February, 1098

The digital clock mounted on the wall of my dorm ticks over. It is the 4th of February. I am completely swallowed by the plush, ridiculously oversized bulk of my shark plushie. It serves as the absolute perfect backrest as I lounge on my recessed mattress, dressed safely in the comforting, fleece-lined embrace of my kitten hoodie, dark distressed denim shorts, and thick, opaque tights. Arrayed meticulously around my pillow, standing like a silent, loyal honor guard, are my anchors: the soft brown Amiya plushie with its bright blue button eyes, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis plushie, and the little squishy cake mom had given me for my first birthday.

I tap furiously against the glass screen of my digital slate.

Ms. Closure’s latest puzzle game is an absolute, unmitigated nightmare of engineering logic disguised as brightly colored blocks. I groan, my tail giving an agitated, rhythmic thump against the mattress as a glaring red 'GAME OVER' flashes across the display for the fifth time in a row.

The pneumatic locks of my door disengage. The metal panels slide apart.

"Good morning, Lethe," mom says.

I drop the slate onto the blankets, a bright smile immediately breaking across my face. I look up at her.

"Good morning, mom!" I chime happily.

She steps fully into the room, her crisp, translucent tactical coat shifting smoothly over her shoulders. I look down at her left leg. Her strides are perfectly even and strong, completely devoid of the heavy, dragging limp that had plagued her for weeks. The white bandages that had been wrapped tightly around her thigh are entirely gone. She is all healed now.

My heart gives a profound, bittersweet twist. I am incredibly relieved she is no longer in pain, but her recovery unfortunately means the inevitable. The sanctuary of the medical wards is behind her, and she is officially back on the frontline, ready to march right back into the freezing dark and the burning ruins of whatever Catastrophe or warzone Rhodes Island is currently chasing.

Mom tilts her head, her eyes scanning my incredibly relaxed, thoroughly un-professional posture on the bed.

"No work for you today, Lethe?" mom asks, a highly amused, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

A hot, prickly flush of embarrassment instantly warms my cheeks. I duck my head into the oversized collar of my hoodie.

"Miss Lena says I need a break to relax…" I mumble, my voice dropping into a sheepish, defeated whisper. I nervously twist the drawstrings of my hoodie. "…after I miscounted the suppressants again."

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

"But," I quickly pivot. "At least I can go shopping in Ms. Closure’s today! I am going to take Opal with me."

Mom lets out a soft chuckle.

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

I instantly wrap my arms protectively around my crossbody bag where my ID card is stashed.

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

"If you say so," mom teases, her voice dripping with playful skepticism.

She doesn't look entirely convinced. Her eyes drop from my fiercely defensive posture, slowly scanning the meticulously arranged plushie collection guarding my pillows. The sheer volume of soft, expensive merchandise sitting on my mattress is a glaring, undeniable testament to exactly where all my internal credits usually go.

She opens her mouth, a highly amused, knowing remark sitting right on the tip of her tongue.

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

The sharp, synchronized synthetic chime slices through the air. It rings out from the digital slate resting on my blankets, and perfectly echoes from the official communicator clipped to mom's belt.

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

Beneath us, the deep, subsonic thrum of the landship's massive engines audibly pitches up. The floorboards vibrate as the colossal treads begin to shift, actively adjusting the city's trajectory to navigate the apocalyptic weather ahead.

My hands tighten instinctively around the soft fabric of my shark plushie.

Mom lets out a slow, heavy exhale, the sound rattling slightly in her chest.

"Well," mom murmurs, her voice dropping its playful lilt entirely, replaced by a grim, heavy necessity. She reaches down, her fingers brushing against the medical pouches secured to her belt. "Lethe, that’s my call. I need to get ready."

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

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

"Okay," I whisper. "Stay safe, mom."

"I will," she promises fiercely.

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

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

Mom told me not to forget my breakfast. I take that medical directive very seriously. However, instead of heading to the cafeteria for the strictly mandated oatmeal and steamed greens, I make a highly tactical detour. I slip past the rushing logistics Operators and successfully secure a golden-crusted Lungmen bun with a thick, melting slab of butter from the bakery section, pairing it perfectly with a sugary, cold milk tea from Ms. Closure’s vending machines.

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

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

I step inside the ward.

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

She is entirely, blissfully unaware of the catastrophic weather alerts echoing through the upper decks. She doesn't know that we are currently sailing right back into Rim Billiton, the bruised, howling nightmare of a wasteland that had completely shattered her life and buried her parents in the rubble.

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

"Good morning, Opal!" I chime, stepping into the room with the brightest, most unwavering smile I can possibly project.

Opal blinks, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes drop from my face, taking in the massive, fleece-lined hoodie and the graphic of the sleeping black kitten printed squarely on my chest.

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

I do a playful little twirl, my tail giving a happy, rhythmic swish behind my shorts.

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

Opal pauses. She looks down at her healthy bowl of oats, and then back up at my beaming face. The ambient flavor of her presence ripples with a tiny, hesitant spark of curiosity.

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

"Sure," Opal says.

I wait patiently by the edge of the mattress as Opal meticulously scrapes the last berry from her ceramic bowl. Once she is finished, I help her slide into her padded slippers. We step out of the high-security ward, our joined hands serving as a quiet, steady anchor in the corridors.

I try my absolute best to keep our path centered, intentionally steering us away from the outer hull. I want to keep Opal safely insulated within the bustling, artificial warmth of the inner sectors. But the architecture of Rhodes Island is sprawling, and to reach Ms. Closure's general store, we have to cross one of the primary observation connectors.

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

But the sheer, staggering scale of the devastation outside the window catches Opal’s eye.

Her slippers come to an abrupt, dead halt against the steel grating. The sudden stop nearly jerks my arm backward.

"Opal?" I ask, turning around.

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

I follow her gaze.

Stretching out toward the horizon is a brutal, arid wasteland of cracked sand, jagged canyons, and dying, withered scrub brush. But the desolation of the dirt is completely dwarfed by the apocalyptic monolith dominating the skyline.

Erupting violently from the canyon walls, piercing the bruised sky like the jagged spear of an angry god, is a colossal, dark shard of Originium. It is unfathomably massive, its sharp, geometric edges cutting through the clouds as dust and secondary Originium shards cascade from its shattered base.

It is the undeniable, terrifying footprint of the Targangils Prime Vein.

The ambient air in the corridor violently shatters.

The fragile, sweet scent of plums and berries that had been slowly blooming around Opal is instantaneously annihilated. It is replaced by a massive, suffocating tidal wave of pure, unadulterated horror. A freezing, bottomless void rushes in, thick with the rotting taste of crushed stone, cold copper, and agonizing, blinding grief.

Opal’s entire frame begins to tremble.

"Mom… Dad…”

The two words slip from her lips. They are barely a whisper, fragile and thin as cracked glass.

Her knees completely buckle beneath her. Her plushie crashes onto the floor, bounces away from the falling girl.

"Opal?!"

I drop my Arts Unit, the petrified wood clattering loudly against the floorboards. I lunge forward as a jagged, breathless sob tears its way out of her throat.

She crashes toward the ground, but I catch her before her knees can hit the grates. The physical momentum of her collapsing weight drags me down with her. I hit the floor on my knees, my arms wrapping desperately around her trembling torso.

"Opal!" I cry out, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

She buries her face entirely into the oversized fleece of my hoodie, her small hands letting go of her plushie to fist agonizingly tight into the fabric of my jacket. She is hyperventilating, her chest heaving with shallow, panicked gasps as the sheer, suffocating gravity of the wasteland outside crushes her fragile, healing mind.

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

I squeeze my eyes shut. I dig deep into the core of my chest, gathering up the absolute warmest, most unwavering sensations of safety I possess. I pull from the memory of mom's protective hugs, the sweet, melting clouds of Trimounts pancakes, and the quiet, starlit shores of Siesta. I channel that pure, concentrated comfort outward, wrapping it like a heavy, sun-warmed blanket around the splintering, brittle edges of her freezing panic.

"It is okay," I whisper fiercely into her hair. "You are safe. You are safe here."

She sobs violently against my collarbone, the agonizing, bitter taste of her sorrow burning the back of my throat.

"I have you, Opal," I murmur, my own tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I hold her as tightly as I can. "The rocks cannot reach you here. I promise. I promise."

The violent, shuddering sobs wracking Opal’s fragile frame feel as though they are physically tearing through my own chest. I hold her as tightly as my arms will allow, pressing her face deep into the soft, fleece-lined fabric of my hoodie.

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

Slowly, agonizingly, the freezing, bottomless void of her panic begins to thaw. The suffocating, rotting taste of crushed stone and rusted copper bleeding off her emotional resonance dulls into a heavy, exhausted sorrow. Her ragged, hyperventilating gasps smooth out into wet, stuttering hiccups.

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

I reach up, using the cuff of my baggy sleeve to meticulously wipe the saltwater from her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Opal whispers, her voice a tiny, fractured rasp. Her fingers tremble as she reaches down to retrieve her dropped Amiya plushie, pulling it instantly back against her chest.

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

I stand up, my knees slightly aching from the hard steel, and reach down to pick up my Arts Unit. I wrap my free hand securely around hers, pulling her gently to her feet.

"Come on," I murmur, deliberately turning our backs to the observation window. "We are going to walk entirely through the inner corridors. No more windows. Just solid Rhodes Island walls all the way to Ms. Closure’s store."

Opal gives a tiny, shaky nod.

We navigate the landship's metallic arteries slowly. I keep my promise, steering us strictly through the deep, windowless center of the residential and logistics blocks. By the time the heavy, blast doors of the general store come into view, the trembling in Opal's hand has mostly subsided, though she stays tucked safely against my side. The doors hiss and slide apart, releasing the familiar, chaotic scent of machine grease, fresh fabrics, and the sharp, electric hum of inventory terminals.

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

"Well, well, look who decided to grace my humble establishment," Ms. Closure says, her signature smirk instantly stretching across her face. The ambient air spikes with her usual, highly caffeinated flavor of ozone and expensive coffee. "If it isn't the kiddo and her ward. Come to finally empty that plushie fund into my registers?"

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

"Good morning, Ms. Closure," I say softly. "I want to buy some civilian clothes for Opal." Ms. Closure lowers her mug. Her eyes sweep over my oversized hoodie, and then drop to the Cautus girl hiding behind me.

The ambient air in the store suddenly shifts. The sharp, predatory buzz of capitalist anticipation completely flatlines. It is replaced by a faint, quiet undertone of stale copper.

Ms. Closure lets out a quiet sigh.

"Right. Off-duty gear," Ms. Closure murmurs, setting her mug down on the counter with a soft clack. She waves a hand toward the sprawling, densely packed aisles of apparel.

"Aisle four has the casual wear. Take your time, kiddos. Try on whatever you need."

"Thank you, Ms. Closure," I reply, giving her a respectful nod.

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

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

Opal looks at the endless racks of clothing, her ears giving a tiny, overwhelmed twitch. I immediately step into the role of personal stylist. I comb through the hangers, keeping a very strict, mindful eye on Opal's unique medical needs.

"Here, feel this one," I say, pulling out a soft, muted-orange cotton tee. I hold it up to her. It has a wide, scooped neckline that sits very low on the shoulders. It is absolutely perfect; the loose collar will completely avoid rubbing against the jagged, dormant black Originium crystals piercing the skin near her collarbone.

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

"It goes in the pile!" I announce, draping it over my arm.

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

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

I dig through a rack of heavy winter wear until I find it. It is a plush, insulated parka in a soft, creamy beige. The inside is lined with incredibly thick, faux-sheepskin fleece, and it features a massive, fluffy hood that looks big enough to swallow her entire head and her Cautus ears combined.

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

The heavy, warm weight of the jacket instantly settles over her frame. Opal blinks, pulling the edges of the thick coat tightly around herself. She buries her chin into the fluffy collar. The faintest, most fragile ghost of a smile touches the corners of her lips, and the ambient air around her finally sweetens with a tiny, delicate note of diced strawberries.

"It feels safe," Opal murmurs.

"Perfect," I beam, my chest swelling with absolute, triumphant pride. "Now, just shoes!" We finish the ensemble with a pair of sturdy, high-top padded sneakers; dark brown with thick white laces, designed to offer plenty of support for her.

With our haul secured, I carry the stack of clothing back to the checkout counter. I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for financial ruination. I reach into my bag, my fingers gripping my Rhodes Island ID card tightly. I am fully ready to sacrifice every single internal credit I have painstakingly hoarded to buy Opal her new armor. I gently place the clothes onto the counter.

Ms. Closure steps up. She doesn't say a word as she picks up her scanning tool. She methodically scans the tag of the orange tee, the fleece-lined joggers, the padded sneakers, and the massive beige parka.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

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

I blink. I look at the screen, and then up at the Chief Engineer.

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

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

Ms. Closure leans heavily across the counter. She casually rests her chin in her hand, fixing me with a completely deadpan stare.

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

I stare at her.

I look at the pristine, brand-new tags still hanging from the absolutely flawless, current- season apparel. There is absolutely no inventory clearing event. I wouldn’t be able to actually afford them otherwise.

A massive, overwhelming wave of teary-eyed gratitude swells in my chest.

I simply slap my ID card onto the scanner.

"Thank you, Ms. Closure.”

Ms. Closure rolls her eyes, letting out a sigh as she bags the items.

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

"Thank you," Opal replies softly.

I grab the bag, taking Opal's hand once more.

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

The walk back to the ward feels entirely different this time. We aren't shuffling through the hallways of the landship in silence, weighed down by the suffocating dread of the outside world. Instead, Opal walks with a quiet, careful purpose, her hands securely holding the crisp paper bag from Ms. Closure’s store.

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

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

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

The transformation is breathtaking.

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

"You look great, Opal!" I beam, my tail giving a massive, joyous swish. I clasp my hands together, my chest swelling with absolute pride. "It fits you perfectly!"

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

"It's warm.”

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

I reach into my bag and quickly pull out my communicator.

"Come here!" I chirp, stepping right up beside her. I raise the terminal, flipping the camera so we can both see our reflection on the screen.

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

Click.

The screen flashes, perfectly freezing the moment in time.

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

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

"Okay," Opal agrees softly.

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

It vibrates heavily in my palm. I blink, tapping the notification banner that drops down from the top edge of the screen.

[Amiya]: Lethe, come to the Upper Deck cafe, I want to discuss something with you. My brow furrows slightly. A direct summons from the CEO, and to the Upper Deck cafe. Is it about a new logistics mission? Or did Dr. Kal'tsit somehow find out about my near-miss with the molten cheese fondue?

I quickly tap the keyboard.

I lower the device and look at Opal. A sharp pang of guilt twists in my stomach. I had promised to spend the morning with her, and she had just put on her brand-new armor.

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

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

Opal looks at me. The sweet, strawberry flavor of her presence remains perfectly, beautifully steady. She gives a tiny, brave nod.

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

I leave her ward and head towards the elevators.

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

I step out into the quiet, refined atmosphere of the executive cafe. The air here is scrubbed clean, carrying only the rich, comforting scents of roasted espresso beans, steamed milk, and sweet, melted chocolate.

I spot her immediately.

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

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

I stop at the edge of the table.

"Amiya," I say softly.

Amiya blinks, pulling her focus away from the desolate wasteland. Her long ears perk up. The ambient air in the quiet cafe immediately sweetens, a rush of familiar, comforting spun-sugar washing over my senses. But today, the sweetness carries a heavy, steeped undertone, like a dark, robust tea. She is carrying a serious weight.

"Lethe," Amiya greets, her voice a gentle, melodic chime. She gestures to the empty chair across from her. "Have a seat."

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

"Any drink you want?" Amiya asks.

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

"I would like a cocoa too, please," I reply.

Amiya gives a small nod. She reaches out, tapping a quick sequence onto the glowing screen of her slate.

"Someone will bring it over, Lethe," Amiya assures me, setting the slate back down on the table.

"Okay. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

"About Opal," Amiya says quietly.

The name drops onto the table like a lead weight.

My breath completely stalls in my throat. The memory of Miss Sussurro's grim, exhausted face in the corridor flashes in my mind.

Months. Not years.

"Is…" I swallow hard. "Is she getting worse? Did the suppressants stop working?"

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

Amiya lets out a slow, heavy sigh. The steeped, dark-tea flavor of her presence thickens, laced with a profound, aching sorrow.

"I am thinking we drop her off at a Sunvalley-owned platform," Amiya continues, her voice steady but incredibly quiet. "They are the only mining conglomerate with basic ethics to give her a community for the… final months…”

The words hang in the air.

"Amiya…" my voice cracking entirely. "She had a panic attack just looking at the landscape earlier this morning."

I look desperately at the CEO.

"She was hyperventilating," I plead, my voice rising in a frantic tremor. "She dropped her plushie. She was terrified. You cannot just leave her out there!"

Amiya closes her eyes, a look of absolute, empathetic pain crossing her features. The ambient air in the cafe ripples with a wave of deep, stinging regret that tastes like bruised peaches.

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

Amiya leans forward.

"We are a mobile hospital, but we are also a battlefield," Amiya explains gently.

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

I stare at her.

The logic is perfectly, agonizingly sound. I want to argue that we love her. I want to scream that mom, Miss Lena, Podenco, Lisa, and I are her family now. But Amiya is right. We are a family forged in blood and Catastrophes. We cannot give her a sky that doesn't occasionally bruise with the smoke of a burning city. We cannot give her a true, mundane childhood.

But abandoning her to strangers in the wasteland feels like a betrayal I cannot stomach. I take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the frantic panic down. I lean over the table.

"Then let her decide," I propose.

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

"…then she stays."

Amiya stares at me for a long second. The oppressive, dark-tea sorrow bleeding off her aura slowly begins to clear. It is replaced by a massive, radiant wave of spun-sugar. Amiya's lips curve into a soft but proud smile.

"You are right, Lethe," Amiya agrees softly. "It will be her choice."

Amiya picks up her digital slate, her fingers tapping rapidly across the screen as she begins to draft the official deployment parameters.

"I will send Fourteen, Zip, Fres, and Savage with you," Amiya announces, her tone shifting seamlessly back into the crisp, undeniable authority of the leader of Rhodes Island.

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

Amiya lowers the slate, looking across the table at me with a gentle, encouraging nod.

"Go inform Opal," Amiya instructs gently. "You leave in two days."

I slowly stand up from my chair, my tail giving a nervous, rhythmic swish against the floorboards. I look at the steaming cup of cocoa that had just been delivered to our table, the sweet aroma completely lost on me now.

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

“Take the drink with you, Lethe.” Amiya stands up. She walks to the counter, grabs a takeaway cup and lid. She gently pours the dark liquid into the takeaway cup. Seals the lid and holds it up to me.

“Okay. Thank you, Amiya.”

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

The mechanical hum of the elevator fades as I step back into the medical wing. The walk to the high-security quarantine ward feels incredibly heavy.

Mom is already here.

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

"It is so soft," mom says. "Lethe has an excellent eye for these things. The fleece joggers look incredibly warm, Opal."

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

I step fully into the room. My hands are gripping the dark shaft of my Arts Unit so tightly my knuckles ache.

"Mom. Opal," I say.

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

"Lethe? What’s wrong?" mom asks, her voice dropping into a serious, guarded murmur as she slowly stands up.

I look at Opal. I drop to my knees on the cold floor right beside mom, bringing myself perfectly to the Cautus girl's eye level.

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

Opal blinks, her eyes looking at me with quiet, trusting innocence.

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

Opal stares at me.

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

Beside me, mom completely freezes.

Her hand, which had been resting gently against the side of Opal's mattress, goes entirely rigid. The warm, protective honey radiating from her is violently punctured by a sharp, suffocating spike of cold iron and crushed, bitter petals.

Mom closes her eyes. A slow, shuddering breath wracks her frame. She swallows the heavy, bleeding sorrow down and opens her eyes again, offering me a fragile, supportive nod to continue.

I squeeze Opal's fingers.

"But we aren't just leaving you there," I promise fiercely, my voice ringing with absolute certainty in the quiet ward. "Amiya authorized an expedition. We are going to take you there in two days. Me, and a team of Field Ops. We are going to walk through the platform together."

I lean in closer, holding her wide, uncertain gaze.

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

The ward falls completely, heavily silent. The only sound is the rhythmic hum of the diagnostic monitors on the wall.

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

Opal looks up at mom, and then directly into my eyes.

She takes a slow, shaky breath.

"I want to see it," Opal whispers.

Her voice is thin, like cracked glass, but it is undeniably, beautifully resolute.

"I want to go."

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

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

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

The walk to the cafeteria feels heavier today. The looming reality of our upcoming expedition to the Sunvalley-owned platform sits like a cold stone in my stomach.

As the double doors of the dining hall slide apart, the usual, overlapping clatter of the room washes over us. But today, my ears immediately pick up a loud, passionate voice echoing from the open kitchen counters.

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

It is Gummy. The blonde Ursus girl is leaning over the serving counter, aggressively waving a spatula to emphasize her point.

Standing on the other side of the counter is the towering envoy from Karlan Trade. He is a massive Forte man, built like an impenetrable mountain of muscle, yet he is wearing a pristine white chef's apron over his heavy attire.

So his name is Matterhorn.

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

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

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

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

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

But my voice comes out entirely flat. I try to force the corners of my lips upward into a reassuring smile, but the muscles in my face simply refuse to cooperate. The thought of Opal leaving this landship, of her stepping out into the brutal, unforgiving barrens, drags my shoulders down.

Gummy stops mid-bounce. Her spatula lowers.

The ambient air around the Ursus girl ripples. I can still sense it; that terrifying, pitch- black abyss of rotting copper and suffocating survival guilt hiding just beneath her bubbly exterior. But I remember my promise to Miss Lena. I refuse to touch her bandages. I focus entirely on the blinding, fabricated sunshine she projects to protect herself.

Gummy leans over the counter, pointing the tip of her spatula directly at my face.

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

Beside her, Mr. Matterhorn crosses his massive arms. He looks down at Opal's nervous posture, and then at my dead tail. A silent, fiercely competitive spark suddenly ignites between the Ursus vanguard and the Kjeragian bodyguard.

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

"Ursus intervention coming right up!" Gummy cheers.

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

Instantly, our table is absolutely buried in food.

It is a staggering, overwhelming clash of two completely different snowy nations.

From Gummy's side of the kitchen comes a steaming, massive bowl of soup. It is a thick, violently brick-red loaded to the brim with hearty chunks of smoked sausages, briny chopped pickles, and a massive, melting dollop of rich sour cream floating in the center. Right next to it, she slams down a plate of thick, golden-fried sweet cheese fritters buried under an absolute landslide of crushed powdered sugar and dense, tart cherry preserves.

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

I sit completely frozen, staring at the sheer, apocalyptic volume of food burying our small table.

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

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

I look at Opal. Her eyes are blown completely wide, staring at the golden-braided bread and the powdered sugar fritters. A tiny, fragile spark of awe pushes through her usual quiet demeanor.

I pick up my fork, a genuine, helpless giggle finally bubbling up in my throat. The heavy dread in my chest doesn't vanish entirely, but the sheer, absurd kindness of the landship's chefs manages to push the dark back just a fraction.

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

I push my empty plate away, letting out a soft, incredibly contented groan. I slump heavily back into my plastic chair, my tail dropping completely limp.

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

Beside me, mom lets out a highly undignified huff of defeat. She rests a hand over her stomach, leaning back against her chair. Her usual, strict medical dietary rules have been completely obliterated by the mountain feast, but the ambient flavor radiating from her is a deep, lazy pool of warm, satisfied honey.

I look across the table at Opal.

She has a tiny, faint smudge of powdered sugar resting near the corner of her mouth. She carefully sets her fork down onto her cleared plate, her other arm securely holding the Amiya plushie against her beige parka.

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

"They are tasty," Opal says.

Mom offers a tired, but profoundly grateful smile, reaching out to gently wipe the powdered sugar from Opal's cheek with her thumb.

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

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

Beside her, Mr. Matterhorn simply folds his massive arms over his white apron. The towering Forte offers a deep, respectful nod of agreement, his grounded presence tasting of sturdy steel and quiet satisfaction.

I take a slow, deep breath, letting the heavy, comforting warmth of the meal anchor me. I sit up slightly. I look between mom and Opal, preparing myself for the hardest part of the day.

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

The walk off our heavy, decadent lunch is a slow, quiet shuffle through the metallic arteries of the landship. My stomach is still blissfully full, but with every step we take toward the garden, the impending reality of the farewell presses a little heavier against my chest.

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

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

"Thank you, Miss Sussurro," Opal says softly.

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

Mom steps forward, her voice dropping into a gentle, hushed murmur as she fills the senior Medic in. She explains Amiya's administrative decision, the upcoming expedition to the Sunvalley mining platform, and the fragile hope that Opal might find a real, sunlit childhood there instead of spending her remaining months confined to a sterile ward. I watch Miss Sussurro process the information. The rigid, uncompromising tension in her spine slowly melts. The sharp, clinical edges of her dark chocolate aura softens. She looks back at Opal. Her stern expression doesn't entirely break into a smile, but her eyes are incredibly gentle.

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

Opal gives a brave, tiny nod in return.

Miss Sussurro adjusts the clipboard under her arm, offering mom and me a brief glance of acknowledgement before continuing her brisk march down the corridor, disappearing back into the relentless demands of the medical wing.

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

Thankfully, Lisa is here today.

My dear friend is standing near the botanical workstations with Podenco, her tails swaying in a relaxed, joyous rhythm. Deep within the foliage, Miss Lena is carefully managing a flowerbed.

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

Opal takes a slow breath. She steps forward, moving off the main path and into the heart of the sanctuary to meet them.

I don't follow her.

Instead, I stop right near the threshold of the doors. I loosen my grip on my Kazdelian Arts Unit, and gently lean my weight against it. Mom pauses beside me, resting a warm, understanding hand on my shoulder.

I stay back.

I watch from a distance as Opal approaches the table. I watch Lisa gasp softly as Opal explains the Sunvalley expedition, her tails dropping for a fraction of a second before puffing right back up with fierce, supportive optimism. I see Podenco offer Opal a bright, encouraging grin, handing her a small, perfectly preserved pressed flower from her apron as a parting gift.

And I watch Miss Lena step out from the planters, she kneels down to offer a gentle, graceful embrace.

I stand quietly in the shadows of the entrance. It aches to watch her say goodbye, but as I taste the pure, unadulterated love and safety bleeding off my friends, I know we are doing the right thing.

We are letting her step out into the light.

I don’t remember what happened yesterday.

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

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

We gather in the logistics hall. The air here is cold and smells of machine grease and filtered exhaust, completely lacking the humid comfort of the garden.

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

A few paces away, Ms. Fres is pacing in a tight, nervous circle. She is the Feline Caster who barely survived the horrific slaughter of Area 0 in Kazimierz. Her Raythean focal unit hangs heavily on her belt. Her ambient presence ripples with a sharp, anxious static, but beneath it is a bedrock of fierce, uncompromising determination. She had survived the dark underbelly of Kawalerielki, and she is fully prepared to walk into the barrens for us.

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

Amiya had assigned Miss Savage to our escort specifically because she is a seasoned Cautus Operator who knows the treacherous Rim Billiton outback better than almost anyone else on the landship. I look at her closely. She has long, flowing silver-grey hair and tall, alert Cautus ears. She wears a practical, dark tactical outfit paired with heavily insulated thigh-high boots, and slung effortlessly across her frame is a massive, terrifyingly heavy industrial hammer that looks like it could shatter a boulder in a single swing.

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

The flavor that hits the back of my tongue is breathtakingly solid. Unlike the sterile, cold iron of the medical wards or the sharp, volatile ozone of the Casters, Miss Savage tastes incredibly grounded. She radiates a rich, hearty flavor, like warm, slow-roasted carrots, sun-baked earth, and the undeniable, dependable strength of forged steel. It is an aura built entirely to endure the harshest sandstorms of Terra, offering a deep, enduring comfort that instantly makes the freezing dread in my stomach settle.

The steady, rhythmic click of boots against the metal draws my attention away from the armored sand rover.

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

I step forward to meet them.

"Ready, Opal?" I ask.

"Ready," Opal replies.

Mom lets go of Opal's shoulder and steps over to me. She kneels down on the floor, bringing herself perfectly to my eye level, and pulls me into a brief, crushing hug. She buries her face into my R.I. jacket, holding me as if she is trying to physically imprint her safety onto my bones.

"Stay safe out there, Lethe," mom murmurs into my shoulder, her voice thick with a fierce, unconditional love.

I wrap my free arm around her neck, squeezing her back just as tightly.

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

She pulls back, offering me a watery, radiant smile, and uses her thumb to gently brush my asymmetrical fringe out of my eyes. She stands up, stepping back to let the mission officially begin.

A few paces away, Miss Whislash steps forward, her posture snapping to impeccable attention. The warm, spiced apple cider flavor of her emotional resonance shifts into something crisp and militaristic. She taps the screen of her digital slate, projecting a topographical map of the barren terrain into the air between us.

"Sunvalley mining platform is about fifty kilometers out," Miss Whislash announces, her voice echoing clearly across the cavernous hangar. "Unfortunately, given the extreme Originium interference currently saturating the Rim Billiton outback, air transportation is entirely impossible. Long-range communication will be incredibly difficult, if not completely severed, once you leave our immediate vicinity."

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

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

She steps back, offering our gathered squad a sharp, deeply respectful salute.

"Good luck out there," Miss Whislash finishes.

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

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

Her voice is calm, carrying a deep, enduring warmth. She looks directly at Opal, offering the girl a gentle, incredibly reassuring smile.

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

She turns her attention to the rest of the squad, her expression firming into the resolute authority of a veteran who has navigated these treacherous sands countless times before.

"Let's go," Miss Savage commands, pulling open the armored door of the rover.

"Everyone mount up."

Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip immediately move to secure the perimeter of the transport, their weapons clanking softly as they climb into the designated forward guard seats. Ms. Fres slides into the middle row, her hands clutching her focal unit tightly in her lap. I reach out, my fingers wrapping gently but securely around Opal's free hand. Together, we climb the metal steps of the rover, leaving the safety of the landship behind to step out into the vast, howling rust of Rim Billiton.

The treads of the sand rover grind against the arid earth, the engine roaring with a steady, vibrating thrum that rattles right through the soles of my sneakers. I keep my face pressed near the reinforced glass, staring out at the landscape rolling past.

It is a brutal, unforgiving nightmare. Endless, jagged canyons of rust-colored stone stretch out beneath a hazy sky. The desert seems to go on forever, a sprawling wasteland of cracked dirt and withered scrub brush, completely devoid of the lush greenery of the garden or the pristine snows of Kjerag.

"Have you guys been in Rim Billiton before?"

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

I tear my eyes away from the window. I shake my head. Across the aisle, Mr. Fourteen, Mr. Zip, and Ms. Fres all silently shake their heads as well.

The only one who doesn't is Opal. She sits quietly beside me, her hands wrapped securely around her plushie, her eyes looking out at the sprawling canyons of her homeland.

Miss Savage glances back at us from the driver's seat, her tall ears perking up with a sudden, infectious energy.

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

I blink. My tail, which had been resting comfortably against the seat, gives a slow, highly suspicious twitch.

"Carrot…?" I ask, my brow furrowing.

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

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

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

"…Carrot cake."

My jaw completely unhinges.

"Carrot cake?!" I gasp. I lean forward against my seatbelt, staring at the seasoned Field Ops as if she has just suggested we bake Originium slugs. "Carrot can make cakes?!" A hearty, full-chested laugh vibrating through the cabin.

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

From the forward guard seat, a low, rumbling chuckle echoes over the engine noise. Mr. Fourteen shifts his buckler shield, glancing back over his shoulder at my wide-eyed, completely scandalized expression. The grounded, earthy flavor of his presence ripples with a highly amused, toasted-grain warmth.

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

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

A chorus of overlapping, genuine laughter fills the armored transport. Mr. Zip chuckles from his seat, and even Ms. Fres lets out a quiet giggle. The sharp, anxious static in the Feline Caster’s emotional resonance finally begins to melt, soothed by the mundane banter.

I look at Opal.

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

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

I am thrown sideways, my shoulder bumping hard against Ms. Fres as the vehicle lurches over another massive, jagged dip in the dirt road. I scramble to right myself, my hands flying up to grip the grab handle above the window, while my tail wraps securely around my own thigh to keep from flailing.

The seasoned Cautus Operator takes a sharp, sweeping turn around a rocky bend without even tapping the brakes, the heavy treads kicking up a massive, blinding rooster tail of red dust.

"Watch for the medical supplies, Savage. Sunvalley are expecting them," Mr. Zip says. The Perro Field Ops is gripping his own handle in the forward guard seat, his voice carrying a note of dry, veteran exasperation over the roaring engine.

"Don’t worry," Miss Savage calls back cheerfully, her eyes completely focused on the barren horizon. She effortlessly maneuvers the steering wheel.

I look down at Opal. She is squeezed safely between me and the far door, her arms wrapped tightly around her Amiya plushie. I reach out, gently resting my hand over hers, ensuring she stays anchored against the chaotic jostling of the rover.

After two hours of endless, rusted canyons and sprawling desert, we are finally there. The sand rover slows to a heavy, rumbling crawl as we cross the threshold of the nomadic platform. Miss Savage brings the transport to a halt, cutting the engine.

I carefully unbuckle my harness and push heavy armored door open, stepping out into the dry, dusty air. I reach a hand back, helping Opal climb down the high metal steps. This isn't the gleaming, pristine glass metropolis of Trimounts, nor is it the quiet, snow- capped serenity of Kjerag. It is an unapologetic, sprawling monument to industrial survival. Towering structures of rusted metal and corrugated iron loom over the streets, interconnected by a chaotic, overlapping web of thick black cables, exposed pipes, and heavy scaffolding. Massive yellow cranes jut into the hazy sky, standing like metal giants over silos and shipping containers stacked haphazardly along the paved roads.

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

Opal shrinks slightly against my side, her eyes darting across the rusted metal and the Cautus faces. The environment is undoubtedly strikingly similar to the home she lost. I immediately squeeze her hands to buffer her anxiety.

The crunch of polished shoes against the gritty pavement draws my attention.

Then a man walks to us.

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

My Arts brush against his ambient presence. It hits the back of my tongue with a smooth, perfectly artificial flavor. It tastes like stale mint, heavily starched linen, and a cool, calculating detachment. There is no hostility, but there is absolutely no warmth either.

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

Mr. Fourteen and Mr. Zip don't even wait for a formal introduction. They immediately move to the rear of the vehicle, dropping the heavy cargo ramp with a loud clank. The two armored Field Ops begin unloading the heavy, reinforced crates of medical supplies.

A few paces away, Ms. Fres steps away from the vehicle. She doesn't help with the crates. Instead, she unclips her Raythean focal unit, her eyes scanning the multi-tiered scaffolding and the bustling crowds. She is on guard. The ambient flavor bleeding off the Feline Caster is a sharp, freezing static of pure, hyper-vigilant adrenaline. She is ensuring no one interrupts the drop-off.

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

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

Donations.

They are highly advanced Oripathy suppressants and trauma kits manufactured by the greatest medical minds on the planet, not just pocket change thrown into a charity bin. But I swallow the spark of indignation, keeping my face perfectly polite. We are here for Opal, not for corporate gratitude.

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

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

"Alright," Miss Savage replies, giving her heavy industrial hammer a slight, adjusting heave over her shoulder. She turns to me and Opal, offering a warm, deeply reassuring smile. "Let's go see what Sunvalley has to offer, shall we?"

I look down at Opal, giving her fingers one last, encouraging squeeze.

"We are right beside you," I whisper softly to her.

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

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

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

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

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

The bustling noise of the unloading zone seems to completely evaporate.

The heavy, reinforced crate in Mr. Zip's hands halts mid-air. Beside the transport, Ms. Fres's spine snaps rigidly straight as the freezing, static-laced spike of her protective anger flares.

Even Miss Savage stops dead in her tracks. The warm, sun-baked earth of the Cautus veteran’s aura instantly hardens into cold, unforgiving steel. Her grip visibly tightens around the shaft of her industrial hammer. She opens her mouth, her eyes narrowing into a fierce, uncompromising glare directed squarely at the corporate liaison.

But I don't let her speak.

I reach out and gently, but firmly, pull my hand out of Opal's grasp.

The hot, prickly flush of shame burns the back of my throat, but I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. I know exactly what happens if Miss Savage or Ms. Fres starts a shouting match with a Sunvalley executive in the middle of their own platform. The tour will end before it even begins. The doors to the schools, the parks, and the safe, sunlit future will slam shut, and Opal will be dragged right back to the windowless quarantine wards of the landship.

I swallow the phantom ash. We are already buying Opal’s ticket to a normal life with our medicines, and my pride is a completely acceptable currency to spend.

"It's okay," I say, stepping backward so I am standing flush against the armored treads of our sand rover.

I force the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into a bright, entirely manufactured smile that.

"Okay. Good luck, Opal," I chime, looking directly past the corporate man to Opal. "Miss Savage."

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

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

Miss Savage looks at me. The seasoned veteran's eyes are dark, carrying a heavy, silent apology. She gives me a slow, solemn nod.

Miss Savage turns her focus back to the corporate man. The polite, diplomatic facade she had worn earlier is entirely gone.

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

The corporate man gives a stiff, perfunctory nod, turning on his heel to guide them into the sprawling, metal-clad labyrinth of the mining town. I watch them go, my eyes tracking the soft beige of Opal's parka until they disappear entirely behind a massive stack of rusted shipping containers.

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

I slump back against the cold, dusty armor of the rover, my hands curling tightly around my Arts Unit. My tail drops limply against the dirt, the bitter sting of the rejection finally settling heavily into my chest.

Clank.

The sound is violently loud. Mr. Fourteen drops the medical crate he was holding onto the loading pallet with far more force than necessary.

"Tsk."

The Lupo Field Ops crosses his arms over his chest. His grounded, earthy flavor of his presence is completely ablaze with a sharp, protective frustration that tastes like scorched timber.

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

Ms. Fres steps closer, her feline tail lashing angrily behind her Caster uniform. "They have no idea what you do for us. They just look at the horns and assume the worst." I let out a long, ragged exhale. The dry, dusty air of Rim Billiton scratches at my lungs.

"I know…" I whisper, tracing my thumb over the smooth, polished base of my staff. I look down at the ground, kicking a small clump of rusted dirt. My mind flashes back to the blood-stained triage bay during the County Hillock influx, to the terrified Feline amputee screaming at me to stay away. I think of the Browntail scouts in the Kjeragian snow, retreating into the pine trees the absolute second they realized what I was.

"It is not the first time…" I murmur, my voice dropping into a quiet, resigned melody.

"And Dr. Kal'tsit told me it wouldn't be the last. It's just Terra."

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

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

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

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

I snap my head up, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

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

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

But it is the ambient flavor bleeding off the Cautus girl that brings a massive, teary- eyed relief to my chest. Her presence tastes like sweet, sun-warmed strawberries and bright spun-sugar. She is safe.

"I think she is ready to stay here," Miss Savage says, her voice carrying a deep, profoundly satisfied warmth as they stop in front of the rover.

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

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

"Lethe, for you," Opal whispers. Her voice is still fragile, but it rings with a beautiful, grounded certainty. "Carrot cake."

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

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

I don't just take the box. I drop completely to the ground. My knees hit the dry dirt of the outback, bringing myself perfectly to her eye level. I carefully take the box with one hand, and with the other, I pull Opal into a fierce, desperate embrace.

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

Opal wraps her arms around my neck, resting her chin against my shoulder. She hugs me back, the gesture small but incredibly anchoring.

Above us, the cold, bureaucratic reality of Terra intrudes on the farewell.

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

"The numbers matches what Rhodes Island has promised," the man states smoothly, his stale mint emotional resonance completely devoid of any actual gratitude or warmth. He hands the clipboard back to the Perro Field Ops. "We will process the paperwork for the child. I believe my business here is done."

Without offering a single word of comfort to Opal or a polite farewell to our squad, he turns on his heel and marches back toward the towering administration buildings. I ignore the suit entirely. Mr. Fourteen lets out another low, guttural scoff at the man's retreating back, but my focus is entirely on the Cautus girl in my arms. I hold her, anchoring this moment into my heart, knowing that even if the Originium in my mind eventually burns this memory to ash, she will be living safely in the light.

I slowly pull back from the embrace, my hands gently resting on her shoulders. I look at her face, desperately trying to memorize the fragile, beautiful spark of life that has finally returned to her eyes.

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

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

"I will miss you and everyone, Lethe," she says, her voice trembling just a fraction, but ringing with a profound, undeniable strength.

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

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

Opal looks down at Miss Savage's outstretched hand. She looks back at me one last time, and then, with a final, brave nod, she takes the veteran's hand.

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

"I will stay here with Lethe," Ms. Fres announces, her voice flat and absolute. She gestures with a nod toward the two other Field Ops. "You two can go."

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

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

Ms. Fres doesn't hesitate.

"Yes," she replies firmly.

Mr. Fourteen gives a slow nod. He exchanges a brief look with Mr. Zip, and the two armored Field Ops turn to join the Cautus veteran.

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

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

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

I push myself up from the dry, cracked dirt, my knees aching slightly from kneeling. I carefully brush the dust from my skirt, the small cardboard box held securely against my chest.

I look up at the Feline Caster standing guard. The sharp, freezing static of her hyper- vigilance has mellowed into a quiet, steadfast companionship.

"Well. Ms. Fres," I say softly, offering a tentative smile. "Do you want to share the carrot cake?"

Ms. Fres blinks, her attention dropping to the small bakery box. The tight, defensive lines around her eyes soften just a bit.

"Sure, Lethe," she replies, her voice dropping its military edge.

We climb back up the high metal steps and enter the rover. The heavy armored door swings shut with a resounding, definitive thud, completely severing the biting wind and the chaotic noise of the mining platform. The cabin is cool, quiet, and smells faintly of machine grease and worn canvas.

We sit side-by-side. I carefully pop open the cardboard tabs of the box.

Instantly, the rich, spiced aroma of cinnamon, nutmeg, and baked sugar fills the cramped space. Resting inside is a thick, perfectly baked slice of carrot cake, topped with a generous, pristine layer of cream cheese frosting. I hand Ms. Fres one of the tiny wooden forks tucked into the packaging, taking the other for myself.

We dig in. Miss Savage was absolutely right. The cake is incredibly moist, the earthy sweetness of the carrots blending flawlessly with the sharp spices, completely enveloped by the tangy, luxurious richness of the frosting.

We eat in a comfortable, shared silence for a few minutes.

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

Her hand freezes mid-air.

The ambient flavor in the rover shifts. The comfortable, sugary warmth of the cake is instantly swallowed by a heavy, suffocating wave. It tastes like cold, stagnant smog, rusted iron, and the bitter, suffocating ash of despair.

Ms. Fres lowers her fork, letting it rest on the edge of the cardboard box. She stares blankly at the metal floorboards of the rover.

"I… I am a Taran," Ms. Fres whispers, the words scraping painfully against the quiet of the cabin. "From the Victorian Empire. A city called Sidmouth."

She slowly reaches over with her free hand, gripping the cuff of her crisp, tailored Caster uniform. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulls the fabric up.

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

"I got infected in an industrial accident in a factory," she explains. Her voice is entirely hollowed out, stripped of any anger, leaving only a profound, exhausted resignation. "No one will offer me a job after that."

She looks up, her eyes meeting mine.

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

The words drop into the cabin like a lead weight.

"Sorry…" I whisper.

Slowly, Ms. Fres rolls her sleeve back down, meticulously covering the crystals until her uniform is pristine and professional once more.

The ambient air in the cabin shifts again. The suffocating, bitter smog of her past is forcefully swallowed down, replaced by the sharp, resolute, and completely unyielding flavor of polished steel.

"No," Ms. Fres says, her voice steadying as she picks her tiny wooden fork back up. She looks at me, a faint, incredibly brave smile touching the corners of her lips. "It is the past now. Rhodes Island offered me the only place I can find a life again."

“Me too… Ms. Fres…”

The last crumb of the spiced carrot cake disappears from my wooden fork.

I carefully fold the cardboard box, setting it gently onto the floorboards. Beside me, Ms. Fres lowers her own fork.

We don't have to wait much longer.

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

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

Opal is not with them.

"Miss Savage?" I ask softly.

The seasoned Cautus turns around in the driver's seat. She looks at me, a profound, genuinely radiant smile breaking across her face.

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

She chuckles, a bright sound that easily cuts through the sterile quiet of the rover.

"They even treated us to a nice, quick barbecue."

The image blooms instantly in my mind. Opal, sitting at a loud, crowded table with a real family. No beeping diagnostic monitors. No sterile white walls or high-security blast doors. Just the smell of barbecue, the sun, and the chance to simply be a child again.

"That's good," I whisper, a wide smile stretching across my face. I lean back against the seat, completely exhausted but overwhelmingly happy.

"Now, let's get back to Rhodes Island," Miss Savage announces, turning back to the dashboard and turning the ignition. The engine roars to life with a vibrating thrum. "So you two can get food as well."

"Thank you, Savage," Ms. Fres says quietly beside me, her own posture relaxing entirely. The treads of the sand rover engage, grinding against the cracked earth as we slowly turn around.

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

The endless, barrens of Rim Billiton roll past us in a blur of muted reds and dusty browns. The rhythmic, hypnotic hum of the engine and the swaying of the vehicle almost lull me into a comfortable, dreamless sleep. My eyelids flutter, heavy with the emotional crash of the day.

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

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

Rising from the jagged ridges in the far distance is a massive, towering plume of thick, pitch-black smoke. It billows aggressively into the hazy sky, staining the clouds with a suffocating, unnatural darkness.

I grip the edge of the window frame.

"What's that?" I ask, my voice trembling as I point at the glass. "Is that a Catastrophe?" The relaxed, post-mission atmosphere inside the cabin vanishes in a single heartbeat. Mr. Fourteen immediately shifts his weight, his buckler shield clanking against the console as he leans forward to peer through the windshield. Beside him, Mr. Zip's ears snap straight up, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword.

The ambient flavor radiating from Miss Savage violently shifts. The warm, sun-baked earth instantly hardens into cold, uncompromising steel.

She narrows her eyes, squinting through the dusty glare of the outback.

"No," Miss Savage replies, her tone dropping into a low, guarded octave that sends a freezing shiver down my spine. "That looks like a convoy."

The heavy treads of our sand rover grind to a slow, deliberate halt. Miss Savage doesn’t kill the engine, but she expertly maneuvers our transport behind a towering outcropping of rusted rock, keeping our profile completely obscured from the sprawling valley below.

