Min-kyu staggers to stop, chasing down their breath in short puffs. They squeal when the head rockets off, then desperately try to smooth the hair on their neck.

"Do what we can, we will," Tove says. "Be careful yourself too. Cole? I hope you find your partner—*everyone.* You're braver than me. Keep your head up." Tove sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Concord nods, his eyes watery. "Love you, C-man. If it works out—come see us, okay?"

And Min-kyu steps toward Evan, their ears drooping as low as the whisper of their voice.

"Truth be told," they say, "I have grown fond of you and your toleration of me. It is unusual. Is it the stress of trials and tribulations that draws people closer in such a short time? Not so long ago, I was in a cushy mansion. Even less time ago, I was destitute, destined for death, in an alley. Yet... someone saved me. A peculiar creature. One with so much grit, such a will to keep going." They swallow hard, hugging themself. "I wish I could continue to follow you. Alas. But... I can extend greetings to the Mitchells for you.

"And... if you see my sister, please be careful. She is mean."

Min-kyu pauses, picking apart a pregnant silence until they open up their arms. A rare invitation.

Min-kyu's head twists, floating somewhere between a fever dream and a jabbing in their spine. Their skull feels stuffed with cotton, or like someone scooped their brain out and pulverized it before plonking it back. The rogue rock digging into their back trumps the dull, achy head hurt though—they jerk to with an unattractive snort, flailing with all the grace of a dying animal until their boot hits a wall with a bone-tingling *clack.* That gives them trembling pause, a heave trapped in their throat. The dust stings their bleary eyes and clings to their nose. They've got a distinct suspicion something crawled into their mouth and died. Grimy, rancid, and parched all play over their tongue. They feel... gross. Ugh.

Min-kyu peels their eyes open, but the world in front of them swims. Their elbow perch slips and their chin kicks up more damned dust as it hits the ground. What sort of depraved prank is this?

Min-kyu can't yet pool the energy to wobble back up, but chagrin tightens around their ribs. They throw their mind back, digging for any explanation, any cruel bigwig's kid they might've pissed off by existing, but they come up... short. Extremely short. Their pounding headache, freed by the absence of mineral in their flesh, flares ruthlessly.

And then, finally, they can see without their head doing somersaults. Their heart stops.

They wish they couldn't see.

The arm so clearly doesn't belong to them, but it shakes in tune with the rest of their body and the cursed fingers dig into their hairy palm on command.

Min-kyu *doesn't* have body hair! But even the hairiest man alive doesn't have a sleek black sleeve. They are truly beyond just body hair.

They retch—not out of the horrors of vanity—but the wash of drowning *panic.* Somewhere in their twisting gut, a foreboding telling of dread excites their primal, overactive brain. Their empty stomach clenches again.

Scrambling through their shrunk list of memories invites more crushing anxiety when it sparks new questions instead of answering old ones.

They just think they're not, in fact, wearing boots.

Dragging themself up on legs that aren't theirs while hyperventilating stuffy air is an unspeakable feat. Even more impressive is them not falling back on their ass. Their brain's decided to once again be a gymnast.

Their sister wanted to be a gymnast once upon a time. What's her name?

Min-kyu shoves an unholy finger into their pulsing temple, planting themself back on Earth like that Boy taught them. What's *his* name?

Water, they decide. They're not allowed to think about any of their predicament until they get water. That unbecoming tail tucked stubbornly between their wobbly legs, they totter out of the alley, before their shoulders deflate at their flabbergasting surroundings.

Lysira still didn't get it, but it was nice to have something of an explanation. She tried her best to listen and understand, but most of her mother's words went into one ear and out the other. She spent most of the speech cuddling into Raivyn's fur, staring at Rakishi, and trying not to hyperventilate. So many thoughts in her head, and eventually she just closed her eyes. She stayed like that for a quite a while, it was a marvel that she never fell asleep. She was just thinking. Or trying to, rather. Since being put in the bushes, all the cub could feel was terrified. Fear was exhausting, and she was little. Much too young to have been through what she and her sister had been through.

So, for her own sake, Lysira let her mind rewrite the story. What she didn't understand, she made up. It was harder for her to accept that Rak was her father than it had been for Rakeri, since she'd actually seen Adrik dead. But as Raivyn spoke of the stars, the princess took the idea and ran with it. She decided that, since Adrik had done such a good job at protecting them, the stars gave them a new father after he was gone. That's why he looked the same. This lion was not Adrik, exactly, but still her papa.

Opening her eyes again, Lysira reached out to touch her mother's heart. She felt it beat. She stepped out of Raivyn's grasp and touched Rashidi's heart. Deimos. Emiliana. Jinzo. She walked toward the last of her brothers. There was bit of hesitation with him, because he was so close to their new Daddy, but this was important to her. She touched his heart. They all beat the same. Family. If this was her Daddy, he'd have the same rhythm. She was nearly in his paws now, and she sat quietly, looking at Rak. He was too tall to reach from the ground, but she wanted to hear his beat.

She held up a paw to him.

It had been a very long, very quiet few days. It was surprising how little life there was even this far away from the camp. Raivyn knew it was a desolate area, but she'd expected to come across at least a few established packs by now. She must've been 50 miles from her previous home at the very minimum. The thought of living out her life in constant autonomy felt both invigorating and horrifying. Had she left her father alone for nothing?

But the faint scent of a potential companion was undeniable as it flittered by in the breeze. Somewhere nearby, there was another. Raivyn put a bit of extra pep in her step, but was careful not to move so quickly as to become oblivious to her surroundings. She knew how fatal that mistake could be. This potential companion could turn out to be dangerous, which was why she needed to be as vigilant as possible. With any luck, she'd be able to spot the other wolf before they spotted her.

The past few months had been nothing but chaos for the small boy. He'd just started college not long ago, and there had been so much.. stuff.. going on since then. He couldn't explain any of it. Seeing flashes of people and things that weren't there.. and not to mention the string of feral animal attacks on the dorm he lived in, which had *definitely* never happened before he moved in.
It had progressively worsened in the past few days. And some of his "visions" were no longer visions. Other people were seeing them too. Dragons slithering through the halls, chimeras attacking students.. It was chaos.
He decided to take a trip to the library. It was his favorite place, and he loved to sit back, read a book and relax. He felt quite odd as he stepped inside, but forced the feeling down as he started to walk down the aisles.
He felt.. oddly drawn towards a stairwell he'd never noticed before. As he descended the stairs, he didn't notice the lack of lights, nor the runes glowing on the walls.
He walked through a door, and despite the darkness he could see just fine. He saw shadowy figures darting between shelves, and could hear whispering in the back of his mind.

"Oh?" It was clear now that this strange doelike creature was sitting, legs neatly crossed, a pair of shears in hand and a basket of what appeared to be the same flowers that she was sitting under. She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, towering over Madi but still over a foot below the top of the bright blooms. Basket tucked against her hip, sitting against the edge of a long skirt -- the only article of clothing that the Gardener was wearing -- that came down to her shins, she stepped out from under the flowers and peered down at Madi.
"A soul bound to yours does not mean that you are one of us, or even a friend to our kind. But you've clearly crossed someone of some standing -- A member of the Courts." It was strange -- her mouth moved, but the voice still surrounded Madi, as if it was being carried on the wind itself. "That is not a grudge so easily broken."
Tucking the shears into the hem of her skirt, she reached into her basket, drew out one of those alien blooms, and offered it out to Madi. "For luck. You'll need it, so unfamiliar as you are with the rules of polite society. I do not expect anything in return."

He hadn’t been lying, there really was nothing there to see — through the window was only darkness. But it felt like something. There was something consuming about that empty space beyond the glass, something comforting that swallowed her up and pulled her in. It invited her to stare forever, to stare for minutes or hours or until the world beyond this room was nothing except a lifeless rock, scorched to death by an expanding sun. But here, forever away from the sun, it was cold. She could almost see frost forming on the inside of the glass. The room, it seemed, was so cold, in a way that she hadn’t noticed before. But as much as this vast emptiness opened up to her, she would have been able to feel that it wasn’t for her — it pulled and pulled and suddenly what had once been a comforting embrace was now just as cold as the room. It wasn’t an embrace, it was there to smother her, pull her down to the bottom of this endless dark sea — because that’s what it was, a sea, a sea of black water — and never let her breathe again.

Isaac grabbed her arm and pulled her back from the window — He was standing now, between her and the window once more, looking frazzled and angry. A tiny bead of blood dripped from his nose — on closer inspection, it was too watery to be blood, and too dark. The room was no longer so cold. ”What the fuck did I just say?” His voice was less angry than it was urgent; he was more afraid for her than anything else.

Gus had the wind knocked out of him for the second time that morning as a fist connected squarely with his diaphragm and sent him staggering back towards the bookshelf that covered the wall. This had been exactly what he didn’t want to happen, he realized, as he watched Mack draw his sword with an expression akin to glee. But what did he really want to happen? He wasn’t sure. The whole fight had been dumb and impulsive and he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected, other than serving up an excuse to kill him on a silver platter to a man that had really, really wanted to kill him for a long, long time.
As he struggled to catch his breath, looking a bit like a wild animal as he ducked down, back to the wall, and readied himself for Mack’s rebuff, the short little knife clutched firmly in his shaking hand. Maybe he could move? Though probably not quick enough. And attempting to parry a sword with a knife was a recipe for losing fingers, and Gus still had a week or so more in possession of those fingers, though he didn’t know that yet. Maybe just accept that he was about to get what was coming to him?

And then came the cocking of a gun, a familiar sound, and Praxis’s voice in broken English. And maybe, just maybe, Gus was a little grateful that Praxis was there. Despite the gun pointed at his head, of course. The bosun’s wheezing gave way to laughter, pure and manic and completely unbefitting of the situation.
”Merci, Monsieur Cobalt.” As happy as the captain was that this situation had finally presented itself, he hadn’t exactly been looking forward to seeing two of his officers gut each other on his very nice definitely not stolen Persian rug. He actually hadn’t been aware of the fact that Praxis was in possession of arms, but it had certainly worked out well in any case. But this was about the extent of his French, so he gave up on thanking the frenchman any further.
“Gentlemen, please let’s cease the fighting and talk. Actually, I have a better idea.” A smile broke onto Arthur’s face, and the quiet hitching laughter that had been coming from Gus faded, replaced only with his ragged breaths.

Most captains would not punish their officers in front of the entire crew. Even if those officers were known to stir trouble, and probably deserved it. To do so would probably crush any mutinous feelings that had possibly been stirred up by the aforementioned officer, but would also undermine trust in the leadership of the crew, especially on the eve of what promised to be a major score that everyone would need to be on their best behavior for. There weren’t often martyrs made among the ranks of pirates, (their own self-interest usually outweighed their loyalty to each other) but punishment of even normal sailors, much less the ones who were in charge and supposed to be perfect and have all the answers, could certainly drive a crew apart. Simply put, it was poor form, and probably a better idea to simply strip them of their rank and be done with the situation.
But Arthur Fleetwood was of the opinion that most captains were cowards.
“Mack, have you been keeping score? Conspiracy to mutiny, sedition, actual mutiny, attacking a superior officer — which I would say counts as insubordination at the very least — , along with some actual insubordination… how many lashes would we be at if this were, say, a Royal Navy ship?”
Shit, thought Gus.