Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jax has to think.

Fast.

He’s in a badly rendered part of the city, with larger pixels everywhere. Caine must have hoped no one would find this spot.

There’s a brick wall in front of him, too high to jump over. To his left, a metal mesh fence, an apartment block to his right, and behind him—a buzzing clatter. Terrible sound, wet like torn flesh. That thing is coming. Not the character he knew, no, it can only be a lousy copy—yet his hands tremble all the same.

He’s already thrown away everything that could slow him down. The bag was left in the basement, where he had first seen it, backpack thrown away as he squeezed through the jammed door that this thing easily broke down, hardly a few seconds later. He only has a gun and—how many bullets? Two or three. He’d check, but he's too afraid that they’d scatter on the street. He barely managed to load the gun with how much he’s shaking.

To hell with Caine for… all this, it’s all his fault. He said this adventure will be a realistic one. What a lie. Realistic adventures have never been his favorite, and this one—the only realistic thing about it is how exhausted everyone’s been since they got here. They have to eat, can sweat and bleed—and it stopped being fun a long time ago.

On his right side, the windows are closed, all secured with anti–burglary roller shutters. Jax shoots at one of them. Bullet stops, glitches, and bounces off. No luck with that. He’d try to climb the fence, but he can’t get his fingers through the mesh. There’s an invisible wall behind it. No matter how hard he pushes, he won’t get to the other side.

This really is a dead end.

He shouldn’t have tried to lose it behind. He should’ve run to the others right away. What a fatal decision that was.

Jax tries to back out, but it’s too late. Ribbit—no, this thing pretending to be him, oh so believably—is already sticking its head out. Black creature covered with eyes of all colors and sizes, on all fours like some animal, sleek and smaller than most abstractions, but faster and far more fierce than Jax remembered. Although, to tell the truth, the last time he saw Ribbit after abstracting, he didn’t really look very closely, nor did he look for long.

This thing must know it has him in its grasp now. It no longer lunges like a hunting dog. Instead, it creeps closer, one step at a time.

Jax swallows the urge to call out for Caine. It won’t do anything. This won’t help. Caine hasn’t answered any of their calls since he left them in this wasteland. That’s not going to change just because Jax got into trouble. He is alone. He has to figure something out.

“Looks like you caught up with me.” His voice comes out way too nervous for his own comfort. Pushed by some instinct, he steps back, trying to keep the distance—his stride forcibly steady until he touches the wall.

Jax grips the gun until his hand goes numb. This time, he can’t miss.

“Maybe I’ll chase you now, huh? Whatcha thinkin’, Ribbs? That’ll be much more fun.”

The beast doesn’t answer. Of course not. But it stops in mid-motion, one paw raised, webbed claws resting in the air, and narrows its many eyes. Some are watching him, others look straight at the gun as it’s aimed at its heart. If Jax shoots now, he’ll hit. A clean shot. He hesitates only for a moment.

He pulls the trigger.

There’s a click. One, then another.

Jax looks at his gun. He thinks it might be jammed. But it isn’t.

The beast tilts its head, almost like it’s amused. Its purr sounds like mockery.

Jax’s out of bullets.

“No, no… No, f***!”

When he looks up again, the beast is much closer. It’s so close that he can see his own reflection in the big eye on its heart—and it’s almost cruel to be made to look like that. His ears are low on his head, pupils as tiny as pins. If Jax was shaking before, it must be worse now that he sees every twitch on the black surface in front of him. His knees are getting weak; he has to press hard against the bricks so as not to fall, and even that doesn’t help much. Ribbit—no, that beast—still plays with him, and knowing him—it’ll get bored soon. Jax needs to think. He was never good at thinking—not at times like these when he might as well have a gun to his head. In times like these, he always makes things worse. At least as far as he remembers. He can’t remember much, but something tells him so.

This black form speckled with eyes is so close it’s almost touching him. The beast bares its fangs, its breath reeks of a sewer. Jax can’t look, not anymore. There is nowhere left to run. One cut from those claws could rip him open. One slash of a tongue can cause a festering wound. One bite will tear him in half. He feels this thing's tongue on his ankle, wet and grippy like a snail’s belly, as thick as Jax’s arm and many meters long. At least the sensation’s not painful as it climbs up his leg. With his eyes closed, he can almost convince himself that it is a caress. Harmless. Tickling, making him cough up a small laugh.

What is he even thinking about?

What should he be thinking?

His heart beats fast all the same, pounds against his ribs like a drum.

How… nasty.

“It was just a joke, you know. I wouldn’t shoot you, you know that.”

No response, only the tongue rolling up the leg of his pants.

“Come on, Ribbs. Stop fooling around, you—!” Jax’s eyes snap open as his leg is twisted at a painfully uncomfortable angle. A soft crack pierces the air. Something breaks in his ankle. He starts to scream. “Don’t, wait, please wait! Don’t do this, I’m sorry, okay—I’m sorry!”

Jax loses his balance. In panic, he strikes with the butt of the gun, but it bounces off as if this black vibrating thing was made of hitin.

He is yanked and pinned down to the concrete. His back and head hit the hard surface, stunning him for a few seconds. The gun falls from his hands, too far for him to reach. This beast is leaning over him. Fighting back only makes it angrier, but he struggles anyway, as best he can. Tries to kick with his free leg to throw this thing off, but it’s bigger and way too heavy. Touching it, skin against that vibrating blackness, hurts almost like a broken bone, and the more he tries to escape, the more painful it becomes.

“F O U N D. Y O U.” Comes a distorted voice, but its words are clear. Abstractions can speak. Jax knows that—everyone does, they’ve met a lot of them during this adventure—but it’s not common. And those which do talk often pose the greatest threat.

“Wait, wait! I didn’t mean to, I swear I’m— I’m sorry, I really am! I’ll explain everything, just let me go, okay? I’ll take you to the others. Kinger’s still alive, you remember him? That nutty old guy. Rags, Zooble, and the Crybaby! Can you believe it? And we have a newbie, I’m sure you’ll like her!”

It might be madness to even think it’s possible, but for a moment, that thing seems to regain a sliver of consciousness. Maybe he’s delirious, but Jax can swear the pressure is loosening—so he tries to crawl out, but his muscles cry in protest with every move. Before he can pull himself together, he’s pinned to the ground once more. A black paw presses on his chest, claws scraping against the asphalt just above his shoulders, almost like teeth gnashing.

That’s it, he thinks. He’ll be torn to pieces in this dead-end alley. And only if Caine decides to look his way, he might spawn back, maybe. Someday. He’s been here long enough to start doubting the possibility. How long has this adventure been going for, anyway? Two months, or was it three? With no end in sight.

Jax tenses and waits, but nothing comes. No cut or bite. Just a tongue on his left leg, slowly creeping up, and those claws, a shudder too close to his neck. A slippery feeling. This thing’s tongue is dangerously high, Jax realizes. Far above his knee, almost reaching his hip, and it’s moving funny with the tip on the inside of his thigh. It makes him remember how sweaty he must be from all that running. His clothes are sticking to his skin, foul with street dust, but the abstraction doesn’t seem bothered.

“What do you want? I can’t—no, stop—stop that!”

He’s ignored again. But this thing isn’t trying to kill him, or at least that’s not what it looks like. With all the strength it has, it could’ve done so by now.

“What do you want?” Jax repeats. “What do you want from me?”

The answer—if any—comes in the form of its tongue rubbing against his crotch, exactly where the genitals should be, but sensation still remains. It’s faded, but present. Like in the privacy of his own room, while trying to squeeze at least a little pleasure out of this grotesquely alien body. Everyone here was starving for something like that, especially right after arrival. He’s sure, although he never asked the others. One would’ve to be mad not to try, and there’s room for only one crazy character. And even if, at first, this smooth crotch did nothing for him, his senses improved over time. It’s not exactly the same as in the real world, but that’s to be expected—and what’s there has to be enough.

Its tongue rubs against the exact spot where the shivers come from.

Beast shifts position, strangely cautious about not crushing Jax under its weight. It clenches its paw, not too hard. At first, Jax thinks it might get off of him, but it only lowers itself onto its elbows, head to his belly. Its touch is less painful, for a moment—but then it presses harder, catches its teeth on the waistband of his pants and, without the slightest effort, tears the fabric with one long stroke.

There is no doubt about what it wants to do. It’s too obvious, even in silence, every intention is as clear as day. Abstraction presses its muzzle between Jax’s legs, rubbing rhythmically. This forces him to move his left leg a little higher—and moving’s difficult, but having it up brings temporary relief.

The digital sky is slowly turning gray like an old TV screen. Jax watches the clouds move by, his arms spread out to the sides. They all look the same, identically rendered. One moment, there are two clouds above him, then four, then two again, spinning like on a swing. Maybe he hit his head a little too hard.

“I don’t like this,” he blurts out, unsure of whom to address.

The tongue clenches tighter around his leg, lifting it even higher, pulling, trying to lift his hips as well. Jax has to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Pain radiates from his leg to the spine, the pressure on his chest increasing. Any moment now, and it’ll break his ribs. The beast pushes its head harder, sliding Jax’s shoulders against the blades of its claws. It should worry him—his mind tells him so—that despite everything, he feels the heat rising inside.

Pain was the first thing his new body learned how to feel. The rest was a byproduct. Maybe it was the same with others, that the familiar came back first—he thinks so, but he’s not sure, he didn’t ask.

When he felt like he should be hungry, pain gripped his stomach. When he wanted to please himself, pinching and scratching stimulated him more than ever in the real world. He didn’t hate it, had no reason to. After all, this new body couldn’t be damaged for long. During one long night spent by a virtual lake, he blurted it out to Ribbit. His lack of concern was fairly uplifting.

“So you’re a masochist! I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry,” he joked. “You should ask Caine for some accessories, he’ll have no idea what you’re gonna use them for anyway.”

“Hah! Good one. No way, I won’t do that. He’ll think I’m suicidal or something.”

Ribbit laughed lightly. “Who cares what Caine thinks?” he said, and when his chuckle quieted down, he looked Jax straight in the eyes with that charmingly innocent look of his.

“What if I ask? Come on, I’ll be discreet as ever,”

Jax almost started to consider it, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Ribbit started laughing again. “Or I can push you down the stairs or something, how ‘bout that?” he said, pointing at Jax’s face. “Good enough for you?”

He never did any of that. Of course not. He never did anything too physical, even though he was quite handsy. In the common room, he often sat leaning on someone’s shoulder. On adventures, he’d come up behind others and grab their elbows. He always seemed to be standing next to someone, keeping distance just a little too short. As for Jax, he liked to catch him by the tail. He’d approach from behind and pull to announce his presence. There were times when Jax found it a little strange, but eventually he got used to it, like everyone else did. That was but a part of the charm of the sweet one, and if this thing really has anything of Ribbit in it, this must be it.

It touches deliberately, with curious tenderness between Jax’s legs and roughly everywhere else. Its tongue cuts off circulation, but it also provides support, allowing Jax to relax a little. If all his limbs were free, he’d only hurt himself more.

There’s something wet under his shoulder blades, and he thinks it can’t be sweat. It smells too sweet for that, and it’s leaking from around his neck where one of the claws is digging in. His face is damp, too. Maybe that’s why there’s this salty taste in his mouth.

Shivers build up as Jax reaches out and awkwardly grabs the abstractions’ head. He didn’t notice when it started, but his hips had been rocking for a while. Faintly at first, before he’s lifted up.

Strong claws hold him in the air by the sides and chest in an embrace—firm but not too tight. He almost sits—almost like in a chair—and has more room to move. It’s much easier to rub like that when gravity helps a little.

Instead of much more fit cries of fear and agony, small moans escape from his mouth. Jax nuzzles into the abstraction’s head, only a little afraid of the pain that might come with it. When he doesn’t move hastily, the touch is just a tiny buzz. Eyes close as he feels himself coming.

All his muscles clench at once on a held breath. Climax—or something close to it—comes in spasms, leaving him even more limp than before. The feeling’s as empty as a can thrown on the sidewalk, but it’s also one of the very few times he came in this body. He rarely managed to reach this far on his own. He’ll worry about that later, if at all.

Abstractions’ cold breath cools his skin. It helps him get back to his senses enough to make him whine. “I wasn’t lying, Ribbs. I really am sorry,” he speaks so quietly he’s not sure if it can hear him. But it doesn’t matter; that’s a stupid thing to say, he’d have to be an idiot to expect an answer anyway.

It takes Jax a moment to realize this isn’t over yet. Something brushes between his legs again. Not its tongue; it’s larger and less flexible. It’s only when that something presses hard, trying to force the way in, that Jax bulges his eyes in panic. Impossible, he thinks. This won’t work.

“Oh God, no, please don’t.” There’s no way it can get inside. Digital bodies don’t even have holes for that. But this beast pushes so hard like it wants to drill some. The claw slides down there, too.

“G E N T L E,” abstraction purrs.

Jax feels dry in the throat.

“That’s gonna kill me,” he barely chokes out. “You’re really going to kill me.”

Sharp tip digs in a circular motion. Warm blood starts to leak in thin streams, down the inside of his thighs, dripping onto the street below. Pain that comes is far too much, too sharp, too intrusive to be any kind of pleasure. Jax screams at the top of his lungs, shrieks, wriggles, bends his back and scratches, unable to grab hold again. His ears shoot up, black pulp gets under his blunt claws. He is being forced open, prepared for something so huge it will crush his insides. He will die, but that’s not the worst fate. It is still unknown whether their bodies disappear after death. Jax can’t let anyone find his body with a grotesque hole between his legs. What will they think? Will they pity him? And if he comes back after death—if Caine finally lets them out of here—what will they say? That they’re sorry? He can’t have that. He’d rather smash their skulls and burst their guts. Because they wouldn’t be sorry, that’d be just a lie. They would just get over his death, as they should. Maybe they would throw him a small funeral and say a few tearful words, if they’d be in the mood—and that’s it. A stupid, empty farewell fuss that they’ll force him to participate in, if not in person, then as a portrait placed on a plastic mock coffin.

Abstraction sniffs like it senses something.

A low thud pierces the air. Abstraction flinches, pulling its claws out of the wound, and the next thing he knows, Jax is dropped like unnecessary ballast. He falls onto his side, into a small pool of his own blood. Abstraction leaves him alone; Jax only hears its high-pitched howl and the thud of escape.

He can’t see much; his eyes are blurry, but his ears work fine enough. Someone’s calling, a familiar voice, unusually intent.

No one should, but someone must’ve heard him. Who, he has no idea. He’s the only one on reconnaissance today. Gangle had some stupid “bad feeling”, Pomni was to take guard duty, Zooble had stopped straying from the group ever since they caught that black filth disease, Kinger never went out during the day, and Ragatha—she wasn’t much use anyway.

This someone kneels beside him, an uneven jumble of shapes, swearing like a sailor; oddly careful, not close enough to touch him. Jax thinks it must be because they don’t want to step in blood. Their hands hang over him for half a second too long, like they don’t know how to proceed. A moment passes before they decide what to do.

“Open your mouth,” they say as they take a small box out of the bag. “It’s a healing item.”

It tastes bitter and is hard to swallow, especially since Zoogle practically shoves the pill down his throat. They have a limited supply of these, and Jax’s first instinct is to refuse—some tiny pill won’t erase the blood he’s already lost. It’s a dump waste, almost offensive, he needs something better to heal all that damage, but Zooble forces him to swallow anyway.

After a few seconds, the worst of his wounds began to close. Smaller scratches remain, and his left ankle’s still blue, but at least he stops bleeding.

Zooble grabs Jax by the shoulders to help him sit up straight. They support his back with one hand, and hold a walkie-talkie in the other.

“Pomni, are you there? Come on, pick up… Yes, I found him… He’s in shock, hit his head or something, s***— Hey!” Upon hearing Pomni’s name, Jax tries to snatch the walkie-talkie from Zooble. Not very gracefully. They easily avoid his hand.

He tries again, groaning through his teeth. Again unsuccessfully—just hoping that Pomni doesn’t hear this. Meeting Zooble in this alley is humiliating enough. The sight of their uneven eyes stripped of usual boredom, their hand on his back. This doesn’t fit them; they’re the last thing he wants to see leaning over him when he’s half naked and roughed up like that.

“F***’s sake.” Zooble curses at Jax and then talks to Pomni again. “Just… all’s fine. Don’t panic, he’s injured but stable and quite conscious. We’ll be back in about fifteen, well, twenty minutes.” Zoogle hangs up and puts the walkie-talkie on the ground far enough that Jax can't reach it.

“I have a car nearby. Can you get up? I’ll help you walk. Come on, we can’t stay here.”

“What you’re starin’ at?” Jax finally speaks up. He doesn’t recognize his own voice; too high, too shaky. It sounds strange. Still, a smile creeps onto his face like some learned reflex.

“The f***. Jax, any longer and you’d be dead. Can you get up or not?” they insist.

Jax wants to hit them—to wipe that worry off their faces—clenches his fists, but he’s too slow to even tear the walkie-talkie out of Zooble’s hands, let alone win the fight. “Can’t you see? Everything’s fine. I can jump and all. Go, I’ll catch up with you.”

“Okay then,” Zooble doesn’t try to talk sense into him anymore; they just pull him to his feet—and it hurts, just a little, and they don’t seem to care. “You’re coming with me.”

The car Zooble drove up in was an old one, in little better shape than Jax had been when they found him. It’s dusty and messy, with cloudy windows that’ve been carelessly wiped. It’s a miracle the engine works at all. At least the blood stains won’t be too noticeable.

They are both silent most of the way, passing by the empty corpses of buildings. Zooble’s driving and Jax’s in the backseat, where Zooble had placed him. “Lie the hell down. I won’t let you puke on the front seat,” like it would make a difference.

“Where’s Pomni? You talked to her. Where is she?”

“Probably back at the guardhouse. I let her know you’re alive, so she doesn’t have to look for you anymore.” At least one piece of good news. “She said you were supposed to play cards today, but you didn’t come back for a long time. She had a feeling you were in trouble.”

“Hah, I’d be late anyway. She always cheats.”

When they are in the city center, their car veers slightly off the road, slows down, and stops. The engine is still running, but Zooble gets out of the car.

“There’s a clothes shop over there. Wait a minute, I’ll find something for you to wear,” they say, resting their hand on the open car door.

“I will kill you if you tell anyone.”

“I rather doubt that.”

“That’d be practical, don’t you think? Think ahead.”

Zooble leans over slightly.

“Look who’s talking; a rabbit with his leg twisted up.”

Jax narrows his eyes, but his smile widens. “At least then you won’t turn into abstraction, you just saw what a thing like that can do.”

Zooble clearly gets agitated, but says nothing except a reprimand. “I can’t believe we’re wasting time on this talk,” and turns around with a telling look. They don’t even slam the door—truly, an award-worthy composure. No matter, the black dots on their body give them away, vibrating like always when they’re pissed off. Kinger said that in this early stage of abstraction, negative emotions can inflict physical pain, but Zooble never complains about that, and Zooble complains a lot, so Jax doesn’t know if he believes it. Kinger also said that when they come back from this adventure, Zooble should be back to normal. That’s actually a nice thought, though unbearably naive.

Jax doesn’t really feel like thinking about it.

Before Zooble comes back, he knocks over the trash on the floor. Stacks of empty candy wrappings and cigarette boxes covered with a thick layer of dust and ash—the NPC who was to drive this car had to be pretty fat. And lazy. And probably boring. But at least it left one half-full box, hidden near the car floor. When Zooble finally comes back, Jax asks if they have a lighter. Yes, it’s definitely somewhere. They search under the front seats, tactically with their backs turned to Jax as he’s changing. They find it after an astonishingly long time and hand it to him without even glancing over their shoulder.

“What’s up, now you’re playing shy? There’s not much to see anyway, you freak.”

“I thought you might need some privacy.”

“Come on, you’ve already seen it all.”

The clothes they picked aren’t even that bad; a T-shirt with a green print and a pair of plain sweatpants. And they’re a good size for Jax, loose enough to fit, although he already knows he’ll have trouble putting them on. Especially since his left leg isn’t very mobile.

“I don’t want to look,” Zooble says.

“Why not?”

Jax doesn’t expect them to actually do anything. Zooble rarely changes their mind, especially when pressured. It’s almost shocking when they get out of the front seat, circle the car, and open the back door.

They’re face to face now, Jax’s legs spread across the seats where Zooble leans forward. They get down on one knee and grab the waistband of the sweatpants that Jax is still struggling to put on. He almost jumps. Zooble withdraws their hands.

“What are you doing?” he asks, clenching fist on the backrest.

“I’m helping you,” they say, and this time they reach out slower, stretching his sweatpants so that Jax could more easily squeeze his foot through. He does so reluctantly, with a grimace that barely resembles a smile.

Zooble still isn’t looking—not directly. Their gaze doesn’t wander above his knees. Jax finds a small victory in that.

“You know, I didn’t expect you, of all people, to come lookin’ for little ol’ me.”

“Pomni insisted.”

“So you shot and risked that monster chasing you instead? Zoobie, Pomni wasn’t even with you. You could’ve just left me and made up some story. I’m starting to think you like me after all.” He waves his hand, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, speaking with a mockingly cheerful tone. “Or maybe it’s just that this whole slowly–transforming–into–an–abstraction thing is messing with your mind, who knows.”

Zooble lets him finish, narrows their eyes, and stands up with their arms crossed.

“Is there any reason why you’re trying to piss me off?”

“Maybe I just don’t like the silence. You’re a bit of a taciturn.”

“Bulls***, you’re trying to make me angry. For what? You want to prove something? Want to see if I have the guts to leave you here as a bait for your old friend?”

Uneasiness tightens Jax’s face, even if just for a moment.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“You’re right, I won’t,” they say. “I don’t leave people to die, no matter if they deserve it or not—but that’s beyond you. If you’d rather get the hell out, you’re welcome to do so, but you’ll have to go alone. I won’t give you a ride I know you won’t survive.”

“And what’d you tell Pomni, huh? Sure not that you kicked me out of the car.”

“I’m not kicking you out. The choice is yours.”

Choice? This is more like a petty threat—to Jax, might as well be. He can feel dried blood cutting into the fabric of his sweatpants, and he can’t see this as anything but.

“There’re only so many of us here,” Zooble continues. “Let’s face it, we all only have each other. If we lose someone—even you—it’s like we lost a limb. So, do you want to go back to the base with me, or would you rather crawl like a trunk through these f****** wastelands until you drop dead?”

For some reason, Jax can’t muster a word. He feels a smile disappearing from his face, replaced by something very unpleasant. A grim or a frown—like a child getting scolded for playing with food.

His right foot twitches slightly, kicking the seat. A reflex he hasn’t learned to fully control.

“That’s what I thought,” Zooble says before turning around to go back to the driver’s seat. Jax watches them go, staring shamelessly as they take a few deep breaths, both hands on the steering wheel.

They leave after a few minutes, with a loud roar of the engine and a quiet “Sorry ‘bout that” on Zooble’s side. This reminds Jax that he still hasn’t lit his cigarette. He struggles with the lighter for a while. Smoke grounds him a bit.

The ride takes much longer than it should, or maybe it’s just the atmosphere that slows down time. It’s hard to imagine what this city would sound like if it were alive. It’s not even half as big as a real metropolis, but as they pass the corpses of shops, skyscrapers, and apartment buildings, Jax thinks it would be pretty loud. Maybe not so loud that’d hurt his ears, but enough to break the dullness. But, if there’s any noise outside, the roar of the engine drowns it all out.

“Wanna smoke?” he asks before common sense can stop him.

“Yeah.” Zooble reaches out to take one, probably without thinking. They do look like someone who has never refused a smoke in their life.

The engine growls louder, and Jax grabs one of his ears. Everything seems too loud and too quiet at the same time.

“Did you hear that?” Zooble asks, looking out the window.

“Yeah, your car is fallin’ apart.”

Zooble hums.

They’re already close to the base when the sound repeats. It’s muffled, but everything is.

Zooble glances in the rearview mirror and gouges their eyes out. Their hands grip the wheel tightly. “S***!”

The car accelerates rapidly, speed pushing Jax into his seat.

“He’s behind us!” Zooble shouts.

Jax turns his head. And there it is—this abstraction speckled with eyes, with a long tongue and sharp claws, growling as it’s chasing the car. It’s getting closer. Zooble’s pressing the gas, but this old junker can’t go any faster. This thing’s starting to catch up to them. Their base is now in sight—a small shopping center that they’ve cleared and secured—but this thing is catching up. They might not make it. Without thinking, Jax leans out and grabs the steering wheel. Zooble shouts, “Let go!” and “We’ll crash!” but he doesn’t listen. They drive off the road, over the sidewalk, into a parking lot. Tires screech. Jax holds onto the wheel like his life depends on it—and it might—so he refuses to let go. Zooble tries to push him away, but before they do, they completely lose control of the car. There’s an enraged abstraction behind them, and a well-secured building in front of them. They’re getting closer. Almost there. Zooble can’t brake in time; car turns and crashes, front into the solid parking pole.

Jax is thrown forward with great force, bent as he bursts through the window. Shattered glass cuts his skin and slams into his side as he hits the concrete, two meters from the car. For a few seconds, he can’t see anything. When vision returns, it’s blurry like he’s swimming underwater. His ribs are well bruised. It’s hard to breathe.

Trembling with effort, he tries to push himself up—glass crunching beneath his barely moving body, eyes slowly focusing on the car.

Zooble lies forehead on the steering wheel. The airbag didn’t deploy. They must’ve hit their head. Jax thinks he should help them, but before he can get to his feet, he feels a foul, cold breath on the back of his neck. The sweet stench of blood. Slowly, he lies back down and doesn’t dare to look up.

The beast purrs in his ear. Jax thinks it’s checking if he will start running away again. It wants to play.

This is a nightmare. Maybe if he closes his eyes tight enough, he’ll wake up. He’ll wake up again this morning with a slight headache and unpleasant brain fog, but safe and sound, and he’ll refuse to go lookin’ for supplies—he threw them all away anyway.

He doesn’t care anymore.

There are shots again, just like back in the alley. The beast jumps over him. Jax feels the movement and hears a bang. It scrapes with its claws, climbs higher up the wall.

Something wraps around Jax’s elbow, hard, and yanks him up, but this time he doesn’t have the strength to stay on his feet. His knees bend, but the red ribbons yank him up again. Jax no longer needs the strength in his legs—he’s pulled into the building through the broken window, and thrown onto the floor. The last thing he sees outside is Pomni breaking down the car’s door. But if Pomni’s down there and Gangle is here with him, then who’s shooting? Can’t be Ragatha, she can’t even aim properly.

It’s getting a little dark.

Gangle unfurls through the window, red ribbons wrapped around the beam for safety. She struggles with the weight, strains, and sizzles as she’s pulling in Pomni and Zooble’s unconscious body, both at the same time.

Pomni runs up to Jax, says something about them having to get going, that whatever came after him is about to break in, they must take up arms. She touches his face, slaps him—first lightly, then harder. Jax wants to tell her to piss off, he hears her quite well, but a pitiful whimper is what comes out of his mouth. Gangle puts Zooble against the wall. Dead weight. If they have to go, why doesn’t Pomni hurry them instead?

There’s another bang outside, and a howl. Then blackness covers the window. Beast falls from the roof and hits the ground with great force. Then nothing. Pomni looks out the window and down. She says something to Gangle that Jax can’t understand. Gangle seems sad. Pomni’s worried, but calmer with a paler face and her hands hanging loosely.

Then everything turns white.

Jax wakes up in a completely different place. It’s so dark he doesn’t know exactly where, only that everything hurts. Loud purring rings in his ears. The sound itself almost makes him jump in fright, but his body feels far too heavy for that, and when he sees dozens of eyes staring at him, he recognizes which abstraction they belong to. This one shouldn’t attack him. At least not in front of Kinger, and he’s in there too—sitting on the floor, back to Jax. Someone had to take over the night watch. Probably Pomni, she doesn’t sleep much anyway.

They’re still in their base, on the first floor, in a room that Kinger arranged for his own use. Jax rarely comes here, but he recognizes the sound of grinding in a mortar and the smell of herbs Kinger’s preparing for Zooble and Queenie. He probably has something for Jax, too, to ease the pain, he just needs to let him know he’s not sleeping anymore.

Jax decides he’s not ready yet. He lies still, trying to relax stiff muscles, but the abstraction’s eyes are boring a hole in his skull. And his body smells wrong. Feels sticky, but if he wants to take a shower, he has to pass Kinger and ask someone to heat the water, because he’s sure he won’t be able to fill the tank by himself. Maintaining hygiene is a real hustle in this place. But he won’t ask, and he won’t walk past Kinger limping like a dog—and he’s sure he’ll limp because his leg hurts the most.

Kinger pets the abstraction a few times, giving some signal, and it leaves, no words exchanged. It’s a little darker without it, but Jax’s eyes are quickly adjusting. Just one of the few advantages of his digital body.

Eventually, the silence becomes unbearable.

“You know I’m not sleeping, right?”

“For some time now.” Of course he does. That’s why he sent that monster out of the room. This thing he keeps calling his wife. Whatever makes him sleep at night. Or, well—at day.

“Is Zooble all right?”

“Close encounter with abstraction did not aggravate their infection. I feared this might happen. Fortunately, I was wrong. Zooble is too stubborn to get killed this easily. They were bruised, but pulled themselves together.”

The abstraction.

“You killed it,” Jax states more than asks.

Kinger doesn’t turn to face him, and maybe that’s a good thing. Jax doesn’t know if he could hold his gaze.

“I did.”

“You think it hurt?”

The repeated sound of crushing stops. Kinger holds his mortar in half-limp hands.

“No. He was suffering so much already. This was the only thing we could have done to help.”

“How do you know? You didn’t try.” Jax’s not sure where these words came from or why he’s saying that. He didn’t try either. No matter. It’s not like any of this is real. No, it can’t be. The real Ribbit is still at the circus, locked in the cellar, while Jax is away on this never-ending adventure with all the others. It couldn’t be Ribbit because Ribbit’s dead; as dead as they can be in this hellhole, if they can be at all—and because dead weight is not carried on adventures, even such long and tiring ones.

And if Jax would like to be cynical, he’d say it couldn’t have been him, because he was never there to begin with. His presence was pleasant while it lasted, and then less pleasant but still there, and all this time there was no person behind it. Just a pixelated frog, pretty good at remembering little things and lifting up spirits, and now he’s who knows what—but not that. And it’s not like that could be changed. It had to be this way. He wasn’t much different from Jax after all, only doing what the new nature dictates; just a frog diving underwater for a little too long, just like a rabbit digging deeper into his den.

Jax laughs at his own thoughts. “Never mind, a bunch of pixels can’t suffer anyway. Your madness’s rubbing off on me, old nut.”

“I may not always be fully aware,” Kinger says. “But I know Caine well enough to know he wouldn’t create an NPC based on our deceased friends, just for them to torment us. He knows it would hurt us, he doesn’t want that. Something must have gone wrong. I don’t know what, but we will find out.” Kinger lifts his head slightly. For a moment, he looks like he wants to turn around, but he just sits back. “I’m sorry about your friend, Jax. Some abstractions cannot be helped, freeing them from pain is the best we can do.”

Jax turns over so if Kinger decides to look at him, at least he won’t see his face. He’s too tired for this old-man talk anyway. All he can choke out is a soft laugh, breath like a sob—and if he cries, at least no one can see.

Chapter Text

The cleanup took some time. Two days to gather Ribbit’s corpse and move it to a decent place, and another day to clear away the rubble. After death, his body turned into a soft liquid that spattered the walls and spread across the parking lot. Not a very pleasant sight. Ragatha took on most of the work, while Pomni transported the collected body parts to a nearby park, where she buried them in a shallow grave, one bucket after another. They wondered if they should do a second funeral, but Zooble protested. “He was dead already, died when he abstracted. Better not to drag this out.”

Now Gangle wonders where those words came from. It’s unusual for Zooble to deny someone something so basic. What if Queenie were the one to die? Kinger would certainly like to hold a funeral. He’d be sad if he heard them say that. Ribbit attacked their base; that’s true. But he most likely did it because he was in pain, and from what Gangle saw through the window, when Jax fell out of the car, he wasn’t trying to hurt him. Just walked around him and touched him with his muzzle, that’s all. Like he wanted to wake him up. And he left Zooble alone; he didn’t try to get into the car. Maybe he didn’t even know they were inside. Gangle thinks it’s a bit cruel to talk about him the way Zooble does. If Jax were saying these things, that’d be nothing unexpected, but he hasn’t said much, and Zooble is not a cruel person.

Gangle can’t stop thinking about it. It bothers her more than it probably should, so the same night it happened, she asks if she can stay with Zooble. Their beds aren’t far apart, but the furniture store they sleep in is quite large, and one has to break the ice somehow.

“Why? Did something happen?”

“No, no,” Gangle shakes her mask with a smile she hopes doesn’t look too nervous. “Nothing besides that—you know. Ribbit attacking our base… thing.”

“Oh. Right.”

They look away and make room on the bed. No need, it’s quite big—king-size, actually—but their gesture was probably meant to be more inviting than practical. Gangle climbs onto the mattress and remains silent for a few seconds, not knowing how to begin. She can feel her smile becoming increasingly awkward, until she drops it completely.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you, how do you feel?” she says, at last.

“My neck hurts, head’s killin’ me, but apart from that—I’m fine. Could’ve been a lot worse.” And Gangle thought it was—worse, that is—right after Pomni pulled them out of the car. She panicked a little, even though Zooble woke up rather quickly and stood up on their own. It was a relief like no other to hear that nothing too serious had happened to them. They suffered a mild concussion, but apart from headaches, their condition is only improving.

“Happy to hear that. And how are you, um. Emotionally?”

Zooble crosses their ankles under the covers. “Has been better. I’m a little shaken, I guess,” they admit, but don’t elaborate. Gangle waits patiently, but the explication doesn’t come. Instead, Zooble lies on their side, facing her, like they’re also waiting for something.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I’m not sure.”

“Please, don’t feel pressured. It’s okay if you don’t want to say why, but you’ve been acting… a little strange, lately. You can always tell me if you feel,” Gangle curls and unfolds her ribbon hand, looking for the right words. “Sad. Or scared.”

“I know. Thank you. Guess I’m not sure how to explain it all. Another time, all right? Let’s go to sleep.”

Gangle smiles softly, this time not to hide her nervousness.

“All right,” she says and gets comfortable, flat under the covers, with only her mask sticking out. She’s careful not to wrap herself too tightly around Zooble. Sometimes, they complain a little when she does that, but tonight they let her do it, even tighten their fingers around one of her ribbons. Gangle isn’t sad about it. Since they were infected, they’ve become sensitive to touch and textures. Each time they seem fine enough to allow a little more closeness is worth more than a long night talk.

Sleep comes after half an hour, sweet and most peaceful in days. A few hours later, they are awakened by a particularly loud whine coming from another store. The echo travels well in this place; there’s no doubt what the source is.

“Great,” Zooble groans. “Jax’s awake.”

They disentangle themself from Gangle’s ribbons and turn to get off the bed, looking at her over their shoulder. Their eyes are tired, but they don’t show any irritation, even though it’s Jax of all people who wakes them up in the middle of the night. Gangle thinks this is quite unprecedented.

“Gonna check on him, I just know he won’t shut up all night.”

“But you were hurt, too. We should ask Pomni… or Ragatha?”

“It’s fine, I’ll do it.” The same whine repeats as they speak.

Gangle looks at them with pleading eyes, still half asleep. “But what if…”

“He can’t do anything, even if he wants to. Barely gets out of bed,” they say, and it looks like their decision is final. “Go back to sleep, I’ll take care of it.”

Zoodle squeezes one of the ribbons in a gesture that says 'See you soon,' and with that, they walk away towards the noise, flashlight in hand.

Jax’s not far; in the hardware store that Caine gave some stupidly long name to. He’s near the entrance, next to the self-service checkout, on a big, folded-out massage chair made into a makeshift bed, and waves his outstretched hand whenever Zooble comes into his sight. The movement’s forcedly energetic, but at least it shows he has the strength to do that much.

“What’s up, you drew the short straw?” he asks.

“Your yellin’ makes it impossible to sleep.”

“Well, thank you. Glad to know there’s still something good left in me—must be the lungs.” His voice is raspy, like he’s out of breath. Zooble quickly guesses why.

The crutch lies flat on the floor, too far for him to reach, and Jax is on his side in a pathetic act of pretending that he didn’t try at all. He can’t walk without it, and even with it, he still needs help. His leg is stiffened, however clumsily; two pieces of wood pressed together with a bandage is the best they could do. Who would have thought that a human orthosis wouldn’t fit a rabbitoid’s ankle? Caine sure did not. At least Jax didn’t break any ribs, just bruised them. On the bad side, apparently, it hurts only a little less.

“Since you’re already here, do you perhaps have some of that Kinger’s weed on you?” he asks—and no, of course not, that’s a stupid question. Their supplies are running low, and Zooble doesn’t carry a first aid kit with them like some field medic. Besides, they take different meds, and Jax knows that.

Zooble thinks he must be pretty desperate. No wonder; digital bodies may heal faster, but hurt all the same, and he will hurt for many weeks to come.

“I doubt it’d help you much,” Zooble says and takes a few seconds to think. They have an idea. “But I might have something else.”

They fix his crutch up and, with “I’ll be right back,” and “Don’t try to get up again,” they leave him for a short fifteen minutes. When they return, it’s with a bag slung over the shoulder and a characteristically fragrant blunt in hand. He probably wants to make some sarcastic joke—probably something about them being a stoner—but stops himself when Zooble hands it to him. For a moment, Jax looks as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. It’s a bit strange to realize that this is the first time they’re offering to share something with him. Not that he asked many times, but even when he did, Zooble wouldn’t give him shit. Especially not one-third of a gram from their private supplies. They even considered rolling him a blunt with half, but Jax is a lightweight, and that would probably make him throw up. Who would have thought such a time would come.

“There, should relax your muscles. Won’t work as well as painkillers, but from what I’ve heard, they don’t help you much anyway.”

Jax doesn’t thank them, but accepts the gift and, after lighting the tip, only mutters something unintelligible. He takes a first drag and chokes on a quiet cough. His pupils turn red under the flashlight, looking funny with the rest of the eye slightly pink.

“So you do have something pretty good on you. Well, better than your moonshine.”

“What? Wait, you drank my moonshine?”

“Guess you need to hide it better.”

Zooble puts their fingers to the space between their eyes. “Jax, f***’s sake. I’m not hiding it; it’s just not ready yet. When do you even?… Ugh. Never mind, don’t do it again.”

“About a… before I went to scout?” Jax decides to ignore most of what they said and only responds to the least important part. His speech is a little slurred after a few puffs, but his ears droop slightly and his smile becomes less tense, so Zooble takes it as a good sign.

“I see it’s workin’.”

Suddenly, Jax hands them a blunt. Zooble wasn’t planning on smoking tonight, but takes a small drag anyway—they deserve one too.

“Tasted bitter… like slop,” he continues. “I found a wine cellar before that beast found—me. I thought; how cool. Must be better than whatever you keep in that barrel. Shame I threw it away. I’d be nice, give you one bottle.”

Zooble crosses their arms over their chest. “Maybe it’s workin’ a little too well.”

“Shut up. My lungs are fine, all’s good.” That doesn’t sound very convincing, so Zooble takes another drag and gives him just the tip, which he won’t be able to take much more of.

“If you say so.”

“Just didn’t think you’d come to see me. Not that… hm. I didn’t think I was that loud for you to bother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” is all they say.

It’s one of those rare occasions when Zooble feels a bitter sting; their black spots twitch and shift a little, a funky eye squinting before returning to normal. They’re offended by the suggestion, but not nearly enough to lose control. They feel a sharp pin under the plastic coating, and this pin messes with everything that has accumulated. A stark reminder of their position. Darkness is more than welcome to hide everything that’s ugly. If Jax noticed anything, he doesn't show it.

But it’s so unexpected—all of it, really—starting with the fact that they are talking at all, late at night, not arguing or fighting—just talking. Jax probably expected no one to come, that’s why he tried to reach for his crutch, or even if he was expecting someone, it certainly wasn’t Zooble. Most likely, he’d prefer anyone else. Too bad, he can’t be picky now. And it’s not like they forgave him for what he had done—for all he had done. This will not be forgiven for a long time, or maybe forgiveness will never come, but despite everything he had done, he didn’t deserve what happened to him. Zooble hasn’t seen everything, but they saw enough to know that he shouldn’t be left alone and struggling, and if their comfort is the necessary cost of keeping him company, so be it. They can handle that. At least until Jax gets back on his feet.

Fortunately, Jax’s still pretty weakened, so he falls asleep rather quickly. Zooble sits down on a white desk top. Next time, if it comes, they won’t give him more than one quarter.

In the morning, Ragatha finds them together. She stands there as if rooted to the spot, a basket of fresh laundry in her hands, looking at Jax lying on his back and Zooble with legs hanging down, both sleeping soundly. The smell of weed lingers; one of the undeniable disadvantages of having windows that don’t open. She’d like to be angry that they stunk up the whole store—and she isn’t, really isn’t, and even if she is, then only slightly irritated—but they look so peaceful, like it’s their first good sleep in ages. Given the circumstances, the unpleasant smell is just a minor inconvenience.

It’s almost a shame she has to wake them up, but the sheets won’t change themselves, and Jax won’t change them for sure. Ragatha puts the basket on the floor and gently shakes Zooble’s arm, whispering “Good morning,” as softly as possible. In turn, Zooble moves lazily and mutters a silent curse.

“Sh**, my neck…”

Jax’s ear flicks, he wakes up, too, still slow from yesterday’s smoking, eyelids half-closed as if the light was irritating his eyes.

“Did I fall asleep?” Zooble asks after a few seconds, pushing themself up.

“Don’t worry about it, you obviously needed a rest.”

“Gangle... F***. I didn’t say when I’d be back. I hope she wasn’t waiting for me all night.”

“I’m sure she will understand,” Ragatha says, smiling slightly and, with hands on her hips, looks towards Jax. “And good morning to you, too. How’s your leg?”

“Hasn’t fallen off yet, so not too bad.”

“Great, then you can move around a bit. The bedding needs some changing.” Ragatha stands next to the bed and holds out her hands. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

“First thing in the morning? You won’t give a guy a moment’s peace,” Jax complains, but grabs her hand, albeit weakly.

He lifts himself up, gritting his teeth and with Ragatha’s other hand on his back. When he swings his legs off the bed, Zooble hurriedly gives him his crutch. Last night, they didn’t pay attention to it, but now, up close, the smell of sweaty fur hits them with dizzying force. Zooble does their best not to make a face. They wonder if this is the first time someone has changed his sheets. Probably not, they’d seen Ragatha leaving this shop with a basket of laundry before, but Jax sure smells like it is. Then, it must be because it’s hard to wash someone who looks like might faint just from standing for too long.

He must be aware of this; he didn’t stink that much even after skinning a wild boar, and his senses are more acute than anyone else’s in the group. Or maybe a hefty dose of drugs in his system caused him to lose his smell. Or he’s just feigning ignorance. Zooble wonders if he washed up after what Ribbit did to him. They hope so, but they can’t be sure. It’s far easier to imagine a scenario where Jax—for once—bites his tongue and endures the feeling of dirt on his body, than one in which he risks raising the suspicions.

Someone should do something about it.

Changing the sheets doesn’t take long, and after that, Zooble leaves with Ragatha, having no reason to stay any longer.

They walk for a while, side by side like two mannequins in a shop window, stiff and quiet, eyes empty and sightless.

“Thank you for your help, Zooble,” Ragatha breaks the silence, but only when they’re far away from the hardware store. Her voice is quiet, almost whispery, as if she’s afraid Jax might hear. “I gave him half a dose last night. I think he is getting better, but…”

“Why?” Zooble cuts in.

Ragatha lowers her chin. She slows down more and more until she stands still, rocking the basket with eyes glued to the pile of sweaty sheets.

“We’re short on medication. Pomni already searched all the nearby pharmacies—nothing. We don’t have anything in case of blood clots, so I just hope Caine didn’t think about such a mechanic. Kinger can make herbal compresses, but without painkillers—well, the next few weeks will be agony.”

“You know a lot about medical stuff,” Zooble states.

“No, it’s… Kinger knows more. But I had a farm, animals got sick sometimes. I learned this and that.”

Zooble nods. Ragatha continues.

“I heard Jax at night,” she admits with shame in her voice. “But then he went quiet and I thought… I don’t know what. That he had a nightmare? If you hadn’t gone to him, he would have suffered all night. Because I was afraid to tell him that I couldn’t give him more. I’m sorry I put this burden on you—I… I really hoped he’d just fall asleep. Even if in pain. I’m sorry.”

Zooble doesn’t respond right away. Instead, they seem to be considering something, or maybe counting in their mind.

“How many days ‘til his meds run out?”

“Two. Four if I keep giving him half. Why?”

“Should be enough. I think I have an idea.”

The same day, barely an hour later, Pomni stares at the list of supplies to replenish—specifically, on the last point. Judging by the handwriting, it’s clear that it wasn’t Ragatha who wrote it there. For lack of a better suspect, suspicion falls on the person who gave her the list.

“Zooble. What are poppies for?”

“Opium,” they admit without hesitation. “For Jax.”

Of course, what else. Part of her wonders how Zooble even knows how to make this stuff, and the other part is rationally not surprised at all. Pomni has never met someone who can fix and make so many different things. That’s exactly what she expected—she just didn’t expect this to be for Jax.

“Zooble. I don’t think giving him drugs is a good idea.”

“Do we have another choice?” they counter with another question. “We’ll soon run out of painkillers, and he already doesn’t let me sleep at night. Ragatha couldn’t sleep either, and it’s only going to get worse. Opium works like morphine, kinda. He’ll sleep like a baby after a few puffs.”

“Did you ask Kinger? What if it makes his condition worse?”

“I doubt he’ll mind. And even if—if you have a better idea, go ahead, and if not, let me do what needs to be done.”

Pomni thinks for a moment. A small wrinkle appears between her eyebrows. Her two-color digital pupils shrink as if she’s anxious, although she’s not—and if she is, then troubled, at most. Then, she decides.

“Okay. I’ll trust you. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Before the day is over, Zooble has a few more things to take care of. They apologize to Gangle, and she says she doesn’t blame them. She swears she fell asleep shortly after Zooble left. No harm done. It was a little sad to wake up alone in such a big bed, but she managed—she says—and hopes that Zooble’s headache is gone. Well, it’s not, but Zooble doesn’t complain. The next few nights will be tiring, but some things have to be done. Unfortunately, they don’t know if they’ll be able to sleep with her any time soon. They apologize for that, too. Gangle tries to be understanding. Zooble thinks they’d rather she were a little less nice. Sometimes it makes them feel worse than they perhaps should—when she is, not like Ragatha, but in her own unassertive way. For her own good. Sometimes, this can lead to rather sad understatements. Zooble promises to make it up to her and hugs her goodbye.

Later, they visit Kinger’s workshop. They dim the lights and wake him up, asking if they can use his equipment. For opium, of course. After a long and tiring talk, Kinger agrees, and that’s all that matters. All the time Zooble spends at his place, Queenie stares at them with her many eyes from the far corner of the room. She’s always so huge outside, it’s fascinating how she can shrink to fit in a space that isn’t necessarily wide. Although they haven’t seen many of them, Zooble guesses that not all abstractions can do this—that each one is a little different. If they get curious, maybe they’ll ask Kinger about it. Another time.

As the day slowly draws to a close, Zooble heads to the hardware store yet again, pushing a shopping cart with two buckets of heated water and a few other essentials inside. Jax wakes up, clearly unhappy, but Zooble manages to shut him up by putting a blunt in his hand. The last night’s tactics still work just fine. A few puffs make him docile enough to allow Zooble to get him out of bed and into the plastic basin on the floor. His lack of resistance confirms Zooble’s suspicions—he must know that he stinks. Or maybe he’s just incredibly bored, and in a complete lack of other options, even this can be considered entertainment.

“Hands up,” Zooble says, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

Jax pushes their hand away with a smile that feels off, even for him; too wide and too tight, his expression eerie beneath reddened eyes.

Off to a great start. Zooble already regrets everything.

“Gosh, maybe ask for once, would you? I can do it myself, shoo shoo.”

He waves in a dismissive gesture. A stream of white smoke follows his hand, his fingers tightened to keep the blunt from falling onto the floor. Zooble backs off, unsure if it’s a good idea, but understanding that they should at least give Jax a chance. They look away. From the corner of their eye, they see him taking off his shirt, his movements sparse and cautious. The pants are giving him trouble; he struggles with them for a good two minutes before Zooble runs out of patience.

“Okay, enough. I’ll lift you up,” they say, and just as they are about to grab him under the arms, Jax twists his head, eyes cutting glass. He’s thin and weak, there’s no way he could hurt anyone, and yet Zooble steels themself regardless, as if preparing for a fight.

“Why you’re even here?” he asks with surprising acuity for someone who should be pretty high by now.

Maybe Zooble didn’t add enough weed this time—maybe Jax isn’t as lightweight as they thought after all.

“Right,” they say, trying their best to keep their nerves in check. “That was a bad idea. I’ll go get someone else, Ragatha shouldn’t sleep yet—”

“Don’t,” he stops them mid-motion. “Just… Fine.”

Zooble takes this as permission to act, and guess that’s what it is, because when they try to grab him under the arms again, this time he accepts their help. He kicks his pants down, more comfortably in his new position. Zooble tries not to look too low, but can’t help but notice the patches of thinning fur on his thighs. They don’t look like remnants of a fight, more like something he did to himself. Like he tried to scratch something off, maybe dried blood or whatever else might have been there. They both don’t comment on that.

Zooble leaves the ankle brace in place, for safety, although getting his pants through it proves to be a bit of a challenge.

The water is warmish at best when they can finally start. Zooble pours him half a bucket and hands him a sponge. It’s awkward, mostly because Jax is silent the entire time, and Jax being silent is ever so unnatural. At least he lets himself be helped, even if only a little. His fur is so matted that one cheap bath will never clean all of this mess. It covers most of his bruises, but not all; only the places where his skin hasn’t been broken. Zooble sees two bald cut marks on his shoulders. The exposed red of fresh scars gapes like a maw. In the real world, hair doesn’t grow back on deeply scarred skin, but maybe Caine doesn’t know that, or didn’t foresee that such a detail could be important. Just like he didn’t foresee that they might need an actual leg brace.

When the water gets cold and cloudy, Zooble has to help Jax up, and that’s even more awkward. They throw one towel over the edge of the bed, sit him down, and try to give him another so he can dry himself, but it falls out of his hands. He doesn’t even try to pick it up. He just sits there limply.

Zooble picks up the towel for him.

“Why are you here?” Jax asks again, his voice much weaker. This time, Zooble understands that it is not an attack. He’s really waiting for an answer.

“Because you stunk like sh**, someone has to help you with that,” they say, wrapping a towel around his shoulders. He still doesn’t move, so they wipe his fur as carefully as they can.

“Sure Zoobie, ‘cause you’re so known for the goodness of your heart.”

“Drop the sarcasm, I’m trying to—” Zooble stops, frowns, and sighs. “Look, I didn’t tell anyone, you didn’t want me to, so you get what you want. It doesn’t matter now how much I can’t stand you, I’m not gonna let you rot after what happened to you.”

“Nothing happened.” The answer comes in a blink.

Zooble has to remind themself; they shouldn’t scare an animal that’s already been cornered. If they say what they think, they might as well tear his eyes out. Make him even more blind. Whatever brings him comfort now, let it be in his hands.

“Yeah, sure. Nothing happened,” they finally say.

Chapter Text

It’s a tedious chore to keep everyone in good shape. It takes teamwork—and now the team has shrunk. The effects of which are slowly catching up.

For the third day in a row, Pomni returned empty-handed. This time, it’s nearly impossible to stay in good spirits. She’s checked all the maps and searched everywhere she could reach on foot, wasted a lot of gas to get where she couldn’t, and still didn’t find enough to feed the group.

She stands behind Ragatha, watching her back, and adds items to the list of supplies that need replenishing. The sheer length of it almost makes her dizzy.

“Two cans of corn, green peas, ham, three of peppers and one of… beans, I think.” Ragatha counts what’s left on the shelves.

“Flour?” Pomni asks.

“Ran out yesterday. Sorry,” she says and suddenly turns to Pomni, smiling with tense cheeks. “But we still have potatoes! Twenty pounds, to be exact. They’re quite nutritious, you know? And here should be…” Ragatha turns back again and kneels down, checking the lower shelves, her long dress wrinkling like a pouf. “A jar of honey, vinegar, dried tomatoes, rice, some groats… oh. Hm.”

She picks up a jar of groats and mixes it in her hand, her eyes worried.

Pomni takes half a step closer. “What’s wrong?”

“There are worms inside. I can try to save some of it, but…”

“Better throw it away, we don’t want us to get poisoned.”

Pomni stands with her eyes fixed on the list in her hands, nervously tapping her fingers on the wooden pad. “How long will this last us?”

“Ten days? If we find some more vegetables, or maybe dried meat, or even bones, I can make soup; that will give us about two extra days.”

Another soup. Lately, they’ve only been eating soup. Pomni feels like she’s gonna miss that soon—once all they have left are rice and potatoes. At least drinking water’s not running out yet. It rained yesterday; they have enough for almost a month.

“On the bright side,” Ragatha tries to cheer her up. “We don’t need to worry about medication anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“The bad news is that herbs are also slowly running out, so…”

“I know.”

“And I understand that in built-up areas it is much harder to find the plants we need, but if we don’t, Zooble might get worse, and Queenie…” Ragatha tightens her fingers on a hem of an apron.

“Ragatha, I know. I’m sorry, I do what I can. This is hopeless.”

Pomni lowers the list and looks up. Dust particles float in the air between them, gleaming in the sparse light. When she took on the scout duty, the pantry was quite full, but feeding six people takes a lot. Even Gangle’s help wasn’t much use; an extra pair of hands or ribbons proves to be quite pointless when there’s nothing to carry. Maybe it would’ve been easier if she hadn’t used so much gas to transport Ribbit’s corpse. Maybe then she could spend more time away from the base without having to worry about not having a way to get back. They only have one working car left, and it won’t drive far. It’s too late to think about that now. They already had to reduce the rations. If this continues, they’re gonna start starving.

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“Then whose fault is it? I can’t find anything, I’m not fast enough—there’s nothing left nearby. I have maps, but… I’m terrible at this. Don’t lie to me, I know I am.”

“No, no, don’t say that…” Ragatha approaches as if to embrace her, but lowers her hands once she sees the expression on Pomni’s face. There’s something more underneath all her trouble, something that tells Ragatha she doesn’t need comforting. She’d seen that face before; Pomni makes it when she’s trying to control her emotions—whenever she prepares to take on more than she should bear.

“Maybe if you change tactics…” Ragatha tries again. “There’re sure some places you haven’t searched yet.”

Pomni shakes her head. Yes, there are places she hasn’t searched, but not many, and they are all far from the base. This may not be a problem for Jax, but for her, it’s a real challenge to even get there.

She takes a short breath and stands more firmly on her feet. “We’ll have to move soon,” she says. “Very soon. Out of the city. You get everything ready, and I’ll go look for food one last time. I’ll be gone for a few days. When I get back, we’ll set off immediately.”

She tilts his head to look Ragatha straight in the eyes—to show how serious she is, even if she doesn’t sound the part.

“We can’t sit and wait for Jax to recover. If we drag this out, autumn will catch up with us here, and then winter. We need herbs more than food, and now it’s the best season, right? We need to stock up.”

Ragatha has her doubts, but doesn’t try to protest. Every argument she could use feels faint and weak. So, instead, she puts her hand on Pomni’s shoulder.

“In that case, I’ll start packing right away.”

“Thank you,” Pomni says, her voice calmer than it’d been a few seconds earlier. She leans forward, resting her forehead against Ragatha’s ribs. Ragatha strokes her hair, careful not to get her hand caught in tangles. They have grown a little and become tousled and dry from not being combed. Maybe Pomni should shorten them. This would make it easier to keep them clean. A pity, Ragatha thinks, slightly longer hair suits her well. If only she had time to take care of them, she’d really look beautiful.

To prepare for her longest foray beyond the base so far, Pomni needs some guidance. No wonder she wants to talk to the expert. It’s just a pity that she interrupts him from a very important undertaking of sharpening his claws with all of her questions and waving a map in front of his eyes. He’s almost finished, but she tells him to put down his file. As if she couldn’t wait.

“Show me where you left your backpack. This is important. Jax, focus!”

She’s lucky he’s in a relatively good mood today. Good enough not to dismiss her. Opium helps a little, but Jax thinks it’s mostly because he’s managed to get out of bed on his own for the first time in days. He went to the toilet nearby and stole Ragatha’s file from her bag—though stole is a bit of an exaggeration. He’ll gladly give it back if she asks nicely.

“I already told you, I don’t remember,” he says and shows off his claws—still short, but more pointed than before. “Not bad, eh?”

Pomni doesn’t care about any of that. She huffs and—only a little bit obtrusively—shoves the map in front of his eyes, completely blocking his view of his hand.

“Just mark some general area. Don’t make it harder than it has to be.”

“You think I had time to look around?” Jax says, but keeps his eyes on the map, however reluctantly. He looks at the sketched streets, searching among the hand-drawn signs and loops. Finally, he points to a cluster of buildings at a bend with no loops nearby. “I think it’s somewhere here. No promises, though. I didn’t collect that much. You can just let it go, you know?”

“At least we’ll get your gun back.”

“Ah, that? Don’t bother, it’s not in my backpack.” Seeing Pomni’s confused face, Jax explains further. “Well, I managed to pull it out. I had it with me, but it slipped away somewhere.”

“Okay, then show me where that was.”

“Don’t remember,” Jax says faster than he thinks. Pomni glares at him. “What? It could be anywhere, really!” He’s getting defensive, even though he hasn’t been accused of anything yet. “Why so serious? These are just a few things, give it a rest.”

“Maybe, but we’ll be getting out of here soon. Everything will come in handy.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not worth your effort. You can’t carry much on that little back of yours anyway,” Jax chuckles and moves the map away from his sight.

“Are you calling me short?”

“I do. No offense, but you’re easy to miss.”

Seeing that she won’t get any more out of him, Pomni asks if he needs anything, and when he says no, she goes on her way. Good. Any longer and he might start to get a little nervous. No one should search that area, or even bother him about it. Not because it is dangerous—abstractions tend to wander alone, there’s probably no other one in there—but because it would be simply embarrassing. For many reasons. Especially if it’s Pomni, this stubborn little one. It’s really hard to get rid of her once she gets on your back, always sticking her nose into other people’s business. If it’s so important to get those things back, Jax can go there himself. He can do it. Maybe in two weeks or so, but he can. He just hopes he’s successfully talked her out of it. He’s pretty good at talking after all. Most of the time. Maybe except for when he’s nervous, but he’s not nervous at all.

Only when Pomni disappears from his sight does he realize that, because of all the fuss, he hadn’t registered what she had told him. Something about moving out? Yeah, something like that. No worries. No big deal. Just a little while longer and he’ll be as good as new.

Others accept the news of leaving the base with silent understanding. No one raises any objections, even though everyone is wondering the same thing. They can walk on foot and sleep in tents if their last car can’t fit them all. Queenie can help with carrying heavy stuff, but dragging a wounded person along is a risky undertaking. Jax will slow them down. That is, assuming he can even make it through. Gangle suspects that he might not—she says that much when Pomni comes to talk to her. She asks what the plan is. Pomni says that she has one. They’ll take a trailer—she’s already spotted one, it’s meager but stable—fill it with blankets and pillows, attach it to Queenie’s back, and put Jax inside. Gangle says it’s probably going to be painful—the roads are bumpy. Pomni replies that they have no other choice. Gangle thinks that’s not true, but saves her words for later that day when she visits Zooble at Kinger’s workshop.

Kinger’s not here, so the lights are on, showing the poorly furnished room in all its glory. Zooble is poring over a wooden table, pouring cloudy liquid from jar to jar. Hearing Gangle’s shy greeting, they turn towards the entrance.

“Hi, just… one moment,” they answer as they screw the lids and quickly put the jars back in their places. The smell here is different than the one coming from the shop where Jax sleeps. Must be something about the process of making opium—it may smell different at different stages of production. Or maybe it’s Kinger’s herbs that cover up the smell.

“Has Pomni told you we’re about to move soon?”

“Yeah, she did, I’ll have to hurry up with work here,” Zooble says, walking towards Gangle while wiping their hands on a white cloth.

“Did she tell you about the trailer?”

“Asked me to take a look at it. To make sure it doesn’t break down along the way.”

“You’re going to do it?”

“I will. Why?”

“I had a thought.” Gangle looks down as if ashamed, and maybe she should be for what she’s about to say. “This takes an awful lot of time. If it’s really so bad that we have to look far beyond the base… and move. And he really is so sick. Maybe it would be better to leave Jax behind for a while?”

Zooble stares at her as if rooted to the floor. The mere suggestion arouses an immediate protest.

“Gangle, no. That won’t happen.”

“I’m not saying… for long. We’ll come back for him, or he’ll come to us when he’s better. Or someone could stay with him, and help him, we could split up, and I’m… just thinking.”

Gangle raises her ribbons, trying to explain her thoughts in the most acceptable way possible.

“You’ve been here or with him all the time lately. Why? He almost got you killed. So, please—I’m worried—tell me why you care so much.”

Sometimes Zooble thinks Gangle should be a little less nice. A little more assertive, and a little more outright—but then when she is, they can’t return the favor. And that hurts because Gangle is one of the kindest people Zooble has ever met. For sure the kindest in this entire digital hell.

It’s so strange to think about it now as they try to push away the memory of that awful day—and of that other, no less nasty one, not so long ago. Images flash before their eyes. It makes them really want to tell her everything. The whole story, from the moment they heard a scream coming from one of the side alleys, to the late-night conversations over a blunt. Perhaps if Gangle heard how terrified Jax was, and how shaken he still is, she might understand Zooble’s absurd behavior. But they can’t. There’s a lot to be said about Zooble. They’re grouchy, can be blunt, and often lack tact, but they don’t go back on their word.

Zooble remembers how Jax tried to be smug when he threatened them in the car—but from their perspective, he couldn’t have been smaller. Just like before, when he was caught in something that could’ve been called cruelty if it weren’t for the sheer look of panic in his eyes. That’s the only reason Zooble didn’t knock his teeth out. He seemed to shrink, like Queenie when she tries to fit through a door—then and later, in that trap-like alley. His pathetic attempt to intimidate Zooble failed utterly, especially since what he wanted to achieve was to make sure that Zooble wouldn’t tell anyone what they saw. Like that was the only thing he could think about. Not “what will I do now?” but “what will others think?” I will kill you if you tell anyone. Good luck with that. He tried once, though he didn’t dare to put his back into it. No matter. Zooble can’t just leave him to certain death after he was raped and mutilated by a monster that grew from the suffering of his long-gone friend. That would be inhumane, and no matter what that idiot thinks, humanity is the last thing they have left. This, and each other—and abandoning Jax would mean losing both.

Zooble puts the white cloth on the shelf next to the door.

“A week ago, I thought I was going to tear him to pieces. I won’t lie, it still sounds tempting to just leave him the hell behind.”

“So why then? He didn’t hesitate to leave you when you got sick.”

“This coward would leave anyone he thought would put him in danger. This isn’t about me.” Gangle looks at them with wide eyes, trying to understand. She deserves honesty most of all.

“And not about him either. I’d do it for anyone, really. I don’t expect him to thank me, or someone else to do the same, that’s not the point.”

“But it matters, right? What if he does something like that again and we all pay for it?”

“He won’t have a chance. And even if—I’ll take care of it.” Zooble assures. “Now this son of a bi*** is the one who needs help, but next could be someone else. You never know what will happen in this hell. Think about it; what happens when you abandon someone who is in obvious need of help?—They abstract. And I rather doubt that Jax will be as harmless as Queenie is.”

“I’m sure you would be,” Gangle says weakly. “I mean… Harmless. If you’d abstract.”

Zooble touches their arm where one of the larger black marks is. They’ve learned not to feel them most of the time—not when they are calm—unless they’re reminded of their existence. The fatigue spreads throughout their entire body anyway, no matter what parts are attached. Thinking about it only makes it worse. Like a horse pulling a carriage up and down a hill, they’d go crazy if they thought about the pain in their limbs. Over time, they had to get used to it.

“Hate to say it, but he couldn’t have known that was even an option.” They can’t really smile with that sorry triangular head, but they feel like they do.

“Hey, you wanna stay for a while?” Zooble asks. “We’ll finish this faster with two of us here.”

Gangle nods and goes inside. “Tell me what to do.”

Somewhere far away, in another part of the city, Pomni no longer needs to look at the map. Claw marks left a clear path to where Jax had left his backpack. It’s full, but there really is no gun inside.

The scratches on the cement are clear enough to make her job way easier. They lead further, through torn-out road signs, and the dented roofs of the cars that stood in the way.

Traces turn next to a downed truck—or what’s left of it. Ribbit must have hit it at high speed. That hulking body of his must not have been very agile, though with the strength he had in his limbs, it wasn’t much of a hindrance at all. Pomni guesses that Jax must’ve gained some distance here. He ran to the left, Ribbit right behind him. Scratches are forming a trace of the jump—deep with wide gaps in between—like he was racing blindly, and one corner away, they are getting shallow. It leads Pomni into a maze of identical alleys. She looks at the map but finds it difficult to pinpoint exactly where she is.

The traces are getting less and less clear. A calm step. Funny, it was Jax who taught her how to recognize it. Pomni never was eager to hunt, but they had to occupy their spare time somehow. Who’d have thought that this would turn out to be so quite helpful? Even though on the ground it would be much different, she still knows how not to lose the track.

She wanders through the alleys until she reaches a dead end. A high wall in front of her, a fence, and an apartment block on the sides. Grey sky overhead, a blot of dry brown underfoot. Only when she gets close enough to smell the rot does she realize what she’s looking at.

They say that the volume of blood in an adult body is between seven and eight percent of their weight, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but sure looks like it is. The claw marks all around are short but deep. Blood splattered on the wall, drawing a picture of a real life-and-death struggle. Could all this really have come from two gashes on his shoulders?

Apparently not.

She steps on something and jumps back just as quickly.

At the foot of the blot where brown is in a thinner layer, lies a torn piece of fabric, curled up and stiffened from all the blood it had soaked up. From the shape of it, Pomni recognizes that these must be Jax’s pants. Pomni remembers him coming back in different clothes than the ones he went out in. He said it was because the old ones were totally messed up. Pretty bloody and badly torn. That checks out. Was it so bad that he had to change in here? Maybe. Or maybe he got scratched so terribly that his pants were torn off with the skin. No wonder he can barely walk after Ribbit tried to strip the meat from his bones. Pomni tries not to imagine it. The vomit’s already rising in her throat. The stench is unbearable.

There’s a gun thrown into a corner. It takes Pomni a while to notice it. Once she does, she picks it up and leaves the alley with nervous, quick steps.

She returns after two nights away from base, carrying Jax’s backpack and a bag full of everything edible she could find. It’s early morning, and Kinger is the first to greet her. He says that not much has happened in the last few days. They’ve been ready for a few hours now, just waiting for her. Did she walk all night? She should rest now. Ragatha did what she asked her to—everything is taken care of. She can sit on the trailer and get some sleep if she can—yes, Zooble already replaced the tires. Kinger helps her climb onto it once she has asked all the questions. She’s tired enough not to be afraid of nightmares. Her legs are killing her.

She should talk to Jax, but he’s not here yet. She should, although she doesn’t know what to say. For a moment, she wants to lie down on the pile of blankets, but that would mean being woken up by Jax once Ragatha brings him here, and she doesn’t know what to tell him. I’m sorry about your legs? Pomni’s not the most tactful person, but even she knows that’s an understatement.

That’s the last thing she thinks about before falling asleep with a half-empty backpack under her head.

They set off before the sun settles on the sky.

Chapter Text

“Sniff it.”

“Like… for what?” Pomni asks with obvious doubt.

Jax just shoves that nasty thing right in front of her face. It’s oblong with bulges, covered in remnants of forest litter. At least he put on a glove before he picked it up. If he hadn’t, she would’ve never shaken his hand again.

“Come on, help me out a little! Just do it.”

Wincing, Pom finally gives in. It smells exactly as she expected.

“And now what?” she asks.

“Hah, you smelled sh**.”

She frowns, almost disappointed.

“Yeah. Because you told me to.”

Jax waves at her dismissively and puts down this hideous cluster of mall-pixelated-black-balls-thing.

“Okay, listen up. It’s deer droppings; this means they have a feeding ground somewhere nearby. And here—you see?” Pomni doesn’t see anything. And she’s still a little offended. “These are traces. You can tell by the litter. We have to follow these, and we’ll find our dinner. Let’s go.”

For someone so obnoxious, Jax has a surprisingly quiet gait. As they walk through the forest, Pomni feels like she’s the one making all the noise. She follows, step by step, trying to find a quiet rhythm that is equally as steady.

“You like this hunting stuff?” She asks in a slightly hushed voice. That unfunny joke from a moment ago took away her enthusiasm—not that she had much of it. It was Jax who offered to teach her, not the other way around.

“Not really, but it sure is better than sitting in a tent and lookin’ through binoculars all day,” he says and shrugs. “Seriously, how do you manage not to die of boredom?”

“Caine said we’ll meet enemies, so for safety’s sake—”

“And where are they, eh? Kinda stupid to believe everything he said at this point. Just leaves you worrying about things that might as well not exist. If you let anxiety control you, why bother playing this game?” Jax argues, and Pomni has to admit that he has a point. Until he starts talking again.

“Besides. Zooble hasn’t left their tent since they broke that vial in the lab. They’re just sleeping and whining all the time. Why don’t they do it for you?”

“Because they are sick, and I am not.”

“Sick? Hah, so that’s how you call it now. They’re like a ticking bomb, don’t lie to yourself. I’ve seen this play out before. It starts with black spots that you try to hide, but your fatigue and temper give you away. Then you become unbearable, and then you turn into a monster that destroys everything it touches. With them here, one wrong move and we’re as good as dead.”

“We’ve already talked about this.”

“And you still don’t listen.” Jax turns to face her, one hand resting on his hip. “But yeah, do whatever. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you once Kinger’s magic herbs stop working. Deer’s an easy target, but this? I haven’t shot an abstraction yet, and, well, I’m not looking forward to the occasion.”

Pomni starts to regret trying to have a genuine conversation. Each time this topic comes up, Jax acts like he’s already made up his mind. It’s like they’re walking in circles, passing the same trees and the same talking points. To change the subject yet again, she returns to what they previously discussed.

“How do you know so much about hunting anyway? If it’s not something you do for… fun, I guess. You’re a bit young for a huntsman.”

“My father taught me,” Jax says simply, probably faster than his mind works.

“So, was he a huntsman, then?”

“More like a hothead with a gun from God knows where. But was a sharp shot, I’ll give him that.” He clearly wants to end the subject at that, but Pomni looks at him so intensely that after a moment, he opens his mouth again. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, but after a while she clears her throat and adds, smiling with the corner of her lips, “I just realized, that’s the first time you’ve talked about your family. Or about your life in the real world, in general.”

“Not like others talk about it much.”

There’s some truth to it. Previously, they suffered from a painful lack of privacy. With colorful blocks and flashes around, no one was eager to sit down for a serious talk—especially with Caine’s eyes and ears everywhere. Not much has changed. That’s why this sudden confession stuck in her mind, and that alone would be enough for her to remember this day—but, unfortunately, that’s not all that happened.

“Maybe I, for a change, have a lot to say.” He leans in and makes a zipper gesture on his lips. “Just won’t. Let a guy have his secrets.”

Before Pomni could ask another question, Jax quiets her down, straightens up, and grabs the strap of the shotgun slung across his back. He hears something—and looks a little nervous about it. After a second, Pomni hears it too. A rumbling sound from behind the trees’ curtain.

Without a warning, Jax grabs her wrist and pulls her to the side. He presses his back against one of the trees, and Pomni hard against his stomach. The rumbling grows louder, and Jax silences her again—this time physically, covering her mouth with his ungloved hand. Squeezed behind the bark of a tree, Pomni stares wide-eyed as deer start appearing left and right—a large herd running. They hit in a wave, loudly stomping their hooves. Up close, they look awfully heavy, much bigger than she imagined.

These few seconds pass in a flash. The deer disappear into the distance. When there’s absolutely nothing left to hear, Jax lets her go.

Pomni breaks away to look around. The greenery had swallowed all the herd. Forest’s silence surrounds them again.

“What was that?” she asks breathlessly.

“Something scared them.”

Jax looks around, too. Pomni expects some comment from him, but he just stares blankly in the direction from which the horde emerged. Her gaze follows his, but just like with the traces, she can’t see anything at all. But he clearly does, so she strains her eyes and, after a few seconds of concentration, she hears something like a rhythmic thud so quiet that if it were a real forest, it would be drowned out by its song.

The sound repeats.

Jax pricks up his ears. He takes a step back.

“Run,” he whispers. Pomni tries to ask what he sees, but as soon as the smallest sound comes out of her mouth, he looks at her insistently, with a finger on his lips again. He puts his hand on her shoulder and pushes urgently. Run. I won’t wait for you.

He didn’t tell her what he saw that day, not when it could make a difference. Afterward, she wondered for a while if he had taken her hunting on purpose, so maybe she would get scared, too, and maybe she would take his side.

In a way, it’s a tempting thought—that he would be capable of such manipulation, but if it were true, he wouldn’t have told her to run before she had a chance of a glance. From the very beginning, he’d have to know that something was in there—and he’d have had to plan his clumsy betrayal some time before that. But that’s simply impossible. He would give himself away. Jax is, despite everything, a skillful faker, but a terrible liar. It would take Pomni an hour at most to realize that something was wrong.

She thinks about it right after waking up, and then she thinks about how her back hurts from sleeping on the hard trailer floor. A shame she didn’t steal a few pillows from Jax, after all. She opens her eyes for a moment. It’s the middle of the day. Ragatha is walking nearby with a map in her hands, so she knows that someone competent has taken up navigation. They should cross the city border soon. She can nap for a while longer. Others don’t seem to need her for now.

Pomni pulls the tarp from the packages next to her to cover herself. It’s a bit chilly for this time of year.

Air’s cold brings her back again. Pomni remembers herself remorseful by the campfire.

“Caine said we’d be here for a few days,” she says. Her cheeks flush as the mug warms her fingers. Ragatha sits on her left. Just by the look on her face, Pomni knows that she’s at a loss for words—and she can’t see much of it at all. Her head’s hanging, with red hair blocking most of the view.

“It’s been a month!” Pomni continues. “No—I don’t even know how long. We’re all tired. This adventure has no end. We’re stuck.”

The field where they pitched their tents stretches to the horizon, black as coffee Kinger heats over the fire. Pomni can’t sleep, and Ragatha woke up with a strange, hollow feeling in her chest. They sit on the blanket, in silence, until Kinger speaks up.

“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he says. “But Caine wouldn’t just leave us like that.”

“But he did!” Pomni clutches her mug. A few coffee drops spill on her already dirty pants. “A ringmaster? No, he’s just some kind of a sick sadist! Maybe he was fed up with us, so he abandoned us here, knowing full well how difficult it’d be for us to go back—if it’s even possible. Maybe there is no way out. We’ll stay here forever.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Kinger asks, his voice strangely collected as for the kinds of things he says. “We adapted the first time, and we will adapt again. We’re in this together, just like before.”

“Not everyone has adapted,” she says before she can stop herself. When the meaning of her words sinks in, she immediately looks Kinger in the face, ready to apologize, but he doesn’t seem angry or sad. Not everyone has adapted. After all, he knows it best.

“Have a little more faith,” he says. “So far, no one is giving up.”

Pomni shakes her head. “Before, at least we had peace in our rooms. Now it’s just… I don’t know.”

“How about you take a break tomorrow?” Ragatha says, finally. “I promise I’ll watch to make sure nothing’s coming.”

It seems she has no more sweet words left in her. But maybe that’s a good thing. Pomni doesn’t fully understand why she feels calmer, but she does. When she’s ready to return to her tent, it’s with a feeling of relief. She falls into a light sleep. Still wary, but with quite a bit of weight lifted off her chest.

As the sun rises, Jax wakes her up. He wants to go hunting and maybe even teach her a few tricks. Last night, she’d been talking so loudly he couldn’t help but hear her. With these bunny ears, he can hear everything, whether he wants to or not. The whole way, he talks about how to recognize tracks and set traps, and Pomni thinks that this is probably not what Ragatha meant by taking a break.

They find deer droppings, and Jax makes a childish joke. They talk for a while. A rumbling sound interrupts them. Soon after, they both ran off to the camp.

There is something in the forest. They must fold the tents. They have to move, now. It’s coming, and it’s big, and Pomni doesn’t know what it is, and Jax is strangely silent, but he was there too, and two witnesses mean she couldn’t have just imagined it—so they have to set off. Right now.

They walk most of the day. In the evening, everyone believes that whatever it was, they managed to lose it.

A long tarp is thrown to the ground, with sleeping bags on top of it. Zooble’s first to lie down, with a heavy groan and short complaint. “My legs are killin’ me.”

Since there’s no sign of rain, nobody’s keen on putting up tents. They’ll take care of it tomorrow, or the next time they stop for a rest. If the map is right, it’ll be some time before they leave this forest.

Pomni finds a place on the edge of the tarp. Before she can close her eyes, Jax throws his sleeping bag next to hers. She doesn’t ask why, and he’s not saying anything—just lies uncovered on his back, with his hands behind his head. It wouldn’t bother her, but he fidgets about every half a minute until she finally has enough.

“Can you stop?”

Nothing. Just one more movement as he sits up straight.

“Stop being weird. I’m trying to sleep.”

Pomni hears three stomps, which, probably, are meant to be a substitute for an answer. She’s starting to prepare for the possibility that she’ll have to go somewhere else if she wants to sleep in peace. Before she can gather herself, he puts his hand on her shoulder and shakes her lightly.

Pomni grabs his wrist, hard, and yanks it away. “What is wrong with you?”

In the complete silence, Jax jumps to his feet, staring blankly ahead.

“Get up,” he says, suddenly. Then, he repeats louder, facing the others. “Get up. Hey! Get your things together, quickly! It’s following us!”

Kinger comes closer. He’s as surprised as everyone else, and only a little less reluctant, as Jax insists he hears it through the trees. If this thing catches up, they’ll all die, and he’s not going to sleep through his own death. They can stay here if they want, but he won’t. He’s already putting on his backpack, as if hurrying others with this gesture.

The walk starts again. They don’t stop until they come onto a bald hill from which they have a good view of the surroundings. Jax wants to continue, but this time he is ignored. From where they are, they should be able to spot the threat, if it’s still there somewhere. What’s equally important, everyone’s exhausted. They have to rest, even if only for a few hours.

Most of the group uses this time to catch some sleep, but Pomni stays on watch, adrenaline keeping her eyes from closing. The morning mist rises from the dew as she leans on an unloaded shotgun like a long stick.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jax doesn’t sleep either. She sees him, but can’t hear, just like in the forest. He wakes up Kinger and tells him something she can’t make out.

She doesn’t think much more of it.

When she looks their way again, Kinger’s sleeping bag is empty.

That’s a little worrying. Kinger sleeps all day, unless they’re on the move, and even then, someone always keeps an eye on him. He’s much more vulnerable in broad daylight, and he can’t think straight. He may get hurt. Cold feeling creeps under Pomni’s skin. Her heart skips a beat. She checks Jax’s sleeping bag, but it’s empty too—and unfolded, as if he’s about to come back soon, but minutes pass, and both of them are still missing. Every second feels heavier and heavier on her mind, up to the point she cannot wait any longer. Not knowing where to look, she starts calling out. What answers her is Gangle’s sleepy voice, “What’s going on…?” followed by her jumping to her feet with a cry that carries much louder than Pomni’s calling, “Has this thing caught up to us?!”

“No, that’s not it, but— have you seen Kinger? He’s not here,” she begins to explain, her voice trembling, and with each word she realizes more and more what has probably happened.

Jax was talking to him just a moment ago. They’re both not here. Jax had been acting strangely ever since he heard that thing behind the trees. He didn’t even mention what he might have seen.

Only Jax doubts Kinger’s cures. Only Jax thinks they should abandon Zooble while there’s still time. He’s been quite loud about it.

Zooble would never follow him into the woods, but Kinger…

During the day, he’s not sane enough to sense the threat.

Without him, Zooble surely will abstract.

Without Kinger, they will only have one choice left.

Pomni had never seen Gangle so angry.

“Where did they go?!” She clenches her ribbons like fists.

“They had to go back,” Pomni determines at last, because it seems like the most logical explanation. If Jax is about to take Kinger somewhere, it’s probably back where they came from. “You can come with me. Ragatha and Zooble stay.”

“Oh, hell no! I’m going with you,” Zooble says, and there’s no time to argue about it, so the camp is left in Ragatha’s hands.

As they’re coming down the hill, in the distance, birds soar from the treetops—the black cloud of crows disperses the rising fog. Three of them quicken their pace in hope they’ll make it before it’s too late. It’s hard to find the right way between the twin-like trees, but they have no choice. Inside the forest’s belly, they can only push forward. Tree crowns grow wider the further they go, until there’s no sky above. Only a wooden tunnel leading for miles to no end. Pomni sees no traces on the litter, although she tries very hard to catch a lead. There is no use. Jax probably knows how to cover them up, so—she thinks—maybe she’s looking in the wrong place.

There are claw marks on the bark. She stops to take a closer look. Something jumped onto this tree and bounced off without leaving any major damage, or so she thinks. She strains her eyes as if the sight could make her look into the past.

The moisture seeps into her shoes. It’s damp all around, so it’s no surprise when something starts leaking from the scratch. It’s dense and shiny, like resin. The blood of a tree. In a blink, it turns red.

Pomni pulls away and turns around, in a hurry, to see that she is alone. Her voice sinks deep in her throat, the scream that comes is not hers. She runs towards it, across the wet ground, ignoring the smell of sweet iron, trying not to think about why what soaks into her socks feels so warm, and looks so alive. She only stops when the forest widens in front of her, revealing red-painted leaves and lianas of entrails hanging from the branches.

This… thing—because it’s hard to call it anything else—feeds on a piece of flesh torn from someone’s body, peeled clean of skin. It’s animalistic in every way but standing, bent like a man, in the middle of the dirt floor. It peeks at her without even having to turn around. Eyes cover its entire body. Black claws squeeze the flesh until it snaps like a snail’s shell.

Its wrist is tied with a piece of royal purple fabric, now bloody and soiled. She had no idea there could be anything soft and red under Kinger’s wooden covering.

Pomni can only fall to her knees.

This part… She can’t remember it. The details don’t add up. There was no blood when they found the abstraction, only a brief struggle when Gangle tied Jax’s hands with her ribbons, just in case he’d try something again. Nobody screamed like that. What they saw was not a crime scene or a slaughter, but a reunion. At most, a botched execution.

This part has never happened.

Not like that.

Not like…

It’s dark when Pomni jolts awake. Her eyes snap open, but the humid air keeps her in the past for a few seconds longer. It takes a moment for her breathing to slow down.

The wheels aren’t moving. They must be at the night stop.

All these memories coming all at once are starting to make her feel a little dizzy. And the fact that Queenie was pulling the trailer all the way here doesn’t help at all. She’s not the most careful, to put it mildly. Even when she sleeps, she makes the air vibrate around her, like an airplane engine. It’s a pity she’s not as warm. A trailer without a roof does not heat up easily, but someone was kind enough to take the tarp off of Pomni and cover her with a blanket, so she didn’t get too cold.

She looks right and left and sees Kinger warming himself by the fire. He’s here. He’s fine. And he must’ve sensed that someone’s watching him, so he turns towards Pomni and waves at her in greeting. She waves back with a shy smile.

In her second impulse, Pomni looks around the trailer and notices that the pile of pillows on the other side is empty. The crutch also disappeared. The smell of opium, however, still weighs somewhere faintly. She looks back at Kinger with a questioning expression. He thinks for a moment, touches where his chin should be, and points to the edge of the campsite, where the firelight barely reaches. A little further, it changes with the moonlight sweeping the lake’s surface. On a small jetty, Pomni sees a sitting silhouette with long, high-set ears.

Ah.

Great.

She should check on him, shouldn’t she?

Not the first thing she wants to do after waking up from a nightmare, but likely not the last either. She could wake up to his absence instead. This wouldn’t be completely impossible, though she doubts anyone would make such a decision without her.

No. She’s sure they wouldn’t. She made every effort to keep everyone from doing just that.

She still feels like she should check what’s keeping him up, though. It won’t do any good to leave him alone like that. And on the second thought, she could use some company. There’s no way she’ll fall asleep again.

Pomni gives Kinger a thumbs up and a nod of readiness before jumping off the trailer. He answers her—also with a nod, watching her go.

She walks through the field, leaving one light and entering another. Her footsteps creak softly on the jetty. Jax spins the fishing rod’s reel, twice, like he’s pretending not to hear. Unsuccessfully. The twitching of his ear gives him away.

His walking crutch lies next to a bucket. It’s a little too dark to see what’s inside.

“Isn’t it a bit late for fishing?” she asks.

“You clearly don’t know the first thing about it—late evening is the best hour.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says simply, and puts his hand on the boards, steadying himself as he turns to face her. Instead of looking at her, his eyes wander past the trailer to where Queenie sleeps. “Doesn’t it bother you when it growls like that? Can’t believe you guys call this purring.”

“Well, you can thank yourself for that—she’s here all because of you.”

Although that couldn’t be his goal, no doubt about it. If there’s one thing Pomni is certain about, it’s that Jax didn’t know how this would end. He might have thought he was ready for anything—but this? Those enemies Caine mentioned being abstractions? That’s something no one could’ve predicted. Just like the fact that the first one they’ve met turned out completely harmless.

Back then in the Circus, before Caine threw her into the cellar, Jax saw Queenie for a brief moment. Remembered her very well. That’s how he guessed it was her behind the trees—or so he said, yet still, he couldn’t spit out a noble lie. Because, what was he supposed to say? That he’d been setting up a romantic date for The Crazy One and his abstracted monster of a wife from the very beginning? No one would believe that. He might have suspected who this abstraction was, or even why it was following them, but he never could’ve guessed that she posed no threat. Especially since he couldn’t hide his fear at the mere sight of Queenie—and at the sight of the others, as if the former wasn’t enough. He knew what he had done, that there was no excuse. That’s how Pomni was made sure; Jax fakes, but he can’t lie, not really, because—she thinks—he would, if he believed that it might save his skin. Maybe he was trying to put together a sensible version of events, but Zooble silenced him before he got a chance to speak. “You’d better pray Kinger will stay here for long. Once I abstract for good, you’ll be the first I tear apart,” Pomni remembers them saying, and Gangle, completely shaken, holding his wrists tied with her ribbons, shouting for the first time that he is the one they should leave behind. Maybe he’ll get along with abstractions if he doesn’t know how to act humanely.

She really should stop thinking about this stuff.

Jax smacks at her. “Touché.”

Right.

Pomni blinks twice before going back on track.

“How did you even get here?” she asks. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping and whining all the time? Finally, it’s your turn to be sick.”

Jax’s smile sharpens.

“Are we taking turns? I had no idea. Who’s next, you or Gangle? I hope it’s Ragatha, she’ll hate it.”

At times, his feistiness can be entertaining. When everyone’s weary or busy with important things, with him, she always knows what to expect. This is not one of those times. Pomni just stands there, arms crossed on her chest, deliberately not giving him a reaction, so he feels the need to speak again.

“I don’t get you,” An old trick. It works as always. Except, maybe a little too well. “I mind my own business, and here you are, looking for a fight. You want me to help you with your stupid maps again? Wait ‘til the morning.”

“Actually, you’ve been a real help lately.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He points to his chest in a dramatic gesture. “You see, I’ve got a bit of a scratch on me, and we already have to move. But yeah, it’s my fault.”

Pomni finds herself taken aback. It’s said that shouting over water scares the fish, but, apparently, Jax’s the expert here, so what does she know.

“I meant it. You did find some helpful stuff, good thing I got your backpack back,” she says. “And I think…” She hesitates, but only for a moment. “Maybe next time we’ll go hunting together again? There must be things you haven’t shown me yet.”

Jax shrugs without much enthusiasm. “Sure, what could go wrong,” and Pomni isn’t sure if he’s being sarcastic, but he’s sure too sleep-deprived to stay offended. He looks towards the water. If he expects Pomni to go away, he must be a little disappointed.

She crouches down next to him.

“Someone taught you how to fish, too, or…?”

“Nah,” Jax rolls his eyes and, for a moment, he forgets to keep his smile wide. “I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, but it seems easy enough. Haven’t caught anything yet, though.”

Pomni looks at the bucket and indeed, it’s downright empty. She finds it quite funny.

“The night’s still young. Mind if I stay for a while?” she asks, finally.

“Be my guest.”