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

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

A massive, militarized convoy is carving a brutal path through the arid Rim Billiton outback. Dozens of heavy armored vehicles roll relentlessly over the cracked earth, their exhaust stacks spewing thick, suffocating plumes of black smoke into the bruised sky. Marching in perfect, terrifying synchronization alongside the transports are ranks of soldiers. Crossbowmen and sword guards move with a crisp, disciplined efficiency that completely sets them apart from the desperate, rusted scavengers that usually haunt these Rim Billiton wastelands.

But it is the heavy infantry marching behind them that makes the blood completely freeze in my veins.

"Columbians?!" Mr. Zip hisses, his voice tight with sudden, biting alarm.

I stare at the towering figures trudging through the dust. They aren't just wearing armor; they are entirely encased in colossal, mechanized exoskeletons. Thick, blocky metal plates bolted with heavy rivets cover their thighs and chests. Every step they take is supported by external hydraulic struts and thick pneumatic pistons running down the lengths of their legs, hissing audibly over the roar of the engines. Their faces are completely hidden behind angular, slatted steel visors, stripping away any shred of humanity and turning them into faceless, walking tanks.

And resting effortlessly in the grips of those mechanically enhanced, skeletal metal gauntlets are massive rocket launchers.

Mr. Fourteen narrows his eyes.

"That’s not Pioneers, those suits," Mr. Fourteen states, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly growl. "That’s Rhine Lab tech. That’s the Union Army."

Rhine Lab.

The name sends a violent, freezing shiver straight down my spine. The exact same corporation that designed the pristine, life-saving machines we use, the same brilliant minds that built the centrifuges keeping my blood stable, are the ones who forged these terrifying, mechanized weapons of war.

My tail wraps into a rigid, defensive coil around my leg.

"What… What are they doing here?" I ask, my voice fracturing into a tiny, terrified whisper inside the tense cabin.

"Victoria is crumbling," Miss Savage murmurs, her eyes locked onto the mechanized army marching across her homeland. "Columbia must have seen this as an opportunity to claim Victoria’s share of Originium here in Rim Billiton…"

This isn't a border skirmish, and it isn't a riot. The superpowers are moving. The Columbian Union is marching its state-of-the-art, Rhine Lab-fueled war machine directly across the desolate, neutral territory of Rim Billiton to scavenge the corpse of the Victorian Empire.

The ambient air bleeding through the reinforced glass doesn't taste like the chaotic, burning rage of Reunion, nor does it carry the panicked, drowning sorrow of refugees. It tastes like polished steel, freezing engine oil, and absolute, calculated greed. It is a meticulous, industrialized march toward war, fueled entirely by the endless hunger for the black crystals buried beneath the earth.

I shrink back.

“Do… do we go back?”

The stifling, terrified silence inside the cabin is violently shattered.

"We need to intercept them," Ms. Fres says.

Her voice is flat, clinical, and completely absolute.

"What? Just the five of us?" Mr. Fourteen barks. He gestures sharply toward the back row, his protective, earthy flavor spiking with the panicked taste of scorched timber.

"Lethe is not a combatant, we cannot risk her."

My abysmal physical strength rating from Ms. Dobermann’s test flashes in my mind. Against a horde of wild Originium slugs, I would be a liability. Against a mechanized, state-of-the-art Columbian army equipped with Rhine Lab exoskeletons and rocket launchers? I am nothing but dust waiting to be scattered.

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

Sunvalley.

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

If that Columbian war machine marches into the platform, the schools, the parks, and the safe community we promised her will be completely crushed beneath the rubble. In the driver's seat, Miss Savage shifts her weight.

The seasoned Cautus veteran’s grip on the steering wheel tightens until the leather groans under the strain.

"We fought for our freedom from the superpowers," Miss Savage says. Her voice drops into a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates straight through the chassis of the rover.

"They keep wanting to take it again, and again."

She doesn't hesitate for another second. The engine of the sand rover roars as she throws it back into gear.

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

"On it!" Mr. Zip shouts back. The Perro Field Ops instantly drops his hand to the communications terminal mounted on the dashboard. His fingers fly across the dials, desperately trying to punch a signal through the suffocating Originium interference saturating the outback. Static hisses and crackles violently from the cabin speakers, a chaotic wall of noise masking our desperate lifeline to the landship.

Miss Savage forcefully yanks the steering wheel, turning the armored hull of the transport away from the safety of the hidden ridge and angling us directly toward the intercept path.

"We buy time!" Miss Savage commands over the roaring engine and the hissing static.

"Fourteen, you focus on keeping Lethe safe!"

"Understood!" Mr. Fourteen grunts. He immediately shifts his stance, sliding his heavy buckler shield off his back and locking it securely onto his forearm.

I press my back flat against the seat. My heart is hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against my ribs, and the phantom taste of cold copper floods my mouth.

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

But then, the memory of the training hall anchors my spiraling mind. I remember the foam projectiles. I remember the heavy, suffocating lethargy I had shoved into Vigna's mind, completely neutralizing the elite-in-training before she could strike.

“I am a Supporter,* Lisa's bright, confident voice echoes in my head. “Our job isn't to hit the bad guys hard. Our job is to control the battlefield.”

I am an Operator of the Medical Department.

I I slide my hands down the shaft of my Arts Unit, shifting my grip so I am holding it firmly across my body. I squeeze my eyes shut for a fraction of a second, drawing up the absolute heaviest, most paralyzing emotions I have hoarded in the dark of my mind; the liquid-lead exhaustion of the triage bays, the suffocating apathy of the void.

I open my eyes, my gaze locking onto the approaching Columbian convoy through the dusty glass.

I am ready.

"I sent a message out!"

Mr. Zip's voice cracks over the hissing, chaotic static of the dashboard terminal. He slams his hand against the console, immediately abandoning the comms array and reaching for the buckle of his harness.

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

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

She violently yanks the steering wheel hand-over-hand, slamming her boot down on the brakes. The heavy treads of our sand rover scream in protest, locking up and tearing deep gouges into the dry earth. The transport skids sideways in a massive, blinding cloud of red dust, coming to a dead halt.

She has parked our vehicle horizontally, turning its armored hull into a literal barricade directly in the path of the narrow canyon route.

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

They are staring right at us.

"Everyone out!" Miss Savage orders.

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

I try to move, but my muscles completely lock up. The sheer, paralyzing terror of the mechanized army staring us down freezes the blood in my veins. My fingers are locked in a death grip around my Arts Unit, but my legs refuse to unbuckle my harness.

Mr. Fourteen lunges across the aisle. He doesn't ask me to move; his gloved hands clamp directly onto me.

With a single, effortless heave, he practically drags me bodily out of the cabin.

"Woah!" I yelp, my sneakers barely grazing the metal steps as I am hauled into the biting, dry wind of the outback. Mr. Fourteen doesn't stop. He drags my stumbling, lightweight frame backward, throwing us both behind the cover of a massive, rusted rock outcropping just a few meters away from the vehicle.

The absolute second we clear the rover, the air is violently split apart.

It is a high-pitched, terrifying whistle that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

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

Boom.

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

The explosion tears the world apart. A blinding, searing flash of orange and black erupts, instantly completely incinerating the transport. The shockwave hits us a fraction of a second later. It is a massive, physical wall of concussive force and blistering heat that washes over the rock outcropping, rattling the horns on my skull and sending a rain of hot shrapnel and flaming debris scattering across the canyon floor.

I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my face into the dirt as Mr. Fourteen's frame absorbs the brunt of the shockwave above me.

Our ride, our only lifeline back to the safety of the landship, is gone in a single heartbeat. We are completely stranded.

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

I open my eyes, gasping for air as the thick, choking scent of burning machine grease and scorched earth floods my lungs.

The ringing in my ears from the incinerated sand rover is a high-pitched, agonizing whine. Thick, choking plumes of black smoke and burning machine grease wash over our rocky cover, but the relentless, synchronized hiss of the Columbian exoskeletons marches right through it.

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

She raises her Raythean focal unit. A blinding, searing arc of white-hot Arts erupts directly from the tip of her Arts Unit.

It cuts through the howling dust like a physical blade.

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

The absolute, unnatural void where a human life used to be hits me. It tastes like cold copper, rotting ash, and the abrupt, sickening snuffing out of a person.

My stomach heaves.

I slap my free hand over my mouth, gagging as the bile burns the back of my throat. My wide, terrified eyes are locked onto the limp, motionless body bleeding out into the Rim Billiton dust.

This is war.

The realization crushes the remaining air out of my lungs. This isn't the Convalescent Garden. I am not putting sterile bandages on scraped knees, and I am not safely separated from the dying by the armored bulkheads of Rhodes Island. People are actively slaughtering each other right in front of me, and the brutal, blood-soaked reality of Terra is entirely overwhelming.

I am not ready for it. I am completely, utterly unready for this.

"Lethe! Stay behind me!"

Mr. Fourteen’s voice is a guttural, gravelly roar that shatters my spiraling paralysis. He shifts his stance, planting his boots firmly into the dirt and slamming his shield down directly in front of my huddled frame.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I am a Supporter.

I have to help them.

I dig into my chest, searching for the warmest, most unwavering sensations I possess. But I cannot.

I cannot think. I cannot cast.

Through my blurred, tear-filled vision, the world suddenly erupts into a blur of impossible motion.

Miss Savage and Mr. Zip do not wait for the Columbian line to advance upon our broken cover. They explode forward.

In the literal blink of an eye, they cross the dusty expanse.

Miss Savage leaps directly into the towering shadows of the infantry, raising her massive, terrifyingly heavy industrial hammer high above her head as she crashes into the absolute center of the frontline.

The air above our rusted rock cover is violently torn apart by the high-pitched, terrifying whistle of heavy crossbow bolts. They strike the stone and the incinerated chassis of our rover with deafening, cracking thuds, kicking up blinding sprays of rock and dust.

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

But the sheer, terrifying volume of the mechanized army is overwhelming.

I can hear Ms. Fres’s breathing turning ragged. Her chest heaves with shallow, desperate gasps. She is panting. She is reaching her absolute limits, and the Columbian war machine isn't even slowing down.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the horrific, rotting taste of the dying soldiers bleeding into the dirt.

Then, I open my eyes, and out of the corner of my vision, I notice something about the sky.

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

The air pressure drops so rapidly it makes my ears pop.

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

Miss Adele has told me.

They are the undeniable, telltale signs of an impending Catastrophe.

The blood completely drains from my face. We are not just trapped in a warzone; we are standing directly at ground zero of nature's wrath.

I scramble forward in the dirt, grabbing the armored sleeve of the Lupo Field Ops shielding me.

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

Mr. Fourteen’s grey ears snap straight up. He surges up from behind the rock, his voice tearing out of his throat in a raw, gravelly roar that shatters the mechanical hiss of the Columbian advance.

"Savage, Zip! We need to retreat!"

At the frontline, Miss Savage hears the call. The seasoned Cautus doesn't hesitate. She pivots with terrifying, fluid grace. The dependable, roaring flavor of her emotional resonance explodes into raw kinetic power. She hoists her massive industrial hammer high above her head and brings it crashing down with apocalyptic force directly onto the hood of an advancing Columbian transport vehicle.

The reinforced metal completely crumples, flattening under the staggering impact with a deafening screech of tearing steel. She uses the devastating shockwave to instantly break engagement, bounding backward toward our position.

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

He spins, his sword coming up in a flawless, desperate arc to parry a strike from a guard. The clash of steel rings out, a shower of bright sparks illuminating the dust. But there are too many.

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

A cold, clinical blade pierces straight through Mr. Zip’s abdomen.

The blade is brutally, swiftly withdrawn.

Mr. Zip gasps, his weapon slipping from his grip. His knees buckle, and he begins to fall. But before his body can even hit the dry dirt, a crossbow bolt whistles through the air and punches straight through his head.

The empathic tether completely snaps.

There is no fading. There is no lingering pain. The flavor of his life is simply, instantaneously annihilated. It is replaced by an absolute, freezing void.

"Zip!"

Mr. Fourteen’s scream is a jagged, bleeding tear in the fabric of the world. It is the sound of pure, unadulterated agony, a primal howl of grief that makes my own stomach violently heave.

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

Mr. Fourteen's hands clamp down on the collar of my jacket. The flavor of his grief is forcefully, brutally choked down.

"We need to go now."

The world dissolves into a violent, deafening blur of red dust and black smoke.

Behind us, Ms. Fres refuses to back down.

The Feline Caster stands her ground amidst the howling chaos. She sweeps the projectiles across the canyon floor, laying down a relentless wall of suppressing fire that slices through the dust, buying us the agonizing seconds we need to put distance between ourselves and the advancing infantry.

A high-pitched, terrifying whistle splits the air.

The first rocket screams past her, missing by mere meters. It detonates violently against the canyon wall, sending a shower of stone and pulverized rust raining down on us. The shockwave makes my knees buckle, but Ms. Fres doesn't even flinch. The sharp, resolute flavor of polished steel bleeding off her emotional resonance holds perfectly steady. She adjusts her aim, locked onto the towering Columbian exosuits.

Then, the second whistle pierces the dust.

The blinding flash of orange and black consumes her entirely.

Another empathic tether snaps.

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

She is just gone.

The flavor of her existence is instantaneously, brutally annihilated, replaced by a freezing, bottomless void.

I stop dead.

I violently twist my shoulders, tearing the fabric of my jacket right out of Mr. Fourteen’s desperate grip.

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

I don't move. I turn around, my eyes locking onto the towering, faceless metal titans marching relentlessly through the smoke.

They killed Mr. Zip.

They killed Ms. Fres.

They are marching their state-of-the-art, Rhine Lab-fueled war machines directly toward the Sunvalley-owned platform, where Opal is finally learning how to smile. The empires of Terra just take, and take, and take, crushing anyone who dares to find a fragile sliver of light in the ruins.

If they are just going to kill us. If they are just going to slaughter everything we love. Then I will make sure they feel it. I will make sure they feel every single bit of the unspeakable, rotting nightmare I have been swallowing to keep this landship breathing. I drop my stance, planting my feet firmly into the dirt. I raise my hands, gripping the dark shaft my Arts Unit, holding it straight.

I rip my monitor off.

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

I pouring every single bit of my willpower directly into the focal point. I tear open the heavy, iron doors of my mind completely off their hinges.

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

It isn't a gentle push. It is a catastrophic, localized psychic tsunami.

I gather the rotting, acidic sludge of the Chernobog slaughterhouse. I pull up the synthetic, bleached horror of the infected being butchered in the dark of Area 0. I drag the suicidal, explosive despair of the Wolumonde Blood Shamans and the gnawing, rotting starvation of Peterheim Middle School directly to the surface. I think of the senseless, violent hatred between the Taran and Victorian. I forge it all into a blinding, suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated madness, and I hurl it straight down the empathic channel into the minds of the Columbian soldiers.

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

Miss Savage’s voice tears through the canyon, a desperate, horrified scream.

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

The effect is instantaneous.

The vanguard of the infantry completely breaks.

A towering exosuit suddenly freezes in mid-stride. The heavy hydraulic struts lock up with a screeching hiss. The pilot inside lets out a raw, tearing scream of absolute, mind- shattering terror. He flails aimlessly, the massive, mechanically enhanced arms swinging wildly into the air.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

He pulls the triggers. Rockets fire blindly from his shoulder mounts, completely devoid of targeting. They streak erratically through the sky, detonating against the canyon walls, the dirt, and directly amidst his own advancing ranks.

In the sheer, blood-soaked chaos of the broken formation, the infantry line shatters. Through the thick, choking smoke, I see a Columbian sword guard drop his weapon. The steel clatters uselessly against the dirt. He falls heavily to his knees, his hands flying up to his own face. He tears frantically at his visor, his fingers clawing desperately at his own skin as if trying to rip the nightmare directly out of his eyes.

I stand there, my chest heaving, my hands trembling violently around the staff as the taste of their breaking minds floods the back of my throat. It is toxic. It is rotting my senses from the inside out, but I refuse to close the channel. I want them to drown in it. Then, a heavy shadow falls over me.

"Sorry, Lethe."

Mr. Fourteen’s voice is a low, sorrowful whisper right beside my ear.

A sharp, explosive pain erupts at the base of my skull.

The Arts Unit slips from my numb fingers. The psychic hurricane is instantaneously severed.

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

I open my eyes.

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

A shadow falls over the bed.

I blink, squinting against the harsh light to bring the shape into focus. Standing right beside me is a woman. She has soft, pale downy feathers framing her face, and her eyes are a gentle, watery light purple. She looks incredibly exhausted, dark shadows bruised beneath her lashes.

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

It is a suffocating, heavy wave of burnt honey. It is sweet, but completely scorched, dripping with an agonizing, desperate sorrow that coats the back of my tongue like thick ash.

"Lethe? Lethe! You are awake!"

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

I lie there, perfectly stiff and unmoving in her embrace.

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

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

"You… you are?" I ask.

My voice is a tiny, fragile whisper that scrapes painfully against a throat that feels raw and unused.

The woman completely freezes.

The arms holding me go entirely rigid. The burnt honey flavor in the air instantly shatters into a million jagged, freezing shards of pure, unadulterated devastation. Her light purple eyes blow wide, staring at me as if I have just driven a physical blade directly through her chest.

Before she can force a single word through her trembling lips, the heavy doors of the ward hiss apart.

The ambient temperature in the room instantly plummets to absolute zero.

A woman with sharp, green feline ears walks into my view. She is dressed in an immaculate white coat, her hands folded neatly behind her back. The flavor she radiates is fundamentally terrifying; it tastes of ancient, immovable glaciers, cold iron, and crushing stone.

"The result is exactly as expected," the Feline states.

Her voice is a flat, measured strike that echoes off the pristine white walls, completely devoid of the suffocating grief drowning the room.

"By entirely bypassing the safety limiters of her Originium Arts dampening unit and projecting a localized psychic cascade of that magnitude, she induced a catastrophic Originium spike within her temporal lobe," the Feline continues, stepping to the foot of my bed. Her piercing green eyes lock directly onto mine with cold, clinical finality. "To sustain the output, the infection completely incinerated the neural pathways housing her cognitive anchors. It is a complete loss of memories."

The Liberi woman beside me lets out a jagged, broken sob.

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

"Her slate… her slate was crashed when Fourteen tackled her to stop the Arts…" the Liberi cries, her voice muffled and trembling with absolute despair. "Her anchors… the notes she wrote to remember us… they are gone!"

The ancient Feline does not flinch at the display of heartbreak. She simply watches the weeping woman.

"Closure is currently recovering the information from the terminal's damaged chassis," the Feline says, her tone offering no soft comfort. "The internal storage drives were severely dented by the concussive shockwave, but the data is not entirely unsalvageable. We will rebuild her baseline."

I pull my knees up tightly to my chest, my long tail curling instinctively around my ankles in a rigid, defensive coil.

I sit on the mattress and look between the weeping, pale-feathered woman and the ancient, terrifying Feline. I have absolutely no idea who they are. I don't know where I am. I don't even know who I am.

I am completely alone in the dark.

"My little Lethe."

The Liberi woman leans in, her arms wrapping securely around my shoulders once again. Her embrace is trembling violently, but she holds me as if I am the absolute only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.

The name echoes in the hollow, freezing cavern of my skull.

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

"I am Lethe?" I whisper, my hands hovering hesitantly in the air, completely unsure of what to do with them.

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

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

"Yours…?"

"Yes," she cries, squeezing me even tighter.

The burnt honey flavor saturating the room ripples. She is actively fighting through the thick, suffocating ash of her own grief, desperately trying to project a wave of pure, unwavering warmth into the space between us. "I love you with all my heart."

I don't know her name. I don't know her face. But the absolute, staggering magnitude of the emotion she is pouring directly into my empty chest is undeniable. It is heavy, terrifying, and profoundly safe all at once.

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

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

A young Cautus girl steps into the room. She has brown hair, and her long ears are drooping entirely limply. Her blue eyes are completely fogged over, brimming with a quiet, devastating sorrow.

As she crosses the threshold, my Arts brush against her presence. The flavor hits me like delicate, fragile spun-sugar, but it is completely smothered beneath a thick, suffocating layer of grey dust and crushed, bitter petals.

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

"She is awake," the Cautus girl breathes out. Her voice is a soft, musical chime that trembles heavily in the sterile air. She turns her gaze desperately toward the ancient Feline standing nearby. "Does she…?"

She doesn't even finish the question.

The Feline closes her eyes for a fraction of a second and gives her head a slow, deliberate shake.

The Cautus girl's shoulders completely collapse. The desperate spark of hope in her spun-sugar emotional resonance is instantaneously snuffed out, leaving behind only the crushing weight of the grey dust.

"Oh…"

She just stands there, silently weeping.

"Lethe."

The Cautus girl takes a slow, shaky step toward the edge of the mattress. She reaches up, using the sleeve of her oversized jacket to quickly wipe the tears from her cheeks, desperately trying to construct a brave, steady facade.

"I… I am Amiya," the Cautus introduces herself, her voice trembling with a fragile, aching sincerity. She gestures a small, hesitant hand toward the unmoving Feline standing at the foot of the bed. "And she is Dr. Kal’tsit."

I look between them. Amiya. Kal’tsit.

They are completely hollow sounds, stripped entirely of context, history, or meaning. I search the blank canvas of my brain for their faces, but there is only a terrifying, deafening static.

But my empathic senses do not lie. The spun-sugar sweetness radiating from Amiya is thick with a desperate, protective honesty, while the freezing, ancient glacier of the Feline doctor simply exists as an immovable, absolute truth in the room.

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

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

2nd of January, 1096.

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

The pale-feathered Liberi woman holding me lets out a wet, shuddering breath. She slowly pulls back, creating just enough space between us so she can look directly into my eyes. Her hands slide up from my shoulders to gently, reverently cup my cheeks. Her thumbs brush away the stray, tangled strands of my grey hair with a touch so incredibly tender and practiced that it makes my breath catch.

"And I am Erika…" she whispers. Her eyes are bloodshot, brimming with a devastating sorrow that tastes of scorched honey. "…I was the Medic responsible to take care of you."

I look at her face. I study her pale feathers and the crisp, clean lines of her uniform. Erika.

Nothing.

"Erika," I repeat. The name scrapes painfully against my raw throat, coming out as a tiny, fragile chime in the quiet ward.

I reach up, my hands trembling violently as my fingers gently wrap around her wrists.

"I don't… I don't remember," I whisper, my eyes welling with fresh, terrified tears. "I'm sorry. I don't remember you. But…"

I lean my cheek heavily into the warmth of her palm, closing my eyes against the glaring, clinical white lights of the room.

"…But you taste like home."

The suffocating, burnt-ash flavor of Erika’s grief instantly shatters. It is replaced by a blinding, overwhelming flare of pure, unadulterated honey. It is a massive, desperate tidal wave of unconditional love that completely floods my senses.

Erika lets out a jagged, breathless sob. She doesn't pull away. Instead, she squeezes me hard, her arms wrapping around my frame with a crushing, desperate intensity, burying her face deep into my hair. I can feel her heart hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against my own ribs.

I sit stiffly in her embrace.

"What date is it now…" I whisper, the words scraping painfully against my raw throat. "… is it still 1096?"

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

I freeze.

1098…

I am a ghost haunting my own flesh.

Before the paralyzing dread can completely swallow me, a fragile chime cuts through the chill.

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

I blink, my tilting my head slightly.

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

"Yes," Amiya replies softly, offering a brave smile. "That’s where you work. It is a beautiful place."

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

"Will…" I swallow hard. "Will it help me remember?"

The spun-sugar warmth in the air instantly stalls.

"It will not."

Dr. Kal'tsit interjects. She steps directly to the foot of the bed, seamlessly cutting off Amiya’s gentle approach. The Feline crosses her arms behind her back, her posture rigid.

