calling for help. She was too familiar with that sound, it was the kind you don’t think twice about anymore, you just run.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But there was nothing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Just smoke and shadows, red mist curling like a living thing. Turning in place, her ears swiveled, listening hard and all she heard was silence. Everything was quieter in the fog.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Though, her foot struck something and she looked down. On the ground lay a scattered handful of SMILE packets: single-use filters, torn open and tossed. The foil shimmered faintly, their stamped insignia half covered by ash. Around the packets, the glimmer of broken glowsticks still fizzled, used to mark safe lances for evac teams.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Only the ground told a different story; drag marks in the dust, like someone had been pulled by something. She ignored the way her stomach tightened as she crouched down, fingertips brushing the foil- only to let a small vial roll out from inside. Its glass was cracked, the label smudged, the liquid was one of SMILE’s counter-gas dispersals, only half-used.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And then, just faintly, she thought she heard it again.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A cry, choked, echoing strangely in the fog as if carried down from elsewhere, or replayed by the smoke itself. Her ears shot upright just as she did, eyes darting, trying to remember the layout of this certain building.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The cry was gone.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The remnants, however, weren’t.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Something scuttled just out of sight, dragging claws against concrete, like it was circling her, watching.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The shriek wasn’t a survivor. It was a lure.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “C’mon, kiddo, it can’t be that comfortable staying under there!” A personnel tries to keep the stress out of their voice, trying to coax these toykin kids out from under heavy debris held up by a metal bedframe. The kids clung onto one another, soot streaked and trembling, their eyes flicking at every sound as if the smoke itself might lunge.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Another personnel crouched low, offering a gloved hand. “It’s alright, you’re safe now.” Her voice softly came out of the filters of her mask. “We’ll take you somewhere the smoke can’t reach.” The smallest of the group whimpered but took the hand at last, and soon the others followed.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And then rumbling.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The hum of engines overhead, sleek shadows cutting through the dull gray. Hovercrafts with a glinting SMILE insignia gleaming against the gloom. It slowed and then lowered, carefully landing near where the personnel’s pods were.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay was the first one off, tall frame straight-backed, his pendant shining appropriately and for a moment, its like the air itself cleared. Picky followed, visor glinting sharp as steel, surveying the perimeter before breaking off towards a tent. Bobby came out with steady, deliberate steps, but she took a moment before looking up at the centre up the hill.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The children gasped.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “That’s DogDay!” One of  them cried, voice breaking with awe as another tugged at the personnel’s sleeve, pointing with wide, desperate eyes. “They’re here! They’re really here!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The personnel watch as sparks return, the kind of spark that no gas or remnant could snuff out. The personnel looked at each other before looking back at the dog that approached and dropped to a knee when some of the kids ran immediately, lowering himself until he could comfortably meet the children with a smile. “Hey little buddies,” he said, his signature cheerful tone covering up the tired real voice, “You lor are very brave, aren’t you?” He ruffled one child’s hair.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby crouched beside him— DogDay subtly turned away —and she set her kit down with a crate, handing out canteens of water. “Drink slow, little lovelies.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay got up, now facing the personnel with a bit more serious look, it was strange, usually they’d feel fine and dandy when standing close to the dog but right now, something about him made their throats tighten. “Report… please.” He said.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ One nodded their head. “Yes, sir. We’ve cleared twenty-three from the eastern block, mostly children, some adults. Mild exposure to the smoke; coughing, disorientation but they’ll recover once stabilised.” The personnel forced their voice steady, though their palms were slick in their gloves.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay gave a short nod, already scanning the names that popped up in his wrist tablet. Beside him, Bobby shifted, pressing an invisible button on her neck. “Bobby to Kickin, come in.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The reply cracked, distorted under layers of static. It took a moment but Kickin’s familiar drawl, hurried and clipped, came through. “Yeah- yeah! We got more in here- got her breath back and told us there’s family, deeper in. Bad spot.” Grunt. “M’pullin’ my squad in, might need more hands.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The personnel shifted slightly when they received something on their own comms. Bobby glanced up at DogDay before muttering a reply back, “Understood.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay gestured sharply, his voice cutting through the air with practiced weight. “Half my personnel, pair with Kickin’s unit! Sweep and pull whoever’s left, medical priority first.” The order landed like stone, his people were already moving, some hopping onto the star pods with Kickin’s unit, hovering up the ground and towards the big building uphill.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Meanwhile, Bobby tapped her comm again, tone softening just slightly. “Bobby to Hoppy, come in.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ …

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Bobby to Hoppy, you hear me, girl? We’ve got more survivors, we need your position, over.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ …

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ "Hoppy, come on, ping us your location…” Static answered.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay glanced down for only a moment, the personnel swore they saw a flicker of something uneasy in the leader’s eyes but it was gone before it could settle. “... Focus on what we can reach,” DogDay said at last.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy’s hands flexed at her sides before she pumped them up, eyes focused. She knew this moment, this silence, it was the kind of quiet that came before the metal bursting on your tongue. An ambush.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her legs shifted, ready to spring, ears straining for the scrape of claws.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A remnant’s shriek came through the fog! It made her body react instinctively but nothing… came at her?...

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Broken voice boxes screamed as if their throats had been torn out mid-song. Followed by the sound of metal folding in on itself, sharp and snappy. She froze, it wasn’t the remnants hunting, it was them dying.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She moved, sprinting through and getting closer to where they were. She turned sharply, ears twitching as her boots echoed on a floor still covered in gas as if it was a fluffy carpet. A support beam groaned as it settled, and she rounded the corner toward the main corridor.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She stopped cold.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Tall, tall enough to almost brush against the ceiling beams especially if it wasn’t slouching, arms far too long and- blue. Purple against the red if you weren’t paying attention.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her heart slammed against her ribs, the comms buzzing in her ear but the sound dulled and muffled as if she were underwater. She couldn’t hear anything but that crushing silence between the screeches. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She remembered a laugh. Too loud for some. She remembered how he used to ruffle Kickin’s feathers, lift CraftyCorn onto his shoulders like she weighed nothing, always complimented Picky’s creations, gaze in awe at what Bubba made, taught DogDay the importance of leadership, helped CatNap with his signing, and at the end of the day, he’d wrap his long arms around them all in a hug so tight you’d think he’d make you pop.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The figure turned just enough, she couldn’t register her properly, only got that sharp and twisted grin before it bolted.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy’s legs moved before her thoughts could catch up. Chasing the tall figure. “Wait-!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Hey—!” she called out, bolting forward, pendant flaring greenish as her form blurred through the smog. “Wha- wait!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The figure retreated, fast and quiet, long limbs carrying it between support beams like a shadow with too much weight. She chased it deeper into the cracked shelter, weaving through debris and old walls like she’d done a hundred times during missions. But this time her heart wasn’t steady.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She was gaining on it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Every step closed the distance between her and the shadow ahead, green light crackling in her wake like the hum of a heartbeat that wouldn’t slow down. Her boots slammed against broken tile and cracked concrete, lungs burning not from the gas but from the sheer need clawing at her chest.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She had to see. She had to know.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Stop!” she shouted, rounding the last collapsed archway that led to the outer hallway. “Just stop for a second—!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ But when she slid past the doorway and into the crumbling corridor beyond—

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There was nothing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Just red mist, curling like steam against the warped walls.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy’s breath caught in her throat. She spun, fast, skidding to a halt with her back to the wall, eyes darting between every possible corner. There was no sound of retreat. No echo of long strides down the halls. Not even the distant scuffle of claws.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He was gone.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Vanished like a dream the second you reached out to touch it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her hand dropped to her side, the green glow of her pendant flickering low. “No way,” she muttered. “There’s no way I lost him.”

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The line of survivors moved slowly, some leaning against one another, others staggering on half numb legs to which personnels rushed to aid. The pods waited outside, their hulls glowing faintly against the red-soaked backdrop, doors yawning open.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin stayed at the front, feathers bristled underneath his gear as he kept his voice steady, guiding a ragdoll with trembling hands towards the ramp. “Easy, easy… One step, then another. Don’t look back, yeah? You made it out…”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Crafty flanked the rear, one arm half-raised as her pendant pulsed a gentle rainbow to cut through the haze. She spoke softer than usual, words stripped of their usual bite when coaxing survivors. “Pods aren’t far, air’s clean in there. You’ll get water and food…”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The survivors clung to those voices, anchors in the heart wrenching silence. Some wore blank, hollow eyes stares; others flinched at the smallest echo of movement, as if expecting claws in every shadow. One mannequin clutched her wooden arms to her chest so tight, she began to splinter, whispering over and over; not again, not again, not again.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Kickin didn’t try to comfort her, he couldn’t, just pressed a steadying hand to her shoulder and passed her along to waiting personnel.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They didn’t mention the long blue arm. Not here. Not when there were civilians still stumbling out of the red death. The memory clung to them like the gas itself but they stayed silent, their eyes never quite meeting.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ They knew what they saw. But right now isn’t the time. 

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The red smoke thinned, not so much clearing as curling away, retreating into the corners of broken stone and steel, reluctant to let go of the place it had poisoned.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Scattered across the open grounds, the heroes moved like worn-down sentinels, their bodies marked with soot and effort. Picky knelt beside a trembling critter whose fur was matted with dust, her gloved hands working with practiced grace as she wrapped a salvaged scarf over their muzzle. Her voice was low and calm as she relayed the situation into her comms, words clipped with efficiency but softened with care.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “Sector 7B shelter is secure. Red gas is lingering. Requesting purification units. We’ve got survivors, shaken but stable.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ DogDay stood a few paces behind, upright and silent. His helmet, now lifted just enough to free his voice, glinted dull in the scarlet haze. His eyes swept the evacuees with sharp precision; counting, assessing, scanning every limp and wince, the weight of command etched deep into his jaw. Each breath he took came shallow and controlled, tempered with the weight of knowing how close this zone had come to becoming a gravesite.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Then a flicker of green caught the corner of his vision.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy stepped from the smoke as if it were letting her go. Her silhouette was dimmed by residue, limbs slack from the sprint, her gear scraped lightly and faintly speckled with soot. Bobby was the first to move.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She dropped her satchel without thinking, boots kicking up ash and dust as she bolted across the broken lot. “Hoppy!”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The moment the word hit the air, Hoppy’s head lifted. She didn’t flinch, just blinked, as if surfacing from somewhere deep underwater. Then Bobby was there, arms wrapping around her in a fierce, wordless embrace. She held her like someone afraid to find only smoke beneath their hands.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Hoppy stood rigid for a heartbeat before her arms, slow and hesitant, folded around Bobby’s back.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “I’m.. okay,” she mumbled against fur, though her voice lacked the strength to sell the lie.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “No, you’re not,” Bobby murmured, one hand brushing over Hoppy’s shoulder. Her fingers came away smudged with something darker than soot. “...What was it?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There was a pause, a long, aching pause where Hoppy only listened to the uneven rhythm of her own breath, to the way Bobby’s heart was thudding against her.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Her voice finally came out low. Uncertain. Raw. “…He was there.”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby pulled back just enough to see her eyes. “Who?”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ “…Huggy.” The name hit like a gust of wind between them.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Bobby’s grip tightened for half a second, and then she let out a trembling breath, her ears flicking back. Behind them, DogDay had gone still, the faint rasp of his radio forgotten as the air thickened once more. Above them, Picky lifted her head toward the sky, where the red gas had begun to bleed into a fragile pink. Her comms buzzed faintly, but she didn’t answer to the call of her name just yet.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Not when someone had returned.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The air tasted like rust and memory.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Huggy crawled on all fours across the shattered floor, limbs dragging, soaked in a mix of sweat, old blood, and chemical residue that hissed against his open wounds. Every step hurt, each pull of sinew over stone was a silent scream pressed behind clenched fangs. Fur had been torn away in patches, revealing raw, darkened flesh beneath. Makeshift stitches— done with what little he had —barely held his side together. He didn’t have time to bleed.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He had to finish this.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The red gas curled around him like a living thing, thick and pulsing with a heatless poison. It clung to him still, soaked into his fibers. Most couldn't breathe near it— could barely think inside it —but Huggy had grown used to the sting. Too used to it. The gas didn’t spare him the hallucinations, the phantom screams of long-dead friends, the flickers of memory that weren’t his anymore. But he kept moving through it. He’d learned how.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He paused by a broken support column, chest heaving. His large hand gripped the edge of a warped metal vent, claws scratching, stabilizing. The hissing of the canisters was distant now, but he could still hear it; an uneven rhythm, like breathing that wasn’t human.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He followed it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Each tank was squat and rusting, still leaking that terrible red into the world. Some had cracked when he slammed into them earlier, others were dented and sparking faintly. He didn’t know if these things had timers, or triggers, or if they just kept belching death until there was nothing left inside. He didn’t know how to shut them off, the designs vary everytime but he had to try.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He reached for the nearest one, massive fingers trembling slightly as he forced one beneath the paneling, trying to pry it open.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Click.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A sound behind him.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He froze. It wasn’t the hiss of gas.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ There, among the wreckage, was a remnant- or what was left of one.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ It had no face, just a split-open skull barely clinging to a spine, its torso crawling on twitching elbows. Metal teeth clicked out of time in a slack jaw, dragging cords and veins behind it like tangled wire. The remnants never truly died. Even in pieces, they moved with hatred. Even now, its cracked eye-like nodes found him and flared dim red.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ A distorted groan gurgled up from what remained of its throat. Then it lunged.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Huggy twisted just in time. The claws missed his cheek by inches, but he felt the pressure, the wind of it slicing past. He slammed his arm forward and caught it mid-lunge, massive hands grabbing what might’ve once been a shoulder. The thing shrieked like metal being ground under teeth, thrashing in his grip. Its movements were no longer clean, no longer predetermined.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Just desperate.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Huggy gritted his teeth, muscles flaring with strain as he forced it back, deeper into the smoke where no one could see. Where none of the evacuees, none of the heroes, would witness what he had to do.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ What he chose to do.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He didn’t roar.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He didn’t scream.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He simply squeezed.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ The remnant’s casing buckled with a horrible crack, the inside pulsing with an ink-like liquid that splattered against his chest. It kept twitching. He kept squeezing. Until there was no more sound but the hiss of gas and the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Panting, bleeding, Huggy dropped what was left of it and stumbled back toward the tanks. The gas whispered around him. Somewhere in the distance, a child cried in his head. A voice from long ago begged him to stop but it wasn’t real.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ None of it was real, but the damage was.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ And so was the job that still wasn’t finished.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He could still hear movement in the deeper halls. Still feel the poison humming through the vents.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He had to clean this up.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even if he died doing it.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even if no one ever knew he was here.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Even if they’ll never forgive him.