Elletrictoaster

Arcade Gannon had always considered himself rather adaptable compared to most trying to navigate the wasteland.

It was, in part, a survival mechanism, one honed long before the Mojave, long before the followers, and one he’d cling to whenever he inevitably had to abandon another home. But eventually, even he reached his limits, realized that some things resisted normalization with a stubborn, almost personal, cruelty.

This silence was one of them.

It wasn’t the absence of noise that bothered him, not completely. Many times, in fact, he prayed for more of it. For less distant gunfire and crying patients, or, as of more recent, less of E-DE’s sarcastic beeps and Veronica trying to coerce their makeshift group into yet another pre-war board game.

Really, it was more the reason behind the silence that gave it such a suffocating presence, as if it had settled into the Lucky 38 with intent, filling spaces that were once crowded with voices, arguments, and the occasional ill-advised weapons testing.

But as it was, the doors to the Lucky 38 remained ever closed and as abandoned as they had been all those two centuries. The only exercise the elevator seemed to get now was whenever Arcade tired of the artificial glow of the windowless presidential suite and retreated to the cocktail lounge above. The sunlight was a stark difference from the identical smoke-stained walls. The golden hues were blinding, but reminded him, however briefly, that the world outside still existed, even if he couldn’t scrounge up the courage to enter it once more.

Despite not having an easy rest, it was early when Arcade rose from bed—if the clock Raul had fixed was to be trusted. That, unfortunately, remained an open question. Raul had assured him it worked, but with Six gone, their only reliable reference point had disappeared along with her.

…Right, Six.

The thought stung as it overstayed its welcome, like it always did.

Arcade stared at the floor for a moment longer before exhaling sharply and standing up. He added another mark to his mental calendar, the tally so ingrained now that it no longer required effort.

Week 3 of Six’s “It’ll only be 4 days” journey.

He mused, not for the first time, committing it to paper. A physical record might lend the situation a sense of structure, give way to a bit of control when everything else seemed to slip through his fingers. Or, it might make it worse, transforming vague unease into something measurable, undeniable.

22 days.

It had been foolish, in retrospect, to let her go alone. Not that anyone ever let Six do anything, not really. She had a way of turning decisions into inevitabilities, of presenting plans with just enough confidence—and just enough omission—that dissuading her felt both exhausting and pointless.

So they didn’t bother to try this time, only passing her along to the next person in line.

An offer had been extended to each of them, to join Six as she checked out a strange radio signal coming from an abandoned Brotherhood bunker, her bright smile dimming as one-by-one each member of their makeshift team had a reason to turn down her request. Even Rex had grown tired of her boundless energy. They were all simply too caught up in their own activities and exhaustion to babysit their resident Courier.

Arcade had been the last to turn her down. He’d just returned to the Lucky 38 after another shootout in Freeside left dozens needing treatment late into the night. He’d heard each apologetic excuse, he knew in the end she was going alone, but it had just simply seemed so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.

It would not have even been the first time Six had made her own journeys, vanishing from the Lucky 38 to chase quests or half-formed ideas and returning with another story of improbable success, Arcade only knowing she wasn’t exaggerating her tales because of how many he himself had experienced first-hand.

So, when presented with the idea again, it had simply felt like routine, an absurd, dangerous, entirely ill-advised routine, and just like all routines, it persisted right up until the moment it didn’t.

Misplaced confidence was a hell of a high to plummet from when looking through the lens of hindsight.

The closet stood before him, unmoving even as Arcade faced it blankly. After a beat, he remembered his intent and pulled out his clothes. The motions came automatically, muscle memory overriding thought.

Routine continued to die hard, as it was, as his hands buttoned his usual dress shirt despite his more comfortable clothes being able to serve the same purpose. Any argument of presenting his best died before it even formed. The Lucky 38 remained frozen in its strange imitation of life, its systems humming dutifully in service despite its intended occupant not being around to enjoy it; as Arcade was the only one who remained in this relic of the past.

Veronica and Rex had departed the same day as Six, claiming they’d assist at the Old Mormon Fort until the Courier returned. They’d stopped by a few times, concern increasing with each visit that passed with no update, but Veronica couldn’t bring herself to stay for long.

After day 6, Cass had left for whichever casino would take her caps (caps conveniently procured as Six’s stash dwindled). She also stopped in occasionally to get updates, responding in her own sarcasm blanketed concern. Sleeping in a bed that she didn’t have to pay for was an added bonus, though she, too, didn’t linger, either too sober or too hungover to deal with Arcade’s ‘antics’.

After day 10, Boone left without so much as a goodbye, only the rations in his pack and the sniper on his back. He, like Six, has been without update. Though, Arcade is more worried for the people of the Mojave than for Boone with each passing day.

Raul got bored with having nothing to do by day 14, and said he was going after the building at the end of the strip with all the glowing signs. He’d been coming back nightly for the first few days, but decided the walk was ‘too much for his old knees’, and hadn’t returned since.

Even ED-E, the damned bot, had induced herself into idle mode, remaining there stubbornly no matter how many times he chastised her for being dramatic.

They’d all stopped talking about Six. Any words brought them closer to the burning reality that none of them could face.

That this time… Maybe she…

He pushed the thought aside with practiced force, shrugging into his coat as if the motion itself could dislodge it.

Speculation without evidence was a dangerous habit, he knew that better than most. There were explanations. Plenty of them, in fact. The Mojave was nearly as unpredictable as Six was. It was just as likely that she’d picked up another bedraggled stranger and was currently following whatever drawn-out quest would ensure their fealty, as it was that something actually serious had happened.

And yet…

His gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the elevator. The Brotherhood bunker wasn’t that far.

Four days, she’d said.

Arcade closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, sharper this time.

“Just a little longer,” he echoed to no one in particular.

The silence, as always, offered no objection.

The smell of coffee slowly filled the suite as Arcade won the battle of fruition against the 200 year-old machine and managed to produce a drink. The cup warmed his hands in a way that almost felt alive. It was strange. Arcade had grown so adapted to the unrelenting Mojave heat, where even the bitter nights felt merely bearable, that spending all of his time in a place with air conditioning had left his fingers and toes dispassionately cold.

It was almost reminiscent of the days on the coast, before Navarro fell just as the Oil-Rig did. Those icy nights were far worse than simply living at room temperature, but the effect of a warm mug in his hands was all the same.

…Maybe visiting Daisy would be what finally opened the metaphorical cage that trapped him here. Six did mention she’d be passing NoVac on the way to the Brotherhood bunker. It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look around, search for signs of where Six has been this whole time.

I got them spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle.

Arcade had just pressed the mug to his mouth when the sound began to trickle through the walls. Half of the bitter drink went into his lungs, the rest nearly spilled onto the table from the quickness with which he stood. He hurried to the doorway, choking down a cough and watching the dial of the elevator rise with an aching slowness, before coming to rest at the presidential suite.

As I go ridin’ merrily along.

The doors cracked open, spilling additional light into the entryway. Arcade felt his heart race oddly in his chest, nervous anticipation for whatever state Six might be in.

He’d imagined this moment a thousand times over the past weeks. Six stumbling in, bloody, and barely standing; saying how it was the Legion, or deathclaws, or cazadors. Saying how she didn’t mean to worry everyone, how she didn’t mean to be gone so long. But that she was okay, now. That everything could go back to their strange imitation of normal.

He didn’t expect Six to show up and be, by all appearances, perfectly fine.

“…Six?” His unsure voice came. It was preferable, wasn’t it? That she was okay? So why did his hand tighten against the doorframe, the name coming out with a sense of foreboding?

She ignored him, save for a small jolt to show she’d even heard him at all. But the red goggles of her helmet never turned his way, instead remaining locked forward as Six crossed the threshold of the elevator.

Her steps were steady, but heavy, betraying some level of exhaustion. As the doors closed behind her once more, she shifted her shoulders to let her bag drop to the floor, and, by the sound of it, it weighed just as much as she did.

“Six?” He asked again, stepping forward to draw her attention. “Where have you been?”

Her hands clenched at her sides, taking a deep breath before finally facing him. The speaker cut on, a faint line of static indicating she was about to speak, long before overlapping with words. “Not right now, Arcade.”

The words carried an edge to them, but not a sharp one. The finer details of tone were lost, leaving the exact emotions behind them ambiguous.

He stared for a second before irritation boiled within him.

“Not right now?” He echoed slowly. “No. You know what? We are doing this right now. Do you have any idea how long you were gone? How long I’ve just been waiting here? No word, no news, nothing??”

She turned from him again with an air of dismissal, heading instead for her bedroom.

“Are we truly such an afterthought that whatever inane adventure you found was more important than letting your friends know you’re still alive? Just off on a bender, or I—I don’t even know what else,” he said, voice bordering on the closest he could get to hysterical, “because you have nothing to say for yourself!”

She froze in the doorway, clenched fists shaking with something he couldn’t see behind that mask.