"Your Originium Arts are fueled by cognitive consumption, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit explains.

"Under normal parameters, your monitor collar restricts your output to ensure the Originium localized in your temporal lobe only burns ambient, expendable memories to sustain your empathic siphoning."

She looks at me, her gaze unyielding.

"Four days ago, you entirely bypassed those safety limiters. You projected a localized psychic cascade of an unprecedented magnitude. To sustain that catastrophic output, the Originium infection required immediate, massive amounts of fuel."

The Feline's ears twitch just a fraction.

"It completely incinerated the neural pathways housing your cognitive anchors. The physical structures in your brain that held those two years of your life have been destroyed on a fundamental level," Dr. Kal'tsit states, the brutal truth dropping into the room like a lead weight. "They are not repressed. They are not locked away behind trauma. The garden cannot trigger a recall, because the memories themselves have been structurally eradicated. They are permanently gone."

The silence that follows is deafening.

I stare at the Dr. Kal’tsit. The fragile spark of hope in my chest is instantly, violently snuffed out.

I am completely, irreversibly empty.

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

A word flickers in the dark.

"The slate…" I whisper, my voice barely a breath. I look up at the tear-stained face of the Liberi holding me. "You mentioned something called a slate earlier… what is it?" Amiya steps slightly closer to the edge of the mattress.

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

A journal of my lost life.

"Closure is currently working to restore it," Dr. Kal'tsit interjects.

"The Chief Engineer is attempting to extract the data from the ruined chassis," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "She is also restoring your Arts monitor and rebuilding your Arts Unit unit. Until those items are fully functional and your baseline is deemed secure, your containment parameters are absolute."

"You are permitted to visit the Convalescent Garden under strict supervision, and nowhere else," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. She turns smoothly on her heel, her crisp coat snapping sharply. "I have a meeting with the Columbian representatives to attend to. You are in Caladria's care."

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

The moment the Feline departs, the terrifying, glacial pressure in the room immediately evaporates. The ambient air softens, leaving only the rich, burnt honey of Erika's grief and the fragile, spun-sugar warmth of Amiya.

Erika lets out a long, ragged exhale. She gently pulls back from the embrace, using her thumbs to meticulously wipe the lingering tears from her own cheeks before looking at me. She forces her posture to straighten.

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

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

"No," I murmur. "But… I want to see the garden."

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

I don't move.

A thought creeps in.

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

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

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

I squeeze my eyes shut, a hot tear escaping to carve a track down my cheek.

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

I open my eyes, staring helplessly at the two.

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

Erika moves.

Her hands dart out.

Her fingers gently but firmly pinch both of my cheeks.

"Ouchie!" I yelp, the sudden, stinging pressure completely short-circuiting my dread. My hands fly up instantly, rubbing my slightly pink cheeks as I look up at her with wide, watering eyes. "What’s that for?"

The ambient air in the ward violently shifts. The rich, burnt honey flavor of her grief is instantly incinerated by a fierce, blazing wave of absolute authority. It hits me like the crisp, undeniable snap of pressed starch and warm sunlight.

Erika leans in, her eyes locking directly onto mine. She doesn't allow me to look away.

"Don’t ever say that," Erika commands. Her voice drops its soft, mourning tone, ringing instead with a fierce, protective clarity that leaves absolutely no room for argument.

"You are not a ghost. You are Lethe."

"Sorry…" I mumble, my voice dropping into a tiny, sheepish whisper.

Beside the bed, Amiya lets out a soft, breathy giggle. She nods in agreement with the Liberi Medic.

Erika lets out a long sigh. The rigid, fierce tension in her shoulders relaxes. She reaches out, her thumbs gently brushing over the exact spots on my cheeks she had just pinched, her touch returning to its usual, feather-light tenderness.

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

I look at her outstretched hand.

I slowly pull my hands out from beneath the blankets. I reach out, letting my trembling fingers wrap securely around Erika's.

"Okay," I slide off the edge of the mattress. "Let's go."

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

I take a deep breath and step out of the quiet isolation of my quarantine ward.

The hallway outside is loud. Too loud.

The corridor is a sprawling, angular labyrinth of brushed metal and heavy, utilitarian bulkheads. The cold blue glare of the tactical monitors and the white accents of the Rhodes Island insignias paint the space in a highly militarized, unapologetic sterility. I stop by the insignia for a second, my hand reach out to touch it.

So this is Rhodes Island?

“That’s our logo, Lethe.” Amiya says, “The true Rhodes Island is the people on our landship, it is our home and our future.”

“I see…” I linger.

“Come on, Lethe’ let’s go,” Erika moves us along.

Then a psychic hurricane hits me.

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

I press myself completely into Erika, my hands flying up to grip her plum shirt. I duck my head.

"What’s wrong, Lethe?" Erika asks. She stops walking, her arm wrapping protectively around my trembling shoulders.

"It is so loud," I whisper as I press my face against her side. "It tastes… bad."

The ambient air in the hallway is a chaotic, suffocating sludge. It is a sickening mix of sharp, acidic bite of stress from passing Medics, mixed sickeningly with the heavy, grey flavor of bone-deep physical exhaustion radiating from people with weapon. It makes my stomach physically twist in revolt.

Erika gently strokes the top of my head.

"We will be in the garden soon, Lethe," Erika murmurs, her tone a steadying, unwavering anchor. "Just a few more steps. I've got you."

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath to avoid the toxic flavors, and let her guide me blindly down the remaining stretch of the hallway.

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

As we walk into the garden, the view is completely different.

The transition is so jarring it makes me physically pause. The oppressive sterility of the hallway is instantly swallowed by a rich, humid wave of warm air. The space is vast and breathtaking. Tall white structural pillars and crisscrossing beams support a high ceiling constructed of frosted glass, letting in a flood of soft, diffused daylight. A living canopy of broad-leafed ferns, trailing ivy, and vibrant greenery hangs suspended in the air. Scattered across the smooth floor are strange, abstract seating arrangements; smooth, golden-brown wooden benches curved like crescent moons. Hovering gracefully above the seating area is a large, translucent yellow light fixture shaped like a beautiful butterfly, Arts Unit a warm, ambient glow over the room.

I let out a long, shuddering exhale as the bitter taste of the hallway entirely evaporates. Deep within the foliage, the garden is bustling with a quiet, peaceful life.

A young Vulpo is with an older Vulpo, and they are looking intently at a large, leafy fern near one of the crescent benches. The older Vulpo moves with an effortless, serene elegance, her presence radiating a soothing, mature calmness that tastes like warm lavender and steeped chamomile. Beside her, the young Vulpo’s nine fluffy auburn tails sway in a slow, mesmerized rhythm. The sheer empathy and inherent goodness bleeding off the little girl hits my senses like a blinding physical wall of pure, crystallized sugar.

A few paces away, a Perro girl is adjusting dials on some glass pods. She is meticulously calibrating the glowing environmental habitats, her ears twitching with focused energy. Her emotional resonance washes over me, a bright, grounding splash of sun-ripened yuzu tempered by the smooth taste of green tea.

And tucked safely near the back of the greenhouse, a Reproba is with a bunch of critters. She is practically vibrating with entrepreneurial pride, her presence tasting of over-steeped tea and dry, sun-baked hay. Scurrying chaotically around her are some crabs, their little claws clicking sharply against the floor tiles. She crouches down, gently lifting one of the critters; some bigger than her head; into the air to inspect its carapace with absolute, dead-serious adoration.

I loosen my desperate death grip on Erika's coat. The freezing dread in my chest completely thaws, replaced by the earthy scent of damp soil and blooming flowers.

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

"Amiya! Miss Erika! Lethe!"

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

She crashes into me.

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

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

A few paces away, the bustling activity of the greenhouse completely stalls. The Perro girl stops adjusting her glass pods, the older Vulpo turns around, and the Reproba gently sets down her clicking metal crabs. They all turn to look at us, their emotional resonances rippling with a collective, profound relief.

But I don't hug her back.

I stand completely, rigidly frozen. My arms hang utterly limp at my sides. My eyes stare blankly over her shoulder.

"Lethe?"

The young Vulpo slowly pulls back, her tails drooping just a fraction as she looks up into my face.

Amiya steps up to stand right beside Erika.

"Lisa… she doesn’t," Amiya says. Her voice is a fragile, trembling whisper that seems to shatter the peaceful quiet of the canopy. "She doesn’t remember anything."

The reaction is instantaneous and violently physical.

A sharp pain tears through the garden. The blinding, crystallized sugar radiating from the Vulpo instantly shatters, replaced by a devastating, suffocating wave that tastes like crushed glass, damp ashes, and bitterly burnt caramel.

My stomach gives a violent heave. The sheer magnitude of the sorrow I just inflicted on her is agonizing.

"Sorry…" I whisper. I shrink backward, my tail coiling tightly around my ankle as I press myself deeper into the protective honey of Erika. "I'm so sorry…"

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

For a few agonizing minutes, the only sound in the sanctuary is the soft, wet sniffles of the young Vulpo standing in front of me.

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

But then, Lisa stops crying.

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

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

The bitter, suffocating ash in the air slowly begins to recede.

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

"We just have to be friends again," Lisa declares, her voice trembling but ringing with an absolute, undeniable certainty. "Like what we did two years ago. Right, new sis, Lethe?" New sis.

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

I take a tiny, hesitant step forward, my hands trembling as I reach out to gently grasp her fingers.

"I… I…" I offer her a fragile, watery smile in return. "I would like that…"

"Then, let’s start with introductions!"

Lisa steps back.

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

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

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

The older Vulpo steps gracefully to Podenco's side.

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

From the back of the group, the Reproba waves enthusiastically.

"I am Beanstalk! Professional metal crab breeder!" she announces. A tiny creature clicks its claws sharply near her boots. I stare at the scurrying little critter, it is kind of cute, I look between all their smiling faces. The sheer volume of information is a bit overwhelming for my newly hollowed mind.

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

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

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

Free to choose.

I turn my head, looking up at the Liberi woman standing securely by my side.

"What about you, Erika?" I ask, pitching my voice softly.

Miss Lena turns her head, sharing a quiet, knowing look with the Liberi Medic.

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

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

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

I stand awkwardly near the crescent bench. I force my spine straight, trying desperately to be polite to the people who are looking at me with such overwhelming, devastating affection.

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

The bustling activity of the greenhouse completely stalls. Perfumer’s tail stops dead. The ambient air in the sanctuary ripples violently. The rich, soothing flavor of warm lavender and steeped chamomile radiating from the older Vulpo spikes with a sudden, sharp note of bruised, wilted petals.

I did it again. I hurt them again.

Perfumer turns around.

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

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

I swallow hard, my lower lip trembling.

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

A sharp, energetic clap suddenly shatters the heavy, mourning quiet of the canopy. Podenco steps right into my line of sight. She plants her hands firmly on her hips.

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

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

"Come, Lethe!"

With a surprisingly strong tug, she practically drags me away from the heavy emotional gravity of the seating area and directly into the lush, vibrant heart of the sanctuary. I stumble slightly, scrambling to keep my padded slippers beneath me as the Perro girl pulls me down the winding, polished stone path. The sheer, vibrant life of the garden completely envelops us. The air here is incredibly rich, heavily perfumed with the scent of damp, nutrient-rich soil and a hundred different blooming flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

I feel undeniably safe.

They were my friends and they are still my friends.

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

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

Miss Lena is already waiting for us.

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

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

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

The moment I am seated, a blur of auburn immediately fills the empty space beside me. Lisa doesn't just sit; she practically wedges herself against my side, her nine fluffy tails instantly fanning out to form a warm, protective barrier around our section of the bench.

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

Miss Lena pauses her pouring.

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

Amiya blinks, her shoulders giving a tiny, surprised jump.

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

She walks over and takes a seat on the adjacent bench, sitting right next to Erika. Beanstalk and Podenco fill the remaining seats, completing the circle around the low table.

The garden is completely peaceful.

Lisa leans forward, her eyes locked onto the plate of cookies. She reaches out, her fingers carefully selecting a thick, golden-brown cookie dotted with dark fruits.

She turns to me, holding the cookie up with both hands.

"Here!" Lisa chirps, offering it to me. "This is your absolute favorite!"

I look at the cookie resting in her hands.

My favorite.

I reach out, my fingers gently taking the cookie from her hands.

"Thank you, Lisa.”

I bring the cookie to my lips and take a small, hesitant bite.

The texture is incredibly soft, yielding effortlessly against my teeth. The flavor blooms across my tongue; the rich, savory depth of toasted oats melting perfectly into the bright, tart burst of dried berries. It is a deeply grounded sweetness. It tastes like sun- baked earth, warm hearths, and careful, meticulous baking.

I chew slowly. I don't remember the last time I ate this, nor do I remember the person who originally declared it as their favorite.

I don't need the memories to know that it is good.

I lower the cookie, and look at Lisa, who is practically holding her breath.

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

The tension in the greenhouse disappears.

Lisa lets out a massive, explosive gasp of relief. Her tails instantly begin to swish back and forth in a frantic, overjoyed blur, sweeping against the wooden slats of the bench.

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

Across the table, Amiya covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a soft giggle. Podenco grins, while Erika lets out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

Miss Lena smiles her flawless, tranquil smile. She reaches forward, passing the steaming porcelain teacups around the table.

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

Erika watches me chew the last crumb of the cookie, her shoulders slumping as a heavy tension finally leaves her body. The lingering traces of burnt ash in her emotional resonance completely dissolve, leaving behind only a smooth, exhausted pool of warm honey.

"Guess our little sugar Djall is still intact," Erika sighs, a smile gracing her lips. "I am glad…"

I pause, my hand dropping to my lap.

"Djall?"

Erika reaches across the small gap between us, her hand gently resting over my own.

"That’s what you are, Lethe," Erika murmurs softly, her thumb brushing against my knuckles. "Our best little Djall."

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

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

The garden goes completely quiet.

Erika doesn't let the question hang. She leans forward, her eyes locking directly onto mine with an absolute, uncompromising fierce conviction.

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

She gently squeezes my hand.

"You are still our Lethe."

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

"Okay…"

Before the heavy emotional gravity can completely settle over the crescent bench again, a sharp, mechanical whirring cuts through the tranquil rustling of the ferns. The doors of the garden part.

Crawling methodically over the threshold is a small, boxy robot. Its treads click rhythmically against the floor as it navigates the winding botanical path, completely oblivious to the serene atmosphere of the sanctuary. It comes to a precise, jerky halt right next to our low table, its optical sensor blinking a bright, cheerful green.

Resting perfectly flat on top of its metal chassis is a sleek, black rectangular object, accompanied by a folded piece of yellow paper.

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

"What is it?" I ask.

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

I reach out tentatively, my fingers brushing against the cold, metallic casing of the slate. I pick up the paper, carefully unfolding it. The handwriting is sharp, hurried, and aggressively legible.

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

“From, Closure."

I pause, squinting at the next line.

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

For a split second, the garden is completely silent.

Then, Lisa bursts into a bright, ringing peal of laughter. Beside her, Podenco covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking as a fizzy, carbonated burst of amusement floods the air.

"That is exactly what Ms. Closure would say!" Podenco giggles, her yuzu-scented emotional resonance practically popping with joy.

A breathless, melodic laugh escaping Erika’s lips, entirely breaking the last lingering shreds of her exhausted grief. Amiya smiles radiantly, her eyes crinkling with sheer fondness.

I look at the yellow note in my hands, and then at the brilliant, laughing faces surrounding me.

A bubbling, undeniable warmth blooms directly in the center of my chest.

I look down at the dark chassis of the digital slate resting on the table. It looks pristine.

“Closure must have recovered the data onto a new one.” Miss Lena murmurs softly.

"Open it! Open it!" Lisa beams, leaning over my shoulder so eagerly that her soft hair brushes against my cheek.

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

I press it.

The screen flickers to life, Arts Unit a crisp, cool glow over the table. A stylized Rook logo flashes against the dark background for a few seconds, accompanied by a quiet, synthetic chime.

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

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

I tap the glass.

The folder opens, revealing a curated list of names, each paired with a small, high- resolution photograph and a detailed profile.

I scroll down the glass, my eyes scanning the faces. I recognize the people sitting right in front of me. I tap the first familiar face.

Amiya.

I read the text beneath her smiling portrait. My brow furrows in profound confusion. I slowly lift my head, looking across the table at the young Cautus girl with the gentle blue eyes and the oversized jacket.

"Amiya…" I murmur, my voice pitching up in genuine shock. "You are… the CEO?"

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

Amiya's long ears sway gently. The spun-sugar sweetness radiating from her doesn't carry a single bit of corporate authority or bureaucratic weight. It is just pure, unadulterated warmth.

"Because I am your friend first, Lethe," Amiya replies, her voice a soft, melodic anchor. She offers me a radiant, uncompromising smile. "And CEO second. Always."

I stare at her for a second. I give a tiny nod and look back down at the glowing screen. My finger traces the glass, swiping to the next entry.

Erika.

I stare at the profile. Below the crisp photograph of the pale-feathered Liberi in her medical uniform, a single, definitive word is typed in bold, undeniable letters.

Mom.

My hands freeze. The slate suddenly feels incredibly heavy.

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

"You are my mom?" I ask, the word feeling strange, yet terrifyingly perfect on my tongue. "You just said you were my Medic…”

Erika lets out a wet, jagged breath. She reaches out, her hands gently covering mine on the edge of the table.

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

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

I sit rigidly in her embrace for a moment.

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

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

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

I take a slow, shuddering breath, pressing my face into the crook of her neck. The ambient air of the greenhouse washes over me, completely saturated with the heavy, unconditional love pouring out of her.

"It says you taste like warm honey," I breathe out, my trembling arms slowly lifting to wrap securely around her back. I squeeze her, burying myself into the absolute safety of her embrace. "And you taste exactly like mom, too."

"You are mom."

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

I look around the table. Everyone else in the greenhouse is slightly teary-eyed, the ambient air a complex, beautiful blend of profound relief and overwhelming affection. I look back down at the glowing screen of the slate. I swipe past mom's profile, my finger hovering over the next picture.

Lisa.

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

Lisa’s nine tails are puffed up, swaying in a happy, rhythmic blur. The pure, unadulterated spun-sugar and sunshine radiating from her makes perfect sense.

I swipe again.

Podenco.

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

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

"Just you wait, Lethe," Podenco declares, crossing her arms over her teal jacket with a highly exaggerated, cheeky smirk.

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

Miss Lena.

"Guardian of our sanctuary," I read.

Miss Lena pauses, her hands resting on her lap. She offers me a flawless, profoundly serene smile that reaches all the way to her eyes.

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

My tail gives a slow, rhythmic thump against the wooden bench. I look down at the slate, completely ready for the next heartfelt entry. I swipe.

Beanstalk.

I stare at the text. I blink, leaning closer to the screen to make sure I am reading it correctly.

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

The peaceful, emotional atmosphere of the greenhouse is violently punctured.

"Hey!"

Beanstalk practically launches herself up from her seat, looking absolutely scandalized. She immediately scoops one of the clicking metal crabs up from the floor, holding it high in the air to defend its honor.

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

I instinctively pull my legs up slightly, my tail wrapping into a tight, defensive coil around my thigh, tucking itself as far away from the crustacean as physically possible.

The heavy, tear-soaked atmosphere of the greenhouse completely shatters.

"They are the best, Miss Beanstalk!" Lisa cheers. She nods enthusiastically at the critter.

"Of course!" Miss Beanstalk declares, puffing her chest out with absolute, uncompromising pride.

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

My finger traces the edge of the slate, slowly scrolling past the profiles we had just read. Row after row of faces and carefully typed notes slide across the display. There are fierce-looking Casters, heavily armored Defenders, and stern medical personnel. It is a massive, sprawling digital dossier, an entire fortress of memories I had meticulously curated to anchor myself to this world.

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

"I want to meet them all," I say, looking up from the screen. My voice is quiet, but it rings with a genuine, desperate yearning to reconnect the severed tethers of my life. Amiya steps slightly forward from the adjacent bench. The ambient air around her shifts. The soft, gentle sweetness of the young Cautus friend remains, but it is suddenly underscored by the crisp, steady mantle of Rhodes Island's CEO.

"After Dr. Warfarin clears you," Amiya states. Her tone drops into a gentle but absolute authority. "And Ms. Closure rebuilds your Arts Unit unit."

Amiya's eyes soften.

"We will make sure you get to meet them," Amiya promises. "As long as they are on the landship."

A soft, rhythmic vibration abruptly buzzes against the table, cutting through the warm, comforting atmosphere of the garden.

Amiya looks down at her communicator resting next to her teacup. The digital display flashes exactly 1600.

"I really need to head back to do some work," Amiya sighs softly, offering an apologetic smile to the table. She stands up, smoothing the front of her jacket. "See you, everyone."

"Okay. Bye, Amiya," I reply softly, raising my hand to offer a small, polite wave. "Thank you."

"I will come visit you again soon, Lethe," Amiya promises, her eyes shining with a protective warmth before she turns and navigates her way out of the lush greenhouse. With the CEO departed, the bustling, domestic rhythm of the sanctuary resumes. Miss Lena and Miss Beanstalk stand up and begin efficiently clearing the table. The delicate clatter of porcelain teacups mixes with the rustling of the broad-leafed ferns.

"The requisition forms for the new nutrient soil are going to be a nightmare," Miss Beanstalk groans, expertly stacking the cookie plates. "With the Columbian Union incident, the local trade channels are completely locked down. I can't even get the specialized mineral feed for my crabbies!"

"We will have to make do with our current reserves, Beanstalk," Miss Lena replies. "We can re-allocate some of the secondary compost from the agricultural bays until the supply lines stabilize."

As they discuss the distant, complex logistics of a world I no longer remember, a hand gently rests on my shoulder.

"Well," mom says, looking down at my posture on the crescent bench. Her eyes scan me. "I will go to your dorm to grab your outfit. I won't have you wandering around the landship in a hospital gown all day."

I blink, looking down at the starchy medical garment draped over my knees.

"Outfit?" I ask, my brow furrowing as I look back up at her. "So I don't just always wear this?"

Beside me, Lisa gasps.

"Of course not, Lethe!" Lisa declares. She practically vibrates.

Lisa reaches into her pocket and pulls out her own communicator. She taps the screen rapidly, her fingers flying across the glass before she leans over and shoves the glowing device directly in front of my face.

"Look!" Lisa points enthusiastically.

She swipes to the first picture. I stare at the digital image. It is a photo of me, standing in this exact greenhouse. I am wearing an oversized Rhodes Island jacket not unlike Amiya’s, layered over a white turtleneck, paired with a dark pleated skirt, insulated dark stockings, and padded sneakers. The girl in the picture looks put-together, professional, and entirely at home in the sanctuary.

Before I can fully process the image, Lisa swipes the screen again.

The second picture is completely different. I am lounging on a bed, looking ridiculously comfortable. I am drowning in the fleece-lined embrace of a massive hoodie with a sleeping black kitten graphic printed squarely on the chest. My legs are covered in thick, opaque tights.

"You wear dark denim shorts with this one," Lisa explains helpfully, pointing to the hem of the massive hoodie. "But the hoodie is so oversized it just completely covers them!" She swipes through a few more blurry thumbnails. "Of course, you have a swimsuit for Siesta, and a heavy winter outfit for Kjerag too. But we don't need them right now." Lisa stops scrolling, bringing the screen back to the two primary options. She looks at me, her bright eyes wide and expectant.

"Which one do you want, Lethe?" Lisa asks. "The first one is your Operator outfit. The second is your off-duty one."

I look at the glowing screen. I look at the girl in the oversized kitten hoodie; she looks safe, sheltered, and deeply relaxed. But then my eyes drift back to the first picture. The Operator uniform. It carries the weight of the medical cross, the crisp lines of duty, and the undeniable proof that I am not just an empty shell. It proves that I belong here, working alongside Miss Lena, Podenco, and mom.

"I…" I say, my voice steadying with a quiet, newfound resolve. "I want my Operator one." Mom lets out a chuckle.

"Alright, Lethe. I will be back," mom says, her feathers fluffing up slightly as she points at me sternly. "Don't run anywhere. Or Dr. Kal'tsit will have my feathers."

The terrifying, glacial image of the ancient Feline flashes in my mind. I quickly nod, wrapping my hands around my knees.

"Okay, mom," I promise earnestly.

With a final, reassuring smile, she turns and heads out of the sanctuary.

I watch her go until the blast doors close behind her. When I turn my attention back to the bench, I notice Podenco staring directly at me. The Perro botanist has her arms crossed over her jacket, and a highly analytical, almost scrutinizing glint in her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" I ask her, my voice dropping into a small, hesitant tone.

"Nothing, Miss Sarkaz Royalty," Podenco says with incredibly cheeky arrogance. She leans forward, resting her hands on the low table. "Just thinking about my win streak. I have to reestablish it again from scratch."

My hands drop from my knees.

Sarkaz Royalty?

I know Erika called me a Djall, but does that mean I am a princess? Is there a crown I forgot about? And what kind of win streak is she talking about? Did we fight?

"Wait," I stammer. "I am royalty?"

Beside me, Lisa immediately bounces.

"Yes! The royalty of pastries!"

Near the botanical workstations, the rustle of paperwork and logistics manifests comes to a complete halt. Miss Lena and Miss Beanstalk pause their intense discussion over soil regulators and supply routes.

Miss Lena turns her head, smiling gently. Beside her, Miss Beanstalk lets out a loud snort like sound. They are both looking at me.

I look at the giggling Perro girl across the table, and then the memory of the glowing digital slate finally clicks into place.

The reliable, teasing friend.

The hot, prickly flush of embarrassment instantly warms my cheeks.

"Oh!" I yelp, dropping my hands to my hips and puffing my cheeks out. I glare across the table at her. "You were teasing me! That's why you are the teasing friend!"

"Well, for the record," Podenco pipes up, she leans across the table. She points a finger directly at me. "You do eat more pastry and sweets than probably anyone else on the entire landship."

I drop my hand from the edge of the digital slate and point a finger at my own chest.

"I do?"

Beside me, Lisa nods her head so rapidly and excitedly that her hair bounces around her shoulders.

I look down at slate resting on my lap. I tap the glass, backing out of the carefully curated profiles of the Rhodes Island Operators. I search the folders, scanning the meticulously organized notes that the 'old me' had left behind to fight the creeping void.

"I should write that down, too," my brow furrowing in profound, quiet confusion. I trace the edge of the dark chassis with my thumb. "There’s actually nothing on this list about myself. I wrote down everyone I loved… but I didn't write down my favorite foods, or my hobbies, or what I like to do."

I look up, my eyes moving between the brilliant, comforting faces gathered around the bench.

"Why didn’t the me before write them down?"

A gentle, incredibly graceful pair of hands rest softly over my shoulders, stilling my nervous fidgeting.

"Because you are you, Lethe," Miss Lena says. "You didn't need to write yourself down, because your life isn't something to be archived in a machine. It is something to be lived. You just need to discover your life again."

I look back at her.

I look around at the radiant Lisa, the gentle but teasing Podenco. And the grounded Miss Beanstalk in the distance.

Miss Lena is right.

I don't need a digital dossier to tell me how to be Lethe. I can just taste the world, eat the pastries, and let the people who love me show me the way.

I offer her a small, determined nod.

"Okay."

"And I can help with that!" Lisa cheers. She immediately shuffles closer, practically wedging her side flush against mine, and raises her digital terminal directly into my line of sight. "Look at this one!"

I lean in, my shoulder bumping comfortably against hers, as the screen illuminates our faces.

It is a picture of the two of us. We are sitting on the floor of a brightly lit dorm room, completely surrounded by a chaotic, sprawling mess of handwritten notes and thick textbooks. My head is resting heavily on Lisa's shoulder, my eyes closed in a deep, exhausted sleep, while Lisa is flashing a bright, victorious peace sign at the camera.

"We fell asleep trying to do our Originium Arts thermodynamics homework," Lisa giggles, swiping to the next image.

Podenco leans over from her side of the table, resting her elbows on the wood to look at the screen with us.

"Oh, show her the one from the cafeteria!" Podenco chimes in, pointing at the glass.

"The one where Gummy gave you a massive honey biscuit, and you got the a chunk completely stuck to your nose."

"I have that one!" Lisa gasps, her fingers swiping rapidly through her digital gallery. I sit securely in the middle of the bench, flanked by the warmth of my friends. As Lisa brings up picture after picture; flashes of stolen desserts, quiet moments reading in the garden, chaotic moments of training…

Lisa's finger drags across the terminal, swiping past the blurry dorm room selfies to reveal a new image.

It is a wide, brilliantly lit photograph of a massive gathering inside one of the landship's recreational rooms. Sitting squarely in the center of a long table is a beautiful fruit cake, its frosting heavily decorated with vibrant berries and one lit candle.

I lean closer, my eyes scanning the sprawling crowd of people clustered around the dessert. I pull my recovered slate onto my lap, my finger swiping through the digital dossier to cross-reference the faces smiling brightly in the picture.

"So that's Amiya…" my finger tracing the glass as I identify the young Cautus CEO standing near the center. I tap my screen, pulling up the matching profiles. "And that’s Ms. Blaze. Ms. Raidian… Ms. Skyfire… Miss Adele… Opal…"

I look up at the screen, genuinely in awe of the sheer volume of people packed into the frame. "Almost everyone is there."

"Oh! That’s your first birthday."

The voice comes from right behind my ear. I jump slightly, my shoulders bumping against Lisa as mom steps up behind the bench. She leans over my shoulder to look at the screen.

"Brings back memories," mom hums.

I look back at the photograph, studying the happy scene.

But as my eyes linger on the high-resolution screen, my brow furrows.

I reach out, my thumb and forefinger expanding the image on Lisa's terminal to zoom in on the center of the crowd.

"But… everyone is smiling," I point out, my voice dropping into a quiet, confused whisper. I point directly at the young CEO's face on the screen. "Why are Amiya’s eyes puffed out? She looks like she had been crying."

I pan the image over to the right.

"Not just here…" I turn my head, looking directly at the young Vulpo sitting beside me.

"Lisa, you have tear tracks on your face in the picture, too."

The bustling, cheerful atmosphere of the garden goes completely, unnaturally silent. Lisa’s nine fluffy tails instantly drop, falling limply against the bench. Across the table, Podenco lowers her gaze, and Miss Lena closes her eyes, a heavy, melancholic shadow passing over her features.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to! Sorry!”

Mom's hand comes down, resting firmly and securely on my shoulder.

"Once Dr. Kal’tsit clears you for duty again," mom says. Her voice drops its playful lilt, turning into a solemn, incredibly gentle octave that anchors the entire room. "I will take you to the memorial hall. You deserve to know that as well."

"Okay," I whisper, offering mom a tiny, solemn nod.

Mom lets out a soft sigh, actively pushing the lingering shadows away.

"For now," mom declares, her tone returning to a brisk, practical efficiency as she steps around the side of the bench. "Just focus on getting changed, Lethe."

She holds her arms out, presenting a neatly folded stack of pristine clothing. Resting on top is the oversized grey Rhodes Island jacket, accompanied by a crisp white turtleneck, a dark pleated skirt, and insulated stockings. My Operator uniform.

I look at the clothes, and then I look around the sprawling, brightly lit expanse of the Convalescent Garden.

"Do I just change here?" I clutch my hospital gown nervously.

The heavy, mourning silence shatters entirely. Podenco covers her mouth to muffle a bright, fizzy giggle, while Lisa's tails immediately fluff back up with renewed life.

Mom simply laughs. She gestures casually toward the massive, broad-leafed plants lining the nearby walkways.

"I mean, we are all girls here," mom teases effortlessly, shoving the stack of clothes into my hands. "You can just hide behind a fern."

I grab the neatly folded stack of clothing and shuffle my padded slippers toward the edge of the seating area. I step behind a massive, sprawling fern, letting its broad, humid leaves completely shield me from the rest of the greenhouse.

I take a slow breath, and untie the starchy hospital gown. It slips off my shoulders, pooling onto the floor tiles with a soft, sterile whisper.

I change slowly.

I pull the white turtleneck over my head, carefully navigating the fabric around the lopsided horns jutting from my skull. I step into the dark pleated skirt, smoothing the pleats down, and carefully roll the thick, insulated dark stockings up my legs. The clothes slide perfectly against my skin.

Finally, I pick up the oversized grey jacket. I slide my arms into the sleeves, pulling it snugly over my shoulders. The sheer, heavy weight of the fabric instantly settles over me like a protective embrace.

I lean down to retrieve my padded sneakers, slipping my feet out of the hospital slippers and tying the thick white laces.

After everything is done, I take one last breath of the earthy air and step out from behind the fern.

The rustle of the leaves immediately draws their attention.

Mom steps forward, her hands resting lightly on her hips.

"How do you feel, Lethe?" mom asks.

I stand in the dappled light of the butterfly fixture. I raise my arms slightly, looking at the baggy sleeves of the grey jacket. I shift my weight from side to side, feeling the swing of my tail against the pleated skirt.

"I feel…" I pause, dropping my arms to my sides. I look up at her, offering a slightly confused blink. "I don’t feel special."

Mom lets out a soft, breathy chuckle.

"Well," mom smiles, reaching out to gently adjust the collar of my jacket. "It is your outfit you wore daily. It is meant to be practical, not a ballgown."

I look down at my chest. My fingers trace the thick, bold lettering printed directly onto the durable fabric near the front zippers.

RHODES ISLAND.

The letters are undeniable. Then, my eyes trail downward. Strapped securely around my thigh, resting starkly against the dark fabric of my skirt and stockings, is a tactical leg band. Fastened directly to it is a crisp, undeniable symbol.

I stare at the symbol. My head slowly tilts up, my eyes tracing the clean lines of mom's uniform until they land on her arm band.

It is the exact same symbol.

It must be the symbol of a Rhodes Island’s Medic.

"I am part of Rhodes Island."

Mom's smile deepens.

"Yes, Lethe," mom promises. "You are."

The rest of the day passes by relatively peacefully. The overwhelming emotional exhaustion of waking up to a completely erased life finally catches up to me, leaving me numb but temporarily safe.

I am back in the sterile white quarantine ward, exactly as Dr. Kal’tsit had ordered.

I look at the digital clock mounted on the wall. 03:00.

A loud, hollow rumble vibrates through my stomach. I am incredibly hungry. The small oat and berry cookie Miss Lena gave me in the Convalescent Garden was hours ago, and my body feels like it is running on absolute fumes.

I slide out of the bed, my padded slippers padding softly against the cold steel floor. I walk up to the metal door and stare at the glowing control panel. I remember mom and Dr. Kal’tsit simply touching it to make the door open. I raise my hand, gently pressing my palm against the glass interface.

A soft beep echoes. The locks clank, and the door hisses and slides.

I step out into the corridors. They are incredibly dim, bathed in the an amber glow. The frantic, overlapping clatter of the daytime is completely gone. There are a few people outside, moving with sluggish, heavy steps.

I make my way forward. I don't know the exact layout of the landship yet, but my stomach acts as an infallible compass. I focus my senses, catching the faint, lingering scent of roasted grains, baked bread, and savory broth clinging to the recycled air. I follow the smell of food. I am so terribly hungry.

After about ten minutes of quiet walking, the metallic arteries widen, and I reach a set of large double doors. I carefully slip inside.

The cafeteria is mostly dark, with only a few overhead fluorescent lights illuminating the serving stations and dining tables. But the moment I step over the threshold, a loud voice shatters the quiet.

"Doctor! It is 3 in the morning! You need to stop doing combat simulations and go to sleep!"

I flinch. My empathic Arts brush against the ambient air, instantly hit by a massive wave of familiar spun-sugar. But right now, the sweetness is violently carbonated. Amiya. She is standing at the far door, entering the dining hall from another direction.

I scan the room. I notice an anomaly at the water station.

Standing there is a tall figure enveloped in a heavy, dark coat. The hood is pulled up, completely obscuring his face. He is holding a large, steaming electric kettle in his gloved hands. His head is tilted entirely back. He is pouring the steaming, near-boiling water directly down his throat.

My tail, which had been swaying lazily in anticipation of finding food, snaps completely rigid.

"Doctor, what are you doing! You are going to give Dr. Kal’tsit and I a heart attack!" Amiya cries out. She practically sprints across the epoxy floor.

My Arts involuntarily brush against his presence. The ambient air bleeding off the man is fundamentally bizarre. Beneath a deep, unfathomable ocean, there is a violently buzzing, chaotic static. It tastes exactly like chewing on raw, bitter coffee beans while licking a live battery terminal.

I slowly pull my hands up, clutching the fabric of my jacket tightly against my chest. A loud, heavy gulp echoes through the mostly empty cafeteria.

The hooded figure lowers the steaming electric kettle, a faint hiss of vapor escaping from beneath the dark visor of his mask.

"It is efficient, Amiya," Doctor's voice echoes calmly. "Boiling instant ramen directly in the kettle saves time and energy."

Amiya lets out a long, tragic groan, burying her face into her hands. Her long Cautus ears flop forward. "You are really hopeless, Doctor."

The ambient air in the dining hall ripples as Doctor tilts his hooded head slightly toward the double doors. Amiya follows his line of sight, her eyes blinking through the dim fluorescent lighting until they lock onto me.

Her eyes widen, her ears snapping straight up in surprise. "Lethe? What are you doing here?"

"Uhm… I… I am hungry," my voice coming out as a quiet whisper that echoes strangely in the quiet cafeteria.

Doctor looks down at the heavy electric kettle resting in his gloved grip, and then he slowly extends his arm, pointing the spout directly toward me. "You should try it as well."

"Absolutely not!" Amiya barks instantly.

Amiya briskly walks across the room.

She reaches out and gently grabs my hand.

"We have some chilled microwave food in the break room," Amiya says. She gives my fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Come. It is at least real food."

I don't move immediately. I look past her toward the dark corridors, a sudden spike of anxiety tightening my throat. I remember the terrifying, glacial finality of the Feline director's voice from earlier today.

"Would I get in trouble?" I ask quietly. "Dr. Kal’tsit said…"

A huff breaks from beneath Doctor's dark hood.

Amiya lets out a gentle giggle, her shoulders relaxing as she guides me away from the cafeteria. "It is too late for that already, no? And don’t worry, Doctor and I won’t sell you out. Unless Ms. Closure reports you to Dr. Kal’tsit. But I will make sure she doesn’t." I let out a slow exhale as I allow Amiya to lead me toward the break room. If the leader of the entire landship is willing to help me sneak my food, maybe breaking Dr. Kal’tsit’s rules isn't so terrifying after all.

We were just about to step away from the shadows of the cafeteria, my hand wrapped securely in Amiya’s, when the locks of the double doors suddenly disengage with a loud, definitive clank.

The panels slide apart.

Dr. Kal’tsit is standing right there.

She doesn’t speak immediately. She just stands in the threshold, her coat catching the dim fluorescent light. Her piercing eyes sweep over the dark cafeteria, taking in the glowing water station, the steaming electric kettle, and finally, stopping directly on us. Amiya completely freezes.

"Dr… Dr. Kal’tsit," Amiya stammers.

I hear shuffling sounds behind me, I turn around slightly. In the shadows near the water station, the coat of Doctor shifts. Very slowly, painstakingly lifting one boot at a time, the hooded figure attempts to take a step backward, trying to merge seamlessly with the unlit corner of the room.

Dr. Kal’tsit’s gaze snaps like a physical whip, locking directly onto the retreating shadow. Doctor instantly freezes mid-step.

"Do not attempt to abscond, Doctor," Dr. Kal’tsit’s voice slices cleanly through the quiet room. It is completely flat, but it carries the absolute, uncompromising weight of a collapsing mountain. "Boiling highly processed instant noodles inside a communal electric kettle is not a display of tactical efficiency. It is a reckless destruction of Rhodes Island property and a profound failure of basic nutritional standards."

The hooded figure sags slightly, the electric kettle lowering in utter defeat.

Dr. Kal'tsit then turns her attention toward me. I shrink behind Amiya.

"Lethe," Dr. Kal’tsit states. "You are under strict medical containment parameters. Your neurological baseline is currently unstable. Wandering the unlit corridors of the landship at 0300 hours is a direct violation of your recovery protocols."

Finally, the glacial gaze shifts back to the CEO holding my hand.

"And Amiya. As the CEO of this organization, I expect you to enforce these protocols, not actively enable Doctor's destructive dietary habits and aid a recovering patient in breaking quarantine." She crosses her arms behind her back, her posture rigid and completely unyielding. "None of you should be awake. Sleep deprivation severely compromises cognitive function and immune response. You are all to return to your quarters immediately."

The terrifying, heavy pressure in the room is suffocating. Doctor remains entirely motionless in the dark.

But my stomach gives another loud, hollow twist that practically echoes in the silent hall.

The sheer, overwhelming emptiness of my body completely eclipses my fear of the Medical Director.

I step out slightly from behind Amiya. I look up at Dr. Kal’tsit, my fingers clutching nervously at the fabric of my jacket.

"Dr. Kal’tsit…" I whisper. My voice trembles under the weight of her stare. "I… I am really hungry."

The quiet of the cafeteria stretches for a single, heavy second.

Dr. Kal’tsit’s focus remain locked onto my face. The sheer, overwhelming pressure of the ancient glacier does not vanish, but the sharp, unforgiving edge of her cold iron presence pivots ever so slightly.

She turns her head, shooting a withering glare back toward the shadows.

"The heavily processed sodium in instant ramen and the artificial preservatives found in chilled microwave meals are fundamentally detrimental to cellular regeneration," Dr. Kal’tsit states. "They are entirely unfit for a patient recovering from severe neurological trauma."

Without waiting for a response, Dr. Kal’tsit closes the distance to the water station in three crisp, purposeful strides. She reaches out and effortlessly confiscates the heavy electric kettle right out of Doctor's hands.

The hooded figure doesn't even try to resist.

Dr. Kal’tsit turns on her heel, carrying the confiscated kettle as she marches directly toward the open kitchen counters where the culinary team usually operates.

"A patient waking from a four-day coma requires easily digestible, nutrient-dense sustenance to safely restart their digestive system," Dr. Kal’tsit lectures, setting the kettle down with a clack. She seamlessly begins to inspect the pantry shelves. "Fortified oats, a clear bone broth, or lightly steamed eggs provide the necessary amino acids and baseline caloric intake without overwhelming the stomach."

She moves with the exact same flawless, intimidating efficiency she had displayed in the medical ward, pulling a small stainless-steel pot and a carton of fresh eggs from the commercial refrigerator.

"Furthermore," Dr. Kal’tsit continues, her voice projecting clearly across the dining hall as she turns on the induction stove, "the circadian rhythm is a vital component of physical and psychological maintenance. The fact that the CEO and the primary tactician of Rhodes Island are actively sabotaging their own REM cycles speaks to a profound, systemic lack of discipline. Your cognitive decline in the upcoming administrative cycle will be entirely your own fault."

I stand there completely rooted to the ground.

I watch the terrifying, ancient Feline; the Medical Director who had practically frozen the blood in my veins just minutes ago; meticulously cracking an egg into a bowl and whisking it with absolute, scientific precision.

I take a slow, tiny step backward until my shoulder bumps gently against Amiya. I lean down, getting as close to the young Cautus as physically possible.

"Amiya…" I whisper, keeping my voice so small that only her long Cautus ears could possibly catch it over the hissing of the stove. "Is… Dr. Kal’tsit cooking for us?"

Amiya leans even closer, her shoulder pressing gently against mine. Her ears give a tiny twitch.

"Yes…" Amiya whispers back, her voice barely a breath against the ambient hum of the cafeteria. "Dr. Kal'tsit can be really scary when she lectures, but she actually cares about us more than anyone. Her steamed eggs are really good, Lethe. Just pretend you are getting Medicated. She prefers it that way."

I blink, staring at the uncompromising Medical Director standing in the open kitchen. I try to reconcile the terrifying, glacial pressure she projects with the fact that she is meticulously cooking a meal for me in the middle of the night.

I give Amiya a tiny, solemn nod, accepting the CEO's tactical advice.

"Okay," I whisper back. "I will."

From across the room, the sharp, rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the whisk against the bowl abruptly stops.

Dr. Kal'tsit's feline ears twitch just a fraction.

"A clandestine conspiracy between the Chief Executive Officer and a recovering patient currently under strict medical observation is fundamentally incompatible with standard operational protocols," Dr. Kal'tsit state.

She turns back to the stove, seamlessly pouring the whisked eggs into three heat-safe dishes and placing it into the steaming pot.

"The administrative hierarchy of Rhodes Island does not grant you immunity from biological necessities, Amiya," Dr. Kal'tsit continues, her hands moving with flawless clinical precision. "Nor does it permit you to undermine the authority of the Medical Department by whispering behind my back while I am actively stabilizing a patient whose neural pathways are still highly vulnerable."

She replaces the lid on the pot, trapping the steam inside.

"And Doctor," Dr. Kal'tsit adds, her gaze snapping back to the unlit corner near the water station. "Standing in the dark periphery of the room in absolute silence does not absolve you of your complicity. Your flagrant disregard for your own cardiovascular health and your attempt to bypass dietary restrictions are a liability to the operational readiness of the entire organization."

A muffled, exhausted sigh suddenly emanates from the dark shadows.

The hooded figure shifts.

"The parameters for the upcoming Contingency Contract are exceptionally brutal," Doctor protests, his voice sounding entirely drained. "The tactical simulations require absolute, uninterrupted focus. The caloric and caffeine intake is a strategic necessity to finalize the deployment rosters, Kal'tsit."

"Strategic necessity does not overwrite biological limits, Doctor," Dr. Kal'tsit counters, not even turning away from the stove. "A tactical plan formulated by a mind operating on forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation and artificial stimulants is a compromised plan."

Beside me, Amiya's long ears droop.

"I am sorry, Dr. Kal’tsit," Amiya murmurs, her voice dropping into a small, thoroughly reprimanded whisper. "I understand. I shouldn't have bypassed the rest cycle."

"Verbal acknowledgment is entirely insufficient to offset the physiological toll of a flagrant protocol violation, Amiya," Dr. Kal’tsit states.

A soft, sharp beep chimes from the induction stove.

Dr. Kal'tsit turns off the heat. With flawless, clinical efficiency, she lifts the lid. A thick plume of warm, fragrant steam immediately billows into the air, carrying the delicate, savory aroma of light soy, sesame, and perfectly cooked egg directly to my nose. My stomach gives another loud, desperate rumble in response.

With meticulous care, the Medical Director retrieves three ceramic bowls from the steamer. She places them onto a metal serving tray and carries them across the cafeteria, setting the tray down onto the nearest illuminated dining table.

I stare at the table. Unsure what to do.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps back, folding her hands neatly behind her. Her eyes sweep over the three of us one final time.

"Sit," Dr. Kal'tsit commands.

Amiya, Doctor, and I immediately scramble to the table, sliding into the plastic chairs with synchronized obedience. I pull one of the warm ceramic bowls toward me, my mouth practically watering at the smooth, custard-like perfection of the steamed egg inside.

"You will consume this," Dr. Kal'tsit states, her voice dropping the lecture to deliver a definitive, absolute directive. "You will return to your respective quarters. You will sleep. And this flagrant disregard for operational protocols will not happen again. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit," Amiya and I answer in instantaneous, perfect unison.

From the other side of the table, a low, defeated grumble of agreement echoes from beneath Doctor's dark hood.

I pick up my spoon, dipping it into the warm, savory meal. As the soft egg melts on my tongue, perfectly soothing my empty stomach, I look up at the terrifying Feline doctor watching over us in the dim light of the cafeteria. I keep Amiya's tactical advice in mind, treating the delicious late-night meal exactly like a highly critical medical prescription. I scrape the absolute last, savory remnant of the steamed egg from the bottom of the bowl. The delicate warmth of the meal settles perfectly into my empty stomach, completely banishing the hollow, aching void that had driven me out of my bed.

"Thank you. Dr. Kal’tsit," I murmur, setting my spoon down carefully so it doesn't clatter against the table.

"Your gratitude is unnecessary, Lethe. Strict compliance is what I require," Dr. Kal’tsit states. "If you are caught sneaking out of your quarantine ward to any location other than the Convalescent Garden again, I will have Mon3tr personally escort you back to your bed."

I don't know exactly who or what 'Mon3tr' is, but the sudden, terrifying spike of lethal, uncompromising density that flares in the Feline doctor's aura tells me it is absolutely not something I ever want to meet. My tail snaps into a tight, rigid coil around my ankle.

"Furthermore, your operational parameters remain fully suspended," Dr. Kal’tsit continues. "You will not be reinstated until Dr. Warfarin conducts a comprehensive evaluation of your physical health, and Ms. Closure completely rebuilds your Originium Arts monitor and your Arts Unit unit. Until those conditions are met, your containment is absolute."

I give her a rapid, fervent nod.

Dr. Kal’tsit then turns her head smoothly, fixing the CEO and the tactician with a look that could freeze boiling water.

"As for the two of you," Dr. Kal’tsit warns, her tone dropping into a dangerously smooth, lethal octave. "If you are caught violating the mandated rest cycles and conspiring in the cafeteria again, I will temporarily suspend your administrative clearances. You will be replacing Operator Aroma for the entirety of her janitorial duties on the middle decks." Amiya stiffens, her long Cautus ears shooting straight up.

Across from her, Doctor lets out a long, highly tragic groan.

I sit perfectly still in my chair, my hands folded neatly in my lap. As terrifying as the Medical Director is, my stomach is full, and I have absolutely no intention of crossing her again.

Across the table, Amiya finishes her bowl with quiet, hurried scrapes of her spoon. From the shadows of his hood, Doctor mirrors her haste, setting his empty ceramic bowl down onto the table with a soft, defeated clink.

The lingering, terrifying pressure of the Medical Director’s lecture still hangs heavily in the air, tasting of sharp ozone and clinical bleach.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps forward, her posture as rigid and unyielding as the landship’s steel bulkheads.

"Return to your quarters. Immediately," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. "If PRTS logs either of your ID tags accessing a terminal or a simulation deck before the morning cycle begins, the consequences will be severe."

Amiya practically scrambles out of her chair.

"Goodnight, Dr. Kal'tsit! Goodnight, Lethe!" Amiya offers a rapid, frantic wave before turning on her heel. The CEO of Rhodes Island retreats into the dark corridors, closely followed by the silent, slinking shadow of the hooded tactician.

In a matter of seconds, the cafeteria is entirely empty again, leaving me alone with the ancient, terrifying Feline.

I carefully set my own spoon down, my hands instinctively dropping to my lap. My stomach is beautifully full, radiating a deeply satisfying, savory warmth that pushes back the ambient chill of the room. But without Amiya's spun-sugar presence to act as a buffer, the sheer density of Dr. Kal'tsit's existence is completely overwhelming.

"Come, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit says. "I will escort you back to the quarantine ward."

I offer a rapid, fervent nod. I slide out of my chair, my padded slippers hitting the floor tiles without a sound.

The walk back is completely silent. I walk a half-step behind the Medical Director, keeping my eyes fixed on the hem of her coat. The ambient air bleeding off her is fundamentally terrifying; an age so vast and unfathomable that it makes my mind ache just trying to process it.

We finally reach the metal door of my isolation ward.

I step forward, entirely ready to shuffle back into the room and wait for the morning cycle. But Dr. Kal'tsit doesn't let the doors slide shut. She steps up to the glowing control panel mounted on the wall.

Her fingers fly across the interface, inputting a complex, rapid-fire sequence.

The panel lets out a sharp, definitive beep.

"Your cognitive baseline is too fragile to permit unauthorized interactions," Dr. Kal'tsit states, her voice echoing in the quiet hallway. She drops her hand from the panel, turning to look down at me. "I have overridden the localized security matrix for this room. The biometric scanners have been locked."

"Does that mean… I'm trapped?"

"It means you are contained," Dr. Kal'tsit corrects. "Until your monitor is rebuilt and your condition stabilizes, only Warfarin, Caladria, and myself possess the administrative clearance required to open this door. No one else on this landship can enter, and you cannot leave."

I look up into her eyes. The sheer, overwhelming fear I had felt when she first walked into my room yesterday has dulled.

It isn't a prison. It is a sanctuary.

"I understand, Dr. Kal'tsit," I offer her a deep, respectful bow. "Thank you for the food." Dr. Kal'tsit’s ears merely give a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch.

"Go to sleep, Lethe," Dr. Kal'tsit commands.

I step fully into the ward.

The door slides shut.

The silence of the isolation ward is absolute.

I shuffle over to the cot, slipping out of my sneakers. I crawl beneath the white blankets, pulling them up tightly around my shoulders. I curl my legs toward my chest, my tail wrapping securely around my waist.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Completely surrendering to the heavy, physical exhaustion pulling at my bones, and let the comforting darkness claim me.

"Wakie wakie, my little Lethe."

The soft hum of the voice coaxes me out of the deep, dreamless void.

I slowly flutter my eyes open.

Before my eyes can even fully focus on the feathers framing her face, my senses are completely flooded. A massive, overwhelmingly safe wave of rich, warm honey washes over me.

But intertwined perfectly with her empathic flavor is a very real, incredibly physical aroma. It is the sharp, comforting bite of toasted cinnamon, layered beautifully over the bright, syrupy tang of warm, stewed apples and plump, rehydrated berries.

I push myself up against the sterile pillows, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

"I got you some oats," mom says, her lips stretching into a gentle, thoroughly exhausted smile. "It is noon already. And there’s someone who wants to meet you."

I blink, the lingering fog of sleep instantly burning away.

I reach out, my hands trembling slightly as I carefully get the warm ceramic bowl from her grasp. The heat of the cooked oats seeps right through the glaze, grounding my hands. I look down at the steaming porridge, heavily dusted with cinnamon and piled high with vibrant fruits, and then I look back up at her.

"Meet me?" I ask, my voice raspy and thick with sleep.

Mom nods.

"Yes, Savage wants to see you."

I immediately mentally flip through the glowing pages of the digital dossier I had spent all of last night memorizing.

Nothing clicks.

"Savage?" I look down at the bowl in my lap. "She… she is not on the list…"

Mom's gentle smile falters. She sits down on the very edge of the mattress, her posture slumping just slightly.

"You… you probably didn't have time to document her," mom explains. Her voice drops into a fragile, hushed whisper that scrapes painfully against the quiet of the ward.

"Since you only met her… on the mission you lost all your memories."

The mission where I lost what little remained of my memories.

"She and Amiya want to honor the losses," mom continues, her thumb brushing a soothing rhythm against my skin. "It is okay if you don't want to go."

My heart gives a violent, sickening lurch.

Loss…

I stare blankly at the steaming oats. The realization hits me with the kinetic force of a physical blow. The void in my temporal lobe wasn't the only thing destroyed out there in the dark. My blank slate was bought with blood. Operators who probably smiled at me, who probably fought to protect me, didn't come back.

I don't remember their names. I don't remember their faces. I don't even know how they died. But the sheer, devastating gravity of their absence suddenly crushes the breath from my lungs.

A hot, unbidden tear spills over my lashes, dropping silently into the porridge.

Mom instantly leans forward.

"Lethe, it is okay," mom says quickly. "I will tell them. You don't have to face it today." I tighten my grip on the bowl.

I slowly open my eyes. I look up at mom, my jaw clenching with a newly forged, trembling resolve.

"No…"

"I will go," I declare, my voice steadying in the quiet of the ward.

"Wait," my brow furrowing as I look up at her. "Dr. Kal’tsit said I can only go to the garden, though? If she catches me breaking quarantine again, she said she would have Mon3tr drag me back here."

Mom lets out a chuckle.

"We talked to her," mom reaches out to gently adjust the collar of my jacket. "She permitted it, since the location is sparsely populated and heavily secured. And you don't need to worry about the medical either; Dr. Warfarin already checked your bloodwork while you were sleeping."

Dr. Warfarin. The brilliant blood obsessed doctor in my notes.

A massive, invisible weight instantly lifts off my shoulders.

"She did?"

"Yes. She says she doesn’t have to check again until Closure finishes rebuilding your gears," mom confirms, offering a conspiratorial smile. "So, no terrifying needles for today."

"Okay."

I pick my spoon back up.

I eat the rest of my breakfast in silence. The warm, cinnamon-spiced oats and sweet fruits coat my stomach. With my oats completely gone, I set the scraped ceramic bowl aside and slide off the mattress.

I slip into my sneakers. Mom takes my hand, her grip an unyielding anchor of warm honey, and we step out of the quarantine ward.

Mom guides me toward the industrial elevators. We step inside the metal cage, and the chassis shudders as it begins a long, deliberate descent deep into the heavily armored underbelly of the landship.

When the mechanical hum of the elevator finally comes to a smooth halt, the heavy metal doors part.

We step out into a cavernous hall.

The air here is entirely different from the rest of the landship. It is cool, perfectly still, and carries the faint, dry scent of polished stone and ozone.

Towering before us, dominating the entire length of the cavernous hall, is a massive wall of polished obsidian.

Blinding, stark white lights illuminate the dark stone, Arts Unit sharp reflections against the floor.

Standing in the quiet reverence of the hall is Amiya. Her hands clasped tightly together in front of her. The spun-sugar sweetness of her presence is completely steeped in that dark, heavy tea of sorrow.

Standing right beside her is a tall, striking Cautus woman. She wears a practical, dark tactical outfit.

A few paces away, standing in the shadows of the blinding lights, is Doctor. He is silent. My eyes are drawn to the base of the obsidian monolith.

A Sarkaz man in a heavy work apron is stepping back from the wall. The sharp, screeching scrape of his carving tool against the stone has just ceased. A fine mist of grey rock dust dances in the bright lights as he lowers his hands, his task complete. I walk closer, my hand gripping mom's tightly, and look up at the fresh, silver cuts gleaming against the dark steel and obsidian.

Three names.

Zip.

Fres.

Fourteen.

I stare at the freshly carved letters.

They are just shapes in the stone. I search the hollow, empty cavern of my mind, desperately looking for a face, a voice, or a single shared memory to attach to the names. But there is absolutely nothing. The void offers no answers, only a freezing, terrifying static.

But what I do know is that they are gone.

"Lethe," Amiya greets me.

I tear my eyes away from the fresh carvings, looking toward the CEO and the tall Cautus standing beside her.

The tall Cautus woman steps forward. As she moves, my empathic Arts brush against her ambient presence. It tastes of warm, sun-baked earth, slow-roasted carrots, and the undeniable, dependable strength of forged steel. It is an aura built to endure the harshest storms, instantly offering a deep, enduring comfort to my trembling nerves. She looks at me. A gentle, incredibly reassuring smile stretches across her face.

"Lethe. Glad to see you are okay," she says, her voice carrying a deep, resonant warmth that pushes back the chill of the room. "I am Charlotte. Or Savage as my codename." I look toward the tall Cautus veteran standing beside me.

"Miss Charlotte… How did they…"

Miss Charlotte shifts her weight. She looks up at the obsidian wall, her ears dipping slightly.

"Zip and Fres lost their lives trying to stop the Union Army," Miss Savage explains. "The military of the Columbian Union."

"After you stopped the army," Amiya steps closer, her voice trembling just a fraction.

"Fourteen dragged you away. But before we were able to extract… a Catastrophe, a massive sandstorm, cut us off."

Amiya closes her eyes. A slow, shuddering breath escapes her lips, her hands clenching tightly together in front of her jacket.

"Fourteen shielded you," Miss Charlotte adds, the devastating truth dropping onto the cold stone floor like a lead weight. "Unfortunately, he passed away due to his injuries before we could reach you."

Amiya opens her tear-filled eyes, looking at me with a crushing, agonizing guilt. "We were not quick enough."

The ambient air in the hall suddenly feels impossibly thin.

"They protected me…" The words fall from my lips, hollow and trembling.

I look back up at the silver letters. They marched into the path of an army and stood against a Catastrophe just to keep me breathing. They traded their tomorrows for a girl who doesn't even remember their faces.

"Lethe," Miss Charlotte says. "You saved everyone on the Sunvalley-owned platform. Opal was there."

Opal.

The image clicks into place. A fragile Cautus girl with dark ears and a plushie.

"Opal…" I murmur, my brow furrowing slightly as I look between Amiya and Miss Charlotte. "The young Cautus patient in My Life.”

"She is no longer on Rhodes Island?" I ask.

Amiya gives a small, teary-eyed nod. The suffocating, dark tea of her sorrow slowly begins to recede.

"She is safely living with a family on the platform," Amiya says softly, her lips curving into a grateful smile. She looks at the memorial wall, and then directly into my eyes.

"You saved her future, Lethe."

I stand perfectly still in the quiet hall.

I look at the freshly carved names.

Because of them, and because of whatever I did out there, a girl gets to walk safely in the sun.

I slowly lift my focus from the fresh silver cuts of Zip, Fres, and Fourteen.

The polished obsidian stretches high above us, a towering, unyielding monolith of memory. The white lights catch the edges of countless other carvings, illuminating the devastating scale. My eyes trace the lines of the letters, reading the names etched into the cold stone. Some of the carvings look weathered, while others are impossibly sharp. Ace. Scout. Yelena. Atro. Outcast.

I look at the sheer volume of the text spanning the massive wall, the invisible, crushing weight of their collective absence presses heavily against me.

"Amiya…" I whisper. I gesture numbly toward the towering monument. "…there's so many names…"

Amiya steps closer to the wall.

The ambient air around her shifts. The heavy, suffocating dark tea of her sorrow doesn't vanish, but it compresses. It hardens into something terrifyingly sharp and absolute.

"Lethe," Amiya begins. Her voice trembles for a fraction of a second before she forces it into a steady, unbreakable tone. She looks up at the sprawling expanse of the obsidian, her eyes reflecting the lights. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing against the cold, polished stone beneath the list of the fallen.

"I'll carry on this fight, for every sacrifice, and all those still alive," Amiya vows, her voice ringing with a staggering, undeniable gravity that echoes across the cavernous hall.

"The flames of hatred still spread. I'll try to extinguish them, no matter… how many times it takes."

I stand perfectly still, completely captivated.

I slowly turn my head.

I look at Amiya, taking in the fierce, unyielding determination etched into her tear- stained face.

I look at mom, standing faithfully by my side, her warm presence an unconditional, protective anchor in the dark.

I look past the bright lights, into the shadows where Doctor stands. The hooded tactician remains perfectly silent, belying a mind endlessly grinding through the grueling, brutal calculus of outside to keep us breathing.

And I look at Miss Charlotte. Her posture radiating that deeply grounded flavor of sun- baked earth and forged steel, choosing to endure the harshest barrens to protect the fragile light of tomorrow.

I don't have my memories. I don't know the exact history of this broken world, the empires that burned it, or the battles we fought to survive it. But I know what it feels like to be loved.

I let go of mom's hand and take a small, deliberate step toward my CEO.

"Amiya," I say softly, ensuring my voice is clear.

Amiya turns her head.

"When I can work again," I promise, locking my eyes directly onto hers. "I will help you."

"Lethe…" Amiya breathes out. The blazing, fierce ember of her resolve suddenly softens.

I stand completely straight, the oversized fabric of my Rhodes Island jacket settling securely over my shoulders like a mantle.

"Rhodes Island is my home," I declare. "And you are my leader. Your goal is my goal." The ambient air in the memorial hall is instantly flooded with a massive, overwhelming wave of pure, radiant spun-sugar.

Amiya closes the distance between us in a single step. She throws her arms around my neck, pulling me into a fierce, desperate embrace. I wrap my arms securely around her back, holding her just as tightly.

"Thank you," Amiya whispers into my shoulder, a wet, ragged sob breaking through her voice. "Lethe. Thank you."

We linger for a while in the blinding light of the memorial hall.

I slowly pull back from Amiya, gently wiping my face. I reach into my bag, my fingers wrapping around the sdark chassis of the digital slate. I pull it out, the screen illuminating my face in the dim shadows of the hall.

"Amiya," I say softly, my voice steadying. I look past her, my eyes tracing the countless silver cuts etched into the dark stone. "Where did they fall? Tell me. I need to remember for myself, and for them."

Amiya turns her head toward the wall. She gives a small, resolute nod and steps closer to my side so we can look at the glowing screen together.

I tap open the curated My Life folder. Beneath the profiles of the people standing beside me, I create a brand-new, encrypted section.

"Ace. Scout," Amiya starts. "They fell in Chernobog. The Empire of Ursus."

My fingers fly across the keyboard.

"Yelena," Amiya continues, her long ears drooping just a fraction. "Lungmen. Great Yan." Amiya tells me the names of forty others who fall in Chernobog and Lungmen.

"Atro."

Amiya pauses. Her head dips slightly.

"Wolumonde," Amiya breathes out. "The Leithanian Empire."

Amiya's hand slowly lowers, pointing toward the more recent cuts in the cold stone.

"Outcast. She fell in County Hillock. The Victorian Empire."

Finally, my eyes drop to the absolute lowest section of the wall. The silver letters that were carved just moments ago.

"Zip. Fres. Fourteen," I say, my own voice fracturing slightly.

"Rim Billiton," Miss Charlotte adds from behind me. "The Rim Mining Industry Association for full."

Zip. Fres. Fourteen.

Rim Mining Industry Association.

I finish my typing, looking long and hard at the names. I need to commit them to memory. However fragile my memories are.

With meticulous, deliberate care, I access the landship's main database. I pull their official PRTS profiles. The archived files detailing their Operator histories, their combat records, and the ID photos that predated their ultimate sacrifices; and I link them directly to the names and the blood-soaked soil that claimed their lives.

"Okay," I whisper, pressing the slate firmly against my chest. "I will remember them…" A heavy, solemn silence settles over us once more. But before the freezing chill of the obsidian can seep too deeply into our bones, the ambient air shifts.

"It is getting late, girls," Miss Charlotte announces.

She shifts her weight, offering us a warm, incredibly grounding smile that easily cuts through the stagnant air..

"You guys down for some homemade meal?" Miss Charlotte asks, tilting her head.

"None of the cafeteria stuff."

I blink, tearing my eyes away from the memorial wall. The concept completely catches me off guard.

"Homemade?" I ask, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. I look up at her. "We can cook on the landship?"

Miss Charlotte lets out a bright, full-chested chuckle.

"Of course. There are designated rooms in the residential blocks equipped with proper communal kitchens. We use them all the time when we miss the taste of home."

But before I can eagerly agree, mom steps forward. She places a gentle, but incredibly firm hand on my shoulder.

"Savage, we need to be careful with Lethe's digestive system," mom warns. "Her stomach cannot handle anything heavy or highly processed right now."

I flinch slightly, the terrifying phantom memory of the Medical Director's late-night lecture echoing in my head.

"Don't worry, Caladria," Miss Charlotte beams, her voice brimming with absolute, undeniable confidence. She looks directly at me, offering a conspiratorial wink. "I will cook her the softest carrot mash in existence."

"What’s carrot mash?" I tilt my heads slightly.

The heavy, steeped dark tea flavor of Amiya’s sorrow completely gives way to a bright, bubbling wave of spun-sugar.

"Oh, Lethe, you will love it," Amiya says, a genuine smile breaking across her face. "It has been a long time since I have had it, too."

I look at Amiya, studying her features, and then glance up at Miss Charlotte's ears.

"Is it a special Cautus food?" I ask.

"It is a Rim Billitonian special," Amiya corrects gently.

"I mean, pretty much all the Cautus on the landship are Rim Billitonian or expatriates," mom points out, a faint, amused smile touching her lips. "So Lethe isn’t completely wrong. In a way."

Miss Charlotte claps her hands together, the sudden, crisp sound echoing off the polished obsidian wall of the memorial hall.

"Right or wrong. We are not here for a cuisine history lesson," Miss Charlotte declares with absolute, unbothered cheer. "The mashes are not going to cook themselves." She turns her attention toward the shadows where the hooded tactician is standing, and then back to mom.

"Doctor, Caladria, you two joining?"

Doctor doesn't speak. He simply gives a slow, deliberate nod.

Mom lets out a soft chuckle, the last remaining tension in her shoulders melting away into the quiet air of the hall.

"Sure," mom replies.

Miss Charlotte leads us away from the memorial hall, guiding our small group down a short corridor until we reach one of the communal break rooms. The transition is immediate and mercifully grounding. The room is outfitted with a pristine, stainless- steel kitchenette, softly lit and entirely devoid of the clinical sterility that haunts the medical wings.

Miss Charlotte wastes no time. She sheds the outer layers of her tactical gear, and pulls a simple chef’s apron over her head. She moves around the kitchen with the effortless, practiced grace of someone who has clearly done this countless times.

I shuffle over to the small dining table and carefully slide into a chair right beside Amiya. I wrap my hands around a plastic cup of cool water that mom had pressed into my fingers. I just nurse the cup, letting the chill seep into my palms to anchor me against the lingering, phantom ache of the names carved into the obsidian wall.

"How can I help, Savage?" mom asks. She has already rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, moving to stand beside the tall Cautus at the counter.

"You can start on the root vegetables, Caladria," Miss Charlotte hums cheerfully, sliding a cutting board and a knife toward her. "Dice them small. They need to boil down until they are perfectly soft."

Soon, the quiet of the break room is filled with the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of mom’s knife against the wooden board.

In the far corner of the kitchen, leaning silently against the wall, is Doctor.

He just stands there.

The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the bubbling of water fills the space until the hooded man suddenly breaks the silence.

"Lethe."

The resonant, slightly muffled voice echoes across the kitchenette.

I look up from my cup of water.

"I would like you to be my assistant tomorrow," Doctor says.

The rhythm of the kitchen violently stalls. Thwack. Mom’s knife stops dead, buried a fraction of a centimeter into the cutting board.

Beside me, Amiya's long ears snap straight up. She turns her head, her blue eyes locking onto the hooded tactician, a silent, questioning spark of smoky rosemary rippling through her sugary emotional resonance.

I look at the towering, enigmatic figure.

"Doctor? What is an assistant?"

Doctor shifts his weight, slipping his hands casually into the deep pockets of his coat.

"Officially," Doctor states, "you assist me in finalizing logistical paperwork, organizing my desk, and running combat simulations on the PRTS terminals."

The blood completely drains from my face. The cold glass of the water cup slips slightly in my grip.

"But… but…" I stammer, my voice fracturing into a desperate whine. I look at him with wide, terrified eyes. "Doctor, I don’t remember how to do any of that."

"Unofficially," Doctor continues, his voice dropping into a gentle, conspiratorial tone,

"you lounge on the sofa in my office, eat snacks, and learn the ropes again at your own pace."

Beside me, Amiya lets out a soft giggle. The tension completely melts from her shoulders as she looks between me and Doctor.

At the counter, the sharp thwack of the knife resumes, though the rhythm is significantly slower and far more deliberate.

"That is a very generous offer, Doctor," mom says. Her voice is incredibly smooth, layered with the flawless, polite cadence.

Mom doesn't even turn around from the cutting board.

"But be warned. If she drinks a single drop of the terrible coffee of yours," mom states, her knife slicing cleanly through a carrot with a terrifyingly crisp snap, "your personal supply of Emergency Sanity Potions will be subjected to a very rigorous, very permanent medical review."

A defeated sigh emanates from beneath Doctor's dark hood instantly. The towering tactician sags slightly against the wall, entirely surrendering.

I press my hands over my mouth, my shoulders shaking as a bright, genuine giggle bubbles up in my throat.

"Lethe," Amiya murmurs, leaning slightly closer to me. "Make sure Doctor actually takes his breaks tomorrow, okay? Remind him to drink his water, and make sure he has a snack here and there."

Amiya pauses.

"Just… be very careful when you lounge. Don’t poke a hole in his sofa with your horns. If you ruin the upholstery, Ms. Closure is going to bill you for the repairs, and even I cannot stop her when it comes to that."

My hands instantly fly up, my palms clamping protectively over my lopsided crowns. My mind violently flashes back to the digital dossier I had meticulously curated to anchor my memories. The entry I had written for the Chief Engineer is terrifyingly brief. Ms. Closure. She wants your plushie funds. Below that warning, I had carefully attached a digital photograph of my absolute most prized possessions: a soft brown plushie, a floppy-eared grey plushie, and a little squishy cake and a giant shark plushie.

My tail wraps into a tight, defensive coil around the leg of my chair.

She is not going to take them.

I drop my hands from my horns and snap off a crisp salute. "Yes, my CEO!" I declare, my voice ringing clearly in the kitchenette.

Amiya covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a bright giggle. From her station at the counter, Miss Charlotte turns around, a deeply satisfied, sun-warmed smile stretching across her face.

"Dinner is served," Miss Charlotte announces.

She steps over to our table, expertly balancing a tray. She sets down steaming, bright orange bowls of her promised carrot mash right in front of us. The aroma is absolutely intoxicating. It smells incredibly rich and savory. The carrots have been roasted to caramelized perfection before being mashed into a velvety, butter-whipped puree, seasoned delicately with roasted garlic, a hint of thyme, and a dash of smoked salt that warms the back of my throat just breathing it in.

To accompany the mash, Miss Charlotte sets down small, accompanying bowls of clear, slow-simmered poultry bone broth. Floating in the golden liquid are tender, melt-in-your- mouth shreds of poached white fish and soft, steamed egg dumplings. It looks incredibly hearty and deeply flavorful, but completely devoid of heavy oils or harsh spices.

I pick up my spoon, the sheer, mouth-watering anticipation completely overriding the terrifying threat of Ms. Closure's invoices. I scoop up a bite of the velvety carrot mash, letting the savory warmth melt onto my tongue, entirely ready to fuel up for my very first day as a tactical assistant.

The daylight simulation in my ward slowly brightens,. I sit on the edge of the mattress, my legs dangling, fully dressed. I am waiting. Mom had promised to come check on me before my shift.

The locks of my door disengage.

I look up, fully expecting the warm, comforting wave of honey to wash over my senses. Instead, the ambient air in the room violently plummets to absolute zero. The breathable oxygen is instantly replaced by the terrifying, suffocating weight of an ancient, immovable glacier, perfectly intertwined with the sharp, predatory tang of cold copper and expensive red wine.

It is not mom.

Dr. Kal'tsit steps into the room. Right behind her saunters the pale, white-haired figure of a Vampire.

I scramble backward on the mattress, my fingers blindly grabbing the digital slate resting on my cot. I tap the glass screen, frantically opening my curated My Life folder. My eyes dart to the profile matching the red-eyed woman.

Dr. Warfarin. I read the absolute pillar I had carved for myself in the digital ink. She wants your blood.

I pull my knees tightly to my chest, using my jacket as a shield.

"Look which little anomaly is a blank slate now," Dr. Warfarin says. Her voice drops into a dangerously smooth, highly amused purr that echoes off the steel walls of my dorm. She crosses her arms, her eyes gleaming with a wicked hunger. "I didn't think you could overload that little brain of yours so hard."

I press my back flat against the wall.

"No…" I whimper. "No… no… blood!"

Dr. Warfarin lets out a short, scoff.

"The memory wipe didn't fix the fear of needles, did it?" she muses aloud. She takes a slow, deliberate step toward the edge of my bed, leaning in just a fraction so her face catches the overhead light. A predatory smile stretches across her lips. "It definitely makes the blood draws more interesting."

Before my spiraling panic can force a sob out of my lungs, the crushing gravity of the room shifts.

"Enough, Warfarin."

Dr. Kal'tsit’s voice slices cleanly through ward. She steps forward. "Conduct the brain scan. She needs to be cleared for Doctor's office."

Dr. Warfarin rolls her eyes, letting out a highly dramatic sigh.

"As you wish, Kal," Dr. Warfarin mutters. She walks towards a console. An interlocking halo scanner lowers from the celling. She turns her focus back to me. "Sit still, little anomaly."

I squeeze my eyes shut, locking my jaw so my teeth don't chatter. I force myself to remain perfectly rigid as the halo powers up, Arts Unit a blinding, grid-like blue light over my face. The machine hums with a high-pitched, vibrating frequency that makes the inside of my skull ache.

The scan feels like it takes an eternity. Finally, the humming spins down to a halt.

Dr. Warfarin lowers the device, pulling up the scrolling data on her slate.

"Well," Dr. Warfarin announces. The silence in the dorm suddenly feels incredibly heavy.

"The results match the bloodwork."

I open my eyes, looking nervously between the two doctors.

"Her Originium-cell Assimilation rate jumped to nine percent," Dr. Warfarin states. She turns the screen slightly toward the Medical Director, pointing at a cluster of data. "The sheer burn of her Arts output was catastrophic. Her ability to actually hold onto memories itself has been compromised. The lesions have expanded."

Dr. Kal'tsit does not flinch. She gives a single, slow nod.

"Closure has yet to finish rebuilding her bespoke monitor," Dr. Kal'tsit notes, her voice calm and absolute.

The Medical Director reaches into the pocket of her coat. She pulls out a device and holds it out toward me.

"This will suffice in the meantime."

I look down at the object in her hand.

“It is a standard Rhodes Island Infection Monitor band.” Dr. Kal’tsit adds. “A multi- functional monitoring device whose function includes Oripathy diagnosis, vital sign monitoring and condition tracking. We are currently sourcing the material to manufacture the advanced variant, and finish the reconstruction of your Arts Unit.” The exterior is forged from a smooth, matte black material, boldly marked with glowing, ice-blue indicator lines that form a sharp, intersecting pattern of arrows. As she turns it slightly, I can see the interior lining; a complex, intricate weave of exposed copper and gold circuitry embedded securely within a pristine white synthetic frame.

I remember seeing this on Lisa’s neck. Amiya’s neck, left thigh and her hands as well. And also mom’s left wrist. It also kind of looked like the band that was on my neck in all the pictures of me that Lisa has showed me. Though my old one has a prominent Rhodes Island logo.

I slowly reach out, taking the band from the Medical Director's hand.

"Put it on," Dr. Kal'tsit commands. "And proceed to the Command Deck. Doctor is waiting."

I reach out, carefully picking up the matte black band from the Medical Director's hand. I trace the exposed copper and gold circuitry embedded within the pristine white synthetic frame, before slowly bringing it to my neck.

I wrap it around my throat. The mechanical lock engages with a sharp, definitive click. I squeeze my eyes shut, my shoulders tensing as I brace myself for sudden change. But nothing comes.

"I don't feel different," I whisper, my hands hovering nervously near the glowing ice-blue lines of the band.

"It is not designed to suppress your active output," Dr. Kal'tsit states. "It is strictly a diagnostic and telemetry monitor. Your empathic channels will remain open."

The door opens again.

Mom steps through the threshold.

Her eyes dart frantically across the room, sweeping over the two doctors, the halo scanner hovering above my cot, and finally locking onto the new black band secured around my throat.

"Oh," Mom breathes out. The rigid, panicked tension in her spine melts just a fraction as she hurries over to my side. "Is Lethe okay?"

"Her Oripathy baseline is stable, and the new monitor is functioning within parameters," Dr. Kal'tsit replies. "She is cleared to go to Doctor's office."

"Escort her to the office, then report back to the suppressant manufacturing plant, Caladria."

Mom straightens her spine, offering a crisp, professional nod. "Yes, Dr. Kal'tsit."

She turns her attention back down to me, her expression softening into a reassuring warmth. "Come, let's go, Lethe."

I don't hesitate for a single second. I slide off the padded examination chair, immensely grateful to escape Dr. Warfarin's gaze, and immediately grab mom's hand.

We navigate the corridors, ascending toward the upper administrative decks.

We eventually stop in front of a set of heavy, reinforced blast doors.

Mom gives my fingers a gentle, grounding squeeze. "Ready, Lethe?" she asks softly. I take a deep breath, clutching my digital slate tightly against my chest. "Ready, mom." The metal panels smoothly slide apart.

I step through the threshold.

Doctor's office is massive, bathed in a cool, industrial light from the recessed ceiling panels overhead. It is a sprawling room of brushed steel and dark greys, projecting an emotional resonance of calculated, strategic efficiency that perfectly matches the enigmatic tactician.

In the center of the room sits a wide, sleek desk heavily laden with stacked, meticulously organized dossiers, a computer monitor, and a blue thermos. Behind the desk, a large tactical board is plastered with sprawling maps and scattered white notes. My eyes drift to the right side of the room. Just as Doctor had promised in the cafeteria, sitting across from a low glass coffee table is a sprawling, plush black sofa. A thick, cozy blue blanket is already draped casually over the cushions, waiting for me. And standing amidst the organized chaos of the office, is Doctor.

I loosen my grip on my slate and take a hesitant step into his domain.

"Thank you, Caladria," Doctor says, his voice slightly muffled but carrying a calm, resonant weight.

Mom gives a respectful, professional nod. "I am needed at the fabricators, Doctor," she says. She turns her head to look at me, and reaches out, gently resting her hand on the top of my head to smooth down my asymmetrical fringe. "I will pick you up when the day is done, Lethe."

"See you, mom," I reply, leaning into her touch for a brief second before she pulls her hand away. My tail gives a small, happy swish in the air.

The doors hiss shut, completely sealing us inside the quiet office. I stand there, left entirely alone with the enigmatic leader of Rhodes Island.

"Take a seat wherever you prefer, Lethe," Doctor says, gesturing loosely toward the room.

I don't sit. My eyes are immediately drawn to the large observation window taking up the far wall of his office. It is currently obscured by heavy, light-blocking blinds, but tiny slivers of natural sunlight are bleeding through the edges, completely demanding my attention.

I rush toward it and reach out with my free hand, gently peeling back one of the blinds to look outside.

The world beyond the reinforced glass is absolutely breathtaking.

Sprawling, endless plains of vibrant green grass stretch out as far as the eye can see, swaying in deep, rhythmic ripples beneath the wind like a terrestrial ocean. The lush, sun-drenched earth is beautifully, violently scarred by a network of fractured waterways; glittering silver streams that cut chaotic paths through the plains, breaking the endless green into a fractured mosaic. And sprouting directly from the rocky banks of those rivers, contrasting starkly against the vibrant life of the plains, are massive, jagged clusters of Originium. The black crystalline structures jut out from the dirt like ancient teeth, catching the sunlight and pulsing with a silent, eerie grace.

"Woah…" I breathe out, my eyes blown completely wide as my breath fogs the cool glass. "Doctor, where are we?"

The quiet rustle of paperwork echoes behind me. "We are currently in between the borders of the Leithanian Empire and Siracusa," Doctor replies, his tone steady and informative over the low hum of the landship's engines.

"It is beautiful," I whisper. I watch the glittering water weave through the dark, imposing rocks.

Reluctantly, I let the heavy blind fall back into place, plunging that section of the office back into a dim, screen-lit glow. I turn around, my tail dropping behind me.

Doctor is seated behind his desk, already completely swallowed by towering mountains of physical reports, logistical manifests, and digital slates. He is a silent, unmoving shadow amidst the endless sea of documentations.

A sudden, sharp pang of guilt twists in my chest.

"Oh! Sorry… Doctor!" I stammer. "Hopefully I am not disturbing your work."

Before Doctor can even offer a reassuring word to ease my guilt, the reinforced doors slide apart.

A small Feline girl steps over the threshold. She wears an oversized jacket that completely swallows her frame, and her silver-white hair falls softly around her face. My Arts brushes against the ambient air, and the flavor that washes over me is incredibly profound. It tastes like cool, smooth stone and the faint, ozone-laced static electricity that precedes a heavy rain. It is immensely powerful, yet undeniably safe. I immediately reach into my crossbody bag, and pull out my slate. My eyes dart across the digital profiles until I find the matching photograph.

Rosmontis. The quiet anchor.

I let out a soft, silent exhale, the rigid tension melting from my shoulders. My friend. I look back up. Rosmontis has stopped a few paces into the room. She is standing perfectly still, her head bowed. In her hands, she holds her own thin, rectangular terminal. Her eyes are locked onto the glowing text, her feline ears giving a tiny, deliberate twitches.

For a moment, the sprawling command office is completely quiet, save for the hum of the landship.

Rosmontis slowly lowers her terminal. Her expression remains perfectly flat, beautifully distant, but the cool stone flavor of her presence softens.

"Hi," Rosmontis says, her voice steady. "Lethe."

I slip my slate safely back into my bag and take a step toward her.

"Hi, Rosmontis," I chime, ensuring my voice is soft and welcoming. I puff my chest out just a fraction, pointing proudly to myself. "I am Doctor’s assistant today. Can I help you?"

Rosmontis blinks, her attention drifting past me to the towering mountains of paperwork stacked on the desk, and then to the hooded tactician seated behind them.

"I am here to sit," Rosmontis states simply. Her eyes remain fixed on Doctor. "Unless Doctor has missions for me."

The rustling of documents ceases. Doctor pauses, his hands resting atop a particularly thick dossier.

"Not currently," Doctor replies.

“There are Leithanien made chocolate in the drawer. According to my notes.”

Rosmontis says.

"Chocolate. Chocolate."

I turn the word over in my mind, testing the shape of the syllables on my tongue.

Rosmontis sits perfectly still on the edge of the plush sofa, her hands resting in her lap. Her silver-white hair falls softly around her face.

"They are good, Lethe," Rosmontis states. "Especially the ones in Doctor’s secret stash." I don't hesitate. I crouch down beside the document-laden desk and carefully pull the lower drawer open. The metal tracks glide smoothly with a soft hush.

Resting securely inside the dark compartment is a pristine row of beautifully wrapped blocks. The elegant foil packaging catches the dim glow of the office.

I reach in and take one, my fingers carefully peeling back the wrapper. The aroma hits me instantly. It is absolutely intoxicating; a deep, roasted, earthy scent that makes my stomach give an eager flutter.

I take a small, deliberate bite.

The contrast is staggering. The surface snaps cleanly against my teeth, sharp and slightly bitter, but the moment it hits the warmth of my tongue, it completely yields. It melts into a rich, heavy creaminess that coats my entire mouth in absolute, unadulterated sweetness.

My tail, which had been coiled loosely, snaps to life, giving a massive, joyous swish that thumps happily against the side of the desk.

It is absolutely the best thing ever.

I turn back to the sofa. "You are right, Rosmontis," my voice muffled slightly as the rich dessert melts. "They are really good."

Rosmontis gives a tiny, deliberate nod. She holds her own block of chocolate in her hands, her fingers meticulously and carefully folding the foil back with a quiet, practiced precision. She takes a small bite, her eyes closing for just a fraction of a second in silent appreciation.

I look back at the towering mountains of paperwork, and the silent, hooded figure buried entirely behind them. He hasn't stopped working since I stepped into the room, his hands constantly shifting physical dossiers and tapping relentlessly at his terminal.

"Do you want one too, Doctor?" I ask softly, pitching my voice to carry over the quiet rustle of his papers.

I step forward, reaching across the sprawling expanse of his desk. I hold a freshly unwrapped block out, stopping my hand just in front of his dark visor.

The rapid scratching of his pen abruptly ceases.

The deep, heavy void of his presence hums quietly in the air, a swirling mix of cold iron and exhausted fog. For a brief second, I wonder if offering a high-calorie snack to the tactical mastermind of Rhodes Island during his working hours is a breach of protocol. But then, he slowly raises a hand. He takes the chocolate from my fingers, offering a silent nod.

The quiet, crinkling sound of foil echoes from the shadows of his coat.

"After you are done, Lethe," Doctor says. "Use the communicator to ring Closure up." I swallow the last, glorious morsel of the chocolate, carefully licking a stray smudge of the rich cocoa from my thumb.

I lean over the desk, my eyes scanning the glowing interface of the communications terminal resting near Doctor's elbow. I carefully tap the screen, navigating through the heavily encrypted departmental directories until I find the specific contact. It is marked with a highly stylized, grinning bat icon.

I press the call button.

The connection doesn't even ring. It connects instantaneously, and the quiet, focused atmosphere of the office is completely shattered.

"Doctor!" Ms. Closure's voice blasts through the terminal's speakers. It is loud, echoing with a frantic, highly caffeinated energy that practically vibrates the chassis of the communicator.

"The procurement department is completely over budget again! The D32 Steel, the Solidified Fiber Boards, the Nucleic Crystal Sinters; you name it! Everything required to rebuild a certain kiddo’s highly volatile focal unit is entirely outpacing our LMD acquisition!" she rants. "We should just deploy a squad to the barrens and gather the basic components for manufacturing ourselves before the accounting department completely executes me!"

I freeze. My hand hovers awkwardly over the terminal.

"Wait…" I lean closer to the speaker, my voice trembling with sudden dread. "Is… is that kiddo me?"

The frantic typing and metallic clattering on the other end of the line abruptly ceases.

"Oh. The kiddo herself!" Ms. Closure declares. The panicked, stressed edge in her voice instantly vanishes.

"Well, this is perfect timing. Or, Doctor, if you prefer, I can just completely seize her salary," Ms. Closure suggests. "She can just work as your administrative assistant for free until the Gaulish Empire rises again. That should just about cover the cost of the custom limiter matrix I'm building her."

I blink, staring blankly at the glowing bat icon on the screen.

"Gaulish Empire?" I echo. "Is that… a rich place?"

A loud, highly theatrical snort echoes from the speaker.

"It was a historical Empire, Lethe," Ms. Closure explains. "A massive superpower that got itself entirely dissected and wiped off the map by Victoria, Ursus, and Leithanien decades ago."

She pauses.

"It means it is never coming back. Which means," Ms. Closure adds, "you will be working for free for Doctor for life, kiddo. A few hundred years, give or take, for a pureblood Djall.”

My hands fly up to my head, clutching my hair in absolute, unadulterated horror.

Hundreds of years. Centuries of counting medical supplies, logging Oripathy suppressants, and organizing Doctor's desk without earning a single credit.

I look desperately across the desk at the hooded tactician, my eyes wide and pleading. I let out a long, tragic whine, puffing my cheeks out as I completely slump forward against his desk, entirely ready to accept my terrifying financial doom.

I keep my face pressed firmly against the cool metal of the desk, my lopsided horns resting against a stack of tactical reports.

From the shadows of his heavy coat, a gloved hand extends over the desk. The rapid, methodical scratching of his pen is replaced by the sharp, deliberate tapping of his fingers against the screen of his own terminal.

"I will authorise mercenary contracts for the Leithanian government," Doctor states. His voice is perfectly level, cutting through my despair with the effortless, calculated precision. "We can gather base materials while on the mission."

He taps the screen twice more, the soft blue light of the interface reflecting briefly against his opaque visor.

"I will also update the landship's output. We will focus more on trading to offset the acquisition costs."

I slowly lift my head off the desk.

A static-laced sigh crackles through the communicator's speaker.

"Alright, alright," Ms. Closure grumbles. "I will reassign the maintenance drones to help with the power plants to boost our efficiency, Doctor."

The audio feed shifts slightly.

"Well, look at that, kiddo. Your funding is safe for now. You get to keep your precious plushie money. Tell Doctor thank you before I change my mind and charge you for the communication bandwidth."

The heavy, crushing anvil of my financial ruin completely shatters.

I shoot straight up from the desk, my hands planting firmly on the polished surface. My tail, which had been lying entirely dead against the floorboards, instantly uncoils and begins to wag with a frantic, rhythmic thump.

"Okay," I breathe out. "I am safe."

I lean forward, my eyes shining with absolute, profound gratitude.

"Thank you, Doctor," I offer him a deep, deeply respectful bow. "You are the best boss ever. I will organize all your files perfectly today, I promise!"

"Look who’s suddenly motivated," Ms. Closure laughs through the terminal’s speaker. Her voice is laced with that familiar, highly caffeinated tease. "Alright, kiddo. I'll get back to the grindstone."

"Before you disconnect, Closure," Doctor interrupts. "Ensure the requisition of the advanced training modules is on schedule."

"Are you serious?" Ms. Closure groans. "Compressing a multi-week physical conditioning and tactical curriculum into a single day? Is that Dobermann's sadistic idea, or is this entirely your own machination, Doctor?"

Doctor doesn't answer. He simply taps the screen with a single, deliberate motion. The line goes dead with a sharp, electronic chirp, instantly severing the Chief Engineer's protests and plunging the office back into a heavy, focused silence. The vast, unreadable abyss of his presence does not ripple or shift; he is already entirely absorbed in his next calculation.

I turn my attention back to the sprawling mess of the desk. I carefully gather the physical dossiers and logistical manifests Doctor has already processed. My hands move methodically, aligning the edges of the thick paper until they form a perfectly neat, towering stack on the corner of the desk.

I glance over. In the quiet periphery of the room, Rosmontis is sitting perfectly still on the plush sofa. She has lowered her digital memo terminal, her eyes staring blankly ahead.

After a long stretch of unbroken quiet, punctuated only by the rhythmic, relentless scratching of Doctor's pen, a dull ache settles into my shoulders. I gently set the last folder down, ensuring it is perfectly aligned with the rest, and softly step away from the desk.

I make my way toward the corner of the office and carefully climb onto the plush sofa. As I sink into the soft cushions, I look beside me. Rosmontis has finally succumbed to the quiet, secure warmth of the room. She is fast asleep. Her breathing is incredibly slow and even, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. Her silver-white feline tail is curled comfortably around her legs, resting softly.

The terrifying, immense telekinetic gravity she usually carries is completely dormant. The cool, ozone-laced static of her emotional resonance has softened into a gentle, sleepy hum that tastes like smooth river stones warming in the sun.

I pull my knees up to my chest, my own tail wrapping securely around my ankles. I lean back carefully, making absolutely sure not to jostle the cushions or disturb her rest. I am pulled back out of the quiet, dreamless void by a new voice cutting through the steady hum of the landship.

"Senpai. I would like to go back to Leithanien for a few days. There are books that are only available in Leithanian universities that I need right now."

I slowly sit up against the plush cushions, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Standing near Doctor's massive desk is a Caprinae. Her curling horns frame a face with incredibly soft, kind eyes. Even though she speaks with a gentle melody, the ambient flavor of her presence is unmistakable. It washes over the cold room, tasting of roasted chestnuts and the comforting, enduring warmth of a dormant hearth fire.

My mind grasps at the familiar warmth, but the name escapes the fractured edges of my memory. I quickly reach into my crossbody bag and pull out my digital slate.

Miss Adele. Eyjafjalla. My gentle tutor.

Beside me, the cushions shift. Rosmontis slowly sits up, stretching her arms above her head with a quiet, sleepy sigh. Her tail uncoils from around her legs, swaying lazily as she wakes from her own rest.

But Miss Adele doesn't seem to notice our stirring.

"I don’t need any escort," Miss Adele insists, her voice carrying a sturdy, unyielding conviction. "I will be back before we leave the borders."

Doctor doesn't offer a verbal reply. He simply reaches out, his hand pulling the deployment requisition form across the desk. The sharp, deliberate scratch of his pen echoes briefly in the quiet office as he signs the document with absolute, administrative finality, before sliding it back across the table.

"Thank you, Senpai!" Miss Adele says, her voice lifting with a bright, genuine gratitude. She carefully tucks the approved paperwork into her bag.

As she turns around to head for the doors, her gaze sweeps past the center of the room and lands directly on the plush sofa. She blinks, her eyes crinkling into a warm smile as she catches sight of our stirring forms.

"Oh. Hi, Lethe. Rosmontis," Miss Adele greets. "You two are awake now."

"Hi, Miss Adele," I reply softly, shifting my legs to sit up a little straighter against the cushions.

"Eyjafjalla," Rosmontis echoes beside me.

Miss Adele steps closer to the sofa.

"Sorry, Lethe. I won’t be able to teach you for a few days," Miss Adele apologises. "But I am so glad to see you are finally up and about again. Everyone was very worried about you."

I look down at my hands, my fingers gripping the edges of my digital slate.

"Miss Adele… I…" I stammer, my voice fracturing into a tiny, fragile whisper. I look back up at her, my vision blurring with unshed tears. "I don’t remember what you have taught me. Ms. Closure only recovered my anchors of life from my crashed slate… so I just know who is who. The lessons… they are completely gone."

I brace myself for her disappointment. I expect the warm, roasted chestnut flavor in the air to sour with frustration. I had wasted so much of her precious time.

But Miss Adele's emotional resonance doesn't sour. It swells, radiating an absolute, unconditional warmth.

"That’s alright, Lethe," Miss Adele smiles, her expression incredibly patient and beautifully serene. "When I am back, we can go over everything again."

"Thank you, Miss Adele," I whisper. "If you don’t mind… can you send me a list of reading material? I will catch up before you are back."

Miss Adele’s smile brightens.

"Of course, Lethe," Miss Adele promises. "I will get it done tonight."

"Thank you."

"See you girls," Miss Adele says, offering us a gentle wave. She turns her attention back toward the towering stacks of paperwork, her voice carrying a bright, respectful lilt.

"And see you, Senpai!"

Doctor gives a single, acknowledging nod. Miss Adele turns and steps out of the office, the heavy doors hissing shut behind her, sealing the quiet, recycled air back into the room.

I let out a slow exhale, the comforting warmth of her presence slowly fading. I look down at the digital clock displayed in the corner of my slate.

14:00.

I blink, staring at the numbers to make sure I am reading them correctly. I had curled up on the plush sofa to take a break around 11:30. I had been asleep for two and a half hours.

And Doctor hadn't moved.

I instantly scramble off the sofa. My sneakers hit the floor with a soft thud as I march directly toward the heavily cluttered desk.

"Oh no!" I gasp, my voice pitching up with sudden, frantic realization. I plant my hands firmly on my hips, completely abandoning the quiet posture of an assistant. "Doctor! Have you eaten lunch? Did you drink any water today?"

Doctor slowly lifts his head from the sprawling logistical manifests. The heavy, exhausted void of his aura ripples with a faint, almost imperceptible note of guilt.

He doesn't say a word, but the profound silence is a completely damning admission.

"Let's go get some lunch," I declare, my tone adopting the absolute, uncompromising authority I had learned directly from watching mom and Dr. Kal'tsit. I point a firm finger toward the blast doors. "Right now."

Doctor doesn't move. He simply raises his hand from the sprawling sea of paperwork and points a solitary finger toward a low metal cabinet tucked against the wall.

I shuffle over, and pull the handle. The metal door swings open.

Inside, stacked in meticulously neat, entirely depressing rows, are dozens of brightly colored plastic cups.

Instant ramen.

I stare at the cups. My mind instantly flashes back to Dr. Kal'tsit's terrifying midnight lecture. They are absolutely not proper food.

I slam the cabinet door shut with a sharp, resounding clank. I turn around, planting my hands firmly on my hips.

"Absolutely not," I declare. I look toward the plush sofa. "Rosmontis."

"My profile notes say you can use telekinetic Arts," I state, pointing directly at the hooded tactician. "Please drag Doctor to the Upper Deck cafeteria."

Rosmontis blinks. She slowly stands up. The atmospheric pressure in the room immediately drops, a heavy, invisible gravity pooling around her frame.

Doctor pauses.

"I can walk," Doctor says, as he slowly stands up.

"Good," I nod firmly.

We flank him. And we march him out the doors and down the quiet, steeled corridors of the administrative deck.

The Upper Deck cafeteria is completely deserted. Since it is past lunch rush, the only sound is the hum of refrigerators holding the rations.

I guide our small group toward the designated leftover station, where extra meals from the earlier shifts are neatly packaged for anyone who missed lunch. I reach out and grab a tightly wrapped savory egg salad sandwich for myself.

The late lunch is entirely silent.

The Upper Deck cafeteria is quiet, a hushed sanctuary of polished tables and crisp, cool lighting. I take the last, deliberate bite of my egg salad sandwich, the soft bread and creamy filling offering a welcome, mundane comfort. Beside me, Rosmontis eats with her usual, focused silence.

Across the table, Doctor sits perfectly still. His plate is already completely empty.

I chew slowly, my brow furrowing in profound confusion. I had been sitting right across from him this entire time. I didn't look away for more than a few seconds. Yet, I never saw him pull back the heavy fabric of his hood, and I definitely never saw him open that opaque black visor.

I swallow, gently setting my hands in my lap.

"Rosmontis?" I whisper, leaning slightly toward her. "How does Doctor eat?"

Rosmontis pauses. She turns her head to look at the hooded tactician, and then back to me.

"The visor is his mouth," Rosmontis states simply. Her voice is quiet and perfectly steady.

My brain completely stalls. The gears grind to an absolute, screeching halt.

What?!

I stare at the smooth, impenetrable black of Doctor's visor. Does it unhinge? Does it dissolve the food on contact? A sudden, horrifying mental image of Doctor shoving an entire bowl of instant ramen directly into the flat glass flashes through my mind.

"No, Lethe. He is just fast. Freaky fast." A new voice rings out.

The voice booms effortlessly across the quiet cafe, vibrating right through my ribs. The ambient air violently shifts. A massive, scorching wave of machine grease, roaring exhaust, and pure, unapologetic fire hits the back of my tongue.

I whip my head around. A tall Feline strides toward our table. Her long dark hair whips over her shoulder, and her two black ears twitch with a fierce, competitive energy. My heart gives a tiny flutter of uncertainty. I quickly reach into my crossbody bag, pulling out the aluminum chassis of my slate.

I read the distilled, foundational entry I had carved into the digital ink for her.

Ms. Blaze. Do NOT let her carry you.

I blink, looking up from the screen to the towering Feline.

"Uhm… Ms. Blaze," I start. "Why does it say on my slate to not let you carry me?"

Ms. Blaze pauses. For a split second, the roaring fire of her aura flickers.

Then, a wicked, fearless grin stretches entirely across her face.

"You don't remember, do you, kiddo?" Ms. Blaze laughs, the sound bouncing off the reinforced glass windows. "Well, let me remind you! All aboard the Blaze Express!" Before I can even register the threat, she lunges.

I don't even have time to gasp. She scoops me up with terrifying, effortless ease. In an instant, I am tucked horizontally under her arm, my legs dangling uselessly in the air.

"Wait!" My tail thrashes blindly behind me. "Put me down! Ms. Blaze!"

"To Doctor's office!" Ms. Blaze declares loudly, already spinning on her heel. "The break is over!"

She breaks into a dead sprint. Every purposeful, heavy thud of her boots bounces directly through my ribs. I am tucked so securely under her arm that my frantic, entirely useless wiggling doesn't even throw her off balance. The quiet serenity of the Upper Deck cafeteria is completely annihilated as I am carried away, my frantic protests entirely drowned out by the Elite Op’s booming laughter.

Ms. Blaze practically dumps me onto the plush cushions of Doctor's sofa.

I bounce slightly, my oversized jacket bunched entirely up around my ears and my asymmetrical fringe completely blown in every direction. My tail, still locked in a rigid coil of sheer terror, slowly unravels to thump indignantly.

"Delivery complete," Ms. Blaze declares.

I scramble to right myself, furiously tugging the hem of my jacket down and violently smoothing my hair back into place around my horns. I puff my cheeks out, fixing the towering Elite Op with my absolute fiercest glare.

"Okay! Now I understand!" I huff, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. "The note is entirely correct. No carrying again! Ever!"

Ms. Blaze lets out a booming, full-chested laugh that practically rattles the heavy filing cabinets in the corner.

"No promises, kiddo!" she grins, completely unrepentant.

"Blaze. Rosmontis."

The voice cuts through the warm, roaring fire of Ms. Blaze’s amusement like a perfectly sharpened blade. I turn my head toward the desk. Doctor is sitting perfectly still, his hands resting atop a freshly printed logistical manifest. The heavy, bottomless void of his presence instantly sharpens into a frictionless streak of absolute, uncompromising tactical focus.

"We have deployment orders," Doctor states.

The transition in the room is instantaneous and violently abrupt. The playful, carbonated energy completely evaporates. Ms. Blaze’s posture snaps to lethal, militarized readiness in a single heartbeat. The roaring, bright fire of her emotional resonance immediately banks down into a dark, simmering ember of pure combat focus, tasting of scorched iron.

"Where to, boss?" Ms. Blaze asks, her voice dropping into a low, gravelly octave.

"Stationary Security Service," Doctor replies smoothly, his opaque visor reflecting the cool blue light of his terminal. "A Leithanian border town. We are contracted to investigate."

Ms. Blaze rolls her shoulders, a sharp crack echoing from her joints.

"Got it, boss," Ms. Blaze replies. She turns her head, her fiery eyes meeting mine one last time.

"Well, Lethe, looks like it is prep time for us," she reaches out to give my head one last, heavy pat that nearly pushes my chin into my chest.

Right beside her, Rosmontis steps forward. The cool, ozone-laced static of Rosmontis’s presence hums steadily in the air, dense and incredibly heavy.

"See you, Lethe," Rosmontis says softly.

I grip the edge of the sofa cushions.

I force the corners of my lips upward, stretching my face into a bright, unwavering smile. I look at the towering, chainsaw-wielding Feline, and then at the quiet, telekinetic girl who carries the weight of a shattered mind.

"Good luck," I chime, ensuring my voice rings clear and resolute across the quiet office.

"Stay safe out there."

The doors hiss shut, completely sealing away the fiery static of Ms. Blaze and the cool, ozone-laced presence of Rosmontis. The sprawling command office immediately plunges back into a suffocating quiet.

I look down at the digital clock displayed in the corner of my slate. I still have almost two and a half hours left on my mandated shift as Doctor's assistant.

I look toward the massive desk in the center of the room. The hooded tactician is already entirely swallowed by a mountain of deployment logistics and supply manifests.

"Doctor!" I start, pitching my voice brightly, hoping to offer him a momentary distraction from the grueling calculus of war.

The pen doesn't even pause. He doesn't look up, his posture remaining a rigid, unmoving shadow amidst the endless sea of documentation.

"Oh… you are busy," I murmur, my shoulders slumping just a fraction. I duck my head slightly, feeling a tiny prickle of guilt for breaking the silence. "I will let you be. Sorry." I slide off the plush sofa. I proceed to wander aimlessly around the cavernous office. I trace the edges of the filing cabinets and peer at the complex tactical maps mounted on the walls. Doctor is truly an endless, silent machine grinding through the survival of our landship.

I circle back, stopping right beside his sprawling desk. As his officially designated assistant for the afternoon, I decide I should probably do some actual assisting again. I start with the surface, meticulously aligning the scattered, haphazardly tossed physical dossiers and stacking them neatly near the corners so he has more room to work. Emboldened by my organizational success, I reach down and pull open one of the deep, lower desk drawers.

I freeze. My eyes blow completely wide.

I only noticed the chocolate before but in truth, it is an unbelievable, staggering hoard of high-calorie contraband.

Below the rows upon rows of rich Leithanian chocolate bars. Are vacuum-sealed bags of spicy Sargon jerky, brightly colored packs of imported Columbian gummy worms, and a genuinely alarming number of highly processed instant ramen cups. It is a literal treasure trove of pure sugar and sodium hidden right under Amiya and Dr. Kal'tsit's noses.

Before I can even process the sheer scale of Doctor's secret stash, the locks of the office door disengage with a sharp clank.

I don't even have time to turn around.

The ambient air in the quiet office violently shatters. The heavy, exhausted void of Doctor's presence is instantly completely overwhelmed by an explosive, blindingly bright wave of pure, unfiltered hunger and chaotic excitement. It tastes like a dizzying, frantic mix of roasted meat, sweet honey biscuits, and absolutely zero impulse control.

A massive, golden blur materializes directly behind me, completely bypassing the threshold.

"Someone said snacks!"

A head pops right over my shoulder, nearly knocking into my lopsided horns. Two golden Perro ears twitch wildly in the air, and her eyes lock onto the open drawer with an absolute, predatory starvation that completely ignores the tactician sitting just beside us.

"Who… who are you?" I stammer as I try to lean away from the intense heat radiating from her.

The Perro doesn't even look at me. Her wide, golden eyes remain glued to the slightly ajar snack drawer I am trying to organise.

"My tummy demands snacks," she declares. It isn't a request.

I blink, my gaze darting from the Perro to Doctor, who hasn't even paused his work. I slowly reach a hand into the open drawer.

I bypass the delicate Leithanien chocolates entirely and grab a thick, plastic wrapped stick of dried, heavily seasoned meat.

"Uhm… okay…" I hesitantly hold the package out toward her. "Here’s a jerky."

She doesn't take it from my hand; she practically inhales it. With a terrifying, feral efficiency, she tears right into the tough plastic packaging, her teeth flashing under the fluorescent office lights. She bites down, tearing a massive chunk of the dried meat away.

"Oh," her eyes go completely wide, sparkling with pure, unadulterated joy. The roaring campfire flavor in the air instantly explodes into a blindingly bright wave of sweet chili and toasted grain. "Spicy. Yummy!"

She chews furiously. Then, she leans over the desk, thrusting the half-eaten stick of jerky directly toward Doctor's visor.

"Doctor, you want some too?" she asks, her voice muffled around the spicy meat.

"I am fine, Ceobe," Doctor replies.

Ceobe’s ears immediately perk straight up.

"All mine!" she cheers, happily pulling the jerky back and taking another massive, entirely unchewed bite.

Doctor points a single finger toward a digital slate resting near the edge of his desk, the screen displaying the active roster for the Stationary Security Service.

"You should be deploying soon too, Ceobe," Doctor states, seamlessly shifting from snack-provider to the supreme commander of Rhodes Island's military forces.

Ceobe pauses mid-chew. She looks at the screen, swallows the jerky with a loud gulp, and immediately puffs her chest out. Her hands drop to grip the handles of the heavy stack of weapons; axes, javelins, swords; strapped to her back.

The playful, hungry energy instantly hardens into a fierce, blindingly loyal combat readiness.

"Okay! Bad guys, I hit, Doctor!" Ceobe barks, her voice echoing loudly across the cavernous office. "I will be back for more snacks after!"

Without another word, she bolts. The doors hiss apart, and the golden Perro completely disappears into the arteries of the landship, taking the roaring campfire and her chaotic hunger with her.

The heavy, reinforced panels slide shut with a definitive clank. The sprawling command office immediately plunges back into a suffocating, echoing quiet.

I stand perfectly still near the edge of the desk. My hands are entirely empty, the spicy scent of the jerky still lingering faintly in the recycled air. I slowly turn my head, looking at the unmoving, hooded figure seated behind the mountains of paperwork.

"Uhm… Doctor…" I ask. "Was I hallucinating?"

Doctor doesn't answer immediately. He simply reaches out, his fingers tapping the edge of the messy stack of requisition forms.

"Make sure the deployment logistics are on track," he replies smoothly, completely ignoring the sheer absurdity of what had just transpired.

After a dozen or so minutes, I finally meticulously align the final stack of physical dossiers, ensuring the edges are perfectly flush against the corner of the massive desk. The sheer volume of logistical paperwork required to keep a landship moving is staggering, and my brain feels entirely numb from staring at the blocky text.

I drag my feet across the floor and completely slump onto the plush sofa in the corner of the room. I let out a long, pathetic groan, my face sinking deep into the soft cushions. My horns catch slightly on the fabric, but I don't even care. My tail drops completely dead against the floor.

Between the terrifying silence of Doctor, the roaring fire of Ms. Blaze, the silent telekinetic weight of Rosmontis, and the feral, spicy hurricane of Ceobe, my empathic senses are completely fried.

Please, I pray to whatever ancient Feranmut might be listening. Please just let the door stay closed.

The locks immediately disengage with a sharp, resounding clank.

The panels hiss apart. I let out a muffled, tragic whine into the upholstery, refusing to lift my head. I just peek one eye open, bracing myself for another Elite Op to burst into the room and demand I participate in some terrifying feat of physical endurance.

But the ambient air in the corridor doesn't ignite with fire or crackle with cold ozone. Instead, a massive, brilliant wave of pure, comforting spun-sugar washes over my senses, completely banishing the sterile, recycled scent of the office.

It is Amiya.

She steps into the room, her long ears perk up the absolute second she spots my melted, defeated form on the sofa.

"Hi, Lethe," Amiya greets. She walks over to the edge of the sofa, a highly amused smile stretching across her face. "How’s your day been?"

I slowly peel my cheek off the cushion. I push myself up into a sitting position, my hands resting limply in my lap. I look up at the young CEO.

"It… it… it is something, Amiya," I gesture weakly toward the quiet, hooded tactician still buried behind the desk. "Your company is quite… a lot."

Amiya covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with a soft, bright giggle. She sits down on the edge of the sofa beside me, inviting the story.

I lean into her warm, sugary presence, offering a frantic, whispered crash course of my day. I tell her about Rosmontis sleeping peacefully like a dormant stone fortress. I recount the absolute, unfiltered horror of Ms. Blaze tucking me under her arm like a duffle bag and practically vibrating the floorboards with her booming laugh. And finally, I describe the terrifying, feral hunger of Ceobe, inhaling a stick of spicy jerky whole before proudly declaring she was off to hit bad guys.

Amiya listens to every word, the smile never leaving her face.

"I always hope Rhodes Island is a second home for everyone," Amiya murmurs softly, her eyes shining with a deep, unyielding sincerity as she looks at me. "I am glad it is." She reaches out, her hand gently resting on top of my head. Her fingers carefully navigate the bases of my horns, lightly smoothing down my fringe.

"Well, Lethe, you can go back to your dorm now," Amiya announces, her tone lifting with a bright, encouraging cadence. "Dr. Warfarin cleared you from your medical ward stay. You don't have to sleep in the quarantine box tonight."

My heart completely stalls for a fraction of a second before a massive, effervescent thrill of relief explodes in my chest. My dorm. My own bed. I won't have to listen to the indifferent, rhythmic beeping of the diagnostic monitors in the dark.

"Really?!"

"Yes," Amiya nods, pulling her hand back. But as she stands up from the plush cushions, the ambient flavor in the room shifts.

The sweet, comforting spun-sugar instantly solidifies. It hardens into a crisp, undeniable mantle of absolute, uncompromising authority. Amiya turns her back to me, her long ears snapping rigidly to attention as she faces the sprawling, paper-covered desk.

"But there's still lots of work that needs to be done, Doctor," Amiya states.

Her voice drops the gentle, friendly lilt entirely, echoing across the cavernous office with a strict, unyielding weight. Doctor, who had been completely silent the entire afternoon, visibly stiffens in his chair. He pauses his typing.

"We can't afford to have you resting," Amiya continues, stepping directly up to the edge of his desk. She places her hands firmly on the polished wood, leaning in just a fraction.

"I am here to relieve Lethe."

The heavy blast doors of the command office hiss shut behind me, completely severing the tense, administrative atmosphere and Amiya's strict CEO persona. I step out into the quiet, steel-lined corridor of the upper deck. I let out a long, contented exhale, adjusting the sleeves of my Rhodes Island jacket.

Before I can even take a dozen steps toward the elevators, a sharp, synthetic chime vibrates against my hip.

I pause, my tail swishing in curiosity, and reach into my crossbody bag to fish out my digital slate. A direct message banner drops down from the top edge.

Miss Adele.

I tap the notification, opening our secure channel.

[Eyjafjalla]: Since we are currently stationed near Leithanien, I think we can start with my homeland to rebuild your studies. Leithanien heavily relies on the academic study of Originium Arts, so it will be a perfect starting point for you to understand Arts theories again.

[Eyjafjalla]: Please read up on the War of the Four Nations, and the history of the Witch King. Then, when I am back from my excursion, we can review it together.

I stare at the glowing white text. The titles alone sound incredibly dark and intimidating. Even though my brain is a compromised, Originium-laced void, I am determined to fill the empty shelves with exactly what my tutor asked for. I quickly tap my thumbs against the glass screen.

[Lethe]: Thank you, Miss Adele! I will read every page. Good luck on your travels, and please stay safe!

The three pulsing grey dots appear almost instantly.

[Eyjafjalla]: Thank you. I will see you in a few days, Lethe.

I lower the device, but I don't slip it back into my bag just yet. Instead, I pull the cold aluminum chassis flush against my chest, hugging the slate securely over my white turtleneck. My eyes flutter shut.

Everyone on this landship is so incredibly kind. From Amiya pulling strings to keep me safe, to mom’s fierce protection, to Miss Adele taking the time to carefully rebuild my shattered education before she even steps off the landship. They are all so busy, yet they constantly stop to make sure I am walking safely.

I open my eyes, my chest swelling with a profound, aching fondness that threatens to prick tears at the corners of my eyes. I tap the screen once more, navigating back to my contacts to open the encrypted channel pinned right at the top of my list.

[Lethe]: Mom! I am officially off-duty from Doctor’s office. Can we meet in the cafeteria for dinner?

I hit send, a bright, genuine smile stretching across my face as I imagine her exhausted, honey-scented relief at the end of her long medical shifts. I know she will likely mandate a massive portion of steamed root vegetables to counteract whatever she suspects I ate in Doctor's office, but I don't even care.

I slide the slate safely back into my bag, the flap clicking shut.

I take a deep breath of the recycled air, my tail giving a confident, rhythmic thump, and begin my march toward the elevators. I am ready to face my future on this landship all over again.