July, 1098 — Mission

The velvet indigo of the night sky slowly bruises into a soft, hazy lavender as the sun finally begins to breach the sprawling horizon.

The morning wind of the plains still nips at my cheeks, but the crushing exhaustion that usually accompanies the dawn is entirely absent. With Miss Mousse and Miss Grani joining our roster, the grueling rotation of the night watch has been mercifully halved.

For the first time since we stepped off the landship, I actually feel properly rested.

I sit in my camping chair, my chin buried deep into the thick wool of my scarf.

I keep a vigilant eye on my highly distractible Feline companion, but thankfully, my protective oversight isn't strictly necessary this morning. Mint hasn't tried to wander off into the dark to accidentally plunge into an uncharted limestone fissure. Instead, she is safely curled up in her own chair just across the dying embers of the fire, her nose buried deep inside her journals.

The quiet, peaceful serenity of the dawn is broken by the sharp rasp of a tent zipper.

Miss Mousse steps out into the crisp morning air. She is already fully dressed for the day, bundled securely in her trench coat and vibrant red scarf. The moment she emerges, the chill of the campsite is instantaneously warmed by her emotional resonance.

She offers me a tiny, shy smile and an eager nod before marching directly toward our crates. She unpacks the portable stove and a cast-iron skillet. I rest my chin on my hands, watching with quiet fascination as her two tails sway in a gentle, happy, and perfectly synchronized rhythm behind her while she begins to prep the morning rations. As the savory sizzle of breakfast begins to fill the air, the rest of the camp slowly comes to life.

Just a few paces away, Miss Susie is already hard at work. Podenco is sitting cross- legged on a supply crate, her eyes half-closed and her ears drooping lazily as she completely surrenders to the Feline barber's expert hands. Miss Susie wields her brush with gentle, rhythmic strokes, meticulously untangling the sleep-mussed knots from the Perro botanist's light blonde hair and soft furs. The ambient air around them is a perfectly blended harmony; the sleepy, zesty yuzu and green tea of Podenco wrapped securely in Miss Susie’s cozy, toasted-sugar warmth.

The crunch of padded shoes against the frost-tipped grass draws my attention back to the center of the camp.

Miss Adele walks over to the fading campfire, the glowing screen of her slate casting a crisp blue light across her face. The comforting, dormant hearth fire of her presence flares with a concentrated, academic focus as she pulls up a chair right next to Mint.

"Mint, take a look at this," Miss Adele tilts the screen towards Mint. "If we are actively sweeping for Gaulish restorationist caches today, we need to narrow down their logistical footprint."

Mint immediately lowers her journal, and leans over the slate.

"We know they prefer subterranean camouflage," Miss Adele continues, tracing her finger across the screen. "Given the sheer weight and volume of the Kazdelian armaments we found, they cannot be transporting them over the open plains without leaving massive tracks. They have to be utilizing natural, interconnected blind spots."

"Oh! I see what you mean, Miss Eyjafjalla!" Mint gasps, her tail giving an excited flick.

She taps a specific region on the screen. "Look at the limestone dissolution patterns right here along this ridge! The soil composition in this sector heavily indicates a collapsed subterranean watershed. It would create a massive, naturally formed tunnel system completely invisible from the surface!"

"Exactly," Miss Adele nods, a proud smile touching her lips. "If you were a rebel cell trying to hide heavy military contraband from Victorian patrols, a dry, reinforced watershed would be the absolute perfect staging ground."

Breakfast is a wonderfully swift and satisfying affair. With our stomachs completely full of Miss Mousse’s perfectly cooked platter, the morning chill is entirely banished. We pack away the tents, fold the collapsible chairs, and extinguish the campfire, ensuring we leave no trace behind in the clearing.

We drag our gears toward the two rugged all-terrain vehicles parked in the shadows of the trees.

Miss Grani gives her weapon an effortless, confident twirl before securing it to the side mount of the lead vehicle. She hops directly into the driver’s seat, her hair fluttering beneath her tactical cap.

"Okay, I am driving!" Miss Grani announces cheerfully, giving the steering wheel an eager pat. "Mount up!"

Miss Adele steps forward, her slate already glowing with the topographical maps of County Ascarat. "Okay, I will navigate for Grani," she offers smoothly. She climbs into the front passenger seat. Behind her, Podenco and Miss Mousse quickly pile into the back row, securing their gear.

"I got the second one," Miss Susie chimes in. She jogs over to the second ATV, her fluffy hair bouncing as she slides into the driver's seat.

"I got it for Miss Susie!" Mint declares enthusiastically. She scrambles into the passenger seat right beside the barber.

I climb up into the armored chassis, sliding across the reinforced upholstery to make room. Lisa hops in right after me, and pulls the heavy-duty seatbelt across her lap. I securely balance my Arts Unit between my knees and grab my own buckle, the satisfying click echoing in the cabin.

Up front, Miss Susie reaches for the ignition. She stares at the intimidating array of buttons, levers, and dials decorating the ATV's dashboard. The cozy, toasted-sugar flavor of her emotional resonance suddenly wavers, spiking with a faint, hesitant crackle of pink static.

"Okay… how do I start this again?" Miss Susie murmurs to herself, her hands hovering nervously over the controls.

In the passenger seat, the crisp, sweet mint flavor of Mint's presence immediately sours with a sudden spike of apprehension.

"Uhm… Miss Susie?" Mint asks.

"I got this!" Miss Susie declares bravely.

She reaches out, twists the ignition, and slams her foot down.

The heavy, armored ATV doesn't just start; it violently erupts. The engine roars with a deafening, terrifying mechanical shriek. The massive tires bite aggressively into the dirt, entirely obliterating the serene morning quiet as the vehicle lunges forward like a fired artillery shell.

"Wahhh!" I scream.

The sheer, instantaneous kinetic force slams me violently backward. My spine is pinned entirely flat against the chair, my hands gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit in a panicked death grip. Beside me, Lisa lets out a terrified yelp, her nine tails instantly puffing up into a massive, rigid ball of pure shock.

VROOOM!

We blast completely out of the tree line in a blur of chassis and flying dirt. We rocket right past the lead ATV, entirely blowing past Miss Grani’s window in a chaotic, screaming streak of pink static electricity and airborne mud. I barely catch a glimpse of the Kuranta Vanguard's bewildered, wide-eyed stare before she completely disappears in our dust cloud.

"Ahhhhh! The brake! Where is the brake?!" Miss Susie shrieks.

"You're pressing the accelerator! Let go of the accelerator!" Mint screams, her composure entirely shattered as she drops her books and wildly grabs the dashboard for dear life.

We careen across the open Victorian plains, bouncing violently over the rolling, untamed grass. Every single bump in the terrain launches us out of our seats, only to be slammed back down by the seatbelts.

"Miss Susie!" I yell, my hair whipping wildly in the wind as I squeeze my eyes shut.

The chaotic, bone-rattling ride feels like it stretches on for an absolute eternity. The Victorian plains blur into a frantic, smeared canvas of green and grey as we rocket over the untamed grass. The heavy armored chassis groaning under the sheer abuse of Miss Susie’s panicked lead foot.

I squeeze my eyes completely shut as I grip the black shaft of my Arts Unit like a physical lifeline. I am entirely convinced that this is how my story ends.

"Someone tell mom that my plushies can be given to the orphans onboard," I declare loudly over the roaring engine, my voice trembling with absolute resignation. "She can keep the shark one… if she wants…"

Up front, the sheer terror radiating from our Feline driver reaches a critical, unsustainable threshold. The overwhelming scent of scorched ozone and burnt sugar entirely floods the cabin.

"Noooo!" Miss Susie shrieks again, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles shake.

Suddenly, a massive, brilliant spark of raw, pink static electricity violently arcs off her trembling fingertips. It shoots straight into the ATV's steering column with a sharp, deafening crack.

The dashboard violently flashes. The digital displays flicker wildly for a microscopic fraction of a second before the entire console shorts out. The roaring engine gives a pathetic, mechanical whine and instantly dies.

The vehicle abruptly loses all momentum. We skid hard against the dirt, the ATV lurching forward one last time before coming to a complete, dead halt in the middle of the empty plains.

A massive cloud of dust catches up to us, completely washing over the windshield.

Inside the cabin, it is utterly, terrifyingly silent.

The four of us just sit there, perfectly frozen in our seats. I slowly open one eye, and then the other. I am still alive. My Arts Unit is still in one piece.

A collective, massive shuddering breath echoes through the small space. I let out a long exhale, my spine melting into the chair as my racing heart tries to hammer its way out of my ribcage. Beside me, Lisa’s tails slowly begin to deflate from their rigid, puffed-up state, sagging exhaustedly.

In the driver's seat, Miss Susie sits completely still. Her hair is standing on end, crackling with tiny, residual pops of static electricity. She slowly lowers her hands from the steering wheel.

"I…" Miss Susie stammers, her voice pitching up into a breathy, incredibly fragile squeak. She turns her head slightly to look back at us, offering a highly strained smile.

"…I got this… see?"

A soft rustle of fabric sounds beside me. Lisa slowly unbuckles her seatbelt. The brilliant, pure spun-sugar sweetness of her emotional resonance pushes back the lingering scent of ozone. She leans forward, peering over the back of the driver’s seat.

"Miss Susie," Lisa says, her voice a gentle, soothing chime. She points a finger down toward the floorboards. "That rectangular one on the right is the accelerator. And the wide, square one in the middle… that is the brake."

"Right… right, the brake is in the middle," Miss Susie repeats weakly, burying her face into her hands. "I am so sorry…"

On the other side of the cabin, the sharp click of a glove compartment popping open breaks the tension.

Mint, having entirely abandoned her initial panic. She pulls out a thick, plastic-wrapped Rhodes Island ATV operation manual.

"Okay, let's see here," Mint mutters, flipping frantically through the pages until she lands on the dashboard schematics. The crisp, focused flavor of fresh parchment and mint leaves begins to bloom in the air again. "If the primary ignition is stalled due to a circuit overload… we just need to hit the manual breaker reset. It should be the yellow button right next to the climate controls…"

Mint leans over the center console, carefully inspecting the array of buttons against the diagram in the manual.

I slump fully back into my seat, letting my head hit the headrest. I look out the passenger window, watching the dust cloud slowly settle over the pristine, untouched grass. Somewhere far behind us, Miss Grani and the others are probably racing to catch up to our unintentional, high-speed scouting maneuver.

I let out another long sigh.

Click.

Mint’s finger presses firmly against the yellow button on the center console. The dark, shorted-out dashboard immediately flickers back to life, illuminating the cabin with a calm, steady light.

The engine gives a rough, mechanical cough, sputters for a tense second, and then finally settles into a low, rhythmic purr that doesn’t sound like a roaring, enraged beast.

"See? Just basic circuit maintenance!" Mint cheers, her tail giving a victorious swish.

Before anyone can even offer a sigh of relief, the heavy crunch of thick tires against the dry grass echoes outside.

I turn my head and look out the passenger window. Emerging from the massive, lingering dust cloud we had kicked up is the lead ATV. It rolls to a smooth, highly controlled halt directly alongside our vehicle. The driver's side window slides down with a mechanical hum.

Miss Grani is staring at us.

Her long Kuranta ears are standing rigidly straight up, twitching erratically. The blinding, fearless flavor that constantly radiates from the Vanguard is completely scrambled. It is heavily spiked with sheer bewilderment.

Behind her, Miss Adele leans forward slightly so she is visible from the passenger seat. She offers us a weak, highly amused, and perfectly patient smile.

In the back seats, Miss Mousse is pressing her hands against the glass, her tails puffed up into thick bristles. Beside her, Podenco looks genuinely worried.

"You all okay?" Miss Grani asks, her voice entirely stripped of its usual bouncy, confident cadence.

In our driver's seat, Miss Susie stiffens. She immediately snaps her hands back onto the steering wheel, gripping the handle at a flawless position.

"Yes… Yes," Miss Susie stammers, but she forces a brave, highly strained smile onto her face. "The car is still working. I know which one is the brake, and which one is the accelerator now."

To absolutely cement our newly acquired vehicular competence, Mint pops up slightly from the passenger seat. She proudly waves the thick, plastic-wrapped Rhodes Island ATV operation manual right in front of the window for the other group to see.

"And I have the manual!" Mint declares, her voice ringing with absolute triumph.

Miss Grani blinks. She looks at the manual, then at Miss Susie’s rigid, terrified posture, and finally shifts her focus to the back seat, where Lisa and I are sitting perfectly, now fully buckled again.

Miss Grani lets out a slow, deliberate exhale. She reaches up, adjusting the brim of her tactical cap with a hesitant, lopsided grin.

"Uh… okay, then," Miss Grani says, her tone deeply careful. She gives her steering wheel a light pat. "Just… follow my lead. Slowly."

The rest of the drive across the Victorian plains is "smoothish," thank Terra.

"Smoothish" entirely means that Miss Susie keeps the ATV locked at a painstakingly cautious crawl for the remainder of the journey, her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

We eventually roll to a halt near the base of a rocky ridge, parking the vehicles side-by- side. The engines cut off, and the quiet, rushing wind of the open plains rushes back in to fill the silence.

We dismount. The absolute second my sneakers hit the solid, unmoving dirt, I let out a massive, shuddering exhale of pure relief.

A few paces away, Miss Adele and Mint immediately get to work. The two researchers walk along the edge of the rock formation, their eyes scanning the patterns and checking the geological readouts on their slates to pinpoint the hidden entrance.

Behind them, Miss Susie is leaning against the armored chassis of the ATV, frantically running her small, sturdy comb through her hair. She is desperately trying to smooth down the fluffy strands that are still stubbornly defying gravity from her Arts misfire.

Beside me, Lisa adjusts the strap of her bag.

"That was fun, right?" Lisa asks, looking at me with a bright, entirely genuine smile.

I stare at my best friend. I think of the absolute certainty that my plushie collection was about to be orphaned. My tail hangs completely limp.

"That’s… that’s one way to put it, Lisa," I reply.

Before Lisa can defend the extreme nature of our morning commute, a voice calls out from the rocks.

"Here!" Mint waves frantically from afar, her other hand pointing directly at a seemingly solid, unremarkable wall of grey stone. "Entrance! It is camouflaged!"

Miss Grani instantly hops down from the lead vehicle, unlatching her polearm with a sharp clank. She takes the front, her fearless ginger beer and cool autumn breeze energy leading the charge. We all quickly gather our gear and follow her toward the rock face.

As we approach the spot Mint indicated, my empathic Arts brush against the ambient air. It feels… damp. It is a primal, sluggish, and incredibly wet resonance that barely registers as conscious thought.

Then, my ears catch it.

Squelch. Squelch. Schhhhk.

It is a thick, highly unpleasant, wet sound coming from directly behind the solid stone illusion. It sounds like something massive and gelatinous dragging itself across wet rocks.

"Wait," I whisper, my hands instinctively gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit. "I hear squelching sounds…"

Before I can warn them to brace for the absolute worst, Miss Grani steps right up to the illusion. She confidently raises her polearm and breaks the Arts camouflage.

The illusion shatters with a sharp, resonant crack, dissolving seamlessly into the chiling Victorian air.

The hidden entrance of the limestone fissure is revealed, but my absolute worst nightmare is waiting for us just on the other side.

Clustered together in the damp mouth of the subterranean cave is a group of what I can only describe as the absolute worst horror in Terra. They are massive, gelatinous slugs. Their bodies are made of a thick, dark olive-green slime that leaves a highly unpleasant, wet trail against the stone. But the most terrifying part isn't the slime; jutting aggressively out of their backs are massive, jagged clusters of vibrant green, blood-red, and opaque, pitch-black crystals. A sickly, glowing green spot illuminates the sides of their heads as their antennae twitch blindly toward us.

They look like crawling, mutated jewelry boxes made entirely of toxic sludge.

I don't hesitate. I instantly dive directly behind Lisa, gripping the fabric of her jacket and using her as a physical, fluffy shield.

"What are those!" I shriek, my voice echoing frantically against the limestone walls. I point a trembling finger over Lisa's shoulder. "Miss Adele! Please burn them! Drop the volcano on this cave right now!"

To my absolute horror, the my tutor doesn't immediately summon a roaring pillar of cleansing magma. Miss Adele simply stands there, resting her hands comfortably on her Arts Unit. Beside her, Miss Susie is equally unbothered, her cozy presence completely devoid of any sparking static. They just look at the squelching, crystalline monsters with mild, detached observation as Miss Susie fixes her hair.

Podenco and Mint, on the other hand, react completely differently.

"Look at those mineral growths!" Mint declares. She practically bounces on her heels, leaning dangerously close to the squelching horrors. "The crystalline refraction is incredible!"

"Are they like that because they have been snacking on the exposed weapon-grade Originium?!" Podenco asks. She is entirely captivated by the massive red and green shards protruding from the slugs' backs. "The local soil composition couldn't possibly support that kind of rapid crystalline mutation on its own!"

"Be careful, girls," Miss Adele warns gently. "Their crystalline structures might be highly volatile if agitated."

Before I can beg them to step away from the giant slime monsters, Miss Grani takes charge.

The fearless Kuranta doesn't even blink. She casually marches straight into the infested cavern. She doesn't use the bladed edge of her weapon; instead, she expertly wields the blunt shaft, gently but firmly sweeping the massive, mutated slugs out of her path like she is clearing delivery bots from the hallways.

"Sorry, little guys!" Miss Grani chirps cheerfully, her bouncy tone echoing in the dark.

"Rhodes Island coming through! We need to access the crates!"

Right behind her, Miss Mousse follows suit. The Guard trembles slightly, the sweet, whipped-cream flavor of her presence bubbling with a frantic, highly apologetic panic.

She raises her heavy, oversized protective gloves, her claws scratching wildly at the remaining slugs that squelch too close to the path.

"Sorry! I am so sorry!" Miss Mousse squeaks, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she bats a particularly large, green-crystal slug away from a metal container. "Hopefully it doesn’t hurt much! Please just stay away!"

I stay securely anchored behind Lisa's fluffy tails, watching in absolute, paralyzed bewilderment as our strike team apologizes profusely to the horrifying slime monsters while dismantling a rebel supply cache.

I squeeze my eyes completely shut, pressing my forehead firmly against the back of Lisa.

"I refuse to look anymore," I declare, my voice muffled against the fabric as I stubbornly anchor myself behind her tails. "Lisa, tell me when it is clear."

"Okay!" Lisa replies brightly.

With my vision voluntarily entirely plunged into darkness, I am forced to rely completely on my hearing and the passive empathic brush of my Arts.

From deep within the damp, squelching cavern, the sharp screech of tearing metal echoes off the limestone walls.

"Well, the crates got breached by the slug," Miss Grani’s voice rings out. "There’s only a few left."

A few sharp, synthetic clicking sounds echo from the dark.

Click. Click. Click.

I listen as Miss Grani uses her communicator to meticulously photograph the Kazdelian armaments.

"Alright! Evidence collected," Miss Grani announces. "Time for disposal."

What follows is an absolute symphony of pure structural violence.

The deafening, concussive smash of Miss Grani's massive polearm impacts heavy iron. The cavern rings with the brutal sounds of metal shattering, wood splintering, and heavy crates being crushed into absolute oblivion. Beneath the heavy impacts, I can hear the frantic, wet squelching of the Originium slugs desperately fleeing the sudden noise and destruction, retreating deeper into the subterranean watershed.

I flinch with every loud crash, my hands gripping my Arts Unit tightly, but I stubbornly keep my eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually, the clatter settles. The heavy, echoing destruction fades, replaced by the quiet, rushing wind of the plains outside the cave.

Then, the ambient air right beside me shifts. A blindingly bright, refreshing wave of sparkling ginger beer, sun-warmed grass, and the sharp bite of a cool autumn breeze washes completely over me.

I can feel Miss Grani’s fearless emotional resonance right beside me again.

I slowly open one eye, peering cautiously around Lisa's shoulder. Miss Grani’s is standing there, her polearm resting casually on her shoulder. She flashes a massive, triumphant grin.

"Crime stopped!" Miss Grani declares proudly.

"You can open your eyes now, Lethe," Lisa says softly.

I take a slow, hesitant breath. I slowly peel my eyes open, peeking cautiously around the protective barrier of her tails.

Standing just a few paces away in the damp dirt is Podenco. I frantically scan the ground around her shoes, my heart doing a nervous flutter, but to my absolute, monumental relief, there is not a single mutated, squelching slime monster in sight.

Miss Grani and Miss Mousse had cleared the area completely.

Podenco lets out a long sigh, her ears drooping dramatically against her light blonde hair.

"Too bad, Lethe," Podenco shakes her head, gesturing vaguely with an empty glass containment units. "They are just way too big to capture. They wouldn't even fit in the logistics crates."

I stare at her, my jaw dropping completely open in sheer disbelief. I tighten my grip on my Arts Unit, my tail snapping into a rigid, defensive coil against Lisa’s leg.

"What do you mean, too big?! Podenco, they were all bigger than us! They are like half the size of our ATVs! They aren't botanical samples, they are monsters!"

"But they are fascinating monsters!"

Mint abruptly pops out from behind Podenco, practically vibrating with uncontained thrill. She holds up her communicator, tapping the screen eagerly.

"The crystals on their backs can actually light up in the dark, Lethe!" Mint claims excitedly, completely ignoring my absolute horror. "The bioluminescence is directly tied to the Originium density! I took a lot of pictures!"

She shoves the glowing screen directly into my face, proudly displaying a high- resolution, perfectly focused image of a massive, slimy, olive-green slug glowing with light.

I immediately squeeze my eyes shut again, letting out a muffled, tragic groan as I stubbornly bury my face right back into the safety of Lisa's jacket.

"You just need to do more field missions, Lethe!" Miss Grani declares.

She flashes me a massive, highly confident grin. "You will get used to the wildlife out here in no time!"

I peek out from behind Lisa's tails, my eyes narrowing into a flat, entirely unamused stare.

"I'd rather not," I reply deadpan, my voice dripping with absolute, unwavering refusal.

Before Miss Grani can attempt to sell me on the tactical merits of embracing giant slime monsters, a soft, timid voice interrupts.

"Well… it is lunchtime now…" Miss Mousse asks, her voice a gentle, hesitant whisper over the wind of the plains. She nervously rubs her gloves together. "We should eat?"

"Okay, let’s find a clearing to camp," Miss Susie agrees immediately, her ears twitching.

"Away from the cave."

"Let's," Miss Adele replies softly, her dormant hearth-fire aura returning to its calm, academic baseline. She turns away from the shattered illusion, her slate securely tucked into her satchel.

We quickly gather our gear and make our way back to where the two armored Rhodes Island ATVs are parked in the grass. As we approach the vehicles, a sudden, heavy tension descends upon our half of the strike team.

Miss Susie reaches for the driver's side door of our ATV.

My tail snaps rigid. Beside me, Mint's crisp, sweet mint leaf flavor violently spikes with a frantic burst of pure apprehension. Even Lisa's bright, crystallised sugar sweetness pulls taut, her nine tails puffing up just a fraction.

Miss Mousse suddenly steps forward, placing her thick glove gently on the door handle before Miss Susie can open it.

"I… I should be driving…" Miss Mousse says, her voice trembling slightly, but carrying a surprisingly firm, desperate resolve.

Miss Susie blinks, her hand hovering in the air. A faint, sheepish flush warms her cheeks, and a tiny pop of static arcs harmlessly off her hair. She quickly steps back, offering the Feline Guard an apologetic smile. "Right. That… that is probably for the best."

I let out a massive exhale, my entire spine melting in sheer, monumental relief.

The drive across the plains for the next two days is wonderfully, blissfully uneventful.

With Miss Mousse behind the wheel, the armored ATV doesn't roar or violently careen over the untamed grass. She drives with the exact same meticulous, gentle care she uses to bake her incredibly delicate crepe cakes. The vehicle glides smoothly over the rolling green hills, keeping a perfect, safe distance behind Miss Grani's lead ATV.

For next few days, we fall into a peaceful, highly coordinated rhythm. The skies remain overcast, but the air is crisp and clean, entirely free of the suffocating, bruised-purple atmospheric pressure of a Catastrophe.

During the drives, I actually get to look out the window and enjoy the sprawling, pastoral beauty of the Victorian countryside. Lisa sits beside me, her tails swaying in a happy, relaxed rhythm, though she still keeps a vigilant eye on the distant ridges.

Podenco happily catalogs the flora whizzing by the glass and shares her love of botany whenever we stops, and Mint spends hours comparing her topographical notes with Miss Adele over the comms. At night, our camps are warm and filled with the mouth- watering aroma of Miss Mousse's perfect baking.

Our primary mission, however, continues.

Following Miss Adele and Mint's geological mapping of the subterranean caverns, we stop to check a few more potential camouflage spots.

Most of them are completely empty. They are just regular, damp caves filled with normal rocks, which Mint happily documents while I wait safely outside in the sunlight.

But on one of the afternoon, we find one more active cache.

The moment Miss Grani shatters the Arts illusion covering the rocky fissure, the sharp, metallic stench of Kazdelian iron bleeds out into the plains.

I don't even step close to the entrance. I retreat entirely to the safety of the ATVs, sitting on the armored hood with my hands clamped firmly over my ears. Deep inside the cave, the deafening, concussive smash of Miss Grani's polearm echoes out, followed by the heavy, brutal sounds of metal shattering and crates being crushed into absolute oblivion.

I just squeeze my eyes shut, focusing entirely on the quiet, steady hum of the liquid swirling within the halos of my Arts Unit, waiting patiently for the fearless Kuranta to finish stopping the crime.

With that, our time on the plains is coming to a close.

It is the 24th already.

I push myself up from the collapsible chair, raising my arms high above my head, and let out a massive stretch. My joints pop softly in protest against the lingering damp chill of the Victorian plains. Beside me, Mint finally closes her journal with a satisfying thud.

This is it. Our final morning shift. The quiet, freezing rotation of the night watch is officially coming to an end.

The sharp rasp of a zipper cuts through the serene dawn. The canvas flaps of the neighboring tent part, and Miss Adele and Miss Susie step out into the crisp, frost- tipped grass.

Miss Susie raises her hands, letting out a tiny, melodic yawn that echoes softly in the quiet camp.

"Good morning, Miss Susie, Miss Adele," I call out, my voice forming a tiny cloud of mist in the cold air.

"Good morning, Lethe and Mint," Miss Adele replies.

Another zipper sounds. Miss Mousse steps out from her own tent. She adjusts her gloves, her tails swaying in a gentle, sleepy rhythm behind her.

"Good morning, everyone…" Miss Mousse waves timidly, her voice a soft, polite whisper. The sweet, inviting aroma of baked bread and whipped cream bubbles into the ambient air, laced with a familiar, shy flutter of powdered sugar. She immediately turns her steps toward our portable stove, entirely ready to start prepping our morning rations.

But before the peaceful, sleepy serenity of the dawn can fully settle, a bright, booming voice entirely shatters the quiet.

"Good morning, team!"

Miss Grani bounds into the center of the campsite, practically vibrating with absolute, uncontainable morning energy.

Her eyes sparkling with absolute dedication to justice. "Ready to hit the last two spots?" I blink, entirely overwhelmed by the Vanguard's boundless enthusiasm before the sun has even fully crested the hills. But a surge of profound, undeniable relief warms my chest. Just two more potential sites to sweep, and then we are finally done hunting for Kazdelian contrabands.

"Ready!" I declare.

Miss Mousse works her culinary magic in the field one last time. The portable camping stove hisses quietly, and the crisp, frosty morning air of the plains is instantly completely overwhelmed by the rich, heavenly aroma of melting butter and caramelized sugar.

I sit in my folding chair, my hands gripping the black shaft of my Arts Unit, completely entranced by the sizzling cast-iron skillet. With a gentle flip of Miss Mousse’s spatula, she plates her final camp breakfast for us.

It is pan-fried toast, but elevated to an absolute art form. The thick slices of bread have been soaked perfectly in a rich egg batter until golden-brown and slightly crisped on the edges. They are dusted with a pristine, snow-like layer of powdered sugar and drizzled with a warm, amber syrup that pools beautifully on the paper plates.

"This is so good, Miss Mousse," Lisa says. She takes a bite, her eyes closing in sheer delight. The blindingly pure, crystallized sugar sweetness of her emotional resonance blooms warmly into the cold morning air, wrapping the campsite in absolute comfort.

I don't even have the words to speak. I simply nod in vigorous, frantic agreement, my cheeks puffed out as I happily chew. The soft, pillowy center of the bread melts perfectly on my tongue, the sweet syrup completely chasing away the lingering, damp chill of the plains.

Miss Mousse flinches slightly at the praise, a rosy flush warming her cheeks.

"Eh heh," Miss Mousse says. "Thank you… I am glad."

Once our plates are scraped entirely clean, we fall into our practiced, highly coordinated routine. We pack away the tents, collapse the portable stove, and load the logistics crates securely into the back of the ATVs.

With my bag strapped over my shoulder, I pause near the armored chassis of our vehicle. I hold my staff against my chest. I look out over the sprawling, untamed grass and the rocky ridges of the Victorian horizon.

We had survived a Catastrophe, uncovered a hidden Gaulish rebel cache, escaped a terrifying musical Arts slaughter, and avoided giant, glowing slime monsters.

"It has been fun, Ascarat," I murmur into my woolen scarf. I let out a long, wistful sigh.

"But I really miss my plushies, and mom."

A few paces away, Podenco suddenly stops securing a terrarium. She tilts her head, fixing me with a deeply mischievous smirk.

"Plushies, then mom?" Podenco asks, she lets out a sigh. "Miss Erika is going to be so sad when she hears that she ranks second to your stuffed animals."

I freeze. The blood completely drains from my face before rushing back in a hot, panicked flush that burns all the way up to the tips of my lopsided horns.

"What? No!" I gasp. I wave my free hand frantically in the air to dispel the terrible accusation. "I love her with everything I have!"

A soft rustle of fabric sounds beside me. Lisa steps up to the ATV, her tails fanning out in a playful, happy rhythm. She covers her mouth, her eyes sparkling with absolute, undeniable mischief.

"Awww…" Lisa chimes in, her voice dropping into a perfectly tragic pout. "Lethe doesn’t love us, then?"

I stare at my two best friends. There is absolutely no tactical retreat from this combined emotional ambush.

"You guys are just digging a hole for me!" I yelp, puffing my cheeks out as I glare at the highly unrepentant Perro and the giggling Vulpo. I turn on my heel, marching directly toward the passenger door of the ATV with as much dignity as I can possibly muster. "I refuse to engage anymore!"

A bright, overlapping chorus of laughter erupts across the morning camp, entirely lifting the last of the shadows from my shoulders as I climb into the armored cabin, absolutely ready to go home.

The first location on Miss Adele’s pinpointed turns out to be a dud.

We had spent over an hour meticulously surveying a cluster of rocks, only for Mint and Miss Adele to conclude that it was simply a natural sinkhole completely devoid of any hidden Gallic rebel supplies.

We climb back into our vehicles and press on across the untamed plains. By noon, the our ATVs roll to a quiet, controlled halt near the final coordinates.

We carefully dismount. The overcast sky hangs heavily over the sprawling grassy hills, the wind carrying a slight chill. Miss Grani leads our strike team toward a massive, imposing ridge of grey stone.

But before we can even reach the shadow of the rocks, Podenco suddenly stops, her eyes narrowing in intense concentration.

"Everyone," Podenco whispers, raising a hand to signal a dead stop. "There's voices."

We all completely pause in the tall grass. Miss Grani instantly lowers her polearm into a ready stance, while Lisa steps closer to my side. Miss Mousse nervously adjusts her gloves.

I let my empathic channels brush past the artificial data swirling within the halos. I push my Arts forward, letting them seep into the damp, ambient air surrounding the hidden cave entrance.

The emotional resonance hits the back of my tongue, and it is absolutely devastating.

It tastes like chewing on cold, rusted iron and swallowing wet, rotting ash. It is a heavy, suffocating vacuum of pure hopelessness. It is entirely stripped of the scorching, fermented zealotry and adrenaline I had tasted in the rebels back in that first cavern.

"I taste them," I whisper. "They are completely desperate…”

We move forward, our shoes stepping meticulously over the grass to avoid making a single sound. As we slowly approach the camouflaged entrance, the muffled, echoing voices from deep within the subterranean cavern become agonizingly clear.

"This is the last cache," a woman’s voice rings out. It is thick with exhaustion and a ragged, hollow despair. "The others… they're completely empty. Smashed to pieces."

A heavy, echoing silence follows her words, before a man's voice breaks the gloom.

"Did the Duke's forces find them?" he asks, his tone trembling with a brittle, fraying panic. "Are the patrols sweeping the county?"

"It could be…" the woman replies, her voice fracturing into a suppressed sob. "Viktor and Lucas never came back…"

The names drop into the chilling air like an executioner's blade.

Beside me, Mint violently gasps.

The crisp, sweet mint leaf and parchment flavor of the Feline researcher's presence spikes with a sudden, electrifying jolt of pure horror. Her eyes blow completely wide, and she frantically slaps both of her hands over her mouth, desperately suffocating the gasp before it can echo into the cave and blow our cover.

Before the suffocating, heavy dread of the cavern can completely paralyze us, Miss Grani takes absolute charge.

The fearless Kuranta doesn't even hesitate. The blinding, refreshing wave of sparkling ginger beer and cool autumn breeze radiating from her effortlessly pierces through the rotting ash of the rebels' despair. She steps right out of the tall grass, marching directly into the damp, shadowed entrance of the subterranean cavern.

"Stand down, citizens!" Miss Grani's voice rings out, bright, commanding, and echoing with absolute authority against the cave walls. She rests the bottom tip of her polearm smoothly on the ground, pointing her free hand toward the stunned figures. "I am Mounted Police Officer Grani! We are officially confiscating and neutralizing these illegal contrabands! Please step aside and do not resist!"

We quickly file into the dim cavern right behind her, fanning out into a cautious perimeter.

I keep myself slightly tucked behind Lisa. I peek around my Vulpo friend, my eyes adjusting to the gloomy light.

There are three of them huddled near the towering stacks of reinforced crates. Two Felines; male and a female, and a tall Vouivre male.

They are completely unarmed.

They just look incredibly small, wearing soot-stained, ragged winter cloaks, their shoulders slumped with an exhausting, bone-deep fatigue.

The three rebels stare at us in absolute, paralyzed shock. Their eyes dart from the polearm of Miss Grani's to the Arts Units in our hands. Then, their gaze sweeps past Miss Adele and Miss Susie, landing squarely on me.

Or more accurately, on my clothes.

Their eyes lock onto the oversized, dark grey jacket draped over my shoulders with RHODES ISLAND printed proudly.

The heavy, suffocating taste of cold iron and rotting ash in the ambient air violently shifts. It curdles, souring into a sharp, acidic bite of pure betrayal and bitter resentment that taste like unripe bananas dosed with lemon juice.

"Rhodes Island?" the Feline woman breathes out.

The Vouivre male steps forward, placing himself protectively in front of the two Felines. His hands clench into tight, shaking fists at his sides as he glares at us, the bitter resentment bleeding off him like a physical wave.

"Why?" the Vouivre spits out, his voice thick with a desperate, ragged anger. "Why is a pharmaceutical company acting as the Duke’s lapdog?"

Miss Grani doesn't flinch at the venom in his voice. She tightens her grip on her polearm, though she keeps the blade pointed away from them.

"The weapons behind you," Miss Grani declares, her voice cutting clearly through the air. "They are from the Military Commission of Kazdel. They are illegally imported, and we are here to destroy them."

I cannot stay hidden behind Lisa's anymore.

"Please. Listen to us," I beg, my voice trembling but echoing loudly in the subterranean space. "They don’t care about Gaul. They don’t care who wins. The Military Commission is just sowing seeds of war to create more mercenary contracts for themselves! Stop this before you lose your lives! I beg you!"

The Vouivre man's eyes snap toward me. The ambient flavor bleeding off him violently curdles. The rotting ash of his despair violently combusts into a blinding, scorching hatred that tastes exactly like boiling copper and battery acid. He stares directly at the horns on my head and the tail behind my skirt.

"Quite the words coming from a devil herself," the Vouivre spits out. "You think we don’t know they are from your kind?”

The absolute, terrifying truth of his words hits me like a physical blow. They knew. They knew exactly who was funding their slaughter.

Beside me, the crisp, sweet mint leaf flavor of Mint's emotional resonance completely stutters in sheer, academic shock. She clutches her journal to her chest, her eyes wide.

"Then… why?" Mint asks, her voice  a frantic, bewildered whisper. "If you know they are just using you… why would you take them?"

The Vouivre lets out a harsh, jagged laugh that contains absolutely no humor. It is a broken, hollow sound that rattles against the limestone walls.

"You think the Victorian aristocracy cares about any of us?!" he roars, the sheer force of his rage echoing deafeningly. He points a trembling, soot-stained finger toward the cave exit, toward the sprawling plains. "Did you see what happened to Porte-Léon?!

They say it was a tragedy! But how could they not see it coming? Victoria claims they have the absolute best Catastrophe Messengers in the world!"

"They didn't miss it…" the Feline man behind him adds. His ears are pinned completely flat, his voice a hollow, defeated rasp that tastes like cracked, dry earth. "They just don't care. They just need bodies. Bodies for their factories, and bodies for their wars…"

They are not fighting because they think they can win.

Miss Susie steps forward, her hands raised in a desperate, pleading gesture. The cozy, toasted-sugar warmth of her presence is tight with an agonizing, empathetic sorrow.

"Please…" Miss Susie pleads, her voice shaking as she looks at the three unarmed rebels. "Those weapons… they have exposed, raw Originium woven directly into the iron. Even if you don't fight, just carrying them will only spread Oripathy to everyone in your camps, your families…"

The Vouivre man doesn't even blink. He stands tall.

"If Kazdel, if the devils are willing to give us weapons to burn the Victorians," the Vouivre declares, his voice a chilling, absolute vow in the dark, "I will gladly take them!"

The heavy, suffocating silence of the cavern presses down on us, thick with the rotting, bitter taste of absolute despair.

"This is our last cache…" the Feline woman adds. Her voice is barely a whisper, fracturing into a hollow, defeated rasp that echoes against the wet stone. She slumps forward, her eyes entirely vacant. "Without this, our rebellion is already dead… we are already dead…"

The Feline man standing beside her suddenly moves. He doesn't raise his hands to fight, but he steps directly in front of the towering stack of crates, physically shielding the Kazdelian armaments with his own frail, soot-stained body.

"If you want to destroy the cache, you have to go through us with them!" the Feline man shouts, his voice cracking with a desperate, ragged defiance. His eyes burn with a furious, accusatory glare that locks directly onto our uniforms. "You already killed Lucas and Viktor! What’s three more bodies, right? The contract money must have been nice!" The words hit me with the kinetic force of a high-speed projectile.

Contract money? We had left that cave covered in their blood, weeping for people who had just tried to kill us.

"What? No!" I gasp, the sheer, horrified desperation tearing the denial from my throat. I take a frantic step forward. "We didn’t kill anyone!"

Besides me, Miss Adele steps slightly ahead of our perimeter. The comforting, dormant hearth fire of her presence banks low, completely smothered by a heavy, suffocating wave of volcanic ash and profound sorrow.

"Viktor… accidentally killed Lucas when we told him the truth…" Miss Adele says. Her voice retains its gentle melody, but it is weighed down by an agonizing, unyielding truth. She looks at the three rebels, her eyes reflecting the dim light. "Then the Victorian patrol arrived after we left…"

The Feline woman closes her eyes. A shuddering breath escapes her lips.

"He is always the unstable one…" the Feline woman murmurs, her voice breaking into a quiet, devastated sob. But then, she opens her eyes. The profound, rotting grief in the ambient air suddenly sharpens into a piercing, condemning blade of pure betrayal. She looks right at me, staring directly at the Rhodes Island Medic symbol on my thigh.

"And you just handed him to the Empire?" she demands, her voice trembling with an agonizing fury. "Are you truly any better? Your company claims to try to heal Oripathy, to provide humanitarian relief. Then, what is this?"

She gestures wildly toward the crates behind her, and then to her own shivering frame.

"Do our lives don’t matter?!"

The question echoes violently against the damp limestone walls, ringing in my ears like a physical strike.

It completely paralyzes me. I stare at her, my mouth opening and closing silently. I want to tell her about the apocalyptic Catastrophe storm, about the brutal realities of our extraction, and about how I had desperately thrown my own mind into Viktor's freezing, psychotic abyss to keep his shattered sanity from completely flatlining. I want to scream that we do care, that my friends had stained their hands with Lucas's blood trying to save him.

But the words completely fail me. Standing in the cold dark, looking at three unarmed, desperate people. I have no counter.

Miss Grani lifts the dark-grey weapon and drives the blunt base firmly into the damp cavern dirt.

The resounding, authoritative thud echoes against the limestone walls, drawing every eye in the cave.

"This has absolutely nothing to do with protecting the Duke or the aristocracy," Miss Grani declares. Her voice entirely drops its bouncy, cheerful cadence, replaced by a fierce, unyielding sincerity. "We are here to protect the people. Victorians, Gallians, Infected, or otherwise."

She points her free hand directly at the towering stack of metal crates the Feline man is desperately trying to shield.

"Those weapons are laced with raw, volatile Originium. Letting you wield them, letting you start a war that will only spread Oripathy and slaughter through the county, is something Rhodes Island and myself will never allow to happen. With or without an aristocrat's permission."

Miss Grani softens her stance just a fraction.

"We are not the Duke's executioners, and we are not here to arrest you or hand you over to the patrols," Miss Grani promises, offering them an absolute, undeniable choice.

"You can turn around right now and walk out of this cave. You can survive to find another way. But these Kazdelian weapons are staying here, and they are going to be destroyed."

The heavy, suffocating silence of the cavern returns. But the Feline man doesn't move from the crates. The Vouivre doesn't lower his defensive posture.

"Easy for you to say," the Vouivre spits out, his voice trembling with a hollow, devastated sneer.

He looks down at his own soot-stained, ragged hands.

"Walk out to what?" the Vouivre demands, his voice fracturing into a wet, desperate rasp. "To break our backs in the Duke's factories? To slave away in the wheat fields for a few pounds? And then what? Just wait until the Empire drafts us and sends us to our deaths in Londinium anyway?"

"You don't have to!"

Mint abruptly steps out from behind Miss Adele's protective shadow.

"Join Rhodes Island! Join us!" Mint pleads, her voice echoing with absolute, innocent sincerity. "We have logistics departments, and agricultural teams! There is always a place…"

"You think we didn't try, young lady?" the Feline man interrupts.

His voice isn't angry anymore. It is just unbearably, terrifyingly tired.

Mint freezes, the bright, minty hope radiating from her immediately stuttering.

The Feline woman leans heavily against the crates, wrapping her winter cloak tighter around her shoulders. She looks at us, her eyes entirely hollowed out.

"We walked to Lynncardine, near the Leithanian border, to access a branch…" the Feline woman says, her voice drifting like a ghost through the damp limestone cave. "We didn’t have the combat, medical, engineering, or logistical skills your company needs… nor do we know Arts… nor are we Infected…"

She lets out a slow, trembling breath.

"After the medical and physical checks… they gave us some food and supplies and showed us the door."

The words drop into the cavern.

We all just stand there. The silence is deafening.

I look around the dim cavern at my friends. I look at Miss Adele, a brilliant Leithanian researcher capable of summoning apocalyptic volcanic eruptions. I look at Miss Susie, who wields highly unique electrical Arts. I look at Mint, an academic prodigy with vortex Arts, and Podenco, a master botanist who can synthesize complex neurotoxins in the field.

I look at Miss Grani, a highly trained Victorian Mounted Police officer. I look at Miss Mousse, a Guard hiding a severe, specific Oripathy infection beneath her protective gloves. I look at Lisa, a nine-tailed Vulpo capable of projecting a blinding, miraculous Foxfire Arts.

And then, I look down at my own hands, gripping the black shaft of my custom-forged Arts Unit. I am a Sarkaz Djall with a severe, highly localized temporal lobe Oripathy mutation and ability to manipulate the emotional resonance of everyone around me.

We all look at each other in the cold, damp dark. The heavy, crushing realization settles into my bones, turning my stomach to lead.

We are not the rule.

We are the exceptions.

I tighten my grip on the my Arts Unit. I cannot let my friends stain their hands with the blood of desperate people, and I absolutely cannot let these rebels walk out of here carrying the literal seeds of their own slaughter.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, and I step past Miss Grani.

"I am sorry," I say. My voice trembles slightly. "I am so sorry. But I cannot allow you to pick up weapons to kill others and yourselves."

I walk forward, closing the distance between our team and the towering stack of contraband.

"Lethe?" Lisa asks softly behind me.

I don't answer. I raise my staff. The misty blue liquid suspended within the matte black magnetic halos hums to life, swirling with a quiet, steady mechanical rhythm. I throw my empathic channels completely open, connecting my mind to the suffocating, bitter air of the cave.

I dig deep into the mundane, curated memories anchored in my mind. I reach for a very specific, highly concentrated brand of absolute resignation.

I summon the soul-crushing, inescapable lethargy of sitting at the Rhodes Island cafeteria table, staring down at a massive, unseasoned mountain of boiled broccoli and spinach that mom had strictly mandated for my diet. I take that feeling of profound, miserable defeat and layer it perfectly with the paralyzing dread of facing one of Hibiscus’s infamous, terrifyingly thick "nutritionally complete" health smoothies.

It is the distilled essence of having absolutely no will to fight back; the heavy, exhausting realization that you just have to sit down, surrender, and endure something thoroughly unpleasant.

I project this massive, overwhelming wave of lethargy directly outward, forcing it straight into their minds to completely smother their suicidal adrenaline.

The effect is almost instantaneous. The ambient air in the cavern shifts.

The blinding, scorching hatred radiating from the Vouivre man is rapidly replaced by a thick, heavy sludge of damp chalk and exhausted apathy. The fierce, ragged defiance locking the Feline man's spine completely dissolves, his muscles visibly slackening.

Slowly but surely, their rigid, defensive stances drop.

The Vouivre man's shoulders slump heavily. He lowers his head, his arms hanging limply at his sides as he stares blankly at the dirt.

"I don't care anymore," the Vouivre says. His voice is completely hollowed out, entirely stripped of its previous venom and rage. He waves a weak, lethargic hand toward the crates of Kazdelian iron. "Just do whatever you want."

Behind him, the Feline man lets out a long exhale. He steps away from the towering stack of reinforced metal, entirely abandoning the contraband he had just sworn to protect with his own body.

"I am going home," the Feline man mutters. He turns his back to the crates, his steps dragging heavily against the stone floor as if his shoes are made of lead.

The Feline woman doesn't speak a single word. She simply turns away from us, retreating to the darkest edge of the cavern. She slides down the damp wall until she hits the rock, pulling her knees loosely to her chest. She huddles into her winter cloak, staring into the dark in absolute, defeated silence.

I look back to my team.

"Miss Grani, Miss Mousse," I say, my voice softening as I lower my staff just a fraction.

"Please, destroy the weapons and let’s go home."

Miss Grani blinks, shaking her head as if trying to physically throw off a sudden, unnatural weight settling over her shoulders. The blindingly bright ginger beer and cool autumn breeze flavor of her presence is momentarily sluggish, coated in a thick, highly unpleasant layer of phantom kale and pureed wheatgrass.

"Uhh… okay! Leave it to me," Miss Grani replies. She raises her polearm, though her usually effortless heft is slightly delayed and entirely confused. She smacks her lips, her ears twitching in absolute bewilderment. "But… why do I suddenly taste Hibiscus’s cooking?"

My empathic projection wasn't tightly focused enough. In my absolute desperation to defuse the rebels, the area-of-effect had accidentally caught our entire strike team in the crossfire of my nutritional warfare.

"Eh?!" I immediately snap the empathic channel shut, entirely cutting off the broadcast of the terrible, soul-crushing smoothie. "Sorry! I stopped my Arts! There!"

Miss Grani lets out a sharp exhale, her fearless, bubbly energy returning in an absolute snap.

"Much better!" Miss Grani chirps, giving her polearm a rapid, confident twirl.

With the psychological friendly-fire officially ceased, the Vanguard and the Guard get to work. Without the massive slugs to carefully apologize to this time, the destruction is incredibly swift. The deafening, concussive smash of Miss Grani's polearm and the tearing screech of Miss Mousse's heavy claws echo through the damp limestone walls. The towering crates are reduced to irreparable scrap, the Kazdelian iron crushed and buried safely beneath the cave's rubble.

Once the cache is completely neutralized, we step out of the damp shadows and back into the overcast daylight of the Victorian plains.

We stand near the entrance in quiet solidarity, watching the three would-be rebels slowly trudge away into the tall grass. They don't look back. Their shoulders are slumped, their cloaks fluttering in the wind. They are entirely empty, but they are alive.

They will survive to see another day, free from the manipulative slaughter the Military Commission had planned for them.

We walk back to where our two ATVs are parked, the heavy, melancholic atmosphere of the cavern slowly lifting from our shoulders.

As we gather near the armored chassis to stow our gear, Mint walks over to me.

"What exactly did you do in there, Lethe?" Mint asks, her brow furrowing in deep perplexity. "They just… completely gave up."

The rest of the team pauses their packing. Podenco, Lisa, Miss Susie, and Miss Adele all turn to look at me, equally curious.

"I…” I mumble, my face burning all the way up to the tips of my horns. I stare down at the thick soles of my sneakers. "I pushed my feeling of lethargy when eating mom’s vegetable mandates…”

They all go completely, utterly silent.

I poke my index fingers together, entirely unable to meet my tutor and friends’ eyes as I confess my highly unorthodox battlefield tactics.

"…and the absolute despair of drinking Hibiscus's nutritionally complete smoothies," I add, my voice dropping into a muffled whisper. "I needed them to lose their will to die.

And nothing makes you want to just sit down and give up more than a plate of unseasoned boiled spinach."

For a split second, nobody says a single word.

Then, Podenco lets out a breathless, incredulous snort. She slaps a hand over her mouth, but it is entirely useless. A bright, ringing laugh bursts from her, echoing loudly across the empty plains.

Beside me, Lisa's tails fan out in a massive, fluffy wave as a musical giggle escapes her throat. Even Miss Adele covers her smile with her hand, her shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle.

"Well," Miss Susie muses, leaning against the ATV's chasis. "I suppose that is one way to save a life, Lethe."

"A highly effective, non-lethal psychological deterrent," Mint nods vigorously, hastily flipping her journal open to furiously document the phenomenon. "I must make a note of this. Nutritional apathy as a form of combat suppression!"

I puff my cheeks out, glaring at my laughing friends.

We didn't have to fight. Nobody had to bleed.

"Let's just go home," I declare, pulling open the heavy passenger door of the ATV. "And hope mom doesn’t actually finds out I used her broccoli as a psychological weapon."

"Alright!" Miss Grani's voice rings out, bright and completely unbothered by the lingering dampness of the cave. She taps the screen of her communicator, a satisfied, highly confident grin stretching across her face. "I have sent the coordinates to Rhodes Island and our Victorian contacts so they can come in to decontaminate the caves. You all did splendidly, team!"

In the driver's seat of our ATV, Miss Mousse lets out a soft exhale.

"Yay…" Miss Mousse whispers softly. "We can go home now."

We all climb into the armored cabins, pulling the seatbelts securely across our laps. The engines hum to life.

As the heavy tires crunch against the dirt and we begin our long drive back toward the rendezvous coordinates, I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window.

I look at the Victorian plains one more time.

The grass rolls endlessly toward the horizon beneath the overcast sky. It looks so peaceful now, completely betraying the horrors hidden beneath its surface. My mind drifts back to the bruised, apocalyptic sky over Porte-Léon, the haunting, weeping cello of Val-de-Lis, and the heavy, metallic stench of Lucas's blood pooling on the cold floor.

We didn’t save everyone.

The crushing weight of that reality presses against my chest. There are people who died in the dark.

But then, I think of the three soot-stained rebels walking away into the tall grass. They were defeated and exhausted, but they were breathing. They were going home instead of marching to their deaths with iron in their hands. I think of the crushed, irreparably shattered Kazdelian weapons buried under the rocks, entirely neutralized before they could be used to set the county on fire.

We didn't save everyone. But we saved the county from a manufactured war.

And that, for me, has to count for something.

As the ATV carries us away from the rocky ridges and back toward the safety of the landship, a profound, quiet warmth settles in my heart. Beside me, Lisa radiates with a gentle, sleepy comfort. I close my eyes, letting the rhythmic hum of the engine lull me into a quiet rest.

Bloodshed isn’t the only answer in this world. And I am going to keep proving it.