Arcade took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth. His anger was born out of concern, but yelling didn’t help. It didn’t even make him feel better. Six was air-headed, he knew that. He knew on some level she couldn’t help it. But that didn’t stop the very real fear she’d inflicted on them all in her absence.

“We all thought you were dead,” he leveled, voice serious, almost despondent. “We were all worried. You just vanished. You can’t just—“ His voice cut off as she suddenly collided with his chest, sending him a step back.

He noticed now that she was shaking, not just her hands, from exhaustion, or anger—or whatever it was that made them tremble—but her whole body, weak like a leaf in the unrelenting Mojave wind. Her hands found purchase on the back of his coat, clinging to it as if he’d slip away entirely if they weren’t white-knuckled against it.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m getting the sense that something might be wrong.”

There was a muffled sniffle, and her grip tightened like she was bracing against something only she could feel. His words made her shaking increase, the tremor in her shoulders worsening. Whatever resolve was keeping her together before had shattered, revealing only what she tried to hide the hardest.

It set something off in him. Not panic, he was too practiced for that, but sharp, insistent alarm bells ringing in his ears, an overwhelming symphony of wrongness at the display before him.

“Six…” His voice faltered, then steadied by force alone. “I’m going to remove your mask, alright? Can you let me do that?”

A small, uneven nod against his chest.

His hands didn’t move at first. They hovered uselessly at his sides, caught between the clinical certainty he relied on and the unfamiliar weight such an action held. Then, finally, they obeyed him and lifted the helmet free.

Admittedly, there were many concerning things he missed about her appearance at first, things he should have noticed immediately, but in the moment was just background noise; for once his eyes locked onto the tears streaming down her cheeks he couldn’t pull his attention away.

By her behavior alone, it was obvious in hindsight that she was crying behind the mask. But peripheral knowledge and seeing it in front of him were entirely separate concepts.

He’d seen her take bullets with only a grimace, charge after deathclaws with her six-shooter and a crazed grin, ride out cazador venom with nothing more than a rag to bite down on. Pain had never seemed to make a home in her mind, acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath.

So had he ever seen her cry?

Certainly not since she started wearing that mask like a second skin.

She turned her head, trying to hide, as if the act could be undone if he simply didn’t look long enough. As if this, too, could be buried.

“Please,” he said, the word almost unfamiliar in his mouth. “Let me look. I can help.” The reassurance felt untested, like something he wanted to believe more than something he knew how to give.

“I didn’t want you to know…”

“And we’re going to talk about that,” he chastised, firmer this time. “But for now, you need medical attention.” His voice leveled out as he shoved aside his personal feelings, grasping at the persona that accompanied the coat on his shoulders and the emblem on his sleeve.

Her skin was sunken and sickly, drained of its sun-kissed vibrancy. Bruises bloomed across her face in deep, ugly shades, layered over with dried blood that traced every cut and split with almost clinical clarity. It looked less like an injury and more like documentation, or like a masochistic painting, detailing every source of pain with precision.

Yet it was her eyes that unsettled him the most.

Though he’d been seeing her them much less nowadays, he starkly remembered their bright, defiant green. That spark of unspoken knowledge and drive, that try as he might, Arcade could never quite follow. What met his gaze now was merely an imitation, but a familiar look that Arcade had never expected to see from the Courier.

He’d seen this look before, in the recently dead. Not lifeless, not yet, but empty, greyed beyond recognition, like windows to a soul that didn’t yet know it had stopped breathing. The only real color came from the raw, bloodshot red ringing them, though whether it was from prolonged drug use, or extended exposure to something toxic, he couldn’t be sure.

“What happened to you?” he asked in little more than a whisper, shifting back slightly to see her better. He felt, rather than saw, how she tried to follow, fingers tightening with sudden, desperate insistence. The motion pulled at something sharp in his chest.

“The Brotherhood bunker…” her voice wavered, unsteady in a way that suggested something deeper than fatigue. “It was a trap. When I got there, there was just this radio playing the same broadcast on repeat, over and over, welcoming you to…” her voice trailed off, demeanor growing haunted at even the prospect of the name. Her hands, which had given up on clinging to the back of his coat, found purchase on his wrists.

“The Sierra Madre.” The words came out as an omen, a promise of power even as Six traveled so far from the source.

The name itself meant nothing to Arcade, but the way it seemed to drain what little color remained from her face told him enough. That, for once, he didn’t want to ask about and learn the answer.

But he didn’t need to.

“The room started filling with gas,” she continued, stilted voice catching on something invisible. “I tried to escape, but it was so bad. It felt like I was drowning—like I couldn’t get any air in my lungs,” the words fell out in a haphazard spiral, each pause like breaking glass.

“Six—“

“When I woke up, I was there, at the Sierra Madre. It's a town, or a casino, or—or it was, before the bombs. But it’s just left there, because—and oh God, the fog—“ The words came faster, uneven, stumbling into each other as if stopping meant something worse would catch up to her. “It bleeds into the air like blood, red and—and it burns when you breathe—makes you feel like you’re constantly on the verge of suffocating to death, even when you’re standing still, but especially when the ghosts—”

Her fingers dug into him, grounding herself or grasping for purchase, he couldn’t tell. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to dislodge the memory, but it only seemed to drag her deeper into it.

“They’re not people anymore, not even ghouls, they’re like— and they don’t stay dead. You can’t kill them, not really. They just keep coming, and you have to keep—” Her voice hitched, breath breaking. “—hacking, and hacking, and hacking, until there’s nothing left of them—and even then you don’t know if it’s enough, if they’ll get up again, and again—”

“Six,” he cut sharply. “You don’t have to recall it all right now. Clearly, it isn’t helping. Just… just breathe, okay? You’re here now, with me. Focus on that.” He cringed at his words as he spoke them, starkly reminded of why ‘Doctor’ had become more of a decorative title for him, before Six had saved him from a boring, research-induced death.

Arcade had never been good at the emotional side of clinical care. He could recite medical texts like it was the Sunday paper, set broken bones with nothing but a pair of sticks and a dirty string of cloth; hell, he could probably perform open brain surgery if under duress. But his ability to comfort his patients, or lack thereof, is exactly why he was shut in a tent and forgotten about.

His gaze was lost again on the person he didn’t recognize before him, trying to shape and fit this problem into something he could fix, or at the very least, manage.

“I should run a checkup,” he finally said. “Clearly that place was…extraneous. Your mind will feel better once your body does.”

He guided her to the bedroom, the familiar walls offering no comfort to her fraying mind. Tears slipped soundlessly down her cheeks, relentless no matter how often she brushed them away, but her fingers were occupied with a different task. Trying, and mostly failing, to undo the straps of her leather armor.

Arcade tried to step forward, to help, but she backed away like they were opposing magnets. He understood, he supposed. Many patients tried to do things alone for the simple reason that they didn’t think they could.

Piece by piece, the armor eventually unraveled and fell to the floor in a dull, lifeless heap.

Beneath it, her body told its own story. Bruises bloomed across her skin in dark constellations, threaded with half-healed scars that ran wherever the armor had once concealed, likely continuing even past her battered tank top and shorts. Dirt and dried blood clung stubbornly to her, a second skin she had yet to shed.

Arcade motioned gently toward the bed. “Sit,” he offered, his voice quieter now.

He crossed to Six’s bedside table without hesitation, already knowing what he’d find. The drawer slid open with a soft rasp, revealing the small stash of Med-X tucked inside. It was a disappointing sight, but not unexpected.

She offered her hand to him, stagnant as the needle was pushed into the veins of her wrist, more practiced with this sensation than most others. With the pain taken care of, Arcade was able to take closer stock of her wounds.

“This is worse than I thought,” he admitted, kneeling down to carefully examine her up close. “I’m going to need you to wash up before I can begin to help you. Do you think you’re well enough to go shower first?” Arcade asked slowly.

Six quickly shook her head, hands squeezing into fists as her gaze became fixedly glued to the carpet.

“Alright, then,” he said, steady and structured, grasping at what he could do instead of what he couldn’t. “I’ll clean you up, then. I’m going to go get a tin of water from the kitchen.”

He kept his tone even, laying each word out plainly, trying to keep his words simple and his actions predictable.

The moment he stood, though, she was moving with him, immediate, almost desperate in intention.

“Wait—“ her voice caught, then steadied by force. “I’ll come with you, please.”

“Is this a newly developed phobia of indoor plumbing, or have I simply become that charming?” he asked in some hoping attempt that his joke would land, and wouldn’t make that horrid look in her eyes worsen.

It hung for a second too long, not making her more distant, but not bringing her any closer either. Just that same brittle quiet as she followed him.

The walk to the kitchen felt stretched thin, every step dragging against something unspoken; the floor, the silence, the unseen figure that loomed over her shoulders. Her breathing stayed slightly off track, quiet, as everything else was, but just noticeable enough to track.

She was too close. Not physically—though he didn’t look back to measure—but he could feel it. The way she stayed within reach. The way distance, even a few steps of it, seemed unacceptable.

