May, 1097

The chaotic, two-day shore leave in Trimounts has long passed.

I am currently halfway through my agonizing, month-long vegetable hell. True to her word, mom has been absolutely ruthless. Every single meal has been a meticulously balanced, heavily monitored parade of steamed broccoli, baked potatoes, and unseasoned greens. My biology might be stable, but my morale is in absolute shambles. I am completely slumped over the cool glass of the break room table. My cheek is pressed flat against the surface, my horns pointing harmlessly toward the wall, and my tail lies completely limp. I feel entirely hollowed out, utterly deprived of sugar.

A gentle, tentative pressure presses against my cheek.

Amiya pokes my face slightly.

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

A soft, bright sound floats through the air. Amiya giggles.

The sound makes my ears twitch. It is a light chime. A sound that I have barely heard from her since the ashes of Chernobog.

"Here," Amiya says softly.

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

It is made of delicate, semi-translucent paper, tied neatly at the top with a thin, crimson silk ribbon. Through the frosted paper, I can see small, perfectly round, pastel-colored orbs nestled snugly together. Amiya gently unties the ribbon and folds the paper back. They are small rice cakes, impossibly plump and soft-looking. Each one is dusted with a fine, pristine layer of white, sweet powder that clings to the smooth, pillowy surface. They look so delicate they might simply melt if held too tightly.

Amiya's long ears give a happy, playful twitch. She offers me a warm, teasing smile.

"For our Higashian Djall."

My eyes blow completely wide. I don't hesitate for a single second. I practically tear into the pouch.

I grab one of the dough. The exterior is incredibly soft and elastic, yielding perfectly under my grip. I take a massive bite. The chewy, sweetened rice dough stretches before melting seamlessly on my tongue. Inside, it gives way to a rich, dense center of earthy, sweetened matcha paste.

The burst of concentrated, unadulterated sugar completely overrides the lingering, phantom taste of two weeks' worth of steamed broccoli. I close my eyes, letting out a long, pathetic purr of absolute, heaven-sent relief, savoring the chewy texture and the sweet powder coating my lips.

I swallow the last, heavenly bite of the sweet paste, meticulously dusting the pristine white powder from my fingertips. I look up, expecting to see Amiya's bright, teasing smile.

Instead, her expression has completely shifted.

The warm, sparkling spun sugar in the ambient air banks down, settling into a deep, focused stillness. Amiya is staring at the surface of the break room table as she goes deep into thought. The sweet, giggling friend has briefly stepped back, and the CEO of Rhodes Island has returned to the forefront.

"So, Lethe," Amiya begins, her voice dropping into a soft, serious tone. She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. "I have been thinking about authorizing an excursion for you outside the landship. I need to know what you think."

My tail instantly pauses its contented swishing.

The world outside the landship. The mere thought brings a familiar, reflexive shiver tracing its way down my spine. Dr. Kal'tsit had officially approved my participation in low-risk logistics operations months ago in the command room, but the reality of actually stepping into the wastelands is entirely different from wandering the pristine streets of Trimounts.

"Outside?" I ask. I instinctively reach up, my hands gripping the edge of my jacket.

"Where?"

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

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

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

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

Amiya's comforting warmth bleeding back into her.

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

I take a slow, deep breath. I adjust my posture, forcing my spine straight, and look Amiya directly in the eyes.

"Okay, Amiya," I whisper, giving her a firm, deliberate nod. "I will go."

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

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

"Amiya," I ask, my voice tinged with a sudden spike of nervous practicality. "What do I need to prepare? Do I need to like carry sacks of food and water and stuff?"

My mind immediately conjures a terrifying image of my body, already struggling with the lopsided weight of my horns, completely collapsing into the dirt under the crushing weight of heavy logistics crates and oversized water jugs.

Amiya lets out a soft giggle.

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

The image of the boxy Castle bot with its quiet treads and flat chassis flashes in my mind. I let out a massive, audible sigh of relief, my shoulders completely slumping forward in the chair. Thank Terra for Rhodes Island engineering.

"Okay! When do we leave?"

Amiya's bright smile falters just a fraction, softening into something slightly more apologetic.

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

My tail completely freezes mid-swish.

I get completely winded just running down the corridors.

Mobility and endurance?

I swallow hard, the lingering, heavenly sweetness of the dessert suddenly feeling like a very heavy rock sitting at the bottom of my stomach.

Amiya’s bright, reassuring smile doesn't falter for a single second as she delivers the absolute worst possible news.

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

Is that supposed to be comforting?

My jaw practically unhinges. I stare at Amiya, my mind instantly conjuring the terrifying image of Dr. Warfarin standing at the edge of a running track, holding a pristine, gleaming syringe like a starting pistol. If I collapse from sheer physical exhaustion, Dr. Warfarin won't offer me a water bottle and a towel. She'll use my collapsed state as a perfectly valid excuse to draw three vials of blood just to casually measure my lactic acid buildup.

But as I look at Amiya, the ambient flavor radiating from her is just so incredibly pure. It is a sugary wave of absolute sincerity. She genuinely believes she is doing me a massive favor by securing the Medical Department's most senior doctor to watch over my physical testing.

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

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

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

Tomorrow.

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

"Okay," I whimper. Completely resigning to my fate.

The next twenty-four hours drag by with an excruciating, suffocating slowness that makes mom's enforced, month-long steamed vegetable purgatory feel like a brief, minor inconvenience.

I go through the motions in the Convalescent Garden. The trauma I siphon in the garden suddenly tastes completely flavorless in comparison to my own impending dread.

14:50.

It is time. I peel myself from my curved wooden chair. My legs feel like liquid lead, but I force myself to wave a quiet goodbye to Miss Lena and begin the slow, agonizing march to my doom.

The corridors of the training sector are even more utilitarian than medical sectors, and built to withstand serious punishment. As I trudge down the hall, I catch sight of a small group walking just ahead of me.

I recognize them instantly. The young Perro, the sharp-eyed Kuranta, and the perpetually relaxed Cautus. Fang. Beagle. Kroos, if I remember correctly from the brief encounter in the cafeteria.

Stitched proudly onto the shoulders of their fresh, tailored uniforms is the distinct badge of Reserve Ops. They have officially joined the ranks, finding a permanent home here on the landship.

I watch as they turn into one of the earlier training halls, their overlapping chatter fading behind the heavy doors. I keep walking until I stand before my own destination. Training Hall 4.

I take a deep, shaky breath, bracing myself to see Amiya's encouraging smile and Dr. Warfarin's terrifyingly pristine syringes.

But as I step inside.

The ambient air hits me immediately, but it isn't the sterile, metallic tang of the good doctor. It is the roaring, unapologetic flavor of machine grease and bruised fruit, perfectly layered over a chillingly smooth, ozone-laced static.

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

The towering Feline spins around, her long, dark hair whipping over her shoulder. She isn't holding her terrifying chainsaw today, but she is dressed in heavy, sleeveless tactical gear that highlights exactly how easily she could bench-press this entire room. A massive grin stretches across her face the moment she spots me.

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

Beside her, Rosmontis stands perfectly still, her ears give a tiny twitch as she offers me a slow nod of greeting.

My heart completely drops into my sneakers. My hands shake as I frantically reach into my bag, pulling out my slate. I stare at the glowing screen, my eyes tracing Amiya's message over and over again.

Training Hall 4. 1500.

I triple-check the notes. The undeniable reality stares back at me. I am in the exact right place. I am about to be subjected to a physical endurance test administered by a chaotic Elite Ops and a telekinetic powerhouse capable of leveling city blocks.

The locks of the training hall disengages again before my panicked brain can even fully process the situation.

"This is a gross misuse of my time," a sharp voice complains loudly as the doors part. Dr. Warfarin strolls onto the training mat. She is holding a diagnostic slate in one hand, completely ignoring the Elite Ops. "I have highly sensitive centrifuges running, and Kal expects me to stand around in a sweaty gymnasium just to watch a child run in circles." Then, her eyes lock onto my frozen frame. The sharp, copper flavor of her predatory amusement instantly spikes in the air.

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

I stare at the assembly in absolute horror. Amiya has literally scheduled the Elites of Elites to oversee my tests, and Dr. Warfarin is here to meticulously document my inevitable demise.

I shrink back.

"What… what do we do?"

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

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

The rhythmic, deliberate click of boots echoes against the floor.

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

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

The Perro's presence hits me with a staggering, suffocating weight. It tastes like cracked black pepper, stiffly pressed canvas, and pitch-black, entirely unsweetened espresso that Miss Sussurro favors.

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

I swallow hard, the phantom taste of black pepper completely drying out my mouth. I am in so much trouble.

The imposing Perro stops right in front of me, her sharp eyes staring down with unwavering intensity.

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

"Yes. Ms. Ms. Ms. Dobermann," I stammer as I offer a frantic, overly eager bow.

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

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

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

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

I stare at the massive, scuff-marked pad.

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

My fist hits the thick, dense leather. It feels like punching a solid brick wall. A sharp, stinging pain shoots up my wrist, making me wince and instantly pull my hand back to cradle it against my chest.

The digital readout above the pad blinks. It barely registers a double-digit number. A heavy, agonizing silence falls over the training hall.

Then, Ms. Blaze completely loses her composure. She throws her head back and lets out a laugh that rattles the equipment racks. "Oh, kiddo, I think a passing Originium slug could hit harder than that!"

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

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

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

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

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

Thwip! Thwip!

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

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

I practically tumble across the finish line, crashing to my knees and gasping for breath. Ms. Dobermann watches me untangle my limbs from the floor mat.

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

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

By the second lap, my lungs are absolutely burning. My throat feels lined with sandpaper, and the familiar, phantom taste of cold copper fills my mouth from sheer physical exertion.

My vision begins to blur. I want to stop. I want to collapse onto the floorboards and just lay there.

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

Pure, unadulterated terror injects a fresh spike of adrenaline straight into my veins. I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut and forcing my burning legs to keep moving. I stagger, my posture completely collapsing into a forward hunch, but the terrifying threat of Dr. Warfarin’s pristine syringes keeps me propelling forward.

I cross the final marker and immediately collapse onto the training mat in a heaving, sweaty, gray-haired heap.

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

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

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

I stare at the map.

"I do not engage," I answer, my voice still slightly breathless but steady. "I fall back behind the Field Ops defensive line. I assist the logistics teams in rerouting the Castle bots and to clear the secondary path. While the path is being cleared, I use my Arts to siphon the immediate panic and terror from the civilian convoy, preventing a stampede so they can evacuate in an orderly formation."

Ms. Dobermann’s sharp eyes lock onto mine. The her flavors doesn't sweeten, but the rigid, unforgiving tension softens just a fraction.

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

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

"Strength: Fail. Mobility: Normal. Endurance: Normal. Tactical Acumen: Standard,"

Dobermann reads aloud from her digital clipboard. She lowers the device, giving me a single, crisp nod. "Your physical output is abysmal, but your survival instincts and situational awareness meet the necessary requirements. Acceptable for a non- combatant."

"Okay…" I let out a massive, shuddering exhale, my shoulders completely slumping forward.

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

I groan, letting my head drop heavily into my hands.

I just crash onto the mat.

I don't even try to brace my fall. My knees simply evaporate beneath me, and I hit the padded floor of the training hall in a heaving, sweaty, grey-haired heap. The cool, synthetic material presses against my flushed cheek. My lungs are burning so fiercely that every ragged, desperate gasp tastes like scorched air, completely drowning out the ambient flavors of the room. My horns clatter dullly against the floor, and my tail lies entirely dead behind me.

I am a puddle of defeated Sarkaz.

A heavy shadow falls over me.

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

The ambient air immediately spikes with the familiar, terrifying taste of pure, unfiltered clinical hunger. I hear the crisp snap of a medical glove and the sharp clink of a glass vial.

Usually, the mere implication of her syringes would send me scrambling backward as I beg for mercy. But right now, the absolute, bone-deep exhaustion pinning me to the floor entirely overrides my survival instincts. I don't flinch. I don't pull my arm away. I just let out a long, pathetic, muffled groan into the mat.

I feel the sharp, biting pinch in the crook of my elbow. I just lie there, letting her draw her impromptu sample of my lactic-acid-flooded blood.

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

The rhythmic, deliberate click of boots cuts through my ragged breathing.

Ms. Dobermann steps past my line of sight.

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

"Yes, Ms. Dobermann," I manage to wheeze out, the words vibrating weakly against the padded floor.

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

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

I peel one eye open, looking up from the mat. The towering Elite is standing right over me, her hands resting casually on her hips. Her signature grin is plastered across her face as she looks down at my entirely liquidated form.

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

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

"No…”

I weakly lift one hand from the mat, swatting blindly at the air in a desperate attempt to fend off the towering Elite.

"No… one… carry me…” I huff, my face squishing flatter against the padding. I am utterly devoid of dignity, but I absolutely refuse to be transported like a piece of freight ever again.

Ms. Blaze throws her head back, letting out a laugh that bounces off the reinforced walls. "Suit yourself, Lethe! But you cannot sleep on the training mat forever!"

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

The roaring heat of her presence steps away, leaving a sudden, quiet gap in the air. Then a pair of small, sensible shoes steps into my peripheral vision.

Rosmontis stands quietly beside me. She simply looks at me, her expression entirely flat and distant, but her aura carries that faint, unmistakable undertone of soft serve.

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

I slowly turn my head, peeling my cheek off the mat so I can look up at her.

"Lethe wants dinner together?" she asks.

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

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

"The little Djall’s blood is always so intoxicating," Dr. Warfarin suddenly declares, her voice dropping into a purr that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

She turns, her dress snapping sharply. As she saunters toward the doors, she doesn't even bother to look back, simply waving a dismissive hand in the air.

"The little anomaly will be fine," Dr. Warfarin calls out, directing her clinical parting words toward the Elite Ops standing over me. "But her physical output is a disaster. Ensure her caloric intake is met immediately, Rosmontis. Do not let her skip dinner."

The oppressive, blood-hungry tension in the room instantly evaporates.

Rosmontis steps closer. I hear the crinkle of thin plastic.

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

I don't even hesitate. My hands are shaking so badly that my fingers fumble clumsily against the smooth plastic, but I manage to snatch the bottle from her grip. I twist the cap off and press it to my lips.

I drink it all down greedily. The water is freezing cold, a sharp, brilliant shock to my system. I practically chug the entire bottle in seconds, a few stray drops spilling past the corners of my mouth and dripping onto the turtleneck beneath my jacket.

I lower the empty bottle, letting out a massive, ungraceful gasp for air.

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

I sway dangerously. My legs feel like they have been replaced with wet noodles, and the lopsided weight of my horns pulls my neck into a tired slouch. But I am standing. I finally peel myself off the floor.

I offer Rosmontis a weak, exhausted smile, clutching the empty water bottle.

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

The walk toward the cafeteria is a slow shuffle.

Beside me, Rosmontis matches my exhausted pace. She is perfectly quiet, her eyes are cast downward, entirely focused on the small screen of the terminal she holds in her hands. She is reading her memos.

A sharp, sudden pain hits me directly in the center of my chest.

Rhine Lab.

The name echoes in the the hallways of my mind. The corporation that gave her those terrifying Arts and shattered her mind. Because of what they did to her, Rosmontis cannot remember anyone without those digital notes. Not Amiya. Not Doctor. Not me. Or even herself. If she doesn't read the names, everyone simply ceases to exist in her world.

I stare at her profile, bathed in the cool light of her screen. And then, the cold, creeping dread settles over me.

I am slowly getting there as well.

The realization isn't a sudden shock; it is a heavy, suffocating blanket of ice.

I try to reach back. I try to pull up the image of the very first time I saw mom’s light purple eyes. I try to remember the exact moment Lisa ran up to me with her nine fluffy tails, or when Miss Lena first poured me a cup of tea in the Convalescent Garden. I reach for the foundation of the family that anchors my entire existence.

There is absolutely nothing. The timeline of my life abruptly begins in a chaotic, blood- stained triage bay, the heavy metal of a Arts Unit slipping from my numb fingers as I tried to siphon the agony from a dying Cautus girl that had no name at that moment. Everything before that horrific, screaming room is just a suffocating void.

I look back at my silver-haired friend walking quietly beside me, her eyes still tracing the text that tells her who I am.

I swallow the phantom ash. I step just a fraction closer to her, letting my arm brush gently against hers in the quiet corridor, offering a silent solidarity.

Dinner with Rosmontis is as quiet as ever.

We sit at our table in the cafeteria, the ambient noise of the landship washing over us. I look down at my tray. I have grabbed mom’s mandated baked greens, dutifully following her strict nutritional orders, alongside a piece of baked fish, which mom allows. I chew meticulously. Rosmontis eats in her own focused silence.

As we finish our meal, I offer her a soft, weary smile and wave goodbye. She gives a small nod, clutching her digital memo terminal as she heads back to her quarters. I don't go back to my dorm. Instead, my feet carry me through the arteries of the landship, drawn by a sickening panic directly toward the high-security laboratory.

The doors opens, releasing that harsh, familiar scent of clinical bleach, ozone, and steel. Dr. Warfarin is standing near her terminals. She turns, shifting under the blinding overhead lights.

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

I just stand there. Dreading the truth.

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

The predatory smirk instantly vanishes from Doctor’s face. Her taste completely flatlines, replaced by a wall of absolute, terrifying focus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No…" I murmur, my voice barely a breath. "When I am sleeping, eating, or just relaxing… it is put aside."

Dr. Warfarin lets out a short sigh.

"Well, that would perfectly explain the further memory loss," Dr. Warfarin states.

"Especially in the cafeteria. Your monitor collar only restricts your active output; it does not entirely sever your passive Arts output. You are a Djall. Every time you sit down to eat, you are passively Arts Unit Arts over dozens, if not hundreds of Operators, absorbing their ambient emotional bleed entirely without your shielding."

I dip my head, A heavy, suffocating wave of resignation settles over my shoulders.

"I will just have to detail every single day in my slate and terminal…” I murmur, my fingers tightening around the grip of my staff. If I document every conversation, every meal, and every single moment I spend with my family, my Oripathy cannot completely erase them. I will build an impenetrable fortress out of digital ink.

"Little anomaly, I will suggest you keep the most important details only," Dr. Warfarin interrupts, her tone slicing cleanly through my desperate, spiraling plan.

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

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

She pauses. Her fingers tap against her elbow.

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

Dr. Warfarin drops her hand, her eyes locking onto mine with an intense focus.

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

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

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

I step over to my recessed mattress and carefully gather my anchors. I pick up the soft, brown Amiya plushie with its bright blue button eyes, the floppy-eared grey Rosmontis Cautus-esque plushie, and the small, squishy cake collectible mom gave me for my birthday. I carry them to the desk and arrange them in a neat, protective semi-circle around my digital slate.

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

Dr. Warfarin was right. I stare at the sprawling walls of white text, filled with overtly detailed, frantic memos cataloging mundane meals, the exact layout of the garden, and fleeting daily conversations. It is a chaotic, desperate clutter. If I wake up one morning and the freezing void has swallowed another piece of my mind, this frantic wall of text won't ground me; it will only induce panic to an empty mind.

I take a slow, shaky breath. I tap the glass, highlighting paragraphs upon paragraphs of daily trivia.

Delete.

I watch the overwhelming blocks of text vanish into the digital ether, leaving behind a clean, terrifyingly blank canvas. I reach out, letting my fingertips brush against the soft fabric of the plushies for courage, and I begin to rewrite. I distill my entire world down to its absolute, undeniable pillars.

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

I blink away the stinging moisture in my eyes as I type the next line.

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

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

I trace my finger down the cold, smooth glass. The blocky white text glows softly against the dark.

Just a handful of paragraphs. A distilled, concentrated points of my life.

It is a fortress. These words are the impenetrable walls Oripathy will crash against. I look at the lines again.

My entire life.

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

Instead, reading those names fills my chest with the phantom warmth of sugar, the grounding aroma of steeped tea, the vibrant fizz, and the fierce, protective honey. A beautiful life. Forged in the ashes of Catastrophes and the shadows of a brutal world, but undeniably, breathtakingly beautiful nonetheless.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath. My focus drifts past the slate, toward the oval window of my dorm.

Outside lies the sprawling, terrifying expanse of Terra.

In just two days, I will walk out of the landship's steel belly. Not to stand paralyzed on a deployment ramp staring at the towering glass of Trimounts, but to actually step into the untamed dirt of the Columbian barrens. I will walk alongside Podenco, charting the logistics routes and cataloging the wild flora to help restock our medical supplies. The thought still makes my heart give a small, nervous flutter.

I will take one more step into being a true Operator. I won't just hide behind the climate- controlled glass of the Convalescent Garden, waiting in the dark for the bruised and broken to return to me. I will face the barrens with my friends to ensure the survival of my home.

I reach out and press the physical power button on the side of the chassis. The screen goes black, plunging the dorm room back into a peaceful, quiet light.

I carefully set the slate down, wrapping my arms around the plushies, and pull the blankets up to my chin. I nestle my head into the pillows, carefully angling the lopsided horns so they don't catch on the fabric, and let my eyes flutter shut.

I am ready for Terra.

And Terra is coming.

The wind on the outer deck is a living, breathing thing. It whips across the expansive deck.

Beneath my thick sneakers, the reinforced steel vibrate with a deep, bone-rattling groan. The hydraulic lifts are engaging, slowly raising the VTOL aircrafts from the cavernous depths of the lower deck storages.

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

Mom's arms are wrapped securely around my shoulders. I am tucked perfectly under her chin, surrounded by the overwhelming, protective flavor of rich honey. But today, the sweetness is pierced by a sharp, vibrating spike of tart lemon. She is terrified.

"I have everything, mom," I murmur, my voice muffled slightly against her shoulder. I wrap my arms around her waist, giving her a firm, grounding squeeze. "I have my new PRTS smartphone, my ID, and my Arts Unit. I won't leave Podenco's side."

"Good," mom whispers, pressing a lingering kiss. She slowly pulls back, her hands resting on my shoulders. Her worried eyes scan my face, searching for the trembling, terrified child she had pulled from the Kazdel ruins.

I offer her a brave, resolute smile.

A few paces away, Podenco is completely in her element. The wind catches her fluffy, light blonde hair, her ears twitching alertly against the gale. She is wearing her signature deep teal-green jacket with crisp yellow stripes on the sleeves, a bright yellow ribbon tied neatly at her collar. As she moves to adjust her respirator, the hem of her jacket flares open, revealing a meticulous, tactical row of glass vials strapped securely to the inner lining, filled with glowing liquids in vibrant shades of purple, yellow, and clear white.

She lowers her hands to her Arts Unit; a mechanical staff capped with a striking circular focal point that pulses with a bright, magenta light. She checks the grip with a flawless, practiced efficiency.

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

Miss Almond stands nearby, her ears swiveling as she meticulously inspects her climbing gear and grappling hooks. The ambient flavor bleeding off her is crisp and highly methodical, tasting like polished aluminum and sharp peppermint.

She is chatting casually with Miss Franka. The Vulpo looks entirely, almost terrifyingly unbothered by the impending deployment. She leans her weight on one leg, her posture utterly relaxed. Her emotional resonance hits my throat like carbonated ginger ale spiked with the dangerous, metallic heat of a thermal grill. She flashes a sharp, confident grin, treating the hostile Columbian barrens like a simple afternoon stroll. Then, there is Miss Beanstalk.

The Reproba is practically vibrating. Her presence tastes like over-steeped green tea and dry, sun-baked hay. She is triple-checking the tension on her crossbow, muttering a rapid checklist under her breath. Swarming around her boots, clicking their metallic claws against the steel deck, is a small cluster of her signature metal crabs. They scurry in chaotic little circles, completely ignoring the massive scale of the landship around them.

The deck shudders violently.

With a resounding, echoing clank, the heavy hydraulic platforms lock into place. The heavily armored VTOL sits on the tarmac, its thrusters whining as they cycle up for departure. The heavy rear ramp slowly descends, hitting the deck with a final thud.

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

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

I look back at mom, giving her one last, reassuring nod.

I gather my Kazdelian artifact from the ground, step away from the safety of her embrace, and march directly toward the open ramp.

The cabin of the Bad Guy is loud, filled with the constant, deafening thrum of heavy Originium engines.

Through the small, scratch-resistant porthole opposite my seat, I can see the secondary transport helicopter holding steady formation alongside us. Suspended beneath its heavy undercarriage is our reinforced all-terrain vehicle and the two boxy Castle bots, dangling over the desolate, sprawling expanse of the barrens.

I press my knees together. The metal bench vibrates right through my insulated stockings. I am trembling. It is a nervous, vibrating anticipation.

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

"Lethe, right?"

The voice effortlessly cuts through the mechanical roar.

I look across the narrow cabin. Miss Franka is leaning back against the metal chasis, her arms crossed lazily over her chest. She looks entirely at home in the rattling aircraft, her posture loose and completely unbothered.

"Yes," I reply.

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

The ambient flavor in the cabin instantly shifts. A bright, carbonated burst spikes the air.

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

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

My tail instantly snaps rigid. It shoots up from the floorboards like a startled snake, wrapping itself into a tight, defensive coil around my thigh and tucking the tip safely out of sight.

"They… they eat tails?!" I look frantically from Miss Franka to Podenco.

A loud, ringing laugh escapes Miss Franka, bouncing off the walls of the Bad Guy.

Podenco lets out a long, highly exaggerated sigh. She doesn't even look at the veteran Field Ops, keeping her eyes fixed forward as she adjusts the straps of her respirator.

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

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

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

I puff my cheeks out. The initial spike of terror quickly melts into a hot, prickly flush of absolute embarrassment. I uncoil my tail, letting it drop back to the floor with a soft, indignant thud. I lift my chin to stare directly at Miss Franka.

The tense, nervous air inside the cabin completely shatters.

A bright, genuine wave of laughter ripples through the transport. I let out a soft, breathy giggle, my cheeks still burning slightly.

The VTOL shudders violently as our descent finally slows. The engines pitch down into a low, mechanical whine, and the landing gears strike the dirt with a bone-rattling thud. Hydraulics hiss. The rear ramp slowly descends, hitting the earth.

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

I step forward, stopping right at the edge of the ramp. I look out over the sprawling, desolate expanse of the barrens. It is just endless, rolling plains of scrubland and rocky outcrops stretching beneath a vast, open sky.

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

"Miss Sarkaz royalty, ready?" Podenco asks, effortlessly echoing the exact same tease she used when I was paralyzed at the edge of the Trimounts docking station.

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

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

A deafening roar washes over us as the secondary transport helicopter hovers low over the landing zone. With a massive, synchronized clank, the release cables disengage. The reinforced all-terrain vehicle and the two boxy Castle bots drop the last few meters, hitting the ground with a heavy impact that kicks up a massive, billowing cloud of dust. As the helicopter banks away, leaving us to the quiet of the barrens, Miss Almond steps forward.

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

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

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

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

Sitting directly across from us is Miss Beanstalk.

She is completely ignoring the tactical preparations happening in the front seats, something about planned routes and scans. Instead, she has one of her metal crabs resting squarely in her lap. The little critter clicks its claws rhythmically against her vest as she gently, affectionately strokes its carapace.

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

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

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

The ambient flavor radiating from the Reproba spikes instantly. The earthy taste practically explodes with an aggressive, blindingly enthusiastic entrepreneurial energy.

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

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

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

I stare at the flailing claws. My mind immediately conjures a horrifying, apocalyptic vision of the Convalescent Garden. I picture a Catastrophe of hundreds of these clicking, scurrying crabs entirely overrunning the pristine flowerbeds. I can vividly see them mercilessly snipping the delicate chamomile, trampling the broad-leafed ferns, and knocking over Miss Lena's porcelain teapots.

And then, I picture Miss Lena standing in the center of the ruins. The mental image of my romance novel-loving manager’s serene, flawless smile tightening into absolute, terrifyingly polite wrath makes a cold shiver trace its way down my spine.

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

"They won't!" Miss Beanstalk protests loudly. She immediately pulls the metal crab back, cradling it protectively against her chest as if I had just deeply insulted her actual child. Beside me, Podenco leans forward, resting her chin in her hand.

"We will think about it," Podenco muses, a cheeky, ambitious smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "A bigger greenhouse will give me space to grow fungus too, I always wanted that."

I whip my head around to stare at my Perro friend. Fungus?

Between an active breeding ground for a horde of metal crabs and an entire sector dedicated to musty, spore-spewing mushrooms, Miss Lena's tranquil, lavender-scented sanctuary is going to turn into a biological hazard zone. I let out a long, pathetic sigh, leaning my head back against the rumbling wall of the transport, completely resigning myself to the inevitable botanical warfare waiting for us back home.

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

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

"Hey!" I yelp. I flail my arms, completely scandalized on behalf of our peaceful sanctuary.

"It is beautiful! It is nothing like that!"

A bright wave of laughter fills the cabin once more. Even Miss Almond lets out a soft, highly amused snort from the driver's seat.

I grumble softly under my breath, my cheeks burning with a hot flush of embarrassment. To hide my blushing face, I duck my head and rummage through my bag, pulling out my metal water canteen. I unscrew the cap and take a long, slow drink. The cool water is a desperate, grounding relief against the dry, baked dust already filtering through the vehicle's vents.

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

Outside, the sprawling expanse of the Columbian barrens rolls past in a blur of muted earth tones. It is so vast and incredibly empty.

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

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

Sitting alone in the vast emptiness of the plains is a small, stationary farm. It is a fragile, breathtaking pocket of life amidst the desolate scrubland.

A weathered, crooked wooden fence lines a muddy, heavily rutted dirt path, acting as a humble barricade against the wild. Beyond the tall, dried reeds and yellowing grass sits a sprawling, rustic barn. Its corrugated metal roof is stained with deep, reddish-brown streaks of rust, a testament to years of surviving the harsh Columbian elements.

Standing proudly beside the main structure is a tall, skeletal metal windmill, its blades turning slowly, catching the pale, overcast light of the sky.

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

I stare at the rusted roof and the spinning windmill. Amiya had mentioned these stationary settlements before, but seeing one with my own eyes fills me with a profound, aching sense of awe. In a world completely terrorized by moving Catastrophes, where entire metropolises are built on massive plates just to outrun the wrath of the planet, putting down roots feels like an act of absolute defiance.

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

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

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

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

I don't hesitate. My hands fly to my bag, frantically pulling out the standard-issue Rhodes Island respirator. I pull the heavy straps over my head and press the cold, clinical rubber firmly over my nose and mouth. I pull the seals tight until the ambient smell of the cabin is completely replaced by the dry, metallic taste of filtered air.

I turn my head, looking through the reinforced glass of the window.

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

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

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

"Do NOT get scratched by them," Miss Almond warns, her tone deadly serious.

I swallow hard. I know exactly what a single, careless scrape against an active shard means. It can result in an immediate, violent influx of Oripathy. I reach down and pull the oversized sleeves securely over my hands, making myself as insulated as possible.

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

"Let's move," Miss Franka commands.

The doors of the ATV swing open. We filter out of the vehicle, our boots hitting the dry, dusty earth. The wind out here is different; it carries a heavy, suffocating static charge that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end, a terrifying reminder of the raw, volatile energy trapped within the black crystals just a few meters away.

Miss Almond pulls her rugged slate from her pouch, tapping the screen as the topographical map loads in.

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

I stare at the pulsing crystals.

The ambient flavors bleeding off the Operators instantly shift. The carbonated, playful spark that Miss Franka had carried in the cabin completely evaporates. It is instantly replaced by the sharp, freezing taste of cold water and shaved ice.

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

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

She motions with her hand, and the cluster of metal crabs scurries forward, their claws clicking sharply against the rocky ground as they spread out to establish a perimeter. Miss Beanstalk carefully makes her way toward a raised, rocky outcrop overlooking the glowing field, her crossbow raised and ready to cover our advance.

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

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

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

I stand there, staring at the raw, active Originium jutting from the dirt, my heart hammering frantically.

Before I can become entirely paralyzed by the terrifying glow of the crystals, a hand wraps firmly around my wrist. I flinch, but the ambient air instantly blooms with the grounding, citrusy scent of yuzu and tea. Podenco.

"Come on," Podenco says, gently but firmly dragging me away from the active field. She turns her head, raising her voice to be heard over the hum of the Castle bots and the sweeping wind. "We will leave the charting to the experts! Miss Franka! Miss Beanstalk! We will check the surroundings for plants!"

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

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

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

"How are you holding up, Lethe?" she asks. Her voice drops its usual playful tease, replaced entirely by a soft, genuine concern that tastes like warm, steeped tea.

I look around the sprawling, desolate horizon, feeling incredibly small and entirely exposed without the landship to shield me.

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

Podenco stops walking.

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

She turns back to me, her expression resolute. Her hand drops to the hem of her jacket. With a swift motion, she flips the fabric back, revealing the meticulous row of glass vials strapped securely to the inner lining. The liquids inside pulse with vibrant, lethal shades, catching the dull daylight.

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

I stare at the lethal, brightly colored vials strapped to the inside of her jacket. A reminder that the cheerful, flower-loving Perro is also a highly trained Operator capable of dropping a hostile scavenger in seconds.

I look down at my own hands. My palms are delicate. I am a palliative care assistant with an abysmal physical strength rating. But standing out here in the vast, unforgiving barrens, a sudden, desperate urge to prove I am not completely defenseless bubbles up in my chest.

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

I shift my grip on my Arts Unit. Instead of holding it vertically like a staff, I grab the smooth, black shaft with both hands, hoisting the heavy, petrified wood horizontally across my body. I widen my stance, completely mimicking the relaxed, lethal guard I had seen Miss Franka take just moments ago.

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

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

The organic curves of the ancient wood are absolutely not balanced for melee combat. The momentum of the wild, uncoordinated swings immediately yanks my center of gravity forward.

The wood cuts through the air with a clumsy, whistling whoosh.

Podenco lets out a startled yelp. She executes a frantic hop backward, narrowly dodging the swinging arc of the tree branch.

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

I immediately stop. The brave facade shatters entirely.

I quickly pull the Arts Unit back against my chest, hugging it defensively like a stuffed animal.

"Sorry!"

Podenco just shakes her head. She lets out a laugh that entirely banishes the brief spike of panic, her tail giving a forgiving wag. She reaches out, gently patting the sleeve of my coat.

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

Suddenly, her ears shoot straight up.

"Look, Lethe," Podenco says, her voice taking on a brisk, professional curiosity. She points toward a shallow, shadowed depression tucked at the base of a nearby rocky ridge. "There’s a batch of greenery over there. Let’s go."

We carefully make our way toward the shadowed depression. As we get closer, the sparse, yellowed scrubland gives way to a resilient patch of actual greenery. It is a stubborn, defiant little pocket of life that simply refuses to be snuffed out by the harsh winds or the proximity of Originium.

Podenco kneels down in the dirt, entirely unbothered by the dust coating her knee- highs. She reaches out, gently parting a cluster of broad, waxy leaves to reveal a single, small flower. Its petals are a pale, muted lavender, huddled closely around a dark center.

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

I step closer, leaning over her shoulder to inspect the fragile bloom. I furrow my brow, staring intensely at the pale petals and the shape of the leaves. My mind races back to the table in the Convalescent Garden, desperately flipping through the mental pages of the botanical encyclopaedia she had made me study.

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

Podenco’s ears give a subtle twitch.

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

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

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

She reaches into her own bag, pulling out a set of small, sterile glass vials and a specialized trowel.

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

“He he he ha ha!”

The sudden, chilling laugh violently shatters the quiet of the barrens.

It is a jagged, broken sound, echoing unnaturally across the desolate land. My hands stops around the small glass vial.

The ambient air in the depression instantly ruptures. The flavor that hits me is a chaotic, suffocating blast of fermented, rotting fruit, battery acid, and the screeching metallic tang of jagged rust. It is entirely unhinged. A sickening, spiraling static.

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

Stumbling into view is a man.

He is laughing to himself, his head lolling to the side as he clutches a rusted shard of corrugated metal in his right hand. The makeshift blade is heavily coated in running blood, the jagged tip crusted with dark, dried-out flakes of old crimson. He drags his feet against the dirt, entirely oblivious to the howling wind or the desolate expanse around him.

I stare at him, completely paralyzed by the sheer, horrific reality of his condition.

Massive clusters of black crystalline structures sprout directly from his forearms and tear through the tattered fabric around his legs. But the worst of it is his face. The Originium has violently erupted from the right side of his skull, the dark, toxic crystals completely overtaking his eye and ear, pulsing with a dim, sickly glow. His infection is so severe, cannot even tell his race anymore.

Late-stage Oripathy. The Originium has entirely consumed his neural pathways. He has completely, irreversibly lost his mind to the infection. A terrifying, walking ghost of a man waiting for his body to finally turn to infectious dust.

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

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

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

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

We lie completely still in the dirt. My heart hammers in frantic, deafening rhythm against my ribs. I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the rotting, acidic taste of his psychosis flooding the air, hoping that the massive Originium growths on his skull have damaged his eyesight enough that he won't spot the misty blue of my tail or the yellow stripes of Podenco's jacket.

The chilling laughter echoes again, drifting closer over the ridge.

The chilling, broken laughter is practically on top of us. My fingers digging desperately into the dry dirt as I brace for the inevitable, horrific moment he spots us.

Then, an orange and black blur tears through the edge of my vision.

It happens so fast my brain entirely fails to process the movement. A sudden, explosive rush of displaced air and the blinding flash of ignited metal.

A searing, suffocating wave of heat washes over the depression. It is a violent, industrial inferno, so intense it makes the dry air physically shimmer and warp above the brush. I gasp, my eyes snapping open.

The heavy, sickening sound of a body hitting the earth thuds against my ears. The infected man drops completely limply to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Rising from the jagged, crystalline growths on his skull is a thin, acrid puff of grey smoke, carrying the horrific, undeniable stench of scorched bone.

The ambient air in the depression violently ruptures. The sickening static simply flatlines, plunging the air into an absolute, chilling void.

Miss Franka stands rigidly at the crest of the ridge, just a few paces away from the corpse.

Her posture is locked into a flawless, lethal stance. Her thermite blade points directly forward, the superheated metal still glowing with a terrifying, white-hot intensity that hisses against the cold wind.

She holds the pose for a second longer. Then, she lowers the blade, exhaling a slow, measured breath.

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

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

I stare at the thin wisp of smoke rising from the corpse. My lungs feel paralyzed.

"I…" I stammer, my voice a microscopic, trembling squeak. I force myself to drag my eyes away from the dead man, looking up at the veteran. "I am. We are."

Podenco pushes herself up first, and reaches down to grab my forearm. She hoists me up, pulling me up.

I sway unsteadily, my hands immediately dropping to the front of my new oversized Rhodes Island jacket and my pleated skirt, frantically brushing the dry, baked dust from the fabric. My fingers are shaking so violently that I can barely dust myself off.

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

"Thank you, Miss Franka,"

She offers a single, crisp nod, flicking the blade to cool the metal before she smoothly sheathes it.

"Perimeter clear! No other hostiles in sight!"

Miss Beanstalk's voice rings out clearly from her rocky vantage point.

The crunch of boots approaches from behind us. Miss Almond strides up. Her eyes are entirely focused on the horizon.

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

"Understood," Podenco replies instantly.

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

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

I want to go home…

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

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

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

The walk back to the vehicle is entirely silent.

The heavy, suffocating weight of the dead man and the wisp of scorched bone still lingers in my nose. I keep my head down, my sneakers kicking up small puffs of dry dirt, staying as close to Podenco's side as physically possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart stalls.

"Camp?!"

My mind instantly conjures the terrifying image of the pitch-black, untamed barrens stretching out in every direction, completely devoid of the landship's reinforced steel bulkheads and heavy armor.

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

My jaw practically unhinges. The sheer, unadulterated horror of sleeping on the dirt while giant Originium-filled bugs and wild beasts prowl around a flimsy canvas tent sends a violent shiver straight down my spine.

"How…" I stammer, my breathing turning shallow and frantic. I look desperately between Miss Franka and Podenco. "How do we find water! Do we need to dig? I can dig! I will dig the whole field right now!"

I make a frantic, scrambling motion toward the door handle, absolutely ready to throw myself back out into the dust and claw at the earth with my bare hands if it means we get to sleep in my safe, climate-controlled dorm tonight.

A sudden, bright laugh cuts through the cabin.

Miss Almond shakes her head.

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

She taps the screen mounted to the dashboard.

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

I slowly loosen my death grip on the door handle. My racing heart begins to settle back into a normal rhythm. I let out a long, shuddering exhale, slumping heavily back against the upholstery.

"Okay…" I whisper, my tail giving a weak, relieved thump against the seat.

Beside me, Podenco glares once again at Miss Franka, though the corners of her mouth are twitching with a suppressed smile.

"You are a menace, Franka," Podenco mutters.

Miss Franka just winks at me, turning back around to face the windshield as the ATV lurches forward, carrying us deeper into the sprawling, dusty expanse of the Columbian barrens.

The rumble of the all-terrain vehicle devours the untamed wilds, the tires kicking up a relentless cloud of dry dust. I keep my face pressed near the reinforced glass, my eyes tracking the endless, muted earth tones of the barrens.

Then, the landscape shifts. The rolling scrubland parts, revealing a staggering, unobstructed view of the colossal, snow-capped mountain range looming in the far distance. The peaks are a blinding, pristine white against the overcast sky.

Suddenly, a blur of motion cuts directly parallel to our vehicle.

Tearing across the dry plains is a herd of massive, galloping creatures. They are robust and heavily built, covered in thick, coarse fur that ripples in the biting wind. Despite their sheer, staggering bulk, they move with a breathtaking, thundering grace, their powerful legs eating up the distance as they race across the scrubland.

Framed perfectly against the majestic, frozen peaks of the distant mountains, they look like something pulled entirely out of a fairytale.

"Woah…" I breathe out, my hands pressing flat against the cool glass. "What are they?" Sitting across from me, Miss Beanstalk leans toward the window.

"They are swiftbeasts," Miss Beanstalk explains, her voice dropping into a tone of quiet, professional awe. "Look at their trajectory. They are heading straight toward the coordinates of the underground stream."

In the driver's seat, Miss Almond lets out a sharp, satisfied hum. Her ears tracking the sounds of the galloping beasts.

"Could be a jackpot," Miss Beanstalk adds, a bright smile breaking across her face. "If the wildlife is migrating there to drink, the Originium density in the water table is likely perfectly safe."

I keep my eyes on the swiftbeasts gallop, their hooves kicking up plumes of dust that catch the fading daylight like spun gold.

The visceral, rotting horror of the infected man we had left behind on the ridge feels suddenly, impossibly far away. The suffocating dread of Catastrophes, the massive destructions, and the burning cities that had plagued my nightmares recedes, pushed back by the sheer, untamed majesty of the creatures running free beneath the mountains.

Miss Adele’s soft, airy voice rings out clearly.

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

“It is beautiful."

The vehicle crunch to a slow, deliberate halt. Miss Almond cuts the engine, and the mechanical roar fades.

I step out of the cabin, hitting the soft dirt. Just a few dozen meters away, the herd of swiftbeasts has gathered at the edge of a clear, babbling stream that cuts a miraculous, winding path through the dry earth. They lower their massive, fur-covered heads, drinking deeply. They are entirely unbothered by the sudden arrival of our metal transport, their presence radiating a calm, primal stillness.

I take a mesmerized step forward, my eyes wide with awe.

"Don't get too close though, Lethe," Miss Beanstalk warns. Her voice is soft to avoid spooking the herd, but it carries the firm, undeniable authority of a professional breeder. "Their kicks are no joke. They could shatter your ribs without breaking a sweat."

I instantly freeze. I take a very quick, very careful step backward, my tail tucking respectfully close to my legs. I would definitely not survive a swiftbeast kick.

Miss Almond steps past us. She walks toward a rocky depression a short distance from the stream and points downward. It is a steep, shadowed sinkhole.

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

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

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

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

She pauses, adjusting the climbing gear over her shoulder, and flashes me a confident smirk. "You got it."

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

Podenco is already holding her trowel and a specialised terrarium. She points toward the vibrant, lush patches of greenery and delicate, moisture-loving flowers thriving right at the very edge of the stream.

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

I look at the vibrant splash of life blooming against the harsh dirt.

"Okay!" I chirp.

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

The hours slip by in a quiet, methodical rhythm.

Kneeling by the water's edge, I meticulously inspect the serrated edges and stems of the moisture-loving plants, ensuring absolutely none of them possess the telltale signs of poisonous plants that Podenco has taught me. I carefully scoop the damp, nutrient- rich soil into the pristine glass vials, sealing them tight. The work is tedious and my knees are coated in dry dirt, but the simple, repetitive focus is a grounding anchor against the vastness of the barrens.

The mechanical whir of the winch breaks the peaceful silence.

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

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

A few paces away, Miss Franka pauses her perimeter patrol. She lowers her blade, the fading sunlight catching the dull metal. The sky above the snow-capped mountains is already beginning to bruise into a deep, twilight purple.

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

Podenco stands up, brushing the dirt from her knee-highs. She holds up her specialized container, the vibrant, healthy green cuttings resting securely inside.

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

I quickly scramble to my feet, holding up my own meticulously packed glass vials to show the Field Ops.

"Me too," I chime in, beaming. I hadn't accidentally picked a single poisonous plant or mistakenly eaten anything sweet-smelling off the ground.

Miss Franka gives a slow, approving nod. Her hand drops to her handle comms device.

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

My shoulders completely slump, and I let out a massive, audible exhale. The terrifying, looming threat of sleeping in a flimsy canvas tent, completely surrounded by giant slugs and feral beasts in the pitch-black barrens, is officially and completely off the table. I won't have to fight off any wildlife trying to eat my tail.

We are going home.

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

The sky above the Columbian barrens slowly begins to bruise, the overcast grey melting into deep streaks of fiery orange and rich, twilight indigo. The vast, untamed plains stretch out endlessly as the sun dips below the horizon, Arts Unit long, stretching shadows across the scrubland.

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

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

I offer a slow, obedient nod, blinking heavily.

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

A few paces away, Miss Almond is entirely absorbed in her work. She meticulously checks Castle bots’ sensor arrays and securing latches, her fingers dancing rapidly across their chassis. Miss Franka, meanwhile, is leaning casually against the tires of our all-terrain vehicle, her arms crossed over her chest. But despite her lazy posture, her eyes are constantly moving, scanning the darkening horizon for any signs of scavengers or creeping sandbeasts.

Then, the quiet of the plains is broken.

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

They bank sharply through the twilight sky, the VTOL’s massive thrusters cycling down as they begin their descent.

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

A massive, blinding cloud of dry dust and loose scrub kicks up into the air. The violent wind rips across the plain, slamming directly into me. The oversized jacket I am wearing acts like a literal parachute. The wind violently catches the fabric, billowing it out so forcefully that it threatens to peel me right off the dirt and blow me across the barrens.

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

I scramble to stay anchored, throwing my arms tightly across my chest and desperately gripping the lapels of my jacket to hold it closed over my turtleneck. My long tail lashes wildly against the ground, fighting to keep my center of gravity down.

The landing gears finally strike the earth with a massive, echoing thud. The engines whine down into a low, idling hum, and the suffocating gale finally begins to recede. Hydraulics hiss sharply in the twilight air. The ramp of the VTOL lowers, hitting the dirt. I open my eyes, brushing the dust from my bangs. Heavy, synchronized boots march down the ramp.

I recognize the two Operators instantly.

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

I instinctively reach out.

The flavors that hit the back of my tongue are completely different now. The agonizing, toxic sludge I had siphoned from their minds is gone. The ambient air around them tastes like dry canvas, oiled steel, and the grounded, earthy tea flavors of steady professionalism. They are healed. They are standing tall, their armor secure and their eyes clear, ready to do their jobs.

Miss Franka pushes herself off the tire of the ATV.

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

The Lupo and the Perro both return the nod.

Fourteen. Zip.

I stare at the two Ops, my hands slowly loosening their desperate grip on my jacket. So that is their names.

A sudden, sharp pang of guilt twists in my chest. I had sat with them in their darkest, most vulnerable moments. I had reached into the deepest corners of their minds, swallowed their nightmares, and watched them weep until they were completely wrung out. Yet, in all those hours in the Convalescent Garden, I had only ever seen them as 'the Lupo' and 'the Perro.' I had taken their pain, but I had left them completely nameless in my own mind.

I think of Opal. I think of how vital it was to coax her name out of the freezing void, to anchor her identity to the world so she wouldn't disappear into the trauma. Amiya and mom always use names. They never treat the Operators like anonymous casualties. I need to do better, I promise myself, my fingers curling into the fabric of my coat. Next time I treat someone in the garden, I am going to ask for their name before they leave. Mr. Fourteen, the Lupo, steps forward into the fading light, his posture crisp and efficient.

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

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

"Get the kids some rest," Mr. Zip says, offering a respectful nod to Miss Franka as he moves to secure the perimeter.

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

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

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

"Suit yourself, Almond. Don’t run to me when the cafeteria is out of apple wedges." Miss Almond doesn't even look back, already marching toward the suspension cables of the transport helicopter. "Save some for me!" she shouts over her shoulder, her voice echoing over the idling engines. "No onions!"

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

The moment my body hits the bench, the sheer, staggering exhaustion of the day finally crashes over me. I feel entirely hollowed out, trembling with a dull, persistent ache. I let out a massive stretch, my arms reaching high above my head as a long, jaw- cracking yawn escapes my throat. My horns practically scrape the paints of the cabin, and my tail falls completely limp against the floorboards.

I slump sideways, letting my head rest heavily against Podenco's shoulder. Her citrusy presence is incredibly comforting, a familiar anchor against the deafening mechanical roar of the aircraft. My eyelids flutter, suddenly weighing a thousand kilograms as the adrenaline of my very first logistics mission completely leaves my bloodstream.

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