Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Ground, as all of its inhabitants knew of, was a horrible place to live. A wasteland, almost fully barren of life which humans had fought like unkillable pests to not die. They survived, yes, but that survival isn't pleasant unless you are some kind of rich or are a giver.

The Sphere floated above, almost fully out of view from the thick smog that covered the skies. The groundlings cursed and spat profanities, as bitter and angry as its unforgiving Mother.

The land of the Ground was a bitter, angry thing that gave birth to bitter, angry sons and daughters that cursed at the lucky ones that resided amongst the sky and the clouds. Trash beasts, poisonous air, lack of food, water, trust in the ones that stand beside and confront the same issues the other has.

The ocean of the Ground wasn't any different.

Water was a precious resource. Mostly toxic, mostly acidic to the point of eating through your skin in minutes and the children of the children of the children that stayed on the Ground being slowly diagnosed with a small but noticeable “Fear of Water”.

People ran at the sight of the rare thick clouds that carried toxic rain, stared at the liquid like it might bite them, cheered at the sight of news of clean, non-toxic water.

Most people never saw the ocean of the West Ward, and those who did said that it was the most horrifying experience of their life.

But like any other pest, humans— People, those who are not rich, lived there. A rare, flimsy scarcity just like potable water and plants.

One of those coastal towns had a name, Vokuto Bay.

Let me tell you the tale of its destruction, and the tale of the two sisters that resided in that town.

Chapter Text

Lepus sighed as she stared at the open book in her hands with quiet detached interest that was quickly fading away like a small amber. Really, why did Ma even give her this book? It was utterly boring.

… Well, the little girl knew what, of course. Her wonder about why she chose the name “Lepus” for her eventually wore the older woman down. With a sigh and a tired smile, she grabbed the few books she kept before giving it to her… Not without a stern warning and pinky promises to not ruin the pages of the book— That at the point that Lepus put her fingers onto its weathered cover, the paper already grew dog-eared.

[WONDERMENT] — Look closer. There’s meaning here.

“Yes, I know,” Lepus shushes the wonder, wanting to read.

She had curiosities and wonders. She always wondered. The wonder of the past month was why her name sounded like that— so airy, soft and gentle while her older sister Khara had a name like that, “Khara”, fiercer than her own. Pop always said that to live in this harsh world, you should be strong no matter how small or tall you are. So, why did she have such a delicate name?

That was what Lepus wanted to discover.

The book she held in her hands was titled “Constellations and Stars” in faded yellow lettering, the rough cover colored in rusted red while the pages were a yellowed white. She sat on the floor of her home, legs crossed with the open book between them as she went through page after page to find what she was after.

Lepus scoffed at what she saw, the page almost mocking her. The constellation of the Rabbit stares back at her, random points forming the figure of a Rabbit that was only visible for her because of the lines connecting them.

Her Ma tried to show it to her once, at night when her Pop and big sister were sleeping. She pointed at the sky, dark blue and cloud with smoke, and tried to guide Lepus’ violet eyes to the “stars”... And like always, they couldn't see anything.

The little girl had never believed in the concept of stars in the first place, it just seemed like a dumb story for babies that she already outgrew. Other suns? Dotted around the sky that were only seen when dark at night? She could barely see the sun with the constant smog, how would she see those “stars”?

[COMPARISON] — Stars are bedtime stories. You’ve outgrown this. Others see things you cannot.
[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — Even if you don’t see them, she believes you can. That matters more than the dots in the sky.

Still, Lepus didn't say all that, she was a polite girl after all and hurting her Ma was on the bottom of the list of things she ever wanted to do in her short life. She just smiled, nodded like she understood and went back to staring at the sky like she could force stars to appear.

She could feel Ma's gaze on the back of her head, her knowing blue eyes burning holes into her grey hair as she gave the least convincing but best performance of her life. After a while, she just lets out an airy breath, barely a chuckle before rustling her hair gently

Remembering the sweet memories, she tries to convince herself to try harder to believe in stars— Believe in her Ma. But still, the concept of shiny points in the night sky was too unbelievable for her. She still didn't understand Trash Beasts, creatures created from the waste of the Sphere that rains down, but at least those existed. She could see them and now they were real.

[SPUTTERSTEP] — Huh! Something’s moving! Tiny squish-squish, not the wind… wait—yellow! Bright, sticky—right there!

The warning stops her line of thinking in their tracks, a soft squish-squish sound that she came to recognize to be her sister’s. And when she looks to her left and then down, is exactly what she sees— bright yellow rubber shoes covered in a sticky unknown substance.

She looks up, and just as expected, sees the lopsided grin of her older sister. She seemed to have just got out from work with Pop, her coveralls still dressed in the ‘proper way’ and not off her shoulders, the long sleeves tied around her waist to make a makeshift pair of pants. From the background, she could hear the door opening and closing.

“Hey, Dust bunny!” Her sister laughs as she takes one of the matching rubber gloves out of her hand to reach out towards the Lepus. Her short nails, covered in chipped black nails polish, scratches her scalp and makes a mess of her hair.

“Kiki!” Lepus called out as her sister ruffled her hair mercilessly. She closed the book with a loud ‘Thump!’ as she tries to smack away her hand, “Stop! Stop! Ma just braided my hair!”

Her sister doesn't listen to her irritated pleas, doing it more roughly until her forehead is almost pressed against her ankles before finally stopping with a giggle that irritates the younger one to no end.

Lepus groans as she feels how messy the top of her head had become, her platinum grey hair now sticking out from all directions and the strands of hair that made up the braids had now loosened with the manhandling. She grabbed its ends and pulled them in frustration before stopping, grabbing the closest to her older sister and swinging it wildly at her.

Her older sister laughs again like it was funny, but understands what she needs. She crouches down in one full movement, taking the other rubber glove and placing it on the floor without a care in the world before gently grabbing her wrist, making Lepus stop pulling at her own hair. After, she started to undo the braid in her hands, dividing the hair back into locks while the strip of satin ribbon was now in the little girl’s hands.

[COMPARISON] — Look at her. So carefree, so strong. And you? Tangled, flustered… weak.
[SOFTNESS] — Weak? No. You endure, you restrain. Strength isn’t only in fists.
[COMPARISON] — Hmph. Maybe… but does enduring make you enough.

“Soooo… Bunbun,” She extended the o’s playfully before her eyes caught the book that sat between her legs, “What’cha reading?” “... Ma gave me this book because I kept asking what’s so important about my name.” Lepus mumbled while crossing her arms, putting her head down until her chin grazed the desaturated green fabric of her dress. The ‘tsk’ that her sister made makes her pout.

“Really? Is it because it means ‘bunny’ again?” “Ma said it means hare,” The hair gets rebraided, then tied with a pretty white bow while she continues, “Whatever, they look the same anyway! I don't even know why you’re so pressed about the meaning anyways. Names are just words meant to refer to someone anyways, I could create a name and give whatever meaning I want!”

[COMPARISON] — Oh, look at her. Strong, confident, fearless. And you? You’re… fragile. Tiny. Soft. Pathetic, really. Why even try to match up?

“My name isn't as cool as yours, tho!” Lepus exclaimed as her fingers now touched the cover of the book with too much roughness, pushing the material down like it personally offended her, “Too soft… And I have never even seen a hare before! Or rabbit or bunny!”

“Oh c'mon!” She groans, “A name isn't that important,” for Lepus, it definitely was. Her older sister’s name was Khara, Kiki for short after Lepus called her that when she could only crawl, her Pop saying that it stuck and they didn't think to correct it.

“But yours is cool! It means crow, and crows are cool! Do you remember when that Loa girl was almost taken by them? They’re tough! All pictures I've seen of ‘rabbits’ look all weak and fluffy…”

“Alright, that's it.” Khara says with a finality that makes Lepus whip her head around in questioning, the older girl taking the chance to grab her by the shoulders and turn her around fully towards her.

Suddenly, Lepus' reasoning for her questions seem glaringly childish under her older sister’s judgment. She pouts again, shifting and rocking back and forth slightly before starting to flop like a dying fish exposed to the sun while whining. Khara’s firm grip on her does not waver, awaiting her younger sister to lose energy.

After a while, the girl just huffed with exhaustion while Khara stared at her, a single eyebrow going up. After a while, Khara deflates like a balloon before mumbling, “Fine…”

“I…” Lepus tries to start, pulling back a sniffle and trying to make her voice as clear as possible without making her voice too high. She didn't like ‘screamers’, “ … The kids said I’m too soft, too gentle… That I was a weakling and that I… Wouldn't survive if you dropped dead.”

[COMPARISON] — They’re right. You’d crumble.
[NAMEKEEPER] — They don’t get to name what ‘soft’ means

Lepus watches as her older sister’s face falls, the expression of someone that was waiting for a dumb reason for her little tantrum now something angrier. Oh, she was mad.

“Who told you that?” Lepus heard that tone of voice just a few, few times in her life, and it was never face to face like this. Even as she knew the anger wasn't directed at her, she still flinched. Her voice wasn't cold as steel, but the heat of fire that is being kept out by a flimsy old door.

The younger girl swallows hard, violet eyes flinching away from hers, the color of stormy blue on the gaze of her older sister.

“I… Loa and Kidd.”

Lepus whispers the names like a confession. Upon the telling of the culprits’ identity, she remembers that memory that made her conclude by logic that crows were far superior than rabbits— Loa's screams as claws of the large black bird dig into her shoulders, trying to find a good grip and pull her up.

A giggle escapes her mouth, but Khara’s gaze makes it die before it has a chance to take a breath.

[SOFTNESS] — Careful now.

The older girl takes a breath in, then out. She takes her hands off Lepus’ shoulders, giving a small kiss on her forehead before grabbing her gloves.

She put them harder than necessary, her short and sturdy fingers filling the rubber material as she unfolds her legs, standing tall and proud as she sighs slowly, turning around and walking away.

That makes Lepus worried, her sister walking around that angry? Where is she going? Should she call Pop? She doesn't know what to do first besides following instincts. She got up, hugging the book right against her chest as she too left the dead end next to her house to follow the older girl.

“Khara? Kiki?” Lepus called out to her sister with a mixture of deep-seated fear and curiosity, both of them regarding what she would do to those kids her age if she reached them.

Her legs weren't as long, so she had to work twice as hard to be at the same walking speed as someone who was just speed-walking.

Unfair! Her heart cries, because it is. Heroes should wait for their sidekicks, this is what all stories that Pop tells shows: The Hero always teaches a valuable lesson. She keeps going faster, letting one hand let go of the book to pull at Khara’s wrist.

[SURGE] — Move! NOW! Don’t think, just do! Nothing matters if you don’t act! Grab, push, run! Anything beats standing still!”

“Khara! Pop is going to be mad! You can’t do that!” She didn't know what Khara would do exactly, but knew her sister enough that It would be anything good, and she couldn't let her get into trouble for her.

Without thinking too much, she stops walking completely. Instead, she grips Khara’s forearms and hangs from it, using the little weight her body has to maybe, just maybe, keep her from going anywhere by pulling her down like a little anchor.

Finally that calls her attention, watching as Lepus hangs from her arms while still holding the book against her small body. It was clear that she didn't have the safest grip on her forearm, and would soon fall down if she kept walking. The anger dissipates into an irritated groan.

Khara steps slow down until she is putting the holded arm lower until Lepus finally lets go, back to clutching the book tightly— But her eyes were now irritated as well, not enjoying the fact that she had to be held like luggage to finally call her sister's attention. She’s not just scared; she’s offended.

The little girl stomps her feet against the floor, her weathered shoes making an almost inaudible sound as she starts, “Why would you do that? You can’t just leave!” “I was going to make this kids learn a fuckin’ lesson! If their parents won't give them, I sure as hell will!—”

[SURGE] — Pull her back, yank, shove, stop this madness! No hesitation, Lepus. MOVE OR REGRET FOREVER.

“No! I don't want you to give them a lesson!” She keeps stomping her feet against concrete like a caged animal, “I don't want pity! You always look at me with pity! I want to be stronger! Strong like you!”

This seems to finally put a stop to Khara’s self-righteous anger and plan to beat sense into some kids. They stare at each other, the words left her lips before she can take them back. Too late — the cage door is open now, and the little girl looks nothing close to someone that was sorry about saying that.

“ … Fine. I’m sorry.” She says, and Lepus eyes widen like saucers. She expected more, some angry and protective rant about how she was her little sister and no one messes with her little sister. Pop always said that she was as relentless as a trashbeast.

They went back to just staring at each other, with Lepus still frozen in place, unsure whether to hug her or bolt. It was clear the other was waiting for the other to say something, break the silence. As always, Khara is the one to do it with a smile and a nudge.

“... How about we visit the Big Grey, eh?” She asks, nodding towards the direction of the ocean as Lepus fidgets with the hem of her dress. Without another word, Khara nods.

[TIDESENSE] — It’s safe. She’s inviting, not commanding.

It was the promise of a journey, an adventure, a distraction from earlier tension. The moment where the Hero gives the Sidekick a moral lesson.

Lepus just nods, and it's confirmation enough for Khara to turn around and follow the smell of salt and something pungent and briny. They still walk in silence, but the small girl finally catches up and walks alongside her.

The concrete turns into sand beneath both their shoes as they arrive where land meets sea. The smell becomes stronger— dense, cloying, and almost tangible.

Her face scrunches up in disgust, her eyes narrowing into slits as the thick air hits her nose. Did Pop and Khara really deal with this smell every time they went to work? Gross!

She looked over to Khara, expecting her to hold the same disgust she did, only to be surprised when the older girl had a blissful expression on her face, and even taking a deep breath in of the foul smell like its perfume.

[COMPARISON] — Why is she not recoiling like us? Does she not feel it at all? No… her face—blissful. How can someone find this… sweet?

“Ah…” Khara breathed out as a sigh, opening her eyes to reveal a shine of… Something, excitement? Nostalgia? She just left the docks, the job that left Pop with an aching back and tired eyes, but she seems to be missing it already. “The good ol’ Big Grey, I miss my boat already!” She crouches down, already taking off her bright yellow shoes.

“You just left… You’re going back to the docks tomorrow…” “Yeah, still miss my darlin’ Yellow Fang though. I would live in the sea if I could.”

Lepus doesn't let it show that the thought of Khara living somewhere far away scares her, she just watches as her older sister makes her way towards the sea barefoot, the scar tissue that covered her feet covered in soft white sand.

She walks onto the sea, water reaching higher and higher until the stitched dark red fabric she herself sewed on the uniform was now darker. The smell would take days to scrub out, she didn't care, it was made to have the disgusting scent of the sea anyway.

She stands there for a moment, but before Lepus could ask what the hell she was doing, Khara leans down and dunks her head into the grey water. She just stayed there, head underwater, soaking her hair and carrying the brine into every pore and patch of skin of her face and scalp— a baptism of salt and recklessness.

When she raised her head above water, her black hair was drenched, the single yellow lock that stood out like a sore thumb amongst the dark glued to her face. She threw her head back, combing her head with her fingers as she took another deep breath.

Khara turned around to meet her younger sister’s violet eyes, letting out a breathless laugh as she saw that she froze again.

“C’mon! Live a little!” She waves her arms around as Lepus’ nose twitched at the smell of the ocean. It looked fun… She takes her shoes off, placing the book carefully on top of it, not daring to place its delicate cover in the sand.

Compared to Khara, the water had reached Lepus’s waist. The desaturated green became an almost black green as the fabric pooled around her as she felt for the first time the sensation of waves pulling and letting go. It was startling, thrilling, and frightening all at once. A first taste of a world beyond solid ground.

[WONDERMENT] — Look at it… The water moves like it’s alive! Can you feel it pulling you, letting go, then pulling again? This… This is something new. Don’t blink!

“Why… Why did you do that?” She asks, pointing at Khara’s wet hair

“Is for blessings, duh.”

“Ble… Ssings?”

Khara nodded, smirk tugging at her lips as she watched Lepus brows furrow in confusion.

“When I started to work with Pop, they told me they have this… Tradition,” She looked at the horizon, the grey ocean’s waves still seeming to want to pull them both into its depths, “They dunk the newcomers’ head into the water, for blessings of strenght… And so they can learn to hold their breath.”

“I honestly think it's because they just want to watch just the newbies sputter and choke,” She giggled, “... But I saw some of them, their eyes, they genuinely believe in this ritual thing-y. Pop was the one who held my head underwater.”

Lepus stared at the murky, grey water. It wasn't like her hair, platinum grey and slightly lighter. It was the kind of grey that looked deprived of all colors. When the waves moved, she caught glints of dull green and brown beneath the surface.

[SOFTNESS] — You don’t have to like it. You can step back. There’s no shame in feeling small.
[SURGE] — No! Now! Jump in! Don’t think, just do! Show them you’re not fragile!

It looked disgusting, “I want to try it.”

Khara’s grin widens, proud and a little worried, but she doesn't hesitate. She puts her hand on the back of her head, while another stays on Lepus' stomach, the hold a little awkward since she was used to doing this with much taller people.

“Now take a deep breath, and keep it in,” As instructed, she breathed in until her cheeks were full of air. “Ready?” She nodded, and before she could back down, Khara bended her small body and dunked her head underwater.

The world goes silent, water filling her ears as cold bites at her scalp. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her cheeks still filled with air. It wasn’t like the bathwater Ma heated on the stove or the sudden spray of burning rain during a storm. It was everywhere, swallowing her, weighing her down. Her heart beat once, twice, faster.

She could taste metal and brine on her lips. Her lungs screamed for air. As if feeling her desperation, her sister pulls her out of the water, gasping and coughing.

Her sister laughs. That full, unrestrained laugh that shakes her shoulders. “Pfft— You look like a wet cat!” Khara wheezes as she lets go of Lepus, wiping a tear from her eye.

When she finally steps, there is a new glint in her eyes— Pride, perhaps. “Congratulations, Lepus Erwn, the sea knows your name now,” she pats her back in a comforting way as the girl continues to sputter.

Lepus blinked the salt away, chest still heaving, and managed the faintest, defiant grin. “It wasn’t… That bad,” she lied.

Chapter Text

Mara woke up, reluctantly, but she woke up. Her eyelids twitched slowly as her eyes caught glimpses of the cramped little space she calls home— Her car.

The blurry shapes and colors slowly become clearer. The fabric padding of the roof, the fabric and softness of the nest of blankets and old clothes she laid on, the smell of oil and sweat thick upon her nose as weak morning light intrudes her space and makes her eyes burn just enough to be annoying.

She rubs her own eyes with her knuckles, slowly sitting up as layers of blankets slide off her body. At the movement, both body and machine groan with discomfort, her ribs aching just as much as the machinery and the frame of the car. A plastic bottle on the floor awaits her hand, the liquid inside warm from lack of refrigeration. The bottle cap twists quickly under her scarred fingertips.

She takes one, two, three gulps and soon was met with an already empty bottle. Mara sighs, closing the bottle and putting it on the floor, petting the object before straightening her back. Somewhere beyond the small safe space she built for herself, the wind blows.

Mara presses her hand against the windows, the dark tinted glass helping to keep some of the light outside her car. Her fingers spread against the material as she leans her forehead against the window, still drowsy and tired even after sleeping for what? Seven hours? That is more than she gets in months.

“Good morning, Home,” She murmurs, pressing her body against the car door as it seems to answer her back, a tired creaking somewhere she can't see.

[ERRAND GIRL] — No one intrudes here. You are alone, unnoticed, safe… For now.

She sighed, fatigue already eating at her bones, but she couldn't sleep anymore than she already did. What if she tries to sleep some more, and when she wakes up everything she ever had is spoken, even her own body? Mara wouldn't be able to be a little scavenger without functioning legs.

Mara moves from the back of the car to the front seat, opening her pantry— The gloves compartment.

Her hands searched inside until she found her breakfast for today: An oatmeal brick the size of a deck of cards and a jar of jam that tastes way too sweet.

Yum.

[FRAGILE HOPE] — You still say ‘yum.’ Still pretend this is breakfast, not survival.

She cut the giant brick into smaller cube pieces with a knife meant for stabbing and not cutting, maybe it would help. God, why did they make it this tough? She was mentally slapping herself for drinking all the water, maybe if she didn't she would have something to soften this hard meal. No regrets, she just needed to eat right now.

She spreads the jam on top of one of the oat cubes and plops one into her mouth before she could think too much about it. What do they call this? ‘Oatcakes’? This was barely edible, at least it gave her something to chew for a while, these were as hard as rocks…

This next job would be good enough for her to eat a good, actually enjoyable meal. She was sure of it. The voice in her head seems to smile at the thought.

[FRAGILE HOPE] — Yes. Something bigger than crumbs, something warm. You deserve that, even if just for a day.

From the back of her mind, Mara can hear strings being pulled. No melody yet, just random notes in different frequencies and tones. Her violet eyes looked to her left to see her Vital Instrument sitting on the passenger seat— The only vaguely new-looking thing on the interior of the car that seemed as old as she was.

It was a basic electric guitar with a double-cutaway, no wild patterns or stickers, extra flair or other decor. The jet black coloring stood in contrast with the light grey pickguard, the silver pegs glinting under the light like it was still brand new.

[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — The black finish hums against the grey pickguard. Light glints off silver pegs, sings off edges. Even still, it holds the decay of time in its strings.

Besides a little mark hidden behind it, almost invisible but that she traced the carving over and over until she could read without looking. “Death’s Symphony”.

Her hands went up, hesitant like she was going to nudge a person awake and not simply interacting with an inanimate object.

The hand doesn't touch the guitar, but the seatbelt that was dangling uselessly like a limp vine. Without much thought, she pulls it and clasps around the guitar just in case. It must be silly for anyone but her, to treat an object like this…

She puts her hands on the steering wheel, sighing once again as she feels the texture with her fingers. Another day, another galla. The key makes a satisfying click as she turns it, turning the engine on in response.

[FRAGILE HOPE] — The car hums, the guitar waits. Another day begins, and maybe, just maybe, it can be a good one.

—

In a few hours of driving, she already can see the location of her new job— The crater visible from miles away.

At some point in the journey she had to put on her gas mask, the glint of the violet-colored lenses shining in the review mirror. She hated the East Ward, that place somehow got more shitty in a few weeks than every other ward in years.

Mara grabs and adjusts the mirror to check her own appearance. The straps of the mask were correctly placed around her head, her hair was… Acceptable, the beak of the mask positioned in her nose and mouth without being crooked.

She brakes the car when she gets close enough, her other hand already undoing her seatbelt and the one around her vital instrument. A key out of the ignition lock and one last check to see if her boots were tied correctly and she was out of the car, Death's Symphony resting in her back right alongside her oxygen tank.

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — Feet ready, body balanced.
[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — Strings lie quiet, but your pulse carries the rhythm. You are the conductor now; the world will follow your tempo.

The moment she stepped out of her car, she saw a gangly man wearing a stitched-together lab coat and a stained apron run towards her. Her contractor.

The industrial gas mask that covered his entire face seemed to be of an older model on top of being held together by tape and prayer… Literally. Shiny duct tape wrapped around twin circular filters, under thick lenses that shone like insect eyes she could see pupils blown with both panic and gratitude.

“Good morning, Dr. Auren Kett,” She extends her gloved hand in greeting, watching as his raises as well and grasps hers tightly, his skin a waxy complexion with a light green tint as she circles mentally through her aliases— Personas, trying to decide which one would be best for this particular work.

Miss Roadkill, The Executioner, The Errand Girl… “The Crow is at your service.”

[THE EXECUTIONER] — The message is clear: you observe, you judge, and consequences follow. Let your presence speak for you.

Auren tilted his head slightly, each breath he took was a hiss of gas somewhere along the mask, making him sound like he was constantly gasping for air. His fingers tightened around her for a moment before he backed off when she stared him down, the hand that held a bag tightening in turn.

“Ah… yes. Thank you. I… Appreciate your efficiency,” He passed his fingers through his white hair, clumps of it missing fully and leaving bald patches, “We have a situation in the lower storage. Containment breach. You’ll need to take care of the… Remnants.”

[INSIGHT] — Hesitation, fear, trust mixed with panic. Each movement speaks volumes—he is cornered, fragile, and reliant on you.

That same hand fidgets with the vials and ID cards that hung from his slim neck. None of them had his face. “Please… Don’t ask questions. Just clean, sanitize, leave nothing behind.”

She nods, leaving him to grip the ID cards with nail-bitten fingers as she opens the car trunk’s lock with her key.

The trunk latch clicked, followed by the soft groan of hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years.

Inside laid a mixture of duffel bags containing tools for different services and personal items. The first one she caught was the correct one— Inside was bleach, trashbags, rags, bonesaws… And a mop on top of it, that faced too much.

[CALCULATION] — Selection correct.

She took it all out before closing the trunk, placing the local back onto it as she grabbed the things— Duffel bag in one hand and mop on another. She walked slowly towards the site.

Mara stares down at the Sinkpoint settlement, the stairs leading down tunnels covered in puddles of stagnant toxic water and chemical sludge. She wonders what it would smell like if she took out her mask… Besides the scent of her own death by toxic air.

Before fully stepping in, she looks back to Dr. Auren, now pacing around in circles. She calls to him, “Dr. Auren Kett?”

The man turned towards her with a snap, but she kept her back turned towards him, still staring down at the tunnels that hummed with leftover electrical energy. Her voice remains professional, quiet and somber, as she asks “You remember the amount you promised me, yes?”

She can't see him, but she’s pretty sure he tensed up, expecting her to kill him and take the money. She isn't that kind of woman.

[INSIGHT] — Tension radiates off him. Expectation and fear. He is weighing the danger, waiting for your choice.
[THE ERRAND GIRL] — Show calm, control, certainty. Let him see the professional, not the predator.

He hesitates, “Two— Two thousand and two hundred Galla, and payment in-kind. Water, fuel…” When Auren starts to ramble, she looks at him over his shoulder. That shuts him real quick. With the best, most reassuring voice she can do for someone about to clean a massacre in a tunnel, she assures him.

“I will do this work to the best of my abilities,” Mara doesn't promise, she will do it. She can see that she is now holding the bag with her payment against his chest like a child seeking comfort.

Without another word, she looks back at the tunnel and takes her steps down. She could feel the man behind him deflate all tension from his body.

As far as she heard, this tunnel was built from a collapse of terrain, a wound upon the earth. Cars sometimes sinked randomly, it was safer up in the mountains than the plain terrains.

But it collapsed, again, after an earthquake. Each step down the staircase made the metal whine under her boots. Sludge trickled from broken pipes overhead, dripping into puddles that shimmered with an oil-slick rainbow. Colors of chemical death.

Yet again, she tries to imagine how everything would smell if she had the lungs to support venom.

[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — You can feel it even through your mask. It tells a story of time, neglect, and death.

Yes… It would smell like rust if she had filters instead, thick and heavy and probably humid, filled with the scent of death.

In the dimness, her only light source being fluorescent lights that seemed to fight for the energy to survive— Flickering erratically, strobing softly or waking up with sudden pulses of light— She felt the ground beneath her groans as if pained.

This seemed to be once a warehouse of sorts, containers laying and wooden crates with their contents leaking like innards, broken glass and sludge-paper melting from spilled reagents— But now, it had become a morgue with no order. Bodies, bodies everywhere she could see.

There were corpses strung along the ground like trash, becoming more damaged the more the ruined roof over their heads let sunlight in. Judging by the melting of their skin and how they stuck together in clumps of once-humanoids, it was definitely, “Acid rain.” Mara stood over one of the clumps, trying to decipher where they began and the others joined… But she couldn't.

[ADRENALINE] — Step steady. One motion at a time. Fear cannot control you here. You can't allow it.

She sighs slowly before taking in a deep breath, she drops the duffel bag in a space not covered in acidic substances before dropping to her knees, opening and slowly taking the items off one by one and placing them carefully and in order of use. The bonesaw came first, but it felt like she would need to use something stronger…

Death’s Symphony’s, not the voice in her consciousness but the Vital Instrument, weighs on her back and reminds her of its existence. “Just in case…” she murmurs to herself, but she is already taking the guitar off her back, grabbing its neck as it warps and changes into its true form.

The air trembles as the weapon shifts, the wood of the guitar stretching and twisting into a bigger form that needs to be held by both hands, strings snap, then reform as serrated edges along its spine, vibrating faintly with a hum that feels alive. An eye that matches her own opens on the pickguard as a violet-colored blade shaped like an axe appears in the guitar’s curves.

[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — The world hums. Do what you must.

“Yeah…” Mara breaths deeply, looking down at the mass of grey skin and clothes that resemble more melted wax left in the sun at its brightest than fabric. Yeah, she was right, a bonesaw wouldn't be enough to separate it from itself.

Her eyes continue to research, her violet eyes tracking the warped texture of the flesh, the tension where skin and bone seem to have fused.

Death's Symphony seems to hum in anticipation. She could feel it on the tip of her fingers. She raises the axe high above her head, the blade catching the fluorescent light like colored glass… And would soon meet the red crimson of blood, tainting deep amethyst into bright ruby. Without hesitation she brings Death's Symphony down. Hard.

After gaining her Vital Instrument, Mara wondered what it would be like to kill a Trash Beast— She did once, but it was long ago, enough that she already forgot how the feeling of piercing a creature made of everything thrown out by the Sphere was. But one thing is for sure.

She knew it wouldn't be… Squishy.

[CALCULATION] — Loose, bloated form. It would yield differently: Tougher, fused, unwilling.

She hears the sounds of flesh tearing apart, of bones breaking under an executioner's axe, and then the trembling of her body as the concrete beneath cracks under her own strength.

Mara pulls the now dirtied Vital Instrument out, now coated with dark, sticky blood as she looks down at the piece of meat cut right in the middle. Somewhere inside her brain, she knew she should be vomiting out of disgust with herself for being able to do this with so… Casually

Oh well. This job wouldn't do itself on its own. She looks at her side, where the shiny dark plastic trash bags sat folded into little squares.

Time to work.

[MISS ROADKILL] — Don’t think. Move.

—

By the time it was over, the halls were clean in a way that stood against the destruction and debris that showed the effects of the earthquake, the bodies affected by whatever had been spilled, the acid rain that melted what was left of the roof. Where there had once been bloated, slumping shapes, now the floor was scoured and scrubbed, tiles slick with bleach and absorbed powders.

The walls, once streaked with blood, chemical stains, and half-dissolved labels, were washed and streakless, the remnants of red and green scrubbed into near invisibility. Her violet eyes continued to search for any imperfection, anything that wasn't clean and spotless enough… And to her surprise, after the trip and another hauling grey parts up and down the stairs to the surface until almost all of her trashbags were used up— It was actually clean.

[FRAGILE HOPE] — Finally… It is over.

Mara was back to kneeling on the now clean floor, putting everything back in its place on the duffel bag. At her side were ID cards she was instructed, twenty one of them— As far as she knew, they were a bonus that meant double what she was promised. More Galla, less nights worrying if she would have enough fuel to not be stranded in the middle of a No Man's Land.

Her Vital Instrument was back to being strapped and sitting against her back, one hand carrying her duffel bag and the many, many ID cards while another held the mop. Even if she couldn't tell what kind of emotion a mop of all things would be feeling, she could tell by the black liquid that stained its before yellowed head, that it was not happy with its existence.

With each step up towards the surface— Fully this time, no trips back down— Mara was already imagining what she would do with the Galla and the payment in-kind. She would be able to fully fill her tank, fresh water was already guaranteed with the payment in-kind, more oxygen tanks… Better food. Chocolate? Candy? Biscuits? Warm meat stew… Trying to imagine its taste and smell after months of the same hard blocks and cloying sweetness seemed almost as distant as the floating Sphere.

[INSIGHT] — Chocolate, yes… And the smell of stew—steam rising, spices heavy, warmth soaking into the bowl.
[ADRENALINE] — Soon. Soon I will taste it.
[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — The rhythm of heat and simmer, sugar and salt. I can hear it before I even touch it.

Auren was already waiting for her return, both death-colored hands grasping the bag with her payment as he continued to look around like if it wasn't her, someone else was bound to get him. The trash bags, six of them, stand between them both like proof of her hard work. The mask continues to hiss with every breath, she didn't expect it to change between the hours she was cooped up and paid to clean carnage… But it was still utterly annoying.

He didn’t move to give her the duffel containing her payment immediately. Instead, he crouched slightly, scanning the empty hall with careful, deliberate motions while still on top of the stairs like he hasn't been watching her work all this time. The hiss of his mask filled the silence as he inhaled and exhaled, each breath dragging through the filters like gravel.

“Y-yes… good,” He said finally, his voice clipped, measured while he got up. “E-everything… seems… Properly… Contained. N-no… Overspill. No… Residue.”

His gloved hands hovered near the trash bags, twitching slightly, fingers brushing the edges as if afraid something might crawl out. “I… I… Appreciate your… Thoroughness. Very… Thorough.” Without another word, he extends his free hand, it takes a few seconds for her to realize he is awaiting for the ID cards.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Dr. Auren Kett,” Her tone of voice was firm and clipped as she let go from the duffel bag to give him the many ID cards.

Mara’s fingers tightened on the mop handle, the weight of accomplishment settling in her chest. She glanced at him through the fogged lenses, seeing the anxious meticulousness there, the quiet tension behind every careful movement. Even after all she’d done, even after the floor gleamed, he still couldn’t fully relax.

He counted each and every ID card, a jittery nod of his head shows that she found every single one. “D-don’t… touch anything else,” he added quickly, almost apologetically, eyes darting to the horizon of the wasteland.

Instead of giving her the bag and be done with it, they both went towards her car quietly, him still jittering and her carrying her equipment and the sad little mop. Only when she was at the door, the mop and duffel bag resting inside the trunk, did he give her the bag, raising his trembling hand for the last handshake.

[THE ERRAND GIRL] — I am calm, unassuming, the perfect courier.

She repeated that mantra as she shook his hand, sticky with blood that made him flinch. “Hope we see each other again, Dr. Auren Kett.” She stands there as he quickly turns around and makes his way towards the six trashbags, his clean hand going to the Choker around his neck while she opens the door and places her Vital Instrument in its righteous place: The passenger seat. After closing the door, her fingers were quick to open the payment bag.

There, the fruits of her labour stare right back at her.

She is quick to count the Galla, and is pleasantly surprised to see exactly double the amount by her extra work of looking for the ID cards even if she was already promised that before, coupled with bottles of water, fuel and a couple of bottles of painkillers.

She places the key back into ignition again, but this time there is another thing in her body besides bone-deep exhaustion. Anticipation, that was the name, anticipation for a good meal and less things to worry about. Soon she is driving away from the settlement, the crater that was once a tunnel gets further and further away until it is just a dot in the middle of devastation.

[FRAGILE HOPE] — Soon. Warm food. Sweet chocolate. Meat stew.

—

It was nighttime when Mara arrived at Kremmos Village, her stomach growling with hunger that couldn't be kept quiet with cheap rations that needed to be chewed for ten whole minutes before being vaguely swalleable for someone who didn't want to choke to death.

She left her car in the outskirts of town, not risking the death of the villagers by her vehicle through the narrow dirt pathways. Her nose did most of the job for her, though, taking in as steam rose in gentle curls, carrying hints of caramelized onions, soft potatoes, and a muted herb mix that made her have to swallow her own saliva.

It leads her to a small stall squats under a bent corrugated metal roof, patched with scavenged tarps and rusted panels. Smoke curls lazily from a blackened chimney, the source of that blessed scent, and in a sign hand-painted in crusty letters beckoned her to the promise of real food.

She had to push down the urge to run like a starved animal towards the rich brown stew cooked in a giant enamel pot and next to them, baskets hold rough-hewn loaves of bread. The locals resting their elbow in the counter made of reclaimed metal sheets and a few wooden crates stacked as shelves behind it, where the owner of the stall cooked.

[IRON GRIP] — Hold still. Hands steady. Sit. Do not scare them. Control yourself before the stew controls you.

Suddenly, she feels shy— a pitiful, skinny dog about to beg for food, even if she was six foot three and had money to pay for her own food. She finds shelter and the most isolated corner of the counter, sitting in a crooked seat that whined with grief when she sat upon it. With shaky fingers, she took her gas mask off.

Mara wonders what they see, what they think of when they see her face. Round cheeks, light brown skin littered with moles and violet eyes sagged at the edges. The mask hangs at her neck and she feels the urge to put it back on.

[IRON GRIP] — Straighten your back. Don’t shrink. You’ve faced worse than stares.

She scoffs, but does what she is told. She straightens her back, calling attention to the older woman behind the counter. With a soft voice she asked, her hand already hallway through the pockets of her grey trenchcoat for Galla.

“Bowl of stew, please,” Then, she eyes the loaves of bread, “... And a small loaf.” The villager behind the counter nodded, ladling a generous portion into a chipped enamel bowl. She added a piece of dense, warm bread on the side, the crust just enough to snap under her fingers.

She licks her lips once more before grabbing the spoon with trembling fingers after placing two hundred Galla on the counter. She had more, enough to buy half the stall.

The first spoonful was almost a shock to her system, for a moment she was afraid that she would vomit it all back up: Soft potatoes, tender meat, and a broth rich with herbs she could almost name. The flavor was deep, savory, and comforting, unlike the bland, hard bricks she had been eating for weeks.

Before she could process, she was focused solely on the meal in front of her. For a few minutes, Mara forgot about craters, tunnels, or blood-streaked floors. She was just a girl eating a hot meal, savoring the rare luxury of something soft and good, lost in the rhythm of spoonfuls of stew and broth-dipped bread.

[ANCHOR] — Here. Now. This is the part you worl for.

When she finally regained consciousness, the bowl was licked clean of any residue and there wasn't even a hint of bread crumbs. Mara can feel her cheeks burning as she gets up, wiping her hands in her mouth as she murmurs a small “Thank you” before leaving…

Today was a good day, under her standards.

Chapter Text

The sun was sinking low by the time they finally decided to make their way back home. The sky was slowly abandoning its bright teal hue beneath thick dark clouds for an emerald green, and now it was changing once again: A deep turquoise that would shed into inky dark-green when the night arrives.

The two of them walked side by side, their clothes soaked and heavy after spending what little sunlight was left swimming in dirty sea water. Khara carried her rubber boots in her hands, her bare feet against concrete while Lepus kept glancing down to her damp hands to make sure they weren’t ruining the book cover.

[SOFTNESS] — Be gentle. The book breathes, too. It’s tired from the sea.

“I’m trying,” Lepus whispers defensively, fingers loosening a little. Khara glances over. “Talking to your book again?” “...Maybe.”

And then, they started telling stories to each other.

“So, so!” Khara started first, waving her hands in big, animated gestures as she tried to think of a funny story to tell, and when one did her eyes lit up like a lightbulb. “There was this giant fuckin’ rat in the docks right? Big, ugly, size of my foot!” She waved the soles of her rubber boots in Lepus’ face as proof, “I was taking in cargo, and you know what that pest does? Jumps at my lunch tin and snatches my bread! So rude! I was going to eat eggweed with that!”

The little girl snickered, already covering her mouth as she braced for the end of the story. Khara in turn, gave her a grin.

“So, you know what lil sixteen-year-old me does? I SWING—” She threw one arm back before making a swinging motion so hard she topples forward head-first into the floor, “A wrench at the thing! I miss it completely, and it ends up hitting the boss’s water jug instead…”

That was it for Lepus, that clutched her belly while she laughed imagining her older sister— Tall, strong and always with a cocky grin in her face — having the look of someone who committed the worst crime of all while looking at a water jug leak into the floor while the rat scurried away.

“I was so lucky that Pop was there, Boss was cursing like a giant Trash Beast popped out!” She started to laugh as well, the both of them picturing how things might’ve gone if he hadn’t been there that day. Lepus leans against her, sighing through laughter. “Pop always fixes things, doesn’t he?” Khara nods. “Yeah. Always.”

[COMPARISON] — She’s older, louder, fearless. But she laughs just like you do. Maybe she’s not so grown-up after all.

After a while, both of them laughing while crossing the streets, Khara looked at her with curious, expectant glint in her eyes and Lepus knew it was now her turn to tell a funny story.

She turned forward, trying to think of anything at all, but none seemed funny enough. The voices in her head seemed to fight one another, bickering for her attention, each one insisting its story could compete for the title of “funniest” against Khara’s giant bread-stealing rat.

[WONDERMENT] — Tell about the time you thought the moon was following you! That was funny, wasn’t it? When you hid under the laundry line?
[COMPARISON] — No, no, she’ll laugh at you for that one. You have to tell something clever, not silly. Something grown-up.
[ECHLOGY] — What about the song Pop sang when he dropped the soup pot? You both laughed until your stomachs hurt. That one still echoes.
[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — Any story will do. She’s already smiling, that’s what matters.

Lepus groans quietly, clutching her head with a single hand as if to hold the voices in place. Finally, one spoke up, one that remembered a certain dream about those red balloons and the Sphere. That one was funny, wasn’t it? She remembers giggling when she woke up, the warmth of it lingering through the whole day.

[REVERIE] — Yes, that one! Tell it before it fades!

“Uhm, so!” She started, trying to get the cogs of her brain turning, trying to make it sound interesting enough to get her attention, “I had this dream a few weeks ago, it was soo fun!”

“I remember I was at the docks looking down at the sea, I think I was waiting for a boat or somethin’ ” She murmurs as she tries to remember the details, her mind filling up the gaps that are as fuzzy as any other dreams that she ever had, “... And then suddenly, balloons started to appear! Red ones, like the kind they say they have at the Doll Festival!”

“One came towards me and I grabbed it and tied it around my wrist, and then, I started to fly!” She could almost feel it once again, the ground far away from her feet.

“I floated way, way up into the sky!” She lets her one free hand go into the darkening sky, all her fingers extended as far as they could go, as if at any moment now, she would get pulled up and back into the great beyond, “... And I saw the Sphere! I swear I did!”

“Couldn’t see much though…” Lepus tries to disguise the fact she didn’t remember what the Sphere looked like, focusing on what she could recall, “... But it smelled like soap and sugar, tastes of sweetbread buns and you were there too! Ma and Pop!”

“You three were looking up at me and waving, y’all looked funny! Your eyes were shiny like lanterns! Ma had white eyes, Pop had bright purple ones and you were this funny bright blue!” She rambles on, smiling at the thought of going up there… To the Sphere.

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — Everyone together, laughing, glowing. The best kind of dream.

Lepus giggled softly, “Yeah, It was a good dream.”

Soon, her violet eyes lifted to look at Khara, to see if she shared the same joy she did when she recalled the dream that left her so lighthearted she didn’t even mind when Loa and Kidd started their nonsense again…. But Khara only chuckled, a small, sad kind of chuckle.

Lepus blinks slowly like a confused animal, the whimsy and joy of the dream slowly sinking like a broken ship. She knew that adults hated the Sphere, the spiteful way they stared at its distant, dark silhouette when the sky was clear enough to see… But she couldn’t hate them so much that even her dream made her bitter, could she?

“You… didn’t like it?” she asks, voice small. Khara smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her stormy eyes. “No, I liked it, Bunbun. Just… made me think of things, that’s all.”

[TIDESENSE] — The wind’s changed. Her laugh doesn’t ripple. It sinks. Something in it feels heavier than the sea.

Before Lepus could tear up, thinking that she ruined everything, there was a hand on her hair.

Khara’s hand ruffles her hair, nails scratching her scalp in a gentler way than before, not the rough kind of affection that usually bordered on manhandling.

“Hey,” She shifted her tone, “I think it’s getting a bit chilly, isn’t it?” The sudden question about the weather made her pay attention to something that wasn’t her mistake. She felt the air around her, but couldn’t decide if the cold came from the salty water drying in her skin or if the temperature had gone down.

“You know what that means! Bone broth night!” Khara pumped her fist in the air like she won something, the mention of the food making her remember the fact that there was a pot that was simmering for days in the stove that Ma was ultra secretive about.

Lepus grins, the last of her tears retreating. “With seaweed dumplings?” Khara gasps theatrically offended before huffing. “Wouldn’t be real broth without them.”

Just in time they arrived home, their house sat squeezed between two taller and half-collapsed buildings, built of sun-bleached planks painted whatever colors Pop had in hand and Lepus’ chalk drawings. One of the windows was open, the orange curtain flapping against the wind as a rich, fatty aroma finally free from the pot drifted from within.

Lepus was already swallowing her own saliva by the time they stood in front of the uneven door. The small girl was practically desperate, knocking eagerly against the wood.

[SURGE] — The hunger hits like thunder. All that running, laughing, dreaming. Now your body wants its reward. Go on, pound that door down if you must!

“You’ll scare Ma into thinking I starved you half to death.” “I am starved,” Lepus replied, half-whining, half-serious. Her fists drummed the door again. The old wood thudded dully, and from inside came the familiar scrape of chair legs and Ma’s voice: Sharp, lilting, and full of warmth even when scolding.

“Look who’s finally remembered where they live!” Steps walk towards the door, the lock flicking and the hinges groaning as it opens.

Ma barely had time to think before Lepus darted between her legs, zipping through her to get inside the house. She almost stepped in before remembering the ‘no shoe’ rule, and desperately trying to free her feet from their prison.

[SPUTTERSTEP] — Hop! Twist! Don’t slip!

The older woman just laughed at the scene, Khara snickering after as she placed the rubber boots on their little corner by the door.

When she finally took off her shoes and made a run for her parents’ room to place the book on top of their beds, she sprinted towards the lumpy couch that serves both as a dining area and Khara’s bed. Pop was already sat in the end, and she places herself next to him like in every meal.

He was folded awkwardly over the table that was always pulled from beside the couch to in front of it at dinnertime since the chairs broke. His dark hair, streaked with silver, was tied back to not fall in front of his face as he ate.

“Look who came back,” He chuckled, placing his bowl on the surface of the table to plate Lepus’. He gave her a generous portion of cloudy broth that smelled of oil and warmth, topped with four seaweed dumplings that she couldn't wait to discover if it was filled with canal fish or root vegetables.

Lepus’ hands cup the bowl reverently. “Thank you, Pop,” she whispers before daring her first spoonful.

The first sip is absolute bliss— thick, oily, fatty, full of marrow salt. It coats her tongue in slight acid from the slight taste of vinegar. Then, it's the turn of the dumplings, she bites into the leathery dark green dough and is met by the taste of chopped fish, minced vegetables and garlic bulbs.

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — Warm food, warm hands, laughter nearby. You don’t need much more than this.

Lepus hums low, mouth full, the kind of happy sound that belongs only to hungry children and full hearts. By the time Ma started to serve the tea and Khara had her bowl in hand, Lepus was taking in spoonfuls by the minute, her cheeks full of broth.

“Bunbun, you’re gonna choke,” Ma giggled, but Lepus was deep into the rich salty broth and flaky dumplings to hear her now.

So, the adults around her started talking.

“Eat it while it's still hot,” Ma advised with a softer tone while extending her hands towards Khara, one holding the bowl filled with marrow broth and dumplings in one hand a tin cup with warm, dark and bitter blackweed tea. The girl accepted both, the steam fogging her lashes as she set them on the table and started eating in big, eager mouthfuls.

“Pop worked his back off for those bones.”

Khara rolled her eyes so far, she thought she could almost see the inside of her skull, letting a small ‘tsk’ from her mouth to show her displeasure, “He says that every week.”

“Because it’s true every week,” Kaen answered, chuckling, reaching for another dumpling, “Pop! I literally work with you! And I don't say allat! All you do is talk big and lift small!”

That earned a snort from Ma and a small, warm chuckle from him. “I lift what matters. You just like to brag about the bruises to that Rion kid you like so much.”

Khara leaned back in her chair, spoon hanging from her fingers. “Oh yeah? Well, those bruises buy your soup, old man.”

Kaen’s beard twitched into a grin. “And who bought the strings for your loud toy, hm? Because, I don't know, you not knowing how to keep your hands to yourself doesn't put food on our table. Remember that time—”

“It’s not a toy!” Khara nearly barked to stop that certain story from coming out of his mouth, indignation flaring across her face as she grew as red as a flare in the fog. “It’s an instrument. You wouldn’t understand, it takes soul.”

“Mm,” Ma hummed, stirring her own tea. “Soul and a working battery, if I recall… Rion is the one that gave her those, isn't it?”

Khara pouted, stabbing her dumpling with unnecessary force and biting with a crunch before crossing her arms. “I’m the one that fixed it. Mostly… It only shocks me sometimes now.”

That set Ma laughing again— that easy, silvery laugh that filled the kitchen even louder than the boiling pot. “If it doesn’t burn your fingers off first, maybe you’ll play something decent one day.”

As if to prove her point, Ma’s hands left her tin cup to grab Khara’s hands, lifting two of her fingers to showcase her point, another hand taking off her gloves as the girl tries to fight off her mother’s grip without using too much force.

Finally Lepus looks up after the commotion… Not after trying to grab the last dumpling in the pan, earning a warning light smack with a spoon from Pop, that sneaks the same dumpling into Ma’s plate.

Her palms are thick with hardened calluses compared to the light pricking scars Ma earned from sewing needles and kitchen knife cuts, but it was clear she was trying to call attention to Khara’s short, sturdy fingers.

Each of her fingertips held many small burn patches of skin ranging from white to reddish where the skin grew blistered then slowly healed. Others were more shallow circular marks with electrical pulses, her fingers twitched lightly. Her nail polish was chipped, nails uneven with hairline cracks while her palms contained faint silvered scars that went all the way to her wrists.

Khara yet again, just pouted while her ears burned red, going back to splashing her broth around while Ma and Pop giggled like two teenagers.

Lepus stared, half in awe and half in worry, her spoon pausing mid-air. She thought she could almost hear them — a soft buzz of past shocks, the ghost of burned circuits and laughter that followed anyway.

[ECHLOGY] — Those marks remember every spark, every mistake. Her hands hum like wires that once screamed.
[COMPARISON] — Her hands are rough, scarred, and brave. Yours are small and soft. But someday, they’ll have stories too.

For that small moment, she stares at her own Palm: Soft, unmarked, no calluses in sight. She imagines what it would look like, to have marks to prove her own story.

“Ha. Ha.” Khara rolled her eyes as she pulled her arm away, but her grin betrayed her. “You say that now, but when I’m famous, living in a Safe Zone, you’ll regret every word. Imagine that: Khara Erwn, best guitarist in the whoole Ground! My music will reach the Sphere!”

Lepus snorted, slurping the last of her broth. “Yeah right. They’d probably make you play in front of all those posh people with clean hands and real napkins.”

Khara leaned back on the creaky chair, balancing it dangerously on two legs as her grin widened. “And I’d still blow their ears off,” she said, strumming an invisible guitar, voice thick with mock grandeur. “They’d beg me to stay in Canvas Town—give me my own tower just to keep me from burning the place down with my solos.”

“Famous for what?” Pop teased, leaning his chin against his hand. “Electrocuting yourself on stage?”

“She can play, though!” she mumbled, half-defensive, half-awed. “She plays that song, the one that goes zzzt-krrrnnn—” she made a mangled electric noise with her mouth, earning a sputter from Khara.

[SOFTNESS] — You’re her little echo. You want to defend her, even when everyone’s laughing.
[REVERIE] — Her words have rhythm. She’s already playing, even without the strings. She will be a great musician some day, with you as her biggest fan.

“Thank you, Bunbun,” Khara said flatly, ears now fully and hot red like metal. “That’s exactly how it sounds.” Ma took one more sip of the broth before looking up, smiling softly. “You do have talent, don't worry so much. Not sure where she got it from, though…”

Pop leaned back in his seat, the couch creaking in distress. “Probably from you. You never shut up either.” “Oh, hush, Kaen.” Ma pouted just like Khara, extending her arm as far as she could to smack him lightly in the nape in retaliation. The girls immediately learned forward while giggling while Pop made no move to get away from the incoming attack.

Lepus, after staring at her now empty bowl, looked from face to face — Pop’s quiet smile, Ma’s tired light, Khara’s grin that tried too hard not to look proud — and decided right there that she liked the sound of them all together better than any music Khara could ever make.

[ECHLOGY] — You’ll remember this sound: laughter, the couch groaning, the clink of spoons. It’ll echo long after the bowls are empty.

—

In the middle of the night, Lepus woke up at the sound of… Something. A soft, irregular pluck of the guitar and the smell of something burning. That was enough to keep her awake.

Her bed was little more than a metal frame with a thin mattress, its springs squeaking whenever she shifted. A patchwork blanket sewn from different scraps of cloth Ma had scavenged from the docks covered her, all uneven stitches and mismatched colors. She slowly universe herself, playing her bare feet against the floor.

She moved through her small bedroom with the practice of someone who did it many times before. The soft light that sneaked in from the narrow windows, the curtains made of fishing nets and an old blue sheet painting everything in cold colors.

She sneaked through her few possessions in her tippy toes— Broken toys, an old rabbit plushie, glass jars containing seashells, beads and buttons.

When she finally reached the door, she opened slowly to see her perfect view of the living room… Or as everyone in the house calls it: Khara’s bedroom.

Rubbing at her eyes, she saw it: A pale, lazy thread of smoke curling under the slit of her door. “…Khara?” she whispered, voice hoarse from sleep. The air was fogged with its scent — damp moss and something almost sweet, almost sour. Her nose twitched before her face scrunched up in disgust. “Khara? Kiki?” She asked again, the slumbering tiredness of her eyes going away from the simple thought: Ma was going to be mad.

[COMPARISON] — Adults make rules they break themselves.

Lepus frowned. “You’re not supposed to,” she mumbled under her breath.

A record player hummed quietly beside the figure of her sister laying on the couch, the same warped guitar chords she’d been practicing earlier looping softly, broken by static. The crate she used as a bedside table had an old sardine can filled with ashes.

Lepus stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her thin shirt. “You’re gonna make Ma mad again,” she muttered, her voice way too serious for an eight year old girl.

Khara chuckled, exhaling slowly, her eyes that reminded Lepus of how Pop described the sea warning of a storm now rimmed with red. “Ma sleeps through storms, Bunbun. She won’t notice a little moss.”

Lepus stepped closer, wrinkling her nose once again. “Smells like dirt.” Khara just laughed, smiling crookedly. “That’s the point, It’s natural. Or—well, as natural as it gets these days.” She patted the space beside her with her foot, offering the couch. “Can’t sleep?”

Lepus shook her head but came anyway, tucking her knees to her chest as she sat. The two sisters were quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the occasional crack of burning leaf and the buzz of faraway generators. “Khara?” “Yeah?” “…What’s Canvas Town like? Did you go there or somethin’?”

[WONDERMENT] — Canvas Town. The name feels painted. What color is it? Is it real?

Lepus leaned forward a little. “Is it far? Does it have fireworks? Lots of it?”

Khara’s smirk faltered. For a second, she looked past the room, past the least roof and thick clouds that blocked the sun, to something distant with cloudy eyes. “It’s… loud, at least I heard it was, full to the brim with music… And the air is clean.” she said finally. “Color everywhere. Walls covered in graffiti. No one scrubs them clean, no one tells you to stop.”

[ECHLOGY] — She speaks like she’s remembering something she never saw.

Lepus tilted her head, the voice in her mind was right. “You never went there, did you?” Khara’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t answer.

Lepus tries to imagine such a place, but her mind draws a blank. The closest she can seem to relate to it are the walls of her room, covered in images of posters, old magazines, drawings that she couldn't differentiate between the ones that she herself made or the ones that Khara made when the room was still hers… But in the end, those were too faded and lacking in contrast to be as colorful as her older sister describes this city to be.

“Do you think they’d let you play there?” Lepus asked softly.

Khara looked at the ceiling for a while longer before looking at the tips of her own fingers like someone looking at something dirty— Her hands and fingers, calloused and blackened from the cheap wires of her guitar, faint burns tracing old mistakes. “Maybe,” she said, a smile ghosting her lips. “If I ever got there.” Her fingers curl slightly, as if ashamed of what they’d made.

The Sporeleaf ember dimmed. She took one last drag, eyes heavy now, voice low. “But until then…” She tapped her chest lightly with two fingers, then her sister’s. “Music’s still here. And here. And I’m happy to sing and dance here”

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — See? You don’t need Canvas Town. You already have her, and her song, and this moment. It’s enough.

Lepus smiled faintly but the thought of just letting Khara stay here made something bitter grow in her core. She leaned her head against the couch as the smoke drifted upward, lazy and green.

“... Kiki?” She called her sister’s name again, she didn't know if she was listening, maybe it was better this way. Lepus didn't want to embarrass herself.

“I’m gonna take you there.” The little girl promised with a finality of someone who saw the future and knew her words rang true for the entire universe and destiny itself. She would take her older sister there one day, she just knew it, could feel it in her heart.

“And—” She stuttered, trying to find the right words to say, the words to promise to her older sister, “And— And we are going to eat sweetbread buns and real chocolate! Not the fake kind!” Lepus’s eyes lit up as she pictured it: A table of impossible delights, all glowing under the clean light of Canvas Town.

“We are going to draw all day then sing all night, you’ll never haul another crate in your life, and then!—” Her rambles are interrupted by a snore, Khara’s snore.

Lepus blinked, her mouth still half-open, then smiled quietly before giggling for a reason she couldn't decide between laughing at herself or at her sister. She whispered anyway, as if her sister could still hear: “And then we’ll dance too… And be together forever.”

She slowly got off the couch, tip-toeing towards Khara. She had really passed out, her mouth still open and her fingers barely holding the Sporeleaf roll in between them. Lepus hesitated, watching the faint rise and fall of Khara’s chest, she took the roll and sardine can she was using as an ashtray and moved towards her room in quiet steps.

[SOFTNESS] — Careful now. Don’t wake her.

“I know, shut up,” She whispers to the voice, speaking her way back into her bedroom without making a single misstep, avoiding the cracks in the flooring and eyeing her parent’s bedroom door with suspicion before closing her own.

Inside, she opened the window and without hesitation, threw both the ash-filled sardine tin can and the roll. Lepus froze in her actions the moment she heard the tin clatter against the concrete floor outside. She waited for something to happen, for somebody to wake up…

Nothing. She sighs out of relief.

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — See? Sometimes the world forgives small mistakes. Crisis averted.

Finally, sleep shows itself when she yawns, covering her mouth and making her way towards her squeaky bed. She burrows herself inside the covers, each movement of hers making the springs creak slightly.

When she dreams, she doesn't dream about the Sphere or red ballons— But rather the day age takes her family to Canvas Town.

Chapter Text

Standing outside her car was a luxury these days, from sleeping in the middle of nowhere or close enough to the Sphere that one wrong move would get her scrapped clean in a trash drop, even just leaving her car window open could allow toxic air in. Even if dying in her sleep sounded peaceful, she was still too young for that.

[ANCHOR] — “You’ve seen too much to surrender to stillness. The world hasn’t finished writing you yet.”

She smirked faintly, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah. Guess not.”

The air was cleaner in the South Ward, not safe-zone clean, but cleaner none the less. She took a deep breath in, smelling the dry ozone and something not unlike warm metal. She sighs deeply, relaxing her body as her back rested against the car door.

Mara’s crow gas mask rested between her crossed legs as she entertained herself with her drink— A morale booster, if you will. She looked at her own chipped cup, the liquid inside as thick as oil and as dark as soot. She raises her glass to no one in particular, before chugging it down in one go.

She never liked Scavenger’s coffee, it tastes like shit no matter how much she drinks it. Bitter and burnt, the first sip hit like a punch to the teeth, the second dragged down her throat with that same metallic aftertaste that made her stomach tighten. A savory finish is all that lasts in her numb tongue and throat, a reminder that comfort in this place always came with poison. After wiping her mouth clean as her nose twitched, she forces herself up.

She spent her money well, four thousand four hundred Galla was enough that she didn't have to worry about money after three days. Her gas mask felt brand new with the filters, oxygen tanks were safely guarded inside her car, more equipment for her multitude of different jobs, new strings for her Vital Instrument… And of course, small luxuries, like finally fixing her damn radio.

She opened the door with a thud, sitting in the driver’s seat… But not driving just yet, just staring at the horizon with her mask still in her lap, remembering the details of this new job she has been contracted to do while her fingers traced circular patterns in the lenses of the mask.

It would be less than the cleaning duty one— One thousand two hundred galla for delivering work, no add-ons or payment in kind. Cut and dry.

Normally, this would be the kind of job that she would take when she is scrambling for anything. It's simple, worth at least three days of scavenger work… But it wasn't the reason she chose this particular job.

Her dull violet eyes go towards the Choker that sat on top of the dashboard, its red liquid bubbling as she stared. She didn't like it, it made her neck feel constricted and itchy even if she knew all about how it was the only reliable source of communication in the whole Ground. But, this job meant that she would see someone she had been meaning to for a long, long time.

[GHOSTS] — “Something old lingers beneath this choice. A face, a name. You miss talking to them.”

With a slight hesitation, one she couldn't name without feeling pathetic, she grabbed the Choker and placed it on her neck. For seconds, she just stood there, before listening to the quiet white noise that comes before communication. The hum vibrated against her collarbone, familiar and foreign all at once.

The silence on the other line felt endless, the air seeming to stop as guilt for not talking sooner hit her. Still, she whispers, “Remlin? You there?”

For a second, nothing but static, a faint hiss like spray paint escaping a can. Then a pop of sound, a startled gasp, and then— “Mara?! Holy— holy shit! It’s you!”

Remlin’s voice bursts through the line bright and crackling, like they’ve been holding their breath for months and just remembered how to exhale. There’s a clatter on their end, something metallic falls, a muffled “ow!”.

She laughed under her breath at the noise on the other end of the line, a sound too thin to carry, but real enough to feel. Before Remlin could say another word, Mara forces her laughter down before a mock scolding tone, more for show than for discipline. “Remlin, language. Did Gnomulas stop teaching you proper manners? You’re not even fifteen yet.”

[INSIGHT] — “You hide behind the tone. Easier to play the adult than admit how much you missed them.”

“Oh come on!” Remlin’s protest comes quickly, too loud for the quiet hour of dawn. She could hear the scrape of their chair, the soft thunk-thunk-thunk of restless fingers tapping against metal. “He still tries, y’know. Gives me that ‘proper posture, proper tone’ speech every time I open my mouth. But what am I supposed to do, Mara? Half the town curses worse than me!”.

The small smile the older girl managed to create disappeared when she remembered why Remlin was now the new Spellcaster in the first place. Gob's death. As far as she had managed to hear from word of mouth, Gnomulas scoldings over him taking off his mask in polluted areas didn't work. Toxic Inhalation Syndrome, cruel way to die.

Before she could ruin the moment, make the poor kid remember such things as death when they already had so much on their plate, Mara hits herself in the head with her knuckles, focusing her head on anything else. Oh yeah, there was a reason she was calling. After the knuckles make a soft thud against her forehead, she continued, trying to keep her voice light.

[IRON GRIP] — “Focus. Don’t spiral.”

“Anyways, uhm—” She stuttered, trying to pick up the pieces of the conversation while pushing her body back on the driver’s seat, “I just called you to say that I got a delivery to Canvas Town, paints and graffiti and stuff like that. Maybe after I give these to Gnomulas and get my pay, maybe we could… Y’know…”

Alright guys, She mouthed the words, talking to the voices that rattled around her skull like pebbles in a bowl. “Do somethin' besides being useless and give something for me to work with. What can I do with them? Eat something? Draw a little?” She frowned. God, do they even still like drawing when their job is just drawing? She leaned back, her head already buzzing with the jumble of voices answering at once.

[CALCULATION] — “Efficiency suggests a shared meal. Low effort, high reward, emotionally grounding. Cheap conversation lubricant.”
[INSIGHT] — “No, that’s too impersonal. They need something that feels safe, something that says you remember who they are.”
[GHOSTS] — “They used to sketch faces on napkins while you waited for paint to dry when you were both younger. Remember that?”
[FRAGILE HOPE] — “Maybe you could draw with them again. Doesn’t have to be good. Just... something small.”

Mara snorted softly, shaking her head. “No, they wouldn’t like that. Not now. Feels too… I don’t know. Work-like… But maybe they would like that…?”

[HARMONY] — “Then music!”
[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — “You could go somewhere quiet — let the world hum around you. Let decay be your melody.”
[ANCHOR] — “They don’t need melody. They need you. Talk. Tell them something only you would say.”
[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — “Or just move. Don’t overthink it. Walk somewhere. Climb something. Throw rocks at a sign. Breathe.”

Mara groaned, rubbing her forehead. “That’s... too many options, guys. Great job…” she sarcastically murmured as she stared at the window. The sky had lightened as the sun rose, painting the edges of the dark clouds mint green and cold blues as the sun appeared as just a pale disc.

[IRON GRIP] — “Then pick one. Don’t drown in choice. Act.”

She sighed, letting her fingers now tap against the lenses. “Right. Act. Yeah, sure.” Her eyes narrowed, feeling the effects of the coffee starting to hit. “You’re all so helpful.”

Mara froze when she realized she wasn't mouthing her words or thinking anymore, she was talking out-loud all this time while on-call with Remlin. Her stomach dropped. She must’ve sounded like a lunatic.

[HARMONY] — “Maybe they didn’t hear.”
[CALCULATION] — “They absolutely heard. Ten seconds of silence confirms awareness.”
[FRAGILE HOPE] — “...Or maybe they just think you’re funny?”
[GHOSTS] — “You used to talk to yourself when you were nervous around them too.”

After exactly ten seconds of silence, she broke it with a quiet… “How about we hang out a little bit?” This was embarrassing. Her cheeks burned.

There’s a beat of silence, then a short snort, followed by the sound of someone failing miserably to hold in laughter.

“Pff— you—” Remlin gasps, voice cracking through the static, “you’re still like that! Talking to yourself like you’re running a war council in your head—oh my god, I thought you’d grown out of it!” They laugh again: Bright, unrestrained, that kind of laughter that feels like it’s half trying to chase something sad away. She could almost see it, them wiping their eyes with the back of a paint-stained hand.

Mara just forces the knuckles of her fingers against her eyes until she sees abstract shapes, as if that would fix anything. Her cheeks still burn like hellfire as she hears Remlin struggling to stop laughing at her expense. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just a low hum of static and the faint sound of Remlin catching their breath not before more chuckles escape their lips like a broken water dam.

[HARMONY] — “They’re laughing because they missed this. Missed you.”
[IRON GRIP] — “No. Don’t soften. You sound ridiculous, and now they think you’re unstable.”

“Haha. Real funny you little gremlin,” Her tone was stern and deflective, but her violet eyes softened, distant for a moment as they gazed at the mint-colored horizon, as if some old memory had brushed past.

“Gremlin? Excuse you, I’ve been promoted to official menace of Canvas Town, thank you very much.” There’s a shuffle on the other end, the faint clatter of something metallic, maybe spray cans being kicked aside.

Another pause. When they speak again, their voice is quieter, still smiling, but with that fragile note that creeps in when someone’s trying not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s hang out. I don’t care if you’ve gotta drop the paints off or get yelled at by Gnomulas first — I’ll wait.”

“... Can you at least say what your little brain council told you? I wanna knooow!” She hear the rustle of movement, the faint fizz of spray cans.

[CALCULATION] — “Do not tell them.”
[FRAGILE HOPE] — “Maybe do.”
[HARMONY] — “Let them in. A little chaos might be good for you.”

Mara groaned under her breath, half-laughing despite herself. “You’re not meeting them. They’re loud, rude, and think you’re a bad influence… But I can say what they wanted to do…” She said without thinking, but it was too late to take it back unless she wanted to hear someone whining from the other line.

She starts listing, “One of them told me to take you to eat somewhere cheap because its ‘Low effort, high reward’, another told me to just sketch a bit with you, another told me to play you a tune with my Vital Instrument And another… Just told me to take you to run around and throw rocks or somethin'...”

Remlin’s offended gasp bursts through the line like a crack of static, followed immediately by a snort of laughter that ruins their attempt at sounding serious.

“You just think I don’t because you hang out with those tough merc types all the time. But I’ll have you know I’ve been running up and down the rooftops of Canvas every morning since! …” A pause. “Okay, fine, maybe three days ago.
Point is, I could totally outclimb you if I wanted to.”

“Hah!” The sound burst out of her, sharp and disbelieving, clutching her belly with one hand as she continues, “Kiddo, last time I saw you, you looked like you couldn't walk from Hole Town to Canvas City without passing out halfway! Ten miles and you already sound like death.”

“That was one time!” Remlin’s voice cracked indignantly through the receiver, loud enough that Mara had to pull the Choker slightly from her neck. “I told you, the air was thick that day! Nobody breathes right when it smells like burnt rubber and sewer water, okay?”

They huffed, the sound of shifting fabric suggesting they’d thrown themselves dramatically back into a chair or onto a couch. “Besides, I’ve grown! I’m practically an adult now. Fourteen and three-quarters, thank you very much. I can definitely walk farther than Hole Town. I could probably make it to the North Border if I wanted to!”

There’s a tiny, prideful pause—then a quieter, sheepish mumble follows: “...Maybe not run there. Yet. Still working on that part.”

Mara just sighs, already in a good mood, “Fine, fine, little star athlete. I gotta go. You better find us something to eat or I will pull you into eating Green Slurry, it's good for the lungs.” She threatens them with the memory of that drink— Thick, green, made of algae.

“EW—no! No no no!” Remlin’s horrified yelp almost makes the Choker buzz. She can practically hear them flailing on the other end. There’s a beat of silence, then a faint laugh slips through. Genuine, warm. “...But fine. I’ll find something that won’t make us both regret living. You just don’t bail on me again, got it?”

[FRAGILE HOPE] — “You sound lighter. Happy, even. When was the last time that happened?”
[GHOSTS] — “You sound just like her.”

The words hit harder than they should.

[ANCHOR] — “Stop. Don’t flinch. Don’t let it show.”
[HARMONY] — “But the air’s gone still, hasn’t it? Even the static’s listening.”
[FRAGILE HOPE] — “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Mara tries, she swears she tries, her nails scratch the brand new lenses. She keeps her mouth closed, listening to Remlin's words.

“And, uh… Mara? I’m— glad you called. Really.”
“Now drive safe, delivery girl! Don’t crash before I kick your butt in that race!”

Mara swallowed and forced a small laugh. “Good. I’ll hold you to that, menace.”

[GHOSTS] — “She’d have said it the same way.”

Stop it. Stop it. Quit it!

She practically rips the choker out of her throat the moment the other end goes silent.the cord scraping against her skin with a harsh snap. The white noise cuts off. Mercifully, violently leaving only her own ragged breath.

[GHOSTS] — “It’s still warm. Like her hand used to be.”
[ANCHOR] — “Don’t start this again.”
[HARMONY] — “No, listen — even the blood hums like—”
[CALCULATION] — “Shut it down before—”
[FRAGILE HOPE] — “She just wants quiet, can’t you—”

Her hand trembled. She wanted to throw the damn Choker out the window, to crush it under her heel, but instead, she just stared at the thing— the faint smear of her own skin oil on the metal rim, the still-glowing light at its base as the blood inside ran without a care in the world.

“Shut up!” She suddenly screamed, gripping the Choker with enough strength to feel the tube digging into her palms, “Shut up, each and every single one of you! I want one moment of peace!”

[IRON GRIP] — “Then drop it.”
[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — “Peace is silence, silence is death. Do you really want that?”
[ANCHOR] — “Don’t listen to it. Just breathe.”
[GHOSTS] — “You won’t. You never do. You need us.”

The voices tangled into one another, overlapping, fracturing, until everything inside her head blurred into a single violent pulse that echoed in her teeth. The Choker’s light flickered once, dimmed, then steadied, like it was mocking her restraint.

Her knuckles ached white. The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was a vacuum as she started at the glowing horizon.

She had a job to do and a friend to meet.

Chapter Text

The day starts as it always did: With the sounds of the town coming to life.  

  

First, the sounds started. A hiss of the pipes, white steam rising with a sigh and groan. The thinness of the walls of her home helped her listen to all that was happening outside the other house with equally thin walls as she lay still in her creaky bed in a state of half-sleep, half-awake, just breathing along. Someone drops a flower pot and curses at their own slippery hands, footsteps of what seemed to be hundreds of people walking towards the docks, or the market, or whatever they needed to be that day.   

  

[WONDERMENT] — All those footsteps, all those doors opening. Every sound a little story. Aren’t you curious where they all go?  

  

She smiles faintly, eyes still closed. “Maybe the docks… Maybe the baker’s,” she mumbles, trying to picture the streets she hasn’t yet seen this morning. Somewhere, a woman complains that her husband forgot his lunch for the third time this week, Lepus thinks it's her neighbours.  

  

Their house was different, though, they started their morning quietly and not rushing out like the days were half-gone. Pop said that it was because he liked to enjoy a bit of peace before arguing with a man twice his age at work.  

  

By the time she finally sat up and pushed the blankets off her body, rubbing her eyes as she felt the ground below her feet, she was sure that she was late for something… Something she didn't know. She didn't have to wake up early, didn't need to and she could almost hear Khara theatrical whine that she wished she had her younger sister’s life.   

  

Then, she smelled it. Smoky, salt-heavy. Breakfast was almost ready!  

  

The smell forces her to take her first steps of the day, her stomach growling at the thought of chewing on whatever was going to be served today. She tip toes around the mess that was her floor, almost tripping on her plushie on the way towards the door before stumbling over herself but somehow not meeting the floor.   

  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — You fall like a dancer. Badly, but with flair.  

  

Finally, her hands reached the door, she opened just enough to smell the outside of her room better. No sporeleaf this time, only the smell of food. Her nose did a little bunny scrunch before she realized it.  

  

The moment she got out, it was time for the floorboards that creaked as much as her bed. She could do it, she managed to sneak around at night yesterday, didn't she? She could manage again. With a huff and a playful nod, she places a single foot on the narrow hallway.   

  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — The enemy is sound. The weapon: your feet. One wrong step, and the world wakes.  

  

Lepus grins, balancing on one leg. “You talk too much,” she whispers back. Two steps close to the door, leaning her weight against the walls as she avoids the splintered plank that she could still remember the pain from the sharp little points. There: a floorboard that groaned. Another that popped when you shifted your weight wrong. She stretched her leg and skipped both in one step.  

  

When she finally found herself in the living room, the kitchen window was already open, allowing the outside smell to sneak its way in. The slight sunlight snuck in as well, reflecting off the pots that hung along the walls as Ma was already there, her hand holding the worn wooden spoon of always.  

  

[WONDERMENT] — The light loves her. It dances on her spoon like it knows her name.  

  

Her platinum grey hair was tied in a bun that always had bits and parts uncontained, sleeves rolled up to her elbows that showcased lean muscles and forearms covered in freckles and flour.  

  

The next time Lepus took a breath in, the scent of food was stronger and more potent, making her throat tighten with hunger. Before she noticed, she was already sitting prim and proper on the table already pulled in front of the couch, the boxy TV with its cracked screen turned on.  

  

“The Patchwork Pals” was on, two fabric animals stitched from mismatched scraps, dancing across a backdrop painted to look like a sunny field. Their voices warbled through static, cheerful but warped, like laughter under water.  

  

“Sharing makes the scraps go ’round!” sang the smaller one, its button eye loose, thread dangling like a tear.  

  

After all this time, Ma didn’t turn right away, though Lepus was sure she’d already noticed her; her mother always knew when someone was nearby. She continued to stir the pot before finally saying something.  

  

“Good morning' Bunbun,” She didn't turn around, but her voice was light but raspy, “You woke up late today,” Late for the household, Lepus could hear water being poured from the bathroom, probably Khara washing up. Pop always was the last to wake up.  

  

“The floorboards were creaky again…” Lies, she could still smell the earthy sporeleaf in her memories, but she didn't want Ma to get angry.  

  

Steam drifted from the pot as Miyuu ladled a spoonful into a dented bowl, then reached for the tin of fish flakes. With practiced motion, she crushed a handful between her fingers and let them fall like ash across the surface of the porridge. The flakes hissed as they hit the heat, curling and softening in an instant. Dried fish flakes over porridge, dull yes, but it was routine.  

  

Lepus' eyes went back into the TV, just as the puppets kept moving anyway, smiling and waving, even when the signal cut for a moment and their cloth bodies froze mid-gesture. With practiced ease, she mixes the porridge up, broth oil and dried onion skin stirring up together, before stopping the grayish-white food that filled the spoon, taking a big bite. At first, it comes plain and warm, a little bit gritty before the flavour really starts to settle in.  

  

Just as she took her third bite, Khara finally left the bathroom, her hair still wet and wearing the dock coveralls with the zipper undone halfway down to her stomach, a black crop-top underneath printed with a white ribcage. Lepus would’ve frozen stiff if she wore something like that.  

  

[COMPARISON] — She’s bold where you’re quiet. Same eyes, same nose, but she shines louder.  

  

Lepus blinks at her sister’s reflection on the TV screen, then looks back at her bowl. “Doesn’t she get cold?” she mutters as her sister sits down besides her.  

  

[COMPARISON] — You’re not asking about the cold, are you? You’re asking why she looks so different and doesn’t seem to mind it.  

  

“I just meant— never mind,” Lepus murmured, spoon stirring without purpose. Khara scoffed, her lips curling into a smug little smile as she crossed her arms like Lepus' question just proved her sense of style was superior and not something that anyone else would be shivering on, “No frost for fine trash like me!” Her tone was sassy and self-assured as she declared, hands on her hips. Ma’s eyes narrowed at her.   

  

“Language,” she warned even as her older daughter didn't say a bad word, putting the bowl filled with porridge in front of her. With extra fish flakes as always.  

  

Her smirk quickly disappears the moment her navy eyes fall into the bowl, “Hah?”  

  

“Maaaa!” Khara whines in that tone that means she just wanted to be a little annoying, “Dock sludge agaain? Really?”  

  

“You’ll live,” Ma said simply, unamused but faintly smiling as she wiped her hands on her apron, placing another filled bowl where she knew that Pop would sit. “It’s good for your blood.”  

  

Khara made a face, sticking out her tongue like a petulant child at her grown age of nineteen. “It’s good for killing flavor. I don't know how you and Pop handle eating this everyday…” she scooped some, looking at the lumpy appearance.  

Ma raised a brow while sitting next to Khara, her own warm bowl in her hands as she took a bite, taking her time chewing before answering with a smile. “Then die grateful.”  

  

[REVERIE] — The rhythm lands perfectly. Even Ma’s humor has a tune.  

  

That got Lepus to stifle a laugh, the kind that slips out before she could stop it. Khara shot her a glare that didn’t last long before she broke into a grin herself.   

   

The TV flickered again, the puppets returning, their little cloth arms still waving as if applauding the scene. Khara looked more entertained by It despite herself.  

  

After a short while, the door to the parent's bedroom opens, a loud yawn as big footsteps walk towards the living room. Instead of the careful game Lepus played, Pop just stepped wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.  

  

The boards complained under his weight as he walked toward the living room, the scent of iron and sea still clinging to his clothes. His hair, normally always tied and out of his face, covered his face and fell down his back and shoulders like a black and white curtain.  

  

Khara tilted her head toward him, already grinning after grimacing at the dull taste of the porridge. “Morning, Captain. Slept well?”  

  

Pop just grunted, rubbing his face with one large, scarred hand before running his fingers through his hair, pushing it out from his face. His eyes, downturned like Lepus but in darker shade, were still half-shut with sleep.  

  

[COMPARISON] — Those are your eyes. The same shape.  

  

“Morning,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. “Porridge’s still warm,” Ma said without looking up from her own bowl, pointing at the one that sat in front of his usual spot, containing extra syrup drizzled on top. “Don’t say I don’t spoil you.”  

  

Pop leaned over to kiss her temple as he passed, a lazy smile ghosting across his face. “Wouldn’t dare to.”  

  

[WONDERMENT] — A kiss? Right here, in front of everyone?  

  

Lepus hides her grin behind her spoon again, pretending not to see, but her heart feels oddly full as she watches her mother's shoulders relax at that simple show of affection.  

  

He made his way to his own seat on the other end of the table and sat down with a sigh that sounded half like relief, half like exhaustion, and dug in. The spoon looked small in his hand as he scooped the porridge like it was the last meal he would have for the next month while Khara lazily ate and Lepus scrunched her nose every time the fish flakes dug into her gums.  

  

After that, they all ate their meals in silence, glancing up to see those little puppets dance and wave at them when the TV didn't invert the colors, or freeze the image completely between one second and a few minutes. Pop was the first to finish even when being the last to sit at the table and even taking a second portion into his bowl… Even as Ma looked at him sideways, her eyes narrowed down into slits. The moment that he got up with bowl and spoon in hand, Khara scrambled to eat as quickly as she could after staring at her bowl with quiet anguish. The dishes were placed in the sink, and soon, two pairs of rubber boots were gone from the many pairs of shoes placed at the front door.  

  

[ECHOLOGY] — Their leaving sounds the same every day: boots, door, sea wind. It’s the call and answer of your mornings.  

   

And once again, like many other days, Lepus was left alone in the care of her mother. She was already up, putting the table back in its place and out of the way of the TV as the young girl now scraped the last of the porridge from the bowl, the cartoon’s messaging to never waste a drop spinning in her mind.  

  

When she was done eating, she stood looking up at her mother while she washed the dishes. Well, time for her own day to start.  

  

“Ma?” Lepus asked, standing on the tip of her toes for a moment before standing normally again. She only spoke when her Mother's light eyes were on her again, “Do you have any chores for me?”  

  

Like always, there is a hint of wondering in her eyes, like Ma is trying to figure out once again: Why does Lepus ask for something to do everyday?  

  

In the past, when she was younger than eight, she remembers being told off back to her room or to play around with the other kids that whined at being asked to trade bottles and metal bits in the scrapyard for Galla. But as she got older, finally she was delegated into chores.  

  

[COMPARISON] — You earned your place through echoes: broom, bucket, cloth. Each sound said you’re big enough now.  

  

Lepus smiles faintly at the memory, feeling the same pride settle in her chest.  

  

“Chores already, Bunbun? Your father and sister barely left.” She teases, already seeming to write a list in her head.  

  

“I like starting the day early,” She answered, looking up at her with big bright violet eyes, as if pleading for her to listen. Her words wobble on the edge of sincerity and eagerness, but her heart means every one.  

  

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — You say it like it matters, like morning itself might stop if you don’t begin it right. You believe in small order, in small good things.  

  

This made Ma chuckle softly, turning back towards the sink as she scrubbed chipped pots clean. “Alright, my little helper, how about you… Bring us two jugs of water before the sun is too high? I’ll give you another task when you come back.”   

  

She beams with the task and title, her shoulders straightening with pride. “Yes, Ma!” she nodded her head excitedly before rushing to grab the two small jugs in the corners of the small kitchen, grabbing them by the handles before going towards the front door.  

  

She rushes to put on her “Work shoes”: Khara’s old dockshoes, modified and reassambled to fit her. The stitches on the front toe and heel of being cut down and shortened were uneven, she liked it anyway, meant she was a big girl now.   

  

She got up, stomped each foot two times to test the sturdiness of her shoes before grabbing her jugs and walking out the door.  

  

The front door creaked open, and the pale morning light rushed in, smelling faintly of salt and burnt oil. Lepus blinked against it, her reflection flashing briefly on the metal rim of her jug. Then she stepped outside, into the steady heartbeat of the waking town.  

  

People were already outside, their movements quick and tired. Dockworkers with bandaged hands dragged carts toward the pier, women with scarves over their faces carried laundry lines heavy with damp rags. A man was already shouting about mended nets for sale, his voice echoing down the alley like a gull’s cry.  

  

Most adults barely glanced at her, kids on errands were a background sound of the town. But she felt their eyes sometimes, soft or stern or distant, when they thought she wasn’t looking. <em>The Erwn girl, the quiet one, the one who still flinches at the sound of breaking glass and hides under the legs of her older sister like a scaredy cat.<em>  

  

[TIDESENSE] — They don’t speak it aloud, but you feel it in the air. The kind of quiet that means judgment.  

  

She lowers her head slightly, pretending to count her steps. Pretend they weren't looking at her with something between pity and the knowledge that the Ground would eat her alive.  

  

She passed the stretch of cracked pavement where the other children gathered, an old radio shack that stood lonely after its host had gone away. Their laughter was rough, unkind around the edges, the way only children taught to be hard could laugh.  

  

There were five of them: Loa the so-called “Rust Queen” and her favorite lackey Kidd, Patch, Hook-eye… And Guppy, the younger brother of Kidd. Only her Pop knows how many times she tried to get Guppy out of that crew, saying that they were only trouble, but nothing seemed to work out, with him just saying <em>“But they like me!”<em>  

   

They never liked her, said that she was soft, paper-skinned. Softer than Guppy was.  

  

[SOFTNESS] — Let them say it. Soft things bend. Hard things break.  

[COMPARISON] — They bark like stray dogs so no one hears their fear first.  

  

She exhales slowly, gripping the jug handles tighter, her lips pressing into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes at the little comment.  

  

Lepus tries to keep her head down, tries to walk as fast as she could but not enough to be obvious that she was trying to get away before something bad happend… But, she wasn't fast enough. A sudden “Hey!” Stops her right on her tracks, a sound she recognizes very well: Loa, The Rust Queen and her Rust Court. She sighs, here we go again.  

  

Her violet eyes met the green ones as she looked up at the crown made of sharp tin metal resting on top of dark indigo hair cut with dull scissors, a braid tied and decorated with copper wire and crow feathers. Each of them seemed to click into place, Kidd was behind her as her right hand man, Patch and Hook-eye around them with sharp smiles while Guppy stood farther away with his hands gripping the hem of his shirt.  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Even their cruelty is dressed in colors. Look at her crown: sharp, yes, but still a child’s plaything pretending to rule.  

  

Lepus stares just a little too long, curiosity slipping through fear. She wonders what kind of girl makes herself a queen out of junk and feathers before Loa’s Voice scared her into reality, “Well, look who’s up early,” Loa drawled, voice syrupy-sweet with mockery. “Hi Shell-Ear, fetching water for your <em>mama<em> again?”  

  

A few snickers answered her. Kidd leaned forward. “Careful, Loa, she’ll cry on your shoes. Then you’ll get all soft too.”  

  

Lepus swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry all of the sudden. She didn’t answer but dropped her head lower, avoiding all eye contact. The faster she walked, the sooner this would be over.  

  

 But Loa wasn’t done. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you, lint!” she said, her tone snapping sharp. “Don’t pretend you’re too good to talk to us.”  

  

Lepus stopped again. The sound of the docks, metal clanging and gulls screeching, all seemed to fade for a moment. Her shoulders rose and fell once, a breath heavy enough to carry her heartbeat.  

  

[SURGE] — You could run. You know the way home. Just drop the jugs and fly.  

[SOFTNESS] — No… Don’t give them that. Stand small, but stand.  

  

She turned, slow and careful. “Morning,” she said softly, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. “I’ve got chores. Ma’s waiting.” Loa smirked. “Aw, ain’t that sweet? Always runnin’ home to Ma.”  

Patch laughed. “Bet she still gets tucked in!” Lepus closes her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine what would Khara think about this moment. It would be something akin to <em>“She’s thirteen and still acts like a little girl! Don’t give her a piece of your time,”<em> but she quickly opens her eyes, fearing a push against the ground.  

  

The laughter bubbled up again, sharp and ugly. Guppy’s voice tried to cut through it, small and uncertain: “C’mon, Loa, just let her go…”  

  

Loa turned her head toward him, the smirk curdling. “What, you got somethin’ to say, shrimp?”  

  

He shrank back immediately, eyes darting to Lepus like he wanted to apologize but couldn’t, not in front of her or her crew… Much less his older brother, who looked at him with wide eyes. The little boy’s bare knees were scraped, his clothes two sizes too big. He wasn’t laughing either.  

  

Without another word and taking advantage of the eyes now focusing on another bottom-feeder, she took off, not looking back, gripping the handles of the jugs tighter.  

  

[SURGE] — Run! Run before the world remembers your existence again!  

  

Only when she was far away to not hear the taunts as the royal court noticed that she was running away, only background noise for the sounds of the morning, was when she felt like she could breathe again.  

  

[NAMEKEEPER] — Not a victim. A helper. A daughter. That’s who you are.  

[SOFTNESS] — Yes. Keep going. You can still make something gentle out of this morning.  

  

Her shoulders loosen as she walks again, jugs swinging with a steady rhythm. Back to purpose, back to herself. Safe, at last… Now, she had a chore to do.  

 

---

 

Lepus pushed the door with her shoulders, the water jugs full almost to the point of spilling off. It was a miracle she didn't slip and push it all onto the floor. She was very proud of it.  

  

[SOFTNESS] — See? You didn’t break. You carried something heavy and made it home.  

  

Ma was now sitting on the couch, her hair now loose in pretty rivers of almost white locks that cascaded down her shoulders, her eyes now focused on the task in front of her: Stitching back together pieces of clothing with needle and thread.   

  

As far as Lepus was aware, the light colors that made her Ma so eye-catching and beautiful was also a hindrance: The older woman couldn't stay outside for long without hissing with pain. Her too-pale eyes winced against the sun, her slick hair offered no shade, and her skin had burned red and angry when they first came to Vokuto Bay, as white as the sun behind the clouds before it learned to behave and tan properly.  

  

“Look at my little helper!” She smelled, putting the piece of fabric down and resting in her lap as the younger girl stumbled into the house, “Didn't drop the sea inside this time!”  

  

Lepus huffs, her cheeks puffing up as she remembers the one time she tripped, dumping the two jugs down and creating giant pools on the floor.  

  

“That was one time, Ma!” She complains, putting the jugs down in the same corner it was taken off, now filled with fresh water.  

  

She laughs softly, both at the memory and at how her daughter reacted at that same memory being pulled from the past, before grabbing a small pouch filled with coins and giving it to her when she makes her way back into the living room.  

  

“Time for your second chore,” Ma sighs, giving her the pouch, “Twenty five galla should do it. You are going to buy a kilo of salted scraps, not the chewy rejects the fisherman gives to rejects,you hear me?”  

  

“Yes Ma!” She answers with a seriousness that was almost comical as she turns around, going back outside  

  

And just like that, she was back outside, this time heading towards the market… And of course, taking the longer route, not daring to pass around the radio shack where the Rust Court ruled its tyrannical reign.  

  

The market that resides in the lower docks was already alive by the time she got there, the salty smell growing more fishy as the real crowd filled the streets. She nimbly passed through adults until she found the usual spot where her Ma usually bought fish: A stall with bright red tarp.  

  

She looked up at the fishmonger and his stall, at his shiny silver knives and fish scales scattered along the table with both whole and scraps of fish. “Oh, little Erwn! Will it be fish scraps today?” He asked, an easy smile on his eyes as he looked down at the small girl. “No, Ma asked for salted ones this time. A kilo,” she replied, standing straighter, trying to sound like she belonged among grown-up errands.  

  

He snorted at her display, but nodded anyway. He extended his hand, and counted the galla that she put in his hands.  

  

Soon, the pouch was given to her empty as the man smiled, “A kilo of salted scraps comin’ right up!”   

  

The fishmonger turned around, taking something off the floor. It was a transparent bag full of fish scraps: Tails, fins, a bone or two. Perfect for broth.  

  

“Here you go, Tell you father I said ‘ello,” “I will, sir!” She smiled and waved, running back home with the salted, brined fish scraps. Another little chore written off her list.  

  

She wonders what would come next.  

  

---

 

Lepus arrives home and her Ma is still stitching up cloth, seemingly already on her last thread before she completes it.  

  

“Ah, perfect timing!” Ma nods her head as she snaps the leftover thread with her teeth, now leaving neatly stacked clothes right besides her with neatly invisible stitches, each one having a small price tag. “These are for the houses on the waterline,” She said as she put the needle down to grab the clothes, putting them in Lepus' already extended hands. “The red one is for the Jaro family, blue for Miss Rhoda and the green is for the dockhand with a bad knee, a friend of your father.”  

  

She took the clothes and held them right against her chest like something precious. Before she could even turn around, her mother interrupted, “Oh, another thing!”  

  

Ma tied a small belt around her waist that held a single small basket  

  

“When you come back home, you’ll help me out by putting some clothes on the roofline, ‘kay?” “Okay, Ma! I'll try my best!” She doesn't say that her legs were already aching slightly from walking more than she was used to, but that should be expected, she barely remembers when was the last time she got out from home this much.  

  

“Stay close to the shallows!” “I will!” The jar clicked softly as she once again left home for her third and after that, the last chore of the day.  

  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — New rhythm, new road. Each errand is a dance. Just keep your feet moving.  

  

  

The walk towards the waterline was different, she had to go through the narrow alleyway to get there, her shoes kicking up grey dust that never truly left the floor no matter how many times someone tries to clean it… Well, it's not like anyone ever attempted to.  

  

At the first house of the Jaro family, she knocked thrice and stopped to hear the quick steps coming towards the door. The woman who opened looked ready to scold whatever troublemaker dared to knock… Only to be met with Lepus extending her a pair of trousers.  

  

“For you, Ma’am!” She said with her brightest smile. The woman blinked once before smiling as well, going inside for a brief moment and coming back with ten galla and a jar of pickled greens as an extra “For your mother.”. She placed the payment in the basket tied around Lepus' waist before going back inside.  

  

By the time she arrived in Miss Rhoda’s home, the older woman was already sitting in the steps of her home, a thick blanket made of stitched fabric covering her frail body even if it was particularly hotter than she was accustomed to. She took the shirt with trembling fingers “Ah, your Mother's stitching never fails me… Tell her I’Il send her extra fabric next time.” The payment this time was twenty galla and a bit of fish scrap.  

  

The next stop before she had to collect the herbs was at her father’s friend: The dockworker. She knocked once more, three times as always.The door creaked open, and the man’s voice came out in a half-laugh, half-cough. “Ha! Knew that rhythm anywhere. You’re your mother’s girl, no mistake. What did my lucky patcher’s little helper come to give me today?”  

  

“Your uniform, sir!” She smiled and extended the dock uniform forward, the same deep blue coveralls that both her sister and her father used to go to work everyday.  

  

He barked a quick laugh, already digging in his pockets for his wallet while another hand went to grab the payment in-kind.  

  

He threw in forty galla and a couple of buttons. Five galla more than the original price, she looked up at him with wondering eyes before he barked a laugh.  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Why more? What makes him so generous today? Was it the shine of your smile? Or maybe something you don’t yet see?  

  

 “For the little helper, go buy some ashpuffs before lunch. Don't tell your mother,” Her Violet eyes widened with glee as she nodded vigorously jumping with joy all the way back to the market and the food stall.  

  

“One ashpuff please!” She asked gently, holding the five galla coin with her little fingers. The stall owner nodded and grabbed the coin before giving her the ashpuff: Three fried pieces of dough covered in burnt sugar. She ate them all the way back home with a smile on her face.  

  

---

 

The smell changed again. The fish faded to be replaced by the smell of her own home as she left the market and walked towards her house.  

  

The last load of wet clothes slumped heavy in Lepus’s arms, smelling of salt soap and faint iron from the wash basin. She climbed the narrow ladder nailed crooked against the side of the house, its wood soft with age but still holding steady under her small weight. The roofline wasn’t much, just a flat patch of metal and stone patched over with scraps of tarp and net. It was simple, but served its purpose: Dry clothes since the backyard didn't get enough sun.  

  

A warm wind brushed her hair as she reached the top, making the damp fabric in her arms flap faintly.  

  

She knelt down on the roof’s edge, careful not to lose her balance, and began hanging the clothes along the line. Each one flapped gently as the sea breeze tugged at them: Khara’s patched coveralls first, then Ma’s faded dresses, Pop’s heavy shirt still smelling faintly of the docks.  

   

The wind was stronger up here, making the cloth snap like soft applause. Lepus watched them sway for a moment, small waves of color against the gray sky.  

  

[REVERIE] — It’s a concert just for you. Wind, fabric, rhythm, sky. Everything’s playing together.  

  

She hummed along without realizing it, a tune the wind seemed to answer. Down below, a few neighbors were already doing the same: The hum of conversation and the clink of clothespins echoing between rooftops. Someone laughed at a joke she couldn’t hear; another woman sang a tune just loud enough for the melody to drift.  

  

For a moment, Lepus let herself imagine the clothes as sails, each shirt catching the wind to drift somewhere new. She reached for the last piece, one of her own small shirts, newly patched at the sleeve, and clipped it beside Khara’s black top. The fabric fluttered wildly, and she had to pin it twice before it held. “There,” she whispered, brushing her fingers along the line as if sealing the job. When she finally went back to the ground, her hands were pruny from the wash, but the sight above her made her smile: The roof had turned into a little sky of its own, colors and motion suspended against the world’s gray. The moment is broken when she hears Ma call her from inside the home.  

  

“Lepus! Lunch is ready! Quit playing and come back inside!” Lepus giggled softly, hopping her way back inside. “I’m not playing,” she murmured to herself, though maybe, just a little, she was. Once again, the table was pulled directly in front of the couch in preparation for another family meal time, Khara and Pop probably coming off the docks on their few minutes of break to eat at home.  

  

The smell hit her before she even rounded the corner: Oil and salt, and something familiar, the kind that clung to everything it touched: Fish scraps. Ma stood by the stove, spatula in hand, flipping something golden and crisp in a pan that had seen better days. The sound of sizzling filled the room like quiet music.  

  

“Scrapcakes again?” Lepus asked, sliding onto her spot on the couch.   

  

[COMPARISON] — You ask like the rich do when they tire of too much choice. But here, even scraps are treasure.  

  

“You say that like it’s bad,” Ma said, not looking up. The cakes hissed louder as she pressed one flat with the spatula. “You’ll thank me when you’re not fainting while in the middle of running,” Lepus smiled faintly, resting her elbows on the table. “I’m not gonna faint because of something silly like that…”  

  

The front door creaked open, letting in a breath of cold, damp air. Khara stumbled in first, wiping her hands on her overalls, followed by Pop, his boots still dripping seawater, the smell of the docks trailing behind him. “Something smells rich today,” Pop said, setting down his gloves with a heavy sigh. Ma smirked. “Don’t flatter me, Kaen. It’s only fish scraps.”  

  

The table begins to be made: plates for four, a pan that sat right on the middle with the fish cakes, some torn up pieces of bread enough for everyone and pickled weed given to them by the Jaro's ripe for eating as a side.  

  

“That’s the smell of luxury in this house,” Khara said before kicking her lips mischievously, stealing one hot off the plate before anyone could stop her.  

  

“Hey!” Lepus protested, Khara just winked, cheeks puffed as she chewed. “Should’ve moved faster, softie.”   

  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — Next time, beat her to it! You’re quick, remember? Don’t let big sister win so easy.  

  

“Khara,” Ma warned gently, “Let the kid eat first. She’s the one who hauled the water this morning.”  

  

Lepus straightened a little at that. Ma noticed but didn’t say anything, just smiled that tiny smile that meant she was proud. The four of them sat together, the table crowding the small room. The cakes were still hissing, oil still spitting, the smell so thick you could almost taste it. They plated with bread and pickled weed before grabbing the main star: The scrapcakes Ma finally set down the last plate and sat with them. “Eat quick before the oil cools,” she said, and they did, salt and warmth and laughter mixing in the little space that passed for home.  

  

They ate fast as always, oil cooling, the smell still clinging to their fingers no matter how much they wiped them on the bread. Khara leaned back first, picking at a piece of fish stuck in the middle of her teeth. “Hey, guess what I saw on the way back?” she said between bites. “A Cleaner.”  

 

[TIDESENSE] — The air shifts. Something in the tone changes. The day’s warmth trembles on the edge of something colder.  

  

Ma froze mid-chew, eyes flicking up from her plate. Pop grunted softly, setting down his fork. Lepus herself shifted uncomfortably, mouth still full with bread and pickled weed as her voices started to whisper along at the New information.  

  

[ECHOLOGY] — The silence echoes louder than the word itself. You’ve heard this tone before—fear pretending to be calm.  

[COMPARISON] — You don’t. But you can tell it’s not like when someone mentions a dock fight. This word carries weight. Heavy, invisible weight.  

[WONDERMENT] — Cleaner… does it mean someone who washes? Or… something that removes? Maybe both?  

[SOFTNESS] — Don’t say it aloud. Sometimes, kindness means not asking.  

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — If Ma keeps eating, everything will be fine. Watch her hands, her face—see if she smiles again.  

[ECHOLOGY] — She doesn’t. The rhythm of the meal is broken.  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — Run? No, not yet. But be ready. The word carries footsteps behind it.  

  

  

But Lepus <em>did<em> know what the word that always seemed to accompany the title of Cleaners was: Trash Beasts, creatures created from trash that spills from the Sphere.  

  

Was that it? Was that what was coming towards them? Lepus wanted to ask, but the looks on her parents' faces left her knowing that asking and taking attention away would be plain rude. She sat small in her chair, feeling the voices pull at her from all sides—curiosity, fear, imagination, restraint.  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Trash that turns into creatures…! Imagine the colors, the shapes! How strange, how alive!  

[SOFTNESS] — “Don’t imagine too hard.  

[COMPARISON] — If Cleaners hunt Beasts, then they’re like Pop at the docks, maybe? Working, cleaning, fixing… But why does Ma look like that, then?  

[REVERIE] — Trash Beasts… Even the name sounds like a story from a lullaby gone wrong. Monsters made from what people throw away.  

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — If Ma doesn’t speak, it means she’s thinking of what to protect first. The roof? The food? You.  

[SPUTTERSTEP] — You could go peek from the window. Just a quick look. Maybe you’d see the Cleaner coming, tall and strange and—  

[SOFTNESS] — No. Stay. Your mother’s silence is a hand on your shoulder, telling you to wait.  

[NAMEKEEPER] — You’re Lepus. Not Trash, not Beast.  

  

While the vocês buzzed like a cacophony of conversation, the adults continued to talk. “You sure?” Pop asked. “Uniform, insignia, that spiky circle with the open lock inside. Definitely a Cleaner,” Khara said, her tone caught somewhere between awe and a practiced nonchalant attitude that stuck to her like gum. “Walking right past the east docks like it was nothing. Thought they didn’t come this far.”  

  

Lepus blinked after the noise stopped, sensing her turn to speak. “Why would a Cleaner come here?” she asked. Pop rubbed at his chin, thinking. “Maybe just passing through. Or maybe someone down by the edge called them in.”  

  

The air at the table shifted, not silent, just heavier. Lepus looked between them, trying to picture the gas masks from walking through lands with far worse air than Vokuto Bay, the vital instrument shining with valiant display, the heavy boots, the name <em>Cleaner<em> echoing in her head.  

  

… The tense moment didn't last long, though. With Khara sensing the tension, she smirked as a thought appeared. Lepus could almost imagine two little devil horns in her head.  

  

“Buuuut…” She extended her words as eyes fell upon her, “I have good news, at least.”  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Good news? From the docks? Maybe the sea gave her something shiny.  

  

She leaned forward on the table, her elbows against the table as she rested her chin in both her hands as she recounted, “I saw a supporter, one of those guys who help the givers, ya know? He was supeer cute!”  

 

[COMPARISON] — Cute? Compared to what, sister? A stray dog? A poster soldier?  

  

Pop groaned instantly, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, for… Khara.” Ma sighed, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “You were just talking about a Cleaner, and now you’re drooling over their assistant?”  

  

“Ma! Not assistant, <em>supporter<em>. They are the ones doing all the heavy lifting!” Khara grinned, completely unbothered, “And what? Can’t a girl appreciate good looks and civic duty?” She made a show of fanning herself dramatically, “That uniform, that big pack on his back—he looked like he could carry three of me without breaking a sweat!”  

  

Pop huffed a laugh despite himself. “Three of you and still have room for your ego.” Khara ignored him completely, continuing her little circus, “He had blond hair under his cap, also some nice blue eyes! You should’ve seen him looking at the sea… So dreamy…”  

  

Pop groaned again, muttering something about “raising a poet instead of a dockhand.” Lepus giggled softly behind her spoon.  

  

She snorts, “He froze up like scrap before the smelter, like all outsiders. They look at the Bay like it’s about to bite ‘em.” She leaned back in her seat with a grin, “Honestly, even the Cleaners did too. Big boots, big masks, still can’t stand a little sea stink.”  

  

Lepus stopped, trying to imagine what it would be like to have never met the sea. It felt impossible, but she knew that for most people, It was. She heard how it was on the mainland: only rivers and streams, most too acidic to even touch. The ones that still ran clear were guarded like treasure, kept behind fences and rules. People there didn’t wade in or wash their hands; they were afraid their touch alone might spoil it.  

  

A life where she wouldn't know how it felt when her clothes floated when the water passed her knees, a life where she didn't know the taste of fish, a life where salt and rust wasn't all she smelled.  

  

“—Bet he smells like clean soap too,” Khara’s voice broke through Lepus’s thoughts, cutting through the voices like a fishmonger’s knife. “You know, not like oil or salt or… Whatever Pop brings home every day.”  

  

Pop made a wounded noise in protest, halfway through another bite. “Oi! I smell like honest work, thank you very much.” Khara snorted, waving her spoon like it was a fan. “Sure, sure. Honest work and rotting rope, same thing.”  

  

Ma chuckled under her breath, shaking her head as she collected empty cups from the table. “If that’s your idea of romance, dear, I hope your poor ‘supporter’ knows what he’s walking into.”  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Romance. Another adult word, slippery and pink. Does it always sound so embarrassing?  

  

She scrunched her nose, imagining “romance” as something sticky that clung to people who didn’t wash it off fast enough. Khara only grinned wider, undeterred. “He’ll learn fast. I like my men hardworking, heroic, and just a little terrified of me. I’m gonna hook me a bright one, I’m sure of it.”  

  

[WONDERMENT] — Hook? Like fishing? That sounds violent.  

[FAITH IN SMALL THINGS] — Maybe she just means someone brave enough to sit beside her. That’s sweet… sort of.  

  

She smiles, showing all her teeth in a way that made Lepus fear for the poor man. She stared, unsure whether to admire her sister or hide under the table until the conversation died.  

  

[SOFTNESS] — That grin could start wars. Poor man indeed.  

  

“Terrified’s the only sensible reaction,” Pop muttered, leaning back in his chair, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.  

  

Ma hummed in agreement, carrying the last cup to the counter. “You scare half the dock boys already. Might as well add a Cleaner to the list.” Khara pointed her spoon like a weapon. “That’s charm, Ma. Dock boys are just cowards. Can’t handle a girl with standards.”  

  

“Anyways!” She got up, and only then did Lepus notice that her plate was already licked clean, not even a crumb in sight as she walked herself towards the kitchen.  

  

Khara suddenly spins towards them, pointing a finger to her own chest in pride, “Tomorrow, Khara Erwn is going to ask his name. You two,” She pointed at her amused but agape parents, “Better get ready for a son-in-law and you!” Then at her sister, “Better be ready for a <em>brother<em>-in-law!”  

  

[WONDERMENT] — A <em>what-in-law?<e>  

  

Pop nearly choked on his drink, coughing through a laugh that turned into a groan. “For fucks sake, Khara-” he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t even know the poor boy’s name, and you’re already marrying him off?”  

  

Ma leaned against the counter, one hand on her hip, silver-blue eyes glinting. “At least let him survive the introduction first, dear. Some men need a moment to adjust to hurricanes before they marry them.”  

  

Khara puffed out her chest proudly, utterly unbothered. “Then he better learn to swim.” Lepus stared wide-eyed, torn between laughter and secondhand embarrassment.   

  

[COMPARISON] — How can she sound so proud when everyone’s laughing at her?  

  

“But you don’t even know if he likes you…” she mumbled, her voice small but curious. Khara spun on her heel with mock offense, clutching her heart. “Oh, Bunbun, please. Look at me! What’s not to like?” Pop gave a helpless smile. “That’s the problem.”  

  

Ma tried, truly tried, to stifle the sound that escaped her, but it came out anyway as a snort half-smothered into her sleeve. “Kaen, don’t encourage her,” she said, though the tremble in her voice betrayed how hard she was fighting laughter.  

  

Khara threw her hands dramatically into the air. “Encourage me? He should! His daughter’s a catch!” She huffs, turning around and going inside the kitchen, turning the faucet in the loudest way possible while her family laughed.  

  

[REVERIE] — She shines even brighter when people look at her. She likes the stage, the noise.  

  

“Gods help whoever that poor boy is,” he muttered through his grin. From the kitchen came the sound of clattering dishes and exaggerated humming: Khara’s version of pretending she wasn’t listening while absolutely listening. Ma wiped her eyes with the hem of her sleeve, finally catching her breath. “If she’s half as dramatic tomorrow, we’ll be famous by evening.” Lepus giggled as she heard the sound of the water as she rinsed the plate. It was impossible to stay embarrassed by her sister's theatrics, especially when Khara seemed so proud to do so.  

  

The smell of cooled oil and salt still hung in the air as Pop finally rose, collecting his cup. “Alright, Miyuu, I’ll be heading back to the docks before the tide changes.” Ma glanced at him but didn’t argue. “Mm. Don’t forget your gloves this time.”  

  

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against her temple. “You’d just mend the blisters anyway.” “Of course I would.” Khara peeked out from the kitchen at that, grinning again. “Go on, old man, before you get sappy.” Pop pointed at her with mock sternness. “You, young lady, no proposals until you can cook something that can’t burn through metal.”   

  

[WONDERMENT] — Burn through metal? That sounds impressive… And terrifying.  

  

Khara’s laugh followed him out the door, and Lepus could still hear it as the sound of his boots faded down the street. Then Ma’s hand settled gently on Lepus’s shoulder, light, but grounding.   

  

“Alright, little helper,” she said softly, her tone easing back into calm after the storm of laughter, “Seems like you're done with chores for today, go to your room and play for a while, ‘kay?”  

  

“Yes Ma!”  

  

---

  

Lepus lay on her bed for a long while, staring at the low ceiling. She tried to close her eyes, but her thoughts kept circling back to Khara, to her bold grin at the dinner table, to that wild plan about “asking his name.” It sounded like the kind of thing people in stories did, not real people who fixed nets and patched walls.  

  

Eventually, curiosity won. She slipped out from under her thin blanket, bare feet padding quietly across the floorboards. Soon, she was in the living room where Khara snored softly just like Pop.  

  

Khara was there, half-asleep herself, sitting at the table with her arms folded under her head. Lepus hesitated before whispering, “Khara?” Her sister’s head lifted slowly, eyes squinting. “Mm? What’re you doing up, Bunbun?”  

  

Lepus shuffled her feet, fingers gripping the edge of her nightshirt. “Just wanted to… ask if you’re really going to do it. You know, tomorrow. The… name thing.”  

  

[COMPARISON] — She’s fearless. You’d never. But isn’t it strange how someone can be brave just to talk to a boy?  

  

Lepus’s nose wrinkled, half from embarrassment, half from intrigue. “It’s just weird,” she said quietly.  

  

For a second, Khara only blinked, then that familiar smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh, absolutely,” she said, voice low and drowsy but sure. “Can’t back out now. I already told everyone at the table. That makes it official.” Lepus frowned softly, still doubtful. “But… what if he doesn’t talk to you?”  

  

Khara yawned, stretching her arms behind her head with lazy confidence. “Then he’s missing out, that’s what. Besides, I’ll just ask louder.”  

  

That earned a quiet giggle from Lepus. “You always do.”  

  

Khara’s grin softened a little, and she leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “Don’t worry, little rabbit. I’ll be fine. You just dream something nice for me, yeah? Maybe something where he actually talks back.”  

  

Lepus nodded, the corners of her mouth turning up. She hesitated, then mumbled, “...You’d tell me what he says, right?”  

  

“Course I will,” Khara promised, her voice dipping into something warm and teasing. “Who else am I gonna brag to?” Lepus smiled, small and shy, before whispering, “Goodnight, Khara.” 

 

“Night, Bunbun,” came the soft reply, almost lost under the hum of the sea outside.  

Chapter Text

After so many stressful jobs— between scavenging and smuggling, home cleaning and medical assistance, arson and somehow pretending to be someone’s relative in a burial —it was good to have a cut and dry job like this one: Delivering paints and spray cans.

 

[CALCULATION] — Predictable logistics. Minimal threat. No emotional entanglements. An efficient use of time.

 

“Yes,” Mara muttered, both hands holding a wooden crate. “Finally, something that doesn’t end in gunfire or someone crying.”

 

Her violet eyes look up to see one of the Canvas Town people looking at her with a raised eyebrow. She didn't know if it was because he heard her little comment, or it was the fact that she was using a mask inside a safe zone. But he doesn't freak out, he must not have heard.

 

[INSIGHT] — His eyes linger, not long enough for suspicion, but curious. A watcher, not a threat. Probably thinking you’re eccentric, not dangerous.

 

Mara tilted her head slightly, pretending to inspect the label on the crate. “Eccentric’s fine,” she murmured, “keeps them guessing.” Without another word, at least not towards the man, she gives him the crate and he hauls it away with the others.

 

This continued for a while, a repetitive pattern that let her voices buzz. She would grab a crate, give it to the men that would haul it to the warehouse and repeat it all over again.

 

And just as soon, it was done. There were no more crates to haul, the attachment of her car was detached and she was given her payment inside a yellowed envelope. She looked inside to see seven hundred and fifty galla. A fair price, less than her other job.

 

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that this was a Safe Zone. Somewhere she didn't need to hide behind a mask to not choke on fumes and toxic air.

 

Her gloved hand rose to the strap automatically, the voice coaxing her. She wanted to get it out, her gloved hand hesitated at the thought midair.

 

… No, no, she wouldn't. Her fingers trembled, but her hand soon fell to her side, “Right, just one more minute”. She settled to the discomfort as one would settle to their bed, standing there looking at nothing until the feeling of unease left her system.

 

When it finally did, she sighed with relief, making her way into her car where her Vital Instrument sat untouched on the passenger seat.

 

She moved to the back seats, soon finding her guitar case on the car floor. She grabs it before going back to the front of the car, grabbing Death's Symphony out of the buckled seat and placing it on her due place before closing the car door. The weight of the guitar case felt comforting on her hand.

 

[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — The world hums quietly, low and distant. It wants to play again. You could let it.

 

Mara’s thumb brushed the edge of the latch but didn’t open it. “Not yet,” she whispered, her voice swallowed by the noise all around her. The city was calm. No reason to disturb the peace with her kind of music… She just needed to find that kid.

 

She doesn't have to wonder where they are for long. The moment that she turns around at the sound of quick steps, she sees a blur of orange hair tied with a dark cyan donut. They were running at her, full speed.

 

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — Incoming energy. Small frame, not a threat. No time to divert. Brace for impact.

 

Mara’s stance shifted automatically, one foot bracing backward, arms half-raised to intercept rather than collide. “Easy, kiddo—” she started, but the rest of the sentence was lost in motion.

 

The impact was sudden and aggressive, pushing the air out from her lungs for a moment as she felt arms hugging her waist as if she would disappear. Mara stands there, frozen for a brief moment before realizing: Remlin was trembling.

 

She stood there, awkwardly so, before her body finally found the energy to react. “Hey, you okay kiddo? Remlin?” She calls their name as one gloved hand hesitantly patted their messy orange hair, another patting them on the back.

 

"You're here! You actually stayed!" They looked up at her, their cyan eyes shiny with something not unlike fear disguised as joy, "They told me you already made the delivery, and— I thought you were already gone!” Mara blinked, surprised by the sheer force of relief in the kid’s voice. “Hey, slow down. I promised I would spend the whole day with you, didn't I?”

 

Remlin brightened immediately, the storm of emotion vanishing as quickly as it came. “Perfect! I’ve got plans. Big plans! We’re gonna eat, paint, and—uh—maybe ruin your ears a little.”

 

They turned around, ready to start walking towards somewhere… Before turning back around, a wondering look in their eyes, “Are you not gonna take off that mask?”

 

Mara’s hand stilled at the buckle. For a moment, she could almost feel the mask’s weight, like a second skin, a shield she’d worn for too long and now felt stuck against her very being. Her reflection flickered faintly in the tinted lenses: a stranger looking back. Her thumb brushed against the strap. “You really wanna see my face that bad, huh?” she murmured, her voice half teasing, half… Buying time. It felt like fighting her own instincts, it also felt silly to freak out over something like this.

 

Finally, the straps came off just like her mask. She held the gas mask on her hands, looking at her own face through the violet lenses. Mara wondered what she looked like now, only knowing that her hair must look like a mess after being crushed by the too tight straps.

 

Her hair was tied in a bun behind her, a stubborn lock of greyish pale lilac covering half of her face in waves. The other half of her face that wasn't hidden exposed her dull violet eyes with pale thick eyelashes and a stubby eyebrow, perpetually tired by the world. Her olive skin was paler than she remembered, but the roundness of her face remained, moles dusted along her face and neck. She looked soft. Too soft.

 

[CALCULATION] — You look harmless again. Vulnerable.

 

Mara was frowning at herself, she didn't realize she was frowning.

 

[CALCULATION] — Too kind. Too tired. No threat in that face. That’s why you hid it.

 

Her frown deepened before she realized she was doing it. “Shut up,” she muttered under her breath, but the voice was only half-wrong.

 

She stopped herself before she stayed too long just looking at the reflection that didn't feel like her, clasping the straps of her mask as her belt this time, easy access in case she needed it back.

 

She stopped herself before she stayed too long just looking at the reflection that didn't feel like her, clasping the straps of her mask as her belt this time, easy access in case she needed it back.

 

Remlin had been quiet the whole time, an uncharacteristic kind of quiet. She looks up to see that they were staring at her face, probably not used to seeing her face after months of not seeing her in the first place, and when they did... Always with the mask.

 

Then, softly, they broke the silence: “...Your eyes look nice.” Mara blinked, the unexpected words pulling her out of her head. “What?” Remlin tilted their head, smiling. Not teasing, not joking, just genuine. “They look like the kind of eyes that apologize before punching someone.” Mara let out a startled laugh, somewhere between a scoff and disbelief. “That’s… oddly specific.”

 

“Yeah,” Remlin said, with that easy, matter-of-fact tone only they could pull off. “But it fits. You’ve got that look—like you’d tell someone you’re sorry while decking them in the face. All polite about it.”

 

She just stared at the kid for a moment, not sure if to argue or laugh once again… She didn't do any of those things, just sighing, “You’re weird.”

 

Remlin grinned wide, the mischief returning to their voice. “Takes one to know one, Mask Lady.” She rolled her eyes, finally relaxing as she slung her mask-turned-belt around her waist. “C’mon, kid. Before you start analyzing what my moles mean in the grand scheme of things.”

 

She followed after Remlin with small, careful steps, looking all around with quiet analysis. The place hadn't changed a bit since the last time she came here… In energy, at least, because there was way more graffiti than she remembers, and as she continues to walk, she can see more being created: Men, women and even young teenagers alike spraying colors into every inch of surface with their own designs.

 

Through every nook and crany they walked, the hiss of paint cans and the faint static of radios followed them, together with an overlapping smell of solvent and spice.

 

“C’mon!” Remlin’s voice cut through her thoughts. They were already halfway across the square, waving her over to a stall pressed against an old tram car. Smoke curled lazily from the vents on top, carrying the scent of yeast and fried starch. The sign above read in faded letters: THE SPLIT PAN.

 

It made her mouth water again, her stomach reminded her that she stomached coffee without eating anything before and her mind reminded her that there was no mask to hide her hungry look.

 

Remlin was already leaning over the counter, talking animatedly to the woman behind it, Aunt Rulla, if Mara remembered right. The old lady looked the same as ever: sleeves rolled to her elbows, gray hair tied back with a rag that had seen more stains than colors, flipping buns and tossing fries like a practiced symphony.

 

“Two-for-One Lunch Pocket!” Remlin declared, slapping a few bills of galla onto the counter. “Extra sauce on the roots—oh, and one of those vinegar teas!”

 

Mara took out the little envelope of her pay she just received while looking up at the menu.

 

“I’Il have…” Her fingers slid over the galla bills with practiced ease as she made calculations on her head as well as imagined how everything there would taste. “Hm… A couple of stuffed ninced bird offal & pepper leaf buns, pickled eye sauce on the side and… Sweet vinegar tea, cold please.” Seventy galla.

 

She took out the bills without looking up once, knowing that she took out the correct amount.

 

She took out the bills without looking up once, knowing that she took out the correct amount, trusting her fingers.

 

Aunt Rulla let out a grunt of approval — or maybe it was just effort as she flipped a bun with her wide iron spatula. “Got it, sweetheart. Cold tea’s fresh; just brewed the batch this morning.” she just nodded, placing the envelope back into her pocket and holding the exact amount.

 

Remlin leaned against the counter beside Mara, eyes flicking to her envelope. “Wow, you actually counted it out first? I just kinda... guess and hope they don’t yell at me.”

 

“There is a reason why you short change everyone,” Her tone was dry, but fond, looking down at Remlin with one brow raised. “And by the looks of it, still do.”

 

Remlin gasped in mock offense. “Hey, my math is creative! I count in vibes!”

 

[CALCULATION] — Inefficient method. Failure rate: approximately 73%.

 

Mara snorts at the little commentary.

 

Remlin gasped in mock offense. “Hey, my math is creative! I count in vibes! Besides, you’ll cover for me, right?”

 

[CALCULATION] — Inefficient method. Failure rate: approximately 73%. Parasite behaviour detected.

 

Mara snorts at the little commentary, even as she tries not to “Alright, you little parasite.” She shook her head as Aunt Rulla passed her the cup of cold tea and a plate with five buns and a generous servings of sauce, condensation sliding down the sides of the cup.

 

“Here you go, sweetheart. Careful, the buns are still steaming.”

 

“Thank you,” Mara said, genuine this time, before taking a seat next to Remlin after the man at her side. She could vaguely see Remlin gaining her own order, but she focused her eyes on her own meal.

 

She takes off her gloves, the leathery weight settling in her lap as she takes one of the still steaming buns and takes it to her face, tasting it without the sauce first.

 

Oily, iron-rich, the creamy filling tasting mostly of liver seasoned with sauce and bitter green pepper leaf while the bun soaked up all the juice. She dips the bitten part of the bun on the chubby transparent sauce made out of pickled bird eyes. The next bite comes out tangier and acidic. It tastes good.

 

Remlin nudged her lightly with an elbow, one hand holding a cone of ice cream and a stuffed bun. “Worth skipping breakfast for?”

 

“Maybe,” she said, eyes half-lidded as she chewed, “Better than the single cup of coffee that kept me awake the whole delivery,” the memories of her stomach begging for mercy shows its face in her mind.

 

Remlin barked a laugh mid-chew, nearly choking on their bun. “You’re kidding! Just coffee? You’re insane.” Mara just kept eating, cleansing her palate with a sip of fizzy and apple-sour tea to hide the ghost of a smirk. “I don't hold regrets until the day the caffeine burns a hole in my stomach.”

 

“That’s self-destruction,” Remlin said, voice muffled by food. “Aunt Rulla should make you a loyalty card for near-death experiences.”

 

Mara only hummed in response before responding “That would be amazing, these taste great,” Her gaze drifting past them toward the square. The hiss of paint cans mixed with the hiss of the griddle behind them, two rhythms that defined the town’s pulse. The scent of fried starch clung to the air along the chemicals that made up the spray cans, too thick to be unpleasant anymore.

 

Remlin leaned forward suddenly, grinning with that same unstoppable spark. “You’re doing that thing again.”

 

“What thing?” “The brooding thing.” Mara groaned in response, trying to drown her irritation with stuffed buns and acidic sauce. She listened as Remlin said something about her looking like <em>“She wanted to punch God right in the stomach!”<em> as she took a big gulp of the tea.

 

When she was done, as always, the plate and cup looked like they had been licked clean. She got up from the stool, “Thank you so much for the meal. I’Il make sure to come back here next time I visit,” She smiles politely towards Aunt Rulla, sliding the bills and some pocket change she had in hand as a tip. Soon enough, Mara was already up and walking, awaiting a brief moment for Remlin to get up as well before asking, “Do you have any other place we can go to? I want to eat a little bit more…”

 

Remlin hopped off their stool with the kind of enthusiasm that could power a small generator. “You want to eat more? Who are you and what have you done with the cryptid I know?”

 

“Coffee doesn’t count as food,” Mara replied dryly as if admitting to herself, brushing a few crumbs off her gloves before sliding them back on. “And the last meal I had was… questionable in both taste and legality. It's heard keeping a six foot and a half inches tall body alive, y'know? Can’t even enjoy my half-day off in peace.” She grumbles.

 

Her eyes scan the surroundings until it falls on a corner shack with a sign that was clearly a health hazard by the way it leaned forward in a way she could only describe as suicidal. In bold bright letters that matched the rest of the town, it was written <em>The Greasepress<em>. Her nose scrunched at the smell of something earthy and smoky combined with hot oil. In Remlin’s eyes, it looked like a rabbit identifying food nearby.

 

“There. Let’s go there.”

 

Without awaiting a response, she was already walking towards the entrance, her hand already back into the jacket’s pocket that contained her pay. She would live out of cheap rations again after this, she could feel it.

 

[CALCULATION] — You’ve done the math. Pay now, starve later. But comfort buys obedience from the body, and right now, you need it to keep moving.

 

“Worth it,” she muttered, pushing the door open.

 

Remlin jogged after her, the sound of their boots tapping quick on the cracked pavement. “You’re kidding, that place?” They caught up just in time to see Mara push open the half-hinged door, releasing a wave of steam and the smell of fried meat and burnt oil.

 

The Greasepress was exactly what its name promised: half kitchen, half hazard. A dented metal counter stretched along one wall, the air heavy with smoke that shimmered under dying fluorescent lights. Grease hissed and spat from a stack of pans as the cook, a broad-shouldered man with a melted prosthetic arm he uses to press something down in the grill, worked.

 

[INSIGHT] — The prosthetic’s pressure plate is uneven. Too much torque. He’s compensating with his shoulder. Habit, not danger. Impressive control.

 

“Good morning, sir…” When he turns around, she quickly reads the name plate stuck to his chest, “Patchhand. I would like a Greasepress combo please, to go.” She points at the thirty-five galla combo that included a ashburger, fries and a leaf soda.

 

She looks at Remlin, expecting them to order as well, “What about you?” She would be surprised if they were already full with only a stuffed bun and an ice cream cone. That sounded like a dream come true.

 

Remlin leaned over the counter, resting their chin on their crossed arms as they squinted dramatically at the greasy, half-burnt menu nailed crooked above the grill. “Hmm…” They tapped their chin like a scholar before an ancient text. “I’ll take the same combo, but—can I get extra crispy fries? Like, almost-dead crispy.”

 

Mara leans to one direction while correcting them, “What they mean is that they want their fries burnt to a crisp,” Patchhand let out a gravelly chuckle, the corner of his melted prosthetic creaking as he flipped another patty.

 

She watched as Patchhand’s prosthetic came down on another patty with a satisfying sizzle. Oil splattered, hissing against metal, filling the shack with a rich mix of burnt meat, starch, and faint chemical undertones. The soda dispenser hissed beside him, filling paper cups with bright green fizz that smelled vaguely herbal and sweet.

 

“Two Greasepress combos,” Patchhand announced, his voice almost swallowed by the grill’s roar. “Five minutes, maybe six if my arm overheats.” Remlin grinned, spinning lazily on their heel to face Mara. “Six minutes to live dangerously. What’re we doing after this, boss?”

 

Mara arched an eyebrow at the nickname. “Boss?”

 

[CALCULATION] — Too soft. Too casual. No real challenge in the tone. Parasite behavior — they cling to your orbit for warmth. Low risk, high dependency.

 

“Well, yeah. You’re buying, you’ve got the car, and you look like you could order a small army to clean their rooms.” She gave a slow, deadpan blink. “You just called me old.”

 

Remlin gasped, clutching their chest in mock horror. “I would never!”

 

[INSIGHT] — They absolutely would. With enthusiasm.

 

Mara rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched despite herself. “You’re lucky the food’s already paid for.” Patchhand barked a laugh behind them, metal arm clanging against the press. “You two sound like family.”

 

“Ew, don't curse me like that,” She spits dry, but there is a fond look on her face at the thought. Soon, they were out the door with two brown to-go bags, green plastic cups filled with fizzy soda and Mara had now seventy galla less in her pockets.

 

She walked quietly across the street until she found a sidewalk that looked clean enough to sit. Without another word, she dropped to the floor with a huff, stretching her legs as she placed the soda cup next to her and opened her bag to gaze at the delicious monstrosity she bought.

 

First, was the so-called Ashburger: A grey-black bun pressed so hard it seemed crushed under the weight of sin, a burger made out of bird meat and fungus slipping out accompanied by orange melted cheese. The fries were irregular and crisped until the edges were dark, the middle golden yellow and the tips charred and curled.

 

Combined with the amber fizzy soda, it looked like the meal of the century: Something that would get her missing it for weeks… And also shave her life expectancy out of a few years by the pure amount of oil content. What a glorious way to go.

 

The first bite tastes like a slap to the face.

 

The bun tastes like heat, salt and smoke. The patty tastes earthy with mushrooms and dried meat, the orange cheese stretching and clinging to her teeth as the spicy sauce reaches her tongue and its almost like its own little spectacle with how strong it is.

 

She disguises the cough that comes right after but quickly takes a gulp of the soda, another slap in the face. It is cold, fizzy and herbal as expected, but mixed with the still there burn from the sauce makes her tongue now feel like it's being electrocuted and not on fire anymore.

 

Well, she bought it, she was never the type to waste food anyway. The second bite wasn't any kinder, but it was easier to chew and swallow now that she knew what to expect, even as salt and molten cheese ganged up and felt like they were trying to beat her tastebuds to death and numbness to all flavour that didn't feel like pain.

 

Mara was never the best at handling spice… And yet, she couldn't stop. It tasted fucking amazing.

 

Remlin glanced sideways, halfway through inhaling their own burger, and froze mid-chew when they saw Mara’s expression, eyes narrowed like someone locked in mortal combat.

 

“Are you… good?” they asked carefully, the side of their lips peppered with that same sauce currently torturing her. Mara didn’t answer right away, too focused on breathing through the burn. She lifted a hand, palm up in a vague so-so motion before taking another enormous bite as if to prove a point.

 

Remlin blinked. “You look like you’re fighting the burger,” “Well I'm winning,” Mara managed between gulps of fizzy soda, her voice strained but steady.

 

[INSIGHT] — You are not winning. <em>We<em> are not winning. You are simply too stubborn to lose to a sandwich.

 

Remlin burst out laughing, nearly choking as crumbs flew from their mouth. “You’re—” they wheezed, wiping tears from their eyes, “you’re actually fighting it! Look at you! You’re sweating!”

 

“I am not sweating,” Mara said through clenched teeth, already reaching for a napkin to dab her forehead. The motion didn’t help her case. “It’s just the steam. From the food.”

 

“Steam doesn’t make people’s eyes water,” Remlin said, grin growing wider, cheeks flushed from their own spice tolerance test. “You look like you’re about to declare war on the chef.”

 

Mara took another deliberate bite, glaring at them mid-chew. “If I die, tell him I went down brave.”

 

[CALCULATION] — False bravado detected. Pain tolerance approaching foolish levels. Recommend surrender.

 

Nevertheless, she forced herself through the burger, every single bite. By the time she managed to eat through it, it felt like she won the battle of the ages, her tongue the victor of the grand combat. She drowned her sorrows on amber soda before she could think twice, leaving a slight tingly feeling in her mouth as she now grabs the fries. “Anyway…” She trails off, holding herself to not start coughing again, “What have you been up to while I was gone?”

 

Remlin took a moment to swallow before answering, brushing a smear of sauce off their cheek with the back of their hand. “Well,” they began, tone shifting from playfulness to something smaller, almost tender, “it’s been… eventful. You missed a lot while you were gone.”

 

Mara hummed, half-listening as she finished the last of her fries. “That so?”

 

Remlin nodded, staring off toward the square as if watching ghosts walk by. “Gob’s gone… But, you already know that, so let's just skip it.”

 

The words hit the air like a dropped wrench. Mara paused mid-chew, the taste of oil and salt suddenly heavier. She didn’t say anything, just lowered her cup slowly.

 

Remlin’s grin returned, faint but true. “We even passed through Hole Town. Got ice cream, fought a creep, the usual road trip chaos. Rudo almost killed a guy who tried to lure us with fake candy. You’d like him.”

 

Mara’s lips twitched. “Sounds like I already do.”

 

Remlin laughed quietly. “You should’ve seen us when we finally got to Canvas Town. I almost collapsed. The others were fine… Of course, they’re Cleaners, born with energy to spare.”

 

At the word Cleaners, something in Mara’s posture changed, a subtle stiffness in her shoulders, the faintest hesitation before she blinked and forced herself to nod. “Right. The Cleaners.” Her voice came out even, controlled. She reached for her soda again, taking a slow sip to buy time, to calm the brief static that flickered in her chest.

 

Remlin didn’t notice, caught up in the rhythm of their own story. “Anyway, that’s where things got really weird. Turns out one of us, Rudo, isn’t even from the Ground. He’s a Spherite.”

 

Mara froze. The word Spherite hit harder than she expected, a quiet, deliberate weight behind her ribs. That kind of information didn’t travel lightly; it wasn’t gossip. It was trust.

 

She set the cup down carefully, eyes steady again. “You’re telling me a Spherite’s walking around down here?” she asked, voice calm, too calm for that kind of information.

 

Remlin nodded, lowering their tone. “Yeah. Don’t spread that around, okay? People are already whispering…” Mara’s gaze softened despite herself. “Your secret’s safe with me.” “Good,” Remlin said, smiling, the tension in their shoulders easing. “I knew I could count on you.” Mara nodded, eating another fistful of fries that crunch as loud as a bone breaking.

 

Remlin stretched their arms above their head, the last scraps of paper wrapping fluttering in the breeze. “Man, that hit the spot,” they sighed, tipping their empty soda cup upside down before crumpling it into a ball. “You sure you don’t regret eating that whole burger alone?”

 

Mara brushed crumbs off her lap, deadpan, “You ate a burger on your own too, don't make fun of me,”

 

“Alright, you clearly don't value your arteries,” Remlin shot back, grinning as they stood and dusted off their shorts.

 

Mara stood up a beat later, stretching her arms until her shoulders popped. “If the grease doesn’t kill me, something else will. Might as well enjoy it.”

 

Remlin gave her a look, halfway between disbelief and amusement. “You sound way too calm about dying from clogged veins.”

 

“I’m realistic,” she said, tone flat but her eyes sharp with the faintest glimmer of humor.

 

Remlin squinted. “Realistic, huh?” They took a half-step back, grin already forming, that kind of grin that usually meant trouble. That meant you feel right into their trap and couldn't take a step back anymore. “Then realistically… you should be able to catch me.”

 

Mara blinked. “What—”

 

Before she could finish, Remlin flicked her on the forehead, shouted, “Tag! You’re it!” and took off running down the cracked street. For a moment, Mara just stood there, blinking in disbelief, then sighed and muttered under her breath, “You have got to be kidding me.” Remlin’s laugh echoed back through the smoke of frying oil and the hiss of spray cans. “Come on, delivery girl! Move those long legs!”

 

“Slow down before you crash into someone!” Mara called out, ducking beneath a hanging tarp that smelled faintly of oil and rain. “Not a chance!” Remlin shouted over their shoulder, voice bright with mischief. “You’ll just have to earn it!”

 

Her boots thudded against the stone, the smell of old spice and hot metal trailing behind her. Remlin darted between food carts and paint-marked benches, nearly tripping over a cable reel. Mara followed close, her breath steady, sharp, predatory almost. Remlin glanced back just in time to see her closing the distance — and yelped. “You’re not supposed to take this seriously!” She didn't say another word, her dull violet eyes wide and sharp. They turned sharply down a side alley, so narrow that Mara had to twist her shoulders to fit through, and then disappeared behind a curtain of hanging laundry. Curse her size.

 

When she pushed past it, the sound of the market dulled instantly, swallowed by the echo of a quieter place. But soon after leaving the alley, she caught up in three strides and tapped their shoulder, hard enough to spin them halfway around. “Tag,” she said, almost smug.

 

Remlin stumbled with the momentum, nearly tripping over a loose stone before catching themself on the wall. “Ow! okay, okay! You win!” they laughed, breathless, brushing a strand of hair from their face. “You run like you’re a debt collector!” She smirked, not even out of breath, “One of my many jobs, kid. Better not own anything to anyone then.”

 

Remlin barked a laugh, still hunched over with their hands on their knees. “Noted. I’ll make sure to stay debt-free then,” they said, straightening up and wiping sweat from their brow. “Though, since you caught me fair and square, guess you get a prize.”

 

Mara tilted her head. “A prize?”

 

Remlin’s grin turned mischievous again. “Yep. Exclusive access to my hideout.” She raised an eyebrow. “Hideout?”

 

“Uh-huh.” They looked left, then right, as if checking for spies in the empty alley. “Top secret. Only two living beings know where it it. Not even the other cleaners or Gnomulas. Is just me…” They paused, lowering their voice dramatically. “And a random stray cat I couldn’t chase off. His name is Smudge.” Mara blinked, unimpressed. “That’s reassuring.” She thinks, trying to remember where she heard that name… The only thing that comes is a coal-colored cat that, the last time she came six months ago, was just a tiny kitten that people gushed over.

 

Remlin grinned at her expression, clearly enjoying himself. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Smudge is a very capable security guard. He screams at strangers and knocks things over when I’m gone. Classic deterrent tactics.”

 

Mara snorted softly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “So your hideout’s protected by a cat and pure luck. Great.”

 

“Hey, it’s worked so far,” they shot back, already motioning for her to follow. “Come on. You’re about to see something even better than the Greasepress combo.”

 

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, following as Remlin weaved through the alley’s maze of pipes and rusted fences. The air grew quieter, heavier, the hum of the market fading into distant echoes. A faint metallic clang marked each of their steps as they left the stone behind for the uneven floor of an old storage yard.

 

“Here,” Remlin said finally, pushing aside a stack of wooden pallets to reveal a dented metal door half-hidden behind them. The faded paint read UNIT 47-B, the numbers almost swallowed by rust and graffiti tags. “Mind your step.”

 

They tugged the door open — it gave a long, reluctant screech — and ducked inside. Mara hesitated a moment before following, the cool, still air of the container greeting her like a forgotten breath.

 

Inside, it was… surprisingly alive.

 

Strings of mismatched bulbs hung overhead, some dim, some flickering in slow rhythm. A couple of crates had been turned into makeshift tables, scattered with paint cans, old tools, a cracked mirror, and an assortment of trinkets that could only be described as “collected by accident.” One wall had been entirely taken over by a half-finished mural, colorful chaos bleeding into abstract shapes that looked almost alive in the dim light.

 

And in the corner, on top of a folded tarp and a pile of blankets, lay a cat: Black with one white paw and eyes of amber. Smudge.

 

“Behold,” Remlin said, arms wide with exaggerated pride, “My humble kingdom!”

 

Mara crouched beside Smudge, who blinked at her before stretching out, tail curling lazily. “You’ve gotten big,” she murmured.

 

Remlin froze. “Wait— you know him?”

 

“Six months ago,” she said quietly. “He was just a little thing. Used to steal fried dough from the vendors down the road… And my dinner too, this little rascal.”

 

Remlin snorted. “That tracks. He probably saw me hauling food once and decided I looked easier to scam.” She scratches Smudge’s chin, the cat yawning in response and starting making biscuits in the blankets.

 

Mara chuckled softly under her breath, watching the cat knead slow, sleepy circles into the fabric. “He’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”

 

“Don’t encourage him,” Remlin said, feigning exasperation as they flopped down on an overturned crate. “He already thinks he runs the place. I caught him sitting on my sketchbook this morning! He’s a slop!”

 

“Maybe he’s your art critic,” she said, leaning back against the cold metal wall.

 

“He is,” Remlin sighed dramatically, eyes on the cat. Mara snorted, then scratched under Smudge’s chin again. The rhythmic hum of the bulbs above mixed with the faint purr that filled the space, steady and warm. For a second, the tension in her shoulders eased, all of it muffled under the lazy sound of a cat’s trust.

 

“…You know,” she murmured after a while, “for a so-called secret hideout, this isn’t bad.”

 

Remlin tilted their head, smiling faintly. “Told you. Not just a place to crash — it’s a little pocket of quiet. Not many of those left around here.”

 

“Yeah,” Mara said, gaze drifting toward the mural on the wall, placing her guitar case on her side and sitting beside Smudge. “I can tell.” As the silence stretched on their dark cyan eyes fell upon the guitar case: Black and sleek, no tears, no scuff marks at the edges, no mystery stain that they still didn't discover if it was from blood or juice. Then, Remlin realized something: It was a brand new guitar case.

 

Remlin blinked, leaning forward as if seeing it for the first time. “Wait a second,” they said, pointing. “That’s not the case. What happened to your old one? Don’t tell me it finally grew legs and walked off.”

 

“Worst, a fuckin’ trash-beast ate it! I was Lucky that Death's Symphony wasn't in there, I would’ve probably lost my Vital Instrument forever,” She exclaims, clearly irritated by the memory that still caused her cold sweat every time she remembered the panic.

 

[ANCHOR] — The thought alone makes your chest tighten. That guitar isn’t wood and string. It’s the part that keeps you from unraveling.

[DEATH’S SYMPHONY] — The memory hums under your skin, low and dissonant. The world sings in decay, and it almost took your song with it.

 

She ran a hand through her hair, fingers snagging for a second before dropping back down. “Thing just came outta nowhere. I didn’t even see it coming.”

 

[GHOSTS] — You still hear the sound sometimes. The grind of metal, the hiss of Thought-energy twisting through trash and breath. It remembers you, the same way you remember it.

 

Remlin winced, half-laughing but uneasy. “That’s brutal. You didn’t even try to fight it off?” “Hell no,” Mara said sharply, then exhaled through her nose. “By the time I noticed, it had already scurried away, the little rat!... But fine,” She sighs, placing the guitar case in front of her and pointing at Remlin, “if you want to decorate it so much, here you go… But <em>I<em> decide what we put on it “

 

Remlin froze mid-motion, one sticker half-peeled on their thumb, eyes bright with mock seriousness. “Deal. Artistic collaboration, then. No dictatorship allowed.”

 

“Good,” Mara said, tone flat but the corner of her mouth twitching upward as she crossed her legs and pulled the case closer.

The black shell gleamed dully under the flickering light, still too clean, too untouched. Remlin plopped down across from her, setting out their arsenal of chaos: paint pens, sticker sheets, a spool of glowing filament wire, and several glittery runic tags that buzzed faintly like low radio static. “Alright, boss lady. What’s first?” Mara's eyes narrow at the collection before settling in something: A sticker of three cat heads with a red outline. She points at it, “That one. Top left.”

 

They stick without hesitation after peeling it out of the page like a good little soldier.“Okay, now…” Remlin said, holding up a handful of options: a faded sticker of a crumbling tower, a gold foil sunburst, and one that looked like a smeared fingerprint with strange runes around it. One of their charms from their Vital Instrument. “Pick your poison.” Mara studied them, tapping her finger against her knee. Finally, she took the charm one, turning it between her fingers. “This one. Near the latch.”

 

“Good choice!” They giggled as they filled the underside with glue before smacking it just under the latch, “It's a lucky Charm! Made by yours truly!... But why there?” “It’s the weakest spot.”

 

They fell into an easy rhythm, Remlin filling spaces with color and jokes, Mara adding straight, quiet marks that somehow made the mess make sense. Smudge draped himself over Mara’s boots and purred like a low engine. By the time they stopped, the guitar case looked ready for adventure even if just being a recent buy: Covered in stickers, drawings right on the material and some Charms meant to bring luck and not end… Like the past one.

 

Remlin leaned back on their hands, admiring the finished work with a proud grin. “There,” they said, a little breathless from the creative rush. “Now it looks like yours. Not just some factory-born thing.”

 

Mara tilted the case toward the light. Between their layered chaos, the black shell had transformed. Streaks of color bleeding into runes, stickers half overlapping, a patch of gold foil like a dented sun. Some drawings were rough, others etched with careful precision, all tied together by the tiny charms that shimmered faintly whenever the air shifted.

 

For a moment, the flickering light hummed against the silence between them. Smudge stretched, flicking his tail and yawning, as if sealing the moment shut with a lazy exhale.

 

Then Remlin grinned again, shaking off the weight. “Alright, now it's the time for the Grand Finale!: What’re you naming it?”

 

Mara looked down at the case, her new guitar case, and thought about the lost one, the bite of metal and sound, the panic that came after. Her hand rested over the latch where the charm glowed faintly.

 

A name fit for an object that guards her electric guitar, Death’s Symphony… “The Coffin. I’m gonna name it: The Coffin.”

 

She took one of Remlin's paintbrushes, a small one, dipping it into white paint. She was never the best artist, still remembering the day she tried drawing Remlin and the result being a melted jellybean, but she had a vision. With careful strokes, she painted a skull cracked in the middle right in between all the other doodles and stickers. It looked decent, a win for Mara.

 

In Remlin’s point of view, they watched in silence as she worked, chin resting on their knees. The brush wobbled once or twice, but Mara’s hand stayed steady enough, her focus absolute, every stroke slow, deliberate. When she finally leaned back, there it was: a skull split down the center, grinning from between the chaotic collage of color and symbols. The white paint stood out like bone in moonlight.

 

Remlin whistled softly. “Damn,” they said, impressed. “You sure you’re not secretly good at this?”

 

Mara wiped the brush against a rag, smirking. “Don’t push it. It’s supposed to look rough.”

 

“Well, mission accomplished,” Remlin said, laughing as they tilted their head to admire it from a different angle. “Kinda badass, though. The Coffin, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Mara said simply, closing the paint jar with a soft click. “It fits. It’s what keeps what’s inside safe.” Her fingers lingered over the case for a moment longer, tracing the edge of the skull she’d painted.

 

“Well,” Remlin snaps their fingers before pumping her hand to the air, “Welcome to the world, Coffin!” They tapped the lid lightly with a knuckle, five quick ones and two slow ones in succession. “May it never get eaten, stolen, or exploded by weird trash monsters.”

 

Mara huffed a laugh through her nose. “You better hope that charm of yours works, or I’m coming back for your head.

 

“Oh, it does and it will work,” Remlin said confidently, picking up Smudge and holding him like an offering. “Plus, you’ve got Smudge’s blessing now. That’s, like, divine protection.”

 

The cat meowed once, unimpressed.

 

Remlin grinned, setting Smudge down on the lid where he promptly curled up right over the painted skull. “See? Even he approves.”

 

---

 

The air outside had cooled, the sky a green mixed with dark turquoise, hidden by the dark clouds. It was time to hit the road back again.

 

Mara slung The Coffin over her shoulder, the charms clinking faintly against the hard shell as she adjusted the strap. Smudge yawned from his nest of blankets but didn’t bother moving. “Welp, time to go,” she said, half-smiling as she glanced back toward the little hideout. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

 

Remlin, who had been fussing with a half-empty can of paint, looked up. “No promises. Trouble usually finds me first.”

 

Mara shook her head, stepping out into the alley. “Figures.” They followed after her anyway, kicking a pebble down the cracked path. “You sure you don’t wanna stay a bit longer? We could paint more stuff?” They trail off, looking back at the scattered sheets of paper with drawings made of crayon, paint and coal.

“Sorry Kiddo, can’t.” She adjusted her coat collar as they walked, the flickering streetlights painting them in uneven gold. “Got more jobs tomorrow morning. Can’t keep the towns waiting, and the food I ate alone was a hundred and five galla… Plus yours? A hundred and forty. Gotta earn that money back.”

 

Remlin gave an exaggerated groan, dragging their feet along the pavement. “You actually keep track of that? You sound like Gnomulas.”

 

They kicked at a loose bolt, sending it skittering ahead of them. “Still, you could take one day off. The world won’t explode if you do.” “Not my style, plus, I considered this my <em>half<em>-day off. That gotta count for something.” Remlin laughed, the sound bouncing off the metal siding of the buildings. “Half-day off, huh? You really know how to live dangerously.”

 

“Hey, I ate junk food, played tag, and vandalized my own guitar case,” Mara said while shrugging. “If that’s not leisure, I don’t know what is.”

 

Remlin snorted, tucking their hands into their jacket pockets. “You’re hopeless.” “Realistic,” Mara countered while holding a finger up. The black leather case at her side clinked lightly with each step, its painted skull catching a glint of light.

 

They walked in companionable silence for a bit, the hum of the city wrapping around them.

Then Remlin tilted their head toward her, smiling. “You’ll come back, right? Gotta show me how Death’s Symphony sounds.” They start playing with an air guitar before giggling.

 

She watches as Remlin went away, letting out a quiet sigh as they turned and disappeared from view. She was alone, again, and back into her routine.

 

She unclasps her mask from her belt, gazing at the crow design one last time before putting it back on. The straps are too tight once again, she doesn't care.

 

The walk towards the car is silent… For her mind. People still walk around, laugh, play, make colorful graffiti on top of colorful graffiti, bleeding shapes and colors together.

 

The lights of her car blinked faintly in the distance. She misses it even if she just spent half a day outside of it, almost a home sick feeling of missing the sound of the engine and the faint rattle of her few belongings in the backseat so quickly. A moving home for a moving person.

 

Her keys jingle as she takes it out of her pocket, the key halfway inside the lock before… She hears a sound. A noise that alerts her of danger, even if it sounds almost ordinary: The sound of sturdy combat boots against the concrete streets.

 

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — The steps are confident, controlled. This isn’t a wanderer… It's a leader, three pairs of lighter steps follow right behind.

 

She didn’t turn right away. Instead, she angled her body slightly, enough to catch the reflection off the car’s mirror. Four shadows stretched long under the flickering streetlight: One taller, broader, leading. The others followed a half-step behind, boots syncing to his rhythm.

 

The taller one hand spiky blond hair and an easy smile; The second taller one was more slender and youthful, with downturned navy blue eyes that made her stomach churn with unwanted memories; The only girl of the group was thin and short, striking red hair tied messily and chewed on something she assumes to be gum; The shortest and undoubtedly youngest had white hair with black points and bright crimson eyes and a face permanently stuck in a scowl.

 

It wasn't the group itself that scared her, it was the insignias— Cleaners. The second tallest had a particularly extravagant cleaner's badge, the girl had a cleaner's logo stamped on her right sleeve, while the shortest had it on his right chest.

 

Judging by the pattern, the leader was also a Cleaner, the badge hidden somewhere.

 

[IRON GRIP] — Brace. Every instinct says run. Every lesson says don’t. They didn't notice us just yet.

 

But they would. They always did. She could already feel the weight of their gaze before it even landed. A woman standing alone beside a beaten car, face hidden behind a crow’s beak in a Safe Zone where no one wore masks anymore… She might as well have been a flare against the grey.

 

For the first time in years, the mask betrayed her instead of shielding her. The thing meant to make her invisible now made her shine like a warning.

 

Her throat tightened. She thought of taking it off, but the thought of being seen, truly seen, made her stomach churn. Too late anyway. And if she took it off after they recognized her, they would have a flesh and bones face to link her to.

 

The air changed. Not colder, not heavier, just tighter.

 

She didn’t have to look. She felt it.

 

The scrape of boots slowed, their rhythm shifting from casual to deliberate. The blond leader’s pace became measured, the kind of movement born from recognition… Or suspicion. His shadow lengthened as he drew closer, the flickering streetlight painting lines across his face. He was staring straight at her mask, eyes narrowing slightly, as if digging through memory for a match.

 

The others mirrored him. The second tallest, the one with the navy blue eyes, hesitated mid-step, his posture stiffened, unreadable but tense. The shortest, red-eyed and bristling, looked between the two of them like a dog waiting for a command. And the girl… she didn’t move at all. Just stood there, gum half-chewed, gaze locked on Mara like a hawk sighting prey.

 

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — Three ready to follow. One ready to lead. One watching for the first move.

 

Mara’s fingers twitched at her side. Her mask suddenly felt loud, every seam, every breath inside it echoing back at her tenfold.

 

She didn’t run. Didn’t speak. Just lifted her chin slightly, enough to meet their stares head-on.

 

The leader’s steps finally slowed to a halt, the air between them thick enough to hum. He tilted his head, the streetlight catching on his grin: Lazy, crooked, and knowing.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned…” he drawled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Is that—” he squinted, pretending to think, then snapped his fingers with mock recognition, “—the Sky Rat?”

 

The words hit the air like a slap. Goddamnit.

 

The second-tallest with the navy eyes let out a quiet exhale, almost a scoff. “You mean <em>The Vulture,<em>” he corrected, tone analytical but laced with something sharp, like he didn’t enjoy the nickname but knew exactly where it came from. His drawl cutting through the air slow and deliberate. “Though yeah… fits the build. Ain’t thought we’d ever see ‘em in daylight.”

 

The girl snorted, chewing her gum loud enough to fill the silence. “No way, that’s them? Didn’t expect ‘em to have hair long enough for a bun.” Her grin widened, flashing teeth. “Hell, didn’t think they had hair at all!”

 

The youngest— pale, red-eyed and restless —looked between the three, brow furrowed. “What’s a Sky Rat?” he asked, irritation leaking into his voice, as if he hated not knowing the joke.

 

The leader chuckled low, not looking away from Mara. “An old nickname when he started to show up. Started as an insult, stuck as a warning.” He took a step forward, boots echoing against the concrete. “Scavenger with wings. Always finds the bodies before we do.”

 

[CALCULATION] — He’s probing. Testing fear response.

[IRON GRIP] — Don’t give him one. Not even breath.

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — But if he moves first, you move faster. Always faster.

 

The second-tallest gave a half-smirk. “Ain’t every day ya see a ghost out in the open.” The leader’s grin widened as if he could already hear her heart.

 

He didn’t speak again, didn’t need to. The silence did it for him, pressing down until her shoulders locked tight. Behind the mask, Mara’s pulse quickened. Not panic, the pressure she felt radiating. The kind that came before something broke loose.

 

[FRAGILE HOPE] — Stay calm. Stay small. This can still end without blood.

[IRON GRIP] — Hold the line. No twitch, no breath.

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — The air’s wrong. They’ll lunge first.

 

And then, under all of it—soft, discordant, too calm for its own words—came another voice.

 

[REQUIEM OF THE LIVING] — Let them try. You’ve been prey long enough.

 

Her grip tightened on the key. It was in, with one twist, she could quickly get in the car, close it and drive until the engine begs for mercy, run away and never look back. No. We aren't attacking anyone. Not when it was bright outside. Not on Canvas Town. Not in Remlin's Town.

 

[REQUIEM OF THE LIVING] — Four. That’s all. Too clean, too smug. Maybe they’d bleed fast.

 

Her jaw tensed. “No.” Her whisper came out rough, barely sound at all, not even caring if the Cleaners thought now that she was a delusional lunatic. She repeats once again, whispering to herself as if bargaining with her own mind. In a way, she was. “Not here. Not in daylight. Not in Canvas Town. Not in Remlin’s town.”

 

The leader’s grin faltered just a fraction as Mara’s low whisper carried across the street. The word no shouldn’t have reached them, but it did. It slithered through the heavy air like static, drawing every eye to the mask that refused to move. The second-tallest cocked his head, his voice slow and thoughtful. “Ya hear that? Sounds like he’s talkin’ t’himself.”

 

The red-haired girl stopped chewing. “Creepy,” she muttered, flicking her gum into the gutter. “Real psycho vibes. Thought the Vulture was supposed to be all cool and collected, not…” she gestured vaguely toward Mara, “... Having a conversation with the car.”

 

The youngest frowned, confusion knitting into something sharper. “Wait—did she just say Remlin?” His voice cracked, halfway between disbelief and warning. “What the hell—how does she know Remlin?”

 

That got everyone’s attention.

 

They started looking at each other with that realization. The sharp golden eyes of the leader, the downturned navy ones of the second-tallest, the round olive green of the girl and the crimson ones of the youngest.

 

[ADRENALINE] — It’s our cue! Get in that car and floor it!

[ANIMAL INSTINCTS] — Now, now, NOW—move before they pounce!

 

Her pulse snapped like a live wire. The words weren’t thoughts, they were reflex, heat, survival biting through restraint. Every fiber in her body screamed to obey… And she did. Before she could hesitate for another moment, her key snaps and unlocks the car door, the moment she takes the key out she jumps inside and scrambles to get in the car seat.

 

“Shit, he’s movin’!” the girl yelled, lunging forward.

 

Her boots crushed the pedal, tires screaming against the cracked concrete. The car shot forward, fishtailing once before straightening out. By the time they blinked as instinctively scattered, one hand of hers was out of the wheel, opening the latch of The Coffin to her vital instrument. She would need to fight, she could feel it in her bones. But while she didn't need it, she would try getting the fuck out.

 

Inside, her Vital Instrument waited — the dark gleam of Death’s Symphony catching just a shard of sunlight.

She could feel it vibrating faintly, thrumming in tune with her pulse, begging to be drawn.

 

But no. Not yet.

 

Her breath came sharp through her mask, the world blurring past. She swerved hard, clipping the edge of a market stall. Paint buckets exploded across the street, scattering colors and startled voices. She could leave through the main entrance, and at the rate she is going, it will be quick.

 

Behind her, the second-tallest cursed loud enough for her to hear even over the engine. “Crazy bastard’s gonna get himself killed!”

 

The leader clicked his tongue, watching the car vanish past the last bend of the street: A smear of smoke and screaming color. He lowered his umbrella, letting the tip scrape lazy lines across the oil-slick ground. The grin never quite left his face.

 

“Boss ain’t gonna like this,” the girl muttered, her hands already in her ornate pair of scissors, blades clicking in irritation, already ready to fight before their target simply… Ran off. “We just let the Vulture walk out in broad daylight.” The Leader tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing into thin crescents as he watched the smear of tire marks fade down the road. “Walk?” His tone carried a soft, mocking lilt. “Riyo, he drove so hard, there is brake marks in the concrete.”

 

Sleep had almost claimed him when he heard his text tone go off. He considered ignoring it, but pawed at his pocket anyways. He was surprised to see a message from Jabber.

 

“Enjin,” Zanka called from behind, voice low and dry as ever. The stick balanced loosely against his shoulder as he squinted down the street. “Yer smilin’ too much fer someone who just botched a grab.”

 

Enjin hummed, slow and deliberate, the umbrella spinning idly between his fingers. “Smilin’? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just appreciating art. Look at that turn—nearly clipped Rudo’s head clean off. That’s precision.”

 

“What?” Rudo snapped, still crouched near the splattered paint and toppled buckets, crimson eyes sharp. “I ducked! Not my fault you two let a psycho with a death wish drive off like that!”

 

“‘Drive off,’” Enjin repeated softly, savoring the words. “Sounds better than ‘slipped away.’”

 

Riyo's frown deepened. “Cut the poetic crap, Enjin. That was boring! Is this really just some arrest for the Hell Guards?”

 

Enjin looked between them, mock offense flickering behind the golden light in his eyes. “You wound me. Truly.” Then, his voice dropped—still playful, but carrying that quiet undertone that made all three of them pay attention. “This one’s not for the Hell Guards.”

 

Zanka blinked. They dealt with Trash Beasts, not criminals, that was Hell Guards' duty. If they weren't going to straight up give the Vulture to the Hell Guards then... “Then who?”

 

“Boss,” he said simply, tapping the ferrule of his umbrella against the pavement. Tock. Tock. Each sound rang sharp under the midday hum of Canvas Town. Riyo’s head tilted, brows knitting. “Boss?” she echoed, half-laughing. “You mean our Boss? What’s he want with some ground-crawler who can’t even keep his mask straight?”

 

Zanka’s jaw tightened. “Interest in what, ‘xactly?”

 

Riyo let out a sharp laugh, quick and bright. “Oh, come on. You’re tellin’ me that stiff we just saw can make Trash Beasts play fetch?” She leaned forward, snapping her vital instrument once again. “Next thing you’ll say he feeds ‘em treats and tucks ‘em in at night.”

 

Zanka’s expression didn’t shift much, but the faint drawl in his voice carried doubt laced with irritation. “Yer sayin’ Boss bought into that rumor? Sounds more like gutter talk ta me. Folk’ll say anythin’ when they’re scared.”

 

Enjin’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “Scared talk has roots somewhere, Zanka. Folks don’t make up monsters; they name the ones that already walk among ‘em.”

 

Rudo frowned, his crimson eyes narrowing. “If it’s true, why didn’t he use it back there? We were right in front of him.”

 

Enjin’s gaze turned distant, voice low. “Maybe daylight ain’t his hour. Or maybe he knows somethin’ we don’t… like when not to pick a fight. Especially in a place like this.”

 

That quiet lingered for a heartbeat. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, Enjin twirled the umbrella once and rested it against his shoulder.

 

“Either way,” he said, tone returning to that almost sing-song calm, “Boss wants the Vulture alive. And I don’t fancy disappointin’ him twice in one week.”

 

He turned toward the road, where the dust of tire tracks still shimmered faintly in the sun. “Now then…” a grin, wolfish this time “Let’s go see if the old bird can really fly.”