“You can sit down at the table, I won’t stray further than the sink.” The words came more as a request than an offer. It occupied two desires in his mind, both that he’d caught the way she swayed, even when standing still; but also to test the boundaries of her monophobia, see how far was too far in her current state.

Hesitantly, she obliged, tilting the chair in a way that kept him in her view.

The tap turned with a dull twist, and suddenly the oppressive silence was filled with the steady rush of water. It hit the basin with a sharp, hollow sound, scattering into uneven echoes that bounced off the metal walls. It choicefully kept Arcades’ attention, being something clean, something that made sense in his mind. Because when it didn’t, when his gaze flickered, just briefly—

There it was. Another mark, one he hadn’t catalogued before. Dried blood at the edge of her cheekbone, leading from a cut half-hidden beneath the grime. Evidence layered over evidence, too much to process all at once.

He looked back to the basin quickly.

His grip tightened slightly on the rim, the metal cool beneath his hands, and let the droplets of water splash against his skin.

22 days.

The number lodged itself in his mind, heavy and immovable. Weeks of this, of whatever the Sierra Madre decided for her.

And where had he been?

Safe, contained by polished floors and intact walls in the Lucky 38. Turning over the same thoughts, nursing the same quiet frustrations, letting routine be a stand-in for purpose.

As soon as it became clear something might've happened, he should’ve taken up arms, joined Boone and scoured every inch of this godforsaken desert if it meant finding her, saving her from this fate, doing anything that prevented the reality before him. No matter how improbable, how much of a fool's errand it would be to try and find a Brotherhood of Steel bunker, of all things.

For a while, it had all just seemed so improbable. Six was a modicum of defied odds and just enough luck to see things through. She was also rather notorious for getting sidetracked, going to ludicrous lengths for others, for no other reason than being asked.

Arcade wasn’t sure when the belief of catastrophe bled into the belief it was just Six being Six, when it overshadowed enough to make permanent residence in his mind. But when it did, it was pushed down still by a stark denial, caged further by a surety that if something had happened, it had already happened.

“I spent a lot of time alone, at the Sierra Madre,” Six finally said, voice distant and empty, cutting through Arcade’s internal track. “Just me, and the winding identical streets, and this awful silence.” She rested her head against the back of the chair. “Every time I close my eyes, every time I look around and there’s no one else, no noise. It’s like…”

Arcade let the words hang in the air longer than he intended, trying to find some combination of words that might frame the turmoil into something he could ease; the emotional equivalent of a stimpack and bandage. Finally, with a long sigh through his nose, he spoke.

“You should never have been there alone.” His voice came out steadier than he felt.

He hefted the bucket of water from the sink, the metal handle creaking faintly in protest, and set it carefully at Six’s feet. The water had already begun to cool. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been standing there, staring, trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the one who had left.

“We should have never let you be alone there,” he tacked on.

Six flinched, not at the words, but at the movement as he knelt in front of her. Up close, the damage was worse. Various shades of browns, blacks, and dark reds clung stubbornly to her skin, caught in the seams of old wounds and new ones alike. It was almost overwhelming, trying to decide where to start.

“I guess I wasn’t, not completely… just most of the time.” her voice wavered, brittle at the edges, like something that might splinter if pressed too hard. “There were others scattered around. Elijah, the man who took me, said I had to find them, that we each had our own part to play. That it would take four of us to open the Casino.”

He worked the cloth through the water, then twisted it between his hands, more out of habit than thought. When he reached for her, he didn’t press immediately, testing for a reaction before applying more pressure. She went rigid under his touch, every muscle tightening as if bracing for something sharper, but didn’t pull away.

That hollow silence fell over them again, taking up home when neither of them could find something to stave it off.

Six looked at him, or through him, he couldn’t quite tell. With that, he found himself retreating, instinctively, into something safer, reminding himself that emotions held no weight when interacting with a patient. Or at least, they shouldn’t.

He cleared his throat. “You mentioned others.”

Her gaze flickered, feeling more solid as it settled upon him.

“…Yeah.” she echoed, like she had to work past something caught in her throat. “Yeah, there were.”

“Would it help if you told me about them?”

She paused, considering the offer.

“The first one I met, his name was Dog… or God, depending on who you asked.” A faint smile touched her lips, like the shape of a joke more than the feeling of one.

Arcade glanced up at her, catching the expression. He returned it reflexively, despite not understanding. Still, she was trying. That mattered.

“He’s a nightkin,” she went on, words feeling more natural in her mouth. “Kind of like Lily with Leo, but if Leo was a whole person too, and if they couldn’t really talk to each other.”

“Sounds like Dissociative Identity Disorder,” Arcade murmured, attention split between her explanation and the careful cleaning around a particularly fresh wound. “Not uncommon among nightkin. Prolonged Stealth Boy use tends to… destabilize things. It’s not uncommon for two or more to share a mind, however such a thing takes shape.”

“Right.” She swallowed, keeping deliberately still. “They didn’t share, though, not really. Just took turns. They both always thought they knew best, but I don’t think they ever did, only ever fighting for control. Dog just hungered, God just planned. But it never led them anywhere.”

The words faltered, implying something deeper, something more personal in her mind, but Arcade could not parse what.

“But it all worked out in the end,” she continued. “They managed to make themselves one again, realized they were both fighting for the same things.”

Arcade’s motions paused, just briefly. “That’s not exactly—” He stopped himself, the correction dying before it could fully form. This wasn’t the time for a lecture on the complexities of identity integration. “Never mind.”

He wrung the rag into the water, cleaning it before reaching for her other arm.

“Then, there was Dean Domino, he—”

Arcade’s head snapped up, genuine surprise breaking through his clinical focus. “Dean Domino? I’ve heard of him! The Kings call him the King of Swing.” A faint, incredulous huff escaped him. “He’s still alive?”

“Not just alive,” Six said, something sharper threading through her tone now, “but he’s been at the casino since the bombs. He’s been trying to crack it this whole time.”

Arcade let out a low whistle under his breath. “Persistent, if nothing else.” He resumed his work. “Well? Did he live up to the title?”

There was a pause. Six’s gaze drifted, not to anything in the room, but somewhere far past it.

“Well,” she said slowly, “he tried to kill me when we first met.” Her fingers curled slightly against her arms, nails pressing into skin hard enough to leave marks. “And what he did to Christine…” Her voice faltered.

“But… he understood the Casino better than anyone. Not just the layout or the traps, but its rules, how it breathed,” she explained, words falling out more than they were said. “I don’t think he wanted to be there any more than anyone else did, not really. He just… He couldn’t let it go, like Elijah. That place, it has a way of keeping you there.” Her voice cracked. “It gets inside your head and it—it doesn’t let go, it just—“

Her nails dug deeper, skin blanching under the pressure.

“The last person,” Arcade cut in, firmer now, the shift in tone deliberate. “Tell me about them.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a redirect.

At the same time, his hands found hers, guiding them to loosen before the pressure could turn damaging. He replaced the contact instead of removing it, pressing a roll of bandage into her palm and curling her fingers around it, giving the tension somewhere to go.

Her focus stuttered, his words and actions catching her unexpected attention.

He used the opening, pressing the needle of a super stimpack into her wrist in one clean motion, eased now that it wouldn’t grow new skin over old dirt. She flinched, but the reaction came a second too late, dulled at the edges.

“Christine,” Six said, the name coming out softer than the others. “She was with the Brotherhood, a scribe, I think. Same chapter as Elijah.” Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension not gone but carefully unwinding.

“She was hunting him, that’s how she ended up there,” she explained. “I don’t really know what for, but if the Sierra Madre is what he’s capable of, I don't want to know any further.”

Arcade dropped the rag into the bucket, the water now clouded, like a sky of crimson and mahogany. His hands reached now for a roll of bandages.

“She had gotten trapped in an old autodoc.” She paused, voice beginning to retreat again. “It… messed up her throat pretty badly, and even when she was out, it was still like she was trapped there.” A faint frown crossed her face, but one glance from Arcade and she steadied again. “But she was nice, fun to talk to, even if there wasn’t much talking on her part.” Another implied joke, another returned smile. “And she was smart, smart enough for the both of us. I think you would’ve liked her.”

Arcade’s hands slowed just slightly. “She sounds like the kind of person I’d get along with.”

“Yeah,” Six agreed absently. “I wonder if Veronica ever knew her.”

“Hmm.” He let the statement hang in the air as he mulled it over, giving the hypothetical genuine thought. “I think it’s unlikely. The Brotherhood isn’t exactly… intimate, as organizations go. The different chapters are like families, and a lot of the ‘families’ don’t tend to get along.”

“Maybe they could’ve met here,” Six offered, then turned away in a show of defeat. “But Christine stayed,” she added quietly, “at the casino. Taking care of it, I think.”

“Then she’ll make sure no one else ever gets trapped there. That you’re the last people the Sierra Madre couldn’t let go.”

Six’s eyes began to grow wet again. “That sounds nice.” She leaned her head forward, nestling it into the crook of Arcade's shoulder, causing him to pause in his bandaging. “I never want to go back there.”

“You won’t. There is nothing left to keep you there.”

She sniffled softly, having no more words. Her body slumped tiredly, the mix of Med-X and exhaustion finally outweighing the burdens she’d carried this far.

“I don’t think there’s much more I can do for you in terms of treating your wounds. I think time and rest are what you need right now.”

Six seemed apprehensive. “But—“

“If you’re about to give me any sort of what-if, I don’t want to hear it. You’re home, Six. Nothing from the Sierra Madre can hurt you here.” His words were meant sincerely, and physically they were true. But the wounds of that place clearly ran far deeper than the bruises she wore, and those wounds would continue to ache and fester, no matter how perfectly he stitched her back together again.

Her hands found Arcade's coat, looking to her bedroom door like it was a prison cell.

“But, what if I wake up and I’m back there? What if none of this is real?”

Arcade paused in his move to stand, his hands moving from awkwardly hovering, to pulling at Six’s shoulders, bringing her away so her eyes could meet his.

“Then I will hunt down the Sierra Madre and find you myself,” Arcade told her seriously.

“You don’t mean that. You don’t understand how… how bad…”

“That doesn’t matter anymore, you’re home now, Six.” He repeated to her.

“I—I know, but—“

“Six.” Arcade interjected, squeezing her shoulders once more until she met his eyes. “Look at me, listen. You are home now.”

The words didn’t fix anything. He knew they wouldn’t.

But they landed.

Her expression smoothed instead of cracked, eyes glossing over again. She retreated, but didn’t disappear, she simply lulled.

He guided her carefully back toward the bedroom, keeping a hand on her arm like he expected her to disappear if he let go. He eased her down onto the mattress, slowly, giving her time to resist if she wanted to.

She didn’t, but she didn’t settle either.

Arcade exhaled quietly and took the armchair nearby, pulling it closer so that she could almost reach him if she needed to. He told himself that was for her sake.

A silence finally settled over them that didn’t feel oppressive. It wasn’t there because neither of them could find the words to reconcile the situation, it stayed because they finally found something resembling comfort again.

But still a wedge remained.

“What would you have done?”

Six came back to herself slowly, brows furrowed as she settled on him.

“If I hadn’t insisted,” he clarified, more controlled now. “If I let you come hide away when you told me ‘not right now’… what then?”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

Arcade’s jaw set, hardening with his gaze. “That’s not a good enough answer.”

“It is to me.” There was more edge there than before, not sharp, but present.

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You came back half-dead, Six. That isn’t something you just figure out.”

“I came back.” Her response was immediate, sure in its tone. “That’s the part that matters.”

He blinked at that, thrown for a loop, not by the logic, but by how certain she sounded. “That—no, that’s not how this works,” he said, frustration creeping in despite himself. “You don’t get to reduce this to survival as a success metric.”

“Don’t I?” Six asked, causing the room around to still. Her finger came to pick at the butterfly strips lining her cheekbone, picking at it like Arcade was picking at her fresh emotional wounds. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart,” she continued, quieter, but more grounded than she’d been all night. “People depend on me not to.”

“You—“ Arcade tried, but Six wasn’t finished.

“Out there, if you hesitate, if you second-guess, if you let people see you’re not sure, then someone dies. Maybe it’s you, maybe it’s someone else. But it still—” that careful steadiness was faltering, whatever she was trying to say got lost in her throat, so she continued with something she could. “So you learn to be decisive, stagnant, filing things away until you can stop and figure it out. Then people start relying on that.”

Her voice softened, not weaker, just more honest. “Then everyone needs you to be that person, the one who figures it out.”

Arcade’s expression shifted, something conflicted flickering through it. “And you think that means you don’t get to be anything else? Even in the comfort of your own home? Even around people who deserve to know better?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that the second I stop being that, I stop being useful.” She went quiet again, clearly trying to find the words, and despite his better judgment, he let her. “You started traveling with me to help the Mojave, because you knew that I could. But if I can’t even help myself, if I can’t be what the Mojave needs, if you see that I can’t, then what even am I? No one would stick around to find out.”

“I would,” Arcade told her seriously. “I am your doctor, but more than that I'm your friend, whether it’s convenient or not. Don’t put a mask on in my presence because you think it makes you more palpable,” he scolded. “You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot handle for me.”

Her expression wavered at that. “That’s not what I’m doing—“

“It is.” His tone sharpened, just slightly. “You made that decision the moment you walked in here and tried to hide this.”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” she said softly.

He scoffed. “You—”

“I was managing it.” The correction came automatic, carrying with it a stark intention.

“No you weren’t.”

“I have a first aid kid under the desk, I would’ve.”

Arcade exhaled through his nose, tension pulling at his posture. “That doesn’t count.”

“It has before.”

He leaned back slightly, studying her. “And how’s that working out for you right now?” His words weren't cruel, but they weren't gentle either.

She flinched like they had been the former, falling back into silence as she considered her next words.

“I’m still here,” she said eventually.

Arcade’s gaze softened, but he didn’t let it go. “Barely.”

That one landed, striking her in hesitation, and that hesitation said more than anything else had.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“Don’t apologize to me.” His eyes flicked, just briefly, to the red gleam of her NCR helmet resting nearby. “Just stop hiding behind that mask. Take it off for people who care to see.”

Her gaze followed his, then returned to him. For a moment, it looked like she might argue again, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned onto her side, facing him more fully. Her eyes were tired, hollow, but genuine. “Thank you, Arcade.”

Arcade averted his gaze, words faltering as he considered them carefully before sharing. “I understand what it’s like, forcing yourself into a box. Locking away pieces of yourself, even with people who deserve to know better…” he admitted. “It consumes you, and it leaves you with nothing in the end. That’s why…” he trailed off, struggling slightly. “You don’t have to do it. Your sins are not—they’re not like…”

He turned his hand over in his lap, tracing the lines in deep contemplation. “Six, there’s actually something I need to talk to you about.” He turned back toward her, only finding her lax, the tension in her face softened into a fragile slumber.

“…Sleep well,” he murmured, folding himself down until his face smoothed once again. “You’ve earned it.”

He lingered, eyes tracing the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the faint twitch of her brow as remnants of nightmares passed through her mind. Slowly, the shadows eased from her features, leaving behind a sense of peace, or, at the very least, neutrality.

Eventually, it weighed too heavily on his mind to find the others, save them from the same thoughts that had kept him so trapped here. But the threshold of the doorway gave him one last pause. He turned, watching her chest rise and fall one last time as a small anchor against the uncertainty that threatened to creep in.

As he lingered, the elevator rattled to life behind him, the vertical ferry bringing another uncertainty into the delicate space. All Arcade could muster was a tired hesitation.

When it dinged into place, Boone stepped through, steady in his walk and intense in his demeanor, though the latter was elevated by the amount of blood staining his clothes. Most surprising to Arcade was that some of it seemed to come from Boone himself.

Before he could ask, he stepped forward, grabbing Arcade by the arm and half leading, half dragging him back into the elevator.

“I found the location of the bunker Six went to. We’re going there.” He instructed plainly.

“What?” Arcade had nearly forgotten that’s what Six had originally gone for after hearing the horror stories of the Sierra Madre.

“We are going after Six,” Boone repeated, enunciating each word deliberately, pulling Arcade down to be level with him. “Unless you have other plans, Gannon?”

Arcade shook his head, trying to keep the tone calm. “Well, there is the slight issue with your plan in the fact that Six had actually returned just a few hours ago. I doubt your quest to the bunker will yield more answers than simply talking to her.”

Boone’s eyes narrowed, processing. He didn’t move at first, just stared, as if weighing every word. Then, with careful steps he walked to the bedroom.

“She’s asleep,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Arcade approached from behind, voice low. “And you’d do well not to wake her. It’s been rough, to say the least. She was taken to this place… I’ve never seen her talk about anything with that much fear.” He shook his head. “I know you’ve been worried, but let her work through it for herself before you demand answers.”

Boone’s gaze lingered on her face. “Who took her?” he asked quietly.

“No one you’d know,” Arcade said tiredly, “and knowing Six, she saved a special fate for him.” He studied Boone’s demeanor, the set to his jaw, and the tight hold of his fists. “She doesn’t need you to go find payback or justice for her. Right now, she just needs you here.”

Boone nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t shift, standing unmoving in the doorway like a sentinel.

Arcade exhaled and tried again. “Look, I know you’re worse at this than I am, which is saying something. But if you keep lingering in the doorway covered in blood, she might wake up and you’ll probably set off a new wave of emotion in her, and neither of us wants that. My advice would be to wash up, then just sit with her. She spent plenty of time alone where she was taken, and she seems pretty keen on not being so anymore.”

Boone’s fingers flexed at his side, a silent acknowledgment. He didn’t move, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

“I’m going to fetch Raul, Cass, and Veronica,” Arcade said, trying a light note. “Help me keep them from disrupting her sleep, won’t you? Your imposing glare is much more effective than anything I could say.”

His tone implied a joke, and it fell as flat as Arcade expected, but there it was. A flicker in his expression, realizing that there was in fact something he, and probably he alone, could do.

“Right,” he finally mumbled. “Get the others, I’ll do what I can.” Then, without another word, he moved toward the bathroom.

“And,” Arcade began, catching him. “You should probably wake ED-E.” A long, resigned sigh went through him, annoyed despite himself that he was the one to bring this up. “She’ll probably want to see that Six has returned.”

Boone said nothing, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, catching the irony, but saving him by not commenting on it.

With nothing else, Arcade finally slipped towards the exit.

The elevator hummed beneath him, as it brought him back to the world outside. It was a slow, quiet ride. The metallic whispers doing nothing to drown out his own thoughts.

They circled around Six, of the armor she’d built around herself long before the Sierra Madre had ever carved new scars into her. Of how he should’ve known better, long before it ever came to this.

He could see now, more clearly than ever, the weight she carried. And yet, even in sleep, she had not been entirely unguarded. Those small cracks, fleeting glimpses of the person beneath, lingered in his mind, stubborn as a stubborn truth.

Arcade drew in a breath, feeling the cool metal of the railing under his palm. The elevator lights flickered as they neared the bottom. He straightened, bracing himself for the world beyond, already trying to come up with explanations for their scattered companions.

When the doors opened, the world spilling into frame, he took a deep breath, then stepped in to join it, hoping that Six could soon do the same.

[Bonus]

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting golden hues on the Lucky 38 doors when Arcade finally pushed his way through, Veronica at his side and Rex at their heel.

It had taken longer than expected to traverse the Strip and Freeside to round up the three companions, though, that was due in part to Cass getting kicked out of the Tops, and having too strong opinions about the other Casino’s to indulge them. Most surprising of all, though, was when he finally did find her, it was by the East Gate, sharing drinks with Kings, of all people. Clearly boredom did wonders for grudges.

“—swelled up to the size of a baseball, I mean I don’t know how she was still standing. But, she was convinced the only cure for it was just some agave juice! She argued and argued until the venom closed her airways!” Veronica rambled as they stepped into the elevator, using far more hand gestures than necessary.

Arcade let out a small chuckle despite himself. “Just wait until you’re on hour 24 of being awake, and there’s a whole tent of people like that. I suppose it’s comforting to know that things have stayed interesting at the Old Mormon Fort without me.”

“Well you should’ve stopped by,” she said, elbowing Arcade between the ribs. “I don’t know what up here was better than what’s out there. The Lucky 38 is just another hole in the ground.”

“Yes, yes, and you’ve made your opinions on those clear.” He felt as if he should answer her further, shed light on what had kept him so grounded, especially when his worst fears were proven true in the end. But before he could find the words, the elevator opened once more, allowing the many voices of the suite to carry through.

Rex bounded for the dining area, his whole body wagging with the force of his tail. Arcade and Veronica were not far behind.

As soon as Six came into sight, she was engulfed in a tight embrace from Veronica, the hug could’ve only been tighter if their Brotherhood of Steel scribe was wearing her signature power fists. A beat later, however, it seemed to catch the amount of bandages lining Six’s body.

“Okay, I’m no expert, but this looks like some serious damage,” Veronica said in hesitant surprise. “What happened to you?”

Raul brought his beer from his mouth, resting it in his lap. “Yeah, mija, you haven’t yet graced us with the daring tale of your adventure.”

Six’s smile strained, kept together, but shaking. “Right, yeah, I… I just…”

Her eyes found Arcade’s, and he was ready to step in if she needed him to. But first, he offered one terse nod.

“I’ll tell you all later, just… not right now, okay?” The words were soft, unpracticed in Six’s mouth, but genuine.

Arcade weighed the words, not sure where his expectations had laid. It was a start, if nothing else. The truth would be a harder battle, but at least, in this moment, Six found the strength to keep the mask off.

“Veronica, why don’t you entertain everyone instead with the story of the woman and her radscorpion sting?” He offered.

“Oh my gosh!” Veronica gasped, remembering the absurdity. “You guys won’t believe it, so this woman—“

The anecdote became background noise in Arcade’s ears, having already heard it once. His gaze lingered on Six, searching for the same shattered pieces he’d seen before, and finding only cracks. But her eyes then met his, and she offered a small, thankful smile, sincere in its authenticity.

And that was enough.

It felt as though barely a few moments had passed before another staff member had appeared to join the duo standing in front of his cell, bringing with them a rolling cart with all the odds and ends used for transporting an adopted animal.

Most of it was extraneous in this case, like the foldable protective carrying cases for microfauna or the brightly colored grooming brushes that had never once been anywhere near his matted hair. 

Some of it he dearly wished was extraneous, but had always been unwelcome accompaniments to his transfers, regardless. 

Watching the pale yellow muzzle get handed over to the maniac who’d entered his cell before, Logan slowly, menacingly shifted his gaze up to meet the alien’s strange, flat eyes. The first impromptu limb amputation had been accidental. With his stare alone, he attempted to convey that any future limb loss incidents would be entirely on purpose. 

The alien wagged at him, annoyingly undeterred, and started forward as though to slip right back into the cell again. This time, however, the employee hastened to bodily jump between the green alien and the door, chattering away at a rapid-fire pace. 

Logan was distracted from trying to parse out any of the resulting conversation— an argument, by the sound of it— by another unfortunately familiar sound: the gentle hiss of the aerosol tranquilizers activating in all four corners of the room. 

A bolt of fear shuddered through him against his will, his mind working against him by pulling up fragments of memories as sharp as shattered glass. 

This was one of his least favorite parts of his current existence. It didn’t matter if he knew, rationally, that the present circumstances were far milder than his past trials, and so nothing to get worked up about. His body registered the sound, remembered the past, and reacted accordingly. No amount of scowling self-reprimand would make his limbs stop shaking, or his rapid heartbeat slow. He’d been classically conditioned, another victim of Pavlov’s time-tested methodology, as though he really was nothing more than a drooling animal. 

The worst of it was that the tranquilizers were hardly even enough to sedate him. It took several long, shivering moments for his limbs to begin to feel numb and distant, the hiss of the dispensers loud in his ears all the while. 

Logan wedged himself back in a bare corner, focusing on nothing but keeping his breathing from becoming too quick or too shallow. (The only thing worse than being sedated was driving himself to unconsciousness.) It would have been smarter to lay down once the tranq gas was dispensed, to keep his head from spinning and prevent any injuries he might gain in the process of collapsing. 

Even so, he remained sitting upright, body curled in on itself protectively even as the sensation of touch faded. He had learned to take even the small, pitiful comforts where he could get them. 

The effect of the sedation was not unlike experiences Logan had had at the dentist as a child, an almost ‘floaty’ sensation coming over him. The sound of the door must have registered a few moments late, because when he laboriously peeled his eyelids back, the green alien was already right in front of him, like they’d teleported there. 

Their tail wasn’t wagging anymore, for some reason.

Logan attempted to follow through on his earlier silent promise, lifting an arm to smack at the alien, but nothing happened. His body was entirely non-responsive, only the rhythmic pulse of his heart in his ears proving that he hadn’t turned into a slowly-stiffening corpse. 

Ignorant of their close shave, the alien reached out testingly with one of their remaining hands, proving that they hadn’t learned their lesson. Logan should be instructing them further on why bothering him was an exercise in self-mutilation, but he found himself becoming distracted by the texture of their hand as they cautiously made contact. 

It really was similar to those little gelatin puddings. The fingers were capped with a fine, velvety coating that almost reminded him of cashmere, but the majority of the limb was smooth and shiny. Would it be defined as a particle-dispersed matter, a colloid, like gelatin? Or were the similarities only superficial? 

Another of those possibly-colloid hands rose into view, this one holding that miserable flaxen muzzle, and Logan felt a protest bubble up in the back of his throat before he could remember why that was a bad idea.

Only the faintest whine escaped, thin and reedy, because despite all his complaining, his body remembered how to protect itself better than his conscious mind ever had. Even so, the hair at the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably in anticipation of pain. 

A low buzzing caught his attention, and Logan realized that the background hum had been the alien, talking to him through the past few moments of inspection. It was unusual, a distinct change from other times he’d been dosed and restrained, and he clung to the noise to keep himself in the present as the muzzle slid on over his nose and mouth.

He’d used to find it ironic that they’d go to the trouble of muzzling something that already couldn’t speak a word. Of course, that was before he’d been stripped of all but his last defenses, before being able to bite was an ability he would viciously fight to keep. 

Claustrophobia descended the moment the muzzle clicked into place. Logan felt the terror seep into his bones like an old friend, more than familiar with this particular implement. It was one solid piece, almost appearing like a face mask from a distance. There were only pinprick holes in it for air, thin slots on the bottom to vent any liquid that built up, and absolutely no way to eat. 

It had been a while since he’d had to worry about starving. He cast an idle glance at the food tray on the door, wishing this adoption visit had happened just a little later. Or not at all. All the resentful muttering he’d done about this place, and yet now he felt as though being evicted from it was the worst thing that could have happened. 

Nothing to be done about it now, he thought, his eyes drifting shut to the low tonal hums of his latest captor.

—

Remus didn’t bother trying to hide his irritation as he paged through the thick stack of adoption and liability paperwork, scanning each form for the appropriate place to stamp his biosig stamp while only barely taking in the actual content. 

Usually, these sorts of forms were all compiled on an electronic device for signing, but he’d shorted out the first tablet within moments and waved off the second, well aware that he wasn’t going to be able to use them until he’d managed to wrangle his temper back into a manageable state. His involuntary electric pulses weren’t visible, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous.

It seemed to discomfit a few of the staff members, but that wasn’t particularly surprising, nor did he particularly care. He unsettled most of the quadrant’s population even when he was on his best behavior, and he certainly wasn’t putting on any masks of faux politeness now, not after being so blatantly ignored.

What was the point of being a pioneer in your field if people didn’t even listen to what you had to say?! 

Remus shifted his weight into his lower legs and tail, taking some of the strain off of his tendons while still letting him loom tall enough to peek through the translucent windowpane between him and the loading bay. It was dragging out the paperwork process, but his sourness over the earlier blunder meant that he was reluctant to let a single moment of the proceedings go unsupervised. 

His crewmates were usually the fastidious ones, but despite what one might think, Remus had his moments of stringent, laser-focused attention. His version just came with a blank, haunting stare instead of the more common piercing glare of Virgil or Janus. Sometimes, if he held very still for long enough, he even managed to unnerve people without moving a single tendon. Lucky for them, he wasn’t really one for holding still. 

Outside in the loading bay, a few bulkier staff members had been called on to tranfer the limp form of L064-n into the stabilizing mechanism in the center of the biotransport crate. Though it had curled up surprisingly small before, it looked rather ungainly and awkward now– long, stretched out limbs with too many fingers stretching out like something out of an old folktale. No wonder it hadn’t gotten adopted. 

Remus already loved it. 

Though the staff were, to their credit, taking clear care in their movements, L064-n was long enough that there was a certain comedic element to watching them desperately try to maneuver it into the compact space. The biocrate wasn’t catered to the fauna, not in a volunteer-run facility like this one. It would have taken a ridiculous amount of credits simply to have tailored restraints for the wide variety of known species held in the adoption center, let alone one customized to a creature that they couldn’t even identify the home planet of. 

Instead, there was a central stabilizing belt and a built-in antigrav field that would keep the creature aloft and cushioned from any injury throughout the trip. He was more than familiar with these more cost-efficient crates after so long in the business, and hadn’t questioned the choice, though he pointedly hadn’t taken the facility up on its offer to try and find a suitable placeholder set of restraints for the journey. 

The only true restraint in place was the muzzle. The sight of it alone made Remus feel even more sour, and he could tell his mane was writhing unpleasantly in response to his agitation.  

It wasn’t even about the restraint itself. Despite his advantage when it came to injury and blunt force trauma, he would have gotten himself chomped to bits ages ago if he hadn’t known when to take precautions, and the transit process was one of the most dangerous parts of this job.

It was that the transit process was also one of the most stressful parts on the animals, and mucking it up by intensifying the fear with tranqs was probably going to make the trust-building process much more difficult for him.

Remus had seen a lot of tormented beasts in unfortunate circumstances, but that didn’t make it any easier to see how the creature had begun to shudder with panic the moment the tranqs were set off. His good mood had immediately plummeted to its swift death as he’d watched his newest project stiffen and curl in on itself, like an uncanny echo of a dead arthropod. He didn’t share many of the more mammalian body language habits, but between his hobby and his twitchier crewmate, he had plenty of experience reading the little tells and signals.

From the shivering to the rapid, rolling eyes and visibly racing pulse, L064-n’s response to the undoubtedly familiar noise of the sedation system was severely negative and entirely predictable by anyone with more than half a brain. Animals, much like people, were hardwired to fear the unknown in order to survive, so of course the hiss of the tranqs would frighten it. It couldn’t possibly grasp why or where it was being moved. 

On the bright side, he had learned that hearing was a primary sense for it. The response to the sound of the aerosol alone might not have been entirely compelling, but it had shown a surprising awareness of Remus’s voice as well, even with the translator muted to prevent further stress triggers. He had taken the chance to hum graphic threats to himself, already vexed by the situation, when L064-n had started making a horrible, thin whine of distress, its head wobbling the slightest amount in an attempt to jerk away.

Remus had immediately switched over to the nonsensical rambling he used while working with most of his projects, and the tonal language had elicited a distinct shift in attention; the whine tapered off, the muted movements stilling. It hadn’t relaxed, but the stimulus had certainly caught its attention. 

Maybe the noise had caught at some instinct, and the creature had gained a predatory focus, Remus mused with glee. Those cases were always fun, since it was far more exciting to puzzle out a solution amidst attempts on his life. It hadn’t been overtly aggressive in the cell, but many predators focused on avoiding injury over hunting when in unfamiliar territory. 

Either way, with any luck, this would be the last time it saw these dreary cell walls and heard those miserable dispensers. After Remus got them both safely home, there would be the time and space to undo whatever damage had been done by the stint in an unsuitable environment.

Below, the biocrate had sealed and lit up with steady vitals. Stamping another form with a satisfied flourish, Remus allowed his mind to begin bouncing between ideas for just how he would restructure the environment room once he got back. Prehensile digits meant it might enjoy a more arboreal setting, which would double to provide a canopy if it was unsettled or agitated by wide-open spaces. It seemed a little large to be prey to any airbourne creatures, but then, every planet’s natural order was different... 

Eager to return to the ship and start working, Remus rushed through the last few forms with far less care than they likely required, ignoring the fact that Janus would be furious if it ever came back to bite him. He could note down traits and guess about origins all he wanted, but the most reliable way to uncover more about the creature’s home was to provide a multitude of options and observe its behavior. It was a challenge that Remus always looked forward to, and he had no doubt that he would soon throw his all into creating the best possible habitat for their ship’s newest and most volatile resident. 

Well, perhaps not the most volatile. There was still Virgil onboard, after all. 

Remus’s tail paused in its idle wagging, his brain doubling back to re-examine that last thought. Oh yeah, now that he was really thinking about it, it was probably about time to let his poor, unsuspecting crewmates know about the dangerous wild animal Remus was bringing onboard.

…Eh. He was sure there would be plenty of time to draft a suitably ominous and concerning comm message on the way back. 

In the eerie quiet of the indoors, every minor noise the crow made felt like it was magnified tenfold. Every croaky swear the crow uttered whenever he took too long in following felt like an alarm bell. Resisting the urge to pinch the beak of the featherball that had freed him, Virgil crept along the wooden floorboards as quickly and quietly as possible. 

Surprisingly enough, his luck held: they still hadn’t run into anyone by the time the bird led him to a sliding door, left slightly ajar. The snippet of forest outside was possibly the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, and he wasted no time in slipping through to greet the cool evening air he’d thought lost to him forever. 

It was dusk, thankfully. There was just enough light outside for him to still feel moderately wary, but even as he watched from under the roof’s overhang, the last rays were slowly fading behind the distant horizon. He heaved a soundless sigh of relief, and began carefully winding his way through the copse of trees surrounding the building, sticking to the shade. 

For whatever reason, Fluffbutt had circled back around to settle contentedly on his shoulder. She didn’t look quite as raggedy and awkward as the last time he had seen her, finally reaching the normal crow stage of being more sleek feathers than downy fluff. Even if her choice of language remained just as immature as ever. 

“Scoundrelly fiend!” croaked Fluffbottom, who Virgil was beginning to suspect was just making up words at this point. 

“Ssst,” he answered, a stilted approximation of a shushing sound, following it with a few halfhearted signs. “You want me to get caught?” 

Fluffbutt didn’t respond, possibly because she was a petty little creature, or possibly because she was a bird and the chances of a bird understanding sign language were low. (But never zero.)

Of course, because Virgil’s life could never be easy, he caught the muffled sound of an impact nearby. Hunkering down further with his ears pricked up attentively, he slowly approached the noise until a clearing came into view. 

Even in the dark, he could easily make out the silhouette of the first slayer he’d ever run into, and also probably the reason he was in this mess in the first place. Biting back a groan, he retreated back a few paces before beginning the process of skirting around the slayer’s sword practice. Running across him wouldn’t have been instantly deadly– Roman seemed to be using a wooden training sword for some reason– but Virgil had no doubt that the slayer would raise the alarm if he was spotted, and the last thing he wanted was for his unethical scientist buddy to come running.

Idly, he signed to the bird still perched agreeably on his shoulder, “Your human is an ungrateful narc, you know that?”

“Fiend!” Fluffbutt replied at a far louder volume than was appropriate for sneaking around. “Ro-man! Ro-man! Ro-man!” 

“...Missus?” a voice called, sounding mildly confused. “Where are you?”

“Sst! Ssst!” Virgil made the hushing sounds even though it was obviously far too late, and attempted to scurry along quicker in the hopes that he could still salvage the situation. 

On his shoulder, Fluffbutt continued to call her slayer’s name, proving herself just as much of a narc as her human. He attempted to shrug and then brush her off, and only earned himself a harsh nip to the fingers for his trouble. 

“Why did you even let me go if you were just planning to get me killed?!” Virgil signed frantically, still half-crouched as he attempted to put cover between him and the rapidly approaching rustle of bushes. “I’m going to rethink my opinion on bird murder if you keep this up.” 

“Scourge!” Fluffbutt cried gleefully.

“Missus, is now truly the time to– hey!” Roman’s voice turned from exasperated to alarmed in a heartbeat. “What are you doing with– wait, it’s you!”

Virgil attempted to keep moving, as though if he turned his head away and pretended not to hear he could just avoid the entire situation. This pathetic tactic was quickly brought to a halt by a swipe of the slayer’s weapon slicing through the branches of a tree a few inches from him. Virgil turned to face the slayer, and then paused to eye the clearly wooden sword in his hand with disbelief. What were they feeding these freaks? 

“What are you doing to Missus Fluffybottom?” Roman demanded, as though Virgil was not very blatantly being victimized by his bird at this very moment. “Breaking into a Hashira compound, I should have known your earlier assistance was a trick!” 

Okay, first of all. “Breaking out,” Virgil signed with a frown, emphasizing the ‘out’ part of the statement by signing it twice. “It was not my choice to be here.”

“You can talk?” Roman asked at a near-shout. 

Virgil shot him an unimpressed look, and was surprised to see the man actually wilt slightly, abashed. 

“You– You know what I meant! You didn’t do any of that last time!” Roman defended himself, before the original statement finally seemed to register and he puffed back up. “What are you talking about? I would have known if you’d been brought in, and besides, all Logan’s been doing lately is working with his little lackey on nerd research.”

Expression flat, Virgil pointed at himself. “Nerd research victim.”

Roman’s face went slack with shock, the expression authentic enough to convince Virgil he really hadn’t known, before crumpling up into a confused scowl. 

“What do you mean, victim? You’re a demon!” he retorted, gesturing expansively to Virgil’s entire appearance. “An incredibly strange one, I’ll admit, but still a fiendish bloodthirsty creature of the night! Surely, you prey on victims, not the other way around?” 

“I don’t ‘prey’ on anyone,” Virgil signed with a little too much emphasis, jostling the crow right off his shoulder. “I was minding my own business, not killing people, and your coworkers abducted me.” 

“Bastard!” Fluffbutt cried, fleeing to a nearby branch. Virgil tried and failed not to feel a little abandoned despite it all.

“A likely story!” Roman echoed her scornful tone, angling his pitiful practice blade at him. “As though I would believe a demon has any other business than hunting humans!” 

Was he really going to be having this one argument with people for the rest of his cursed, monstrous second life? Kill him now. 

A sudden chill settled in the air, making the hair on the back of Virgil’s neck stand on end. It was nothing, however, compared to the icy tone of the voice that rang out behind them.

“Step away from him.” Logan was a mere silhouette in the night, but the razor sharp edge to his words told Virgil everything he needed to know. 

The even sharper edge of the slayer’s drawn sword glinted in the moonlight, further reinforcing the implied threat. 

… When he’d thought ‘kill me now’, he hadn’t actually meant it! It was a sarcastic internal remark, not an earnest request!! Why was his life like this!!!

“Logan!” Roman turned to Virgil’s likely executioner with a relieved slump to his shoulders, quickly skipping back a step to close ranks against the oh-so terrifying threat of Virgil, who was standing frozen there like a stunned rabbit. 

Before the slayer could make it across the clearing, though, that poison-coated blade shifted direction. 

“Woah!” Roman complained, forced to stop short or risk impalement. “Watch where you point that thing, Specs!” 

“Stay where you are,” Logan replied coldly, his eyes obscured by the light reflecting off his glasses. “Don’t take me for a fool.” 

“Huh?” Roman asked, dumbfounded. “Specs, it’s me.” 

“Silence,” Logan snapped, and the command came out brittle and harsh. “It’s pointless to drag this farce on any longer.”

“Um?” Despite it all, Roman glanced at Virgil, the two of them exchanging a bewildered look as though forgetting they were mortal enemies for a moment.

The moment of commiseration nearly cost Virgil his head. 

As it was, he heard the thin sound of metal slicing through the air just in time to throw himself backwards, thus keeping his head attached to his shoulders. The panicked sound that escaped him was something like the squeal of a dying frog, but he didn’t exactly have the time to mourn his total loss of dignity. 

“Logan, what in the world is going on?!” Roman screeched, practically tripping backwards to get out of range as his unhinged coworker lunged after Virgil with his jaw set. 

“Keep your distance if you truly retain the soul of the friend I know,” Logan retorted, the sentence bitten out between attacks.

“The soul of— Specs, what does that mean?!” Roman’s voice was rapidly shifting from confused to indignant.

Virgil didn’t have a single spare second to focus on the byplay, not with the ferocious pursuit Logan was leveling at him. It took all Virgil had simply to keep ahead of the blows; if he judged the direction of even a single swipe wrong, he was done for. 

At least it seemed like the scientist had given up on recapturing him. The last thing he wanted was to return to that cramped, sterile room and live out the rest of his days as a lab rat. 

The rest of his days being cut short here wasn’t ideal, either, but he hadn’t completely lost hope yet. There was still one direction unblocked by murderous slayers, the way out of the compound entirely if he was lucky, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was running the hell away. With every vicious strike from Logan, he inched his way back towards it, dodge by dodge. 

Even giving it his all, Virgil suspected he probably wouldn’t be doing half as good if it hadn’t been for the way Logan kept casting sharp glances in Roman’s direction, shifting his steps and the angle of his body to guard against both the demon he was fighting (made sense) and his friend (made no sense) as though either could lunge forward and attack at any moment. 

Well, whatever. If it would get Virgil out of here, he wasn’t going to question the random, seemingly unfounded bout of paranoia. 

As though summoned by his cautiously growing hopes that he would manage to get away, Virgil caught the distinct patter of footsteps coming from behind him. 

Extremely close behind, actually, and growing rapidly closer–!

“Virgil!” Large warm arms wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms and lifting him clear off the ground with the force of the motion. 

It was only the familiarity of the voice and the bright, cheery tone of the call that tapped into Virgil’s conscious mind enough to prevent him from trying to maul the idiot who had decided to run up and hug an agitated demon from behind. 

Instead, he did an awkward full-body twitch of surprise, most of which was completely muffled by Patton’s all-encompassing grip, and involuntarily made a chirping sound that was uncannily similar to a cat that had just woken up, probably because even the most surprising hug was still a hug, and he was weak.

Weak and probably about to be skewered, he realized as he abruptly recalled the fact that Patton had been the one to tell Logan about him. He stiffened back up– when had he closed his eyes?– and looked to see that despite his sudden prone state, both of the other slayers were standing still.

Roman was staring at them with his jaw dropped, his gaze flicking between Patton and Virgil’s faces with equal parts bewilderment and disbelief. As for Logan… Logan was standing stock-still in the middle of the clearing, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword and his expression extremely dark. 

Virgil felt a shiver run down his spine. That didn’t bode well. 

“It’s so good to see you again!” Patton continued, giving him one last gentle squeeze before looking up and seeming to notice the tense air that was currently stretched across the clearing, fit to snap at any moment. “Well, would you look at that! It’s rare to see so many friends in the same place at once. Logan, Roman, how twonderful to reunite with you both!”

Roman spluttered something that wasn’t anything close to real words. Logan maintained his icy, desolate silence.

Patton paused, tilting his head curiously. “Did I interrupt something?” 

Virgil took the chance to wriggle free of the slayer’s grip before one or all of them regained their senses, and scurried back a few steps so that he was at least out of immediate grabbing and/or beheading range. Patton cast a concerned glance after him, but his attention was dragged away by Logan audibly gritting his teeth. 

“You, too?” he asked, a deep misery in the words. “Am I the only one here who remains myself?”

Everyone else blinked at him with varying levels of befuddlement and apprehension. 

“Of course you’re yourself,” Patton tried, smiling despite his clear concern. “The one and Lonly!”

Logan closed his eyes as though pained. “Alone and outnumbered.” When he opened them, his glare was locked solely on Virgil. “I suppose you must feel smug, knowing that you’ve cornered me despite all my precautions.” 

After a moment of blank staring, Virgil slowly lifted a hand to point at himself in silent question. 

“Yes, you!” Logan snapped. “Enough with the act. I’ve fallen for your trap, now let it be sprung and over with!”

“Woah, hold it right there!” Roman stepped forward, his hands held up as if to stall any further action. “Would you please explain just what is so dire, Professnore?! You aren’t alone! From where I’m standing, it looks like the one who’s cornered is the demon, not you.”

“His name is Virgil,” Patton chimed in helpfully. Virgil was really starting to wish he would stop helping. “Logan, kiddo, did you manage to read through the last letter I sent–,”

“Fine. I’ll explain, even if it might be pointless.” Logan’s posture was still wrought with stress, his jaw tight and muscles stiff, but something about the abrupt cessation of the fight had thrown him enough to get through; this time, he at least deigned to actually meet Roman’s eyes and respond to his question. 

Even Virgil paused his sidelong glances towards possible exit routes to listen, mostly in the hopes that there would be something he could do to refute the claim and prove his innocence. (A guy could dream.)

“You both met this demon and claim to have gotten away unscathed, despite the multitude of reasons it had to kill you where you stood.” Logan leveraged his blade up to point at Virgil. “Did neither of you ever wonder why such an impossible being suddenly appeared before you, acting as no other demon ever has before? Did it truly never occur to you two that a demon would only waste time playing innocent for one reason: to sow the seeds for future chaos.” 

“What?!” Roman gasped. 

“Uh, Lo, I don’t think–,” Patton tried. 

“There’s only one explanation for such behavior,” Logan continued doggedly. “This demon has a method of control over those it spares, and now holds your lives and potentially even your minds in the palm of its hand, to use against me and any other slayer it encounters.” 

The document was fairly straightforward, but he still made sure to check over all of it, keeping an eye out for any bureaucratic nonsense that might have been snuck in. After all, he was insane, not an idiot.

Every few moments, though, he couldn’t help the way his attention would keep turning back to the mystery creature.

Despite the length of time it had apparently been rotting away in this tiny cell, the staff were no closer to identifying the planet or even the specific quadrant it was from, let alone species. Part of it was likely due to the inability to safely interact with the specimen, or note any natural behaviors in such a sterile, contained setting.

Fortunately, that was where Remus came in! 

He’d earned himself something of a reputation for both wrangling and rehabilitating creatures that most were too frightened or disgusted to touch, working with them until he could find a suitable home environment or a substitute one that would still provide all the required factors. Nearly half of the intergalactic ecological community may loathe and/or be repulsed by the mere mention of him, but they couldn’t argue with his results! 

Though the creature— labeled L-064n by the intake form, though he’d surely come up with something much more creative within the hour— hadn’t seemed particularly perturbed by their presence outside the container beyond a lingering stare, that didn’t necessarily rule out aggression. 

After all, they hadn’t so much as properly entered the room yet, so Remus was holding out for further interesting behaviors. He had a feeling about this one, and following his impulses into reckless endangerment had never disappointed him before! 

He pressed his biosig stamp against the document with enthusiasm, noting that at his side, the Ampen employee was only growing more and more fluffed up in alarm. Apparently, they’d expected Remus to back down after seeing the extensive clauses in the paperwork. 

Unfortunately for them, signing his rights to pursue legal action away was a tried and true tradition for him, no matter how vehemently Janus lectured him about it later. He’d wrestled with paruvian death houndsfor fun. A piddly little list of disclaimers that he might or might not get his head torn clean off was hardly intimidating. 

“Alright,” the staff member said, gaze darting over the signature a third time. “I’ll set up the meeting space, then—?”

Remus hummed a denial, already scooting forward to enter the holding cell’s door. “This way is fine! Feel free to use the aerosolized tranqs on us both if things get too out of hand!”

Ignoring their whistle-shriek of protest, he slid easily through the door and into the territory of what he was fairly certain would be his next pet project.

The creature was larger than him, though exactly how much was difficult to tell from its current position curled into a corner. It had dull, opaque skin without any clear exoskeleton or other natural armor, which was pretty rare for fauna that he worked with, and only those four spindly limbs to maneuver with. It had wrapped itself in simple coverings that probably meant the cell temp was a little too low for it, and though there was no dental information on its file, he hadn’t seen the sort of fangs he would expect from a carnivore diet. 

Frankly, if it weren’t for the creature’s size and the unsettling, constant eye contact, it wouldn’t have seemed like the sort of beast he’d be called in to work with at all. The dichotomy of threat and harmlessness was intriguing, and Remus couldn’t help the way his tail thumped against the floor as he sidled into the small cellspace. 

Immediately, the creature shifted its weight, pushing onto the balls of its feet in one simple, efficient movement. Remus felt an excited hum begin to build in his chest; he’d known that there was still zest left in this guy! It may have put up a good show of monotony, but sure enough, when it came to an unfamiliar presence entering the space, there was a prompt defensive response. Those survival instincts were still present, which meant this was far from a hopeless case. 

He took another step forward, slower this time, watching for the moment he’d need to dodge. L-064n’s facial features pinched in a way that was uncannily close to sapient expression, but all of the signals were just slightly… off.

There was something about the narrowed eyes that didn’t read positively, even with the marked resemblance to an Ampen smile. Remus’s mane writhed curiously as he stared with absolutely zero hesitation, trying to pinpoint the difference. It was the angle, he decided, the curve of the eyes less severe without any cheek movement to squish the expression into proper harmless-friendly squint territory.

Perhaps the mockery was intentional, meant to scare off or lure in other species on its origin planet. He made a mental note to repeat the theory aloud once he got his slimy little hands on some fresh data storage chips for his recorder. 

Another step forward had him halfway across the space, well over the limit of tolerance for most fauna species that were even remotely territorial over their environments. 

Even then, L-064n didn’t make a single sound. Remus’s tail went still, held taut in a gesture of caught interest. He stepped forward again, and again, watching as muscles visibly bunched up at his approach.

There were audible warning signs in most animals, a precursor to violence. Growling, hissing, screeching, rattling, buzzing. Raising one’s voice in a show of force was the first and most basic defense for many fauna, especially mammals.

It was the silent ones that were dangerous. They gave no warning, no cry of alarm. There was only the stillness of waiting and the motion of violence, one after the other.

Remus reached out with his least favorite hand, the intent vague but the gesture clearly meant to touch. 

His newest project watched the limb stretch closer, and didn’t make a sound. 

—

It had been a while since Logan had been honestly thrown by something that had happened to him.

The new alien’s apparent enthusiasm for approaching a strange unidentified alien that all others in the building had scarcely dared to glance at had made the cut for surprising him, even if only briefly. 

There were a few moments of reprieve while the odd stranger was talked through some kind of liability paperwork, and Logan took the time to calm the unsettling spark of shock that the declaration had elicited.

He knew better than to read too deeply into things like this. When he’d first been relocated here, he’d eyed nearly every patron and new face with frantic suspicion, waiting for the day that one of them took a single look at him and knew exactly what sort of monster he was. 

(Worse, they might know the significance of the small, clearly-marked incision scar on the back of his neck.)

He didn’t dare even mouth the word, for multiple reasons, but he imagined the shape of the syllables in his mind, one after the other: Deathworlder.

Even now, his caution was likely entirely unnecessary. For all that they’d earned an astonishing level of infamy in the greater universe, Humans were apparently utterly unrecognizable to the vast majority of aliens. It was the same now. If that odd stranger had somehow recognized him, their reaction certainly wouldn’t have been to try and get closer. 

No, this was simply the space equivalent of an unwise young adult being dared to reach into a zoo exhibit— a reckless attempt to engage with something dangerous for ego or pride or whatever other motivations aliens had for risk-seeking behavior. He’d somehow caught their attention, but he wasn’t at risk of being found out and forced back to a facility like that very first one. 

Still, there was no real reason to engage. By the time the unwise stranger had shuffled into the room on surprisingly nimble feet, Logan had already decided to endure the visit with as little reaction as he could manage. He shifted into a more maneuverable crouch, just in case, but didn’t bother moving in any other way as the alien came closer. 

And closer. 

And closer. 

And then there was a limb being extended toward him, not moving particularly fast but still close enough that it triggered some automatic, primal part of Logan’s mind. Memories of the last few times anyone had grabbed at him flared up uncontrollably, with echoes of the searing pain that always followed.

Without conscious thought, his own arm whipped out and knocked the intrusion away with full reflexive force of the adrenaline that had just spiked through him. 

Splat! 

Logan, who had recoiled heavily the instant after he’d struck, managed to blink away the sensation of claws dragging down his arms. 

In front of him, the stranger stood, an arm still extended.

Only an arm. No fingers or elongated palm remained. 

A swift glance to the side revealed the remains of that lime-green hand, now splattered against the floor in a shapeless mound that was leaking a thick, chlorophyll-like substance. He’d… He’d knocked it clean off with one strike. 

At the realization, Logan only cringed back further, waiting for the unpleasant pained shrieking of someone who’d just been severely wounded, but none came.

Instead, as he watched, the dripping end of the alien’s arm sealed itself off into a starfish-like point, and the alien retreated with all the hurry of a tortoise wandering across a highway. The stranger seemed entirely unperturbed by the impromptu amputation, tail back to wagging idly as they gave him further space. 

His posture, which had grown quite hunched and stiff without him realizing, began to loosen from equal parts disorientation and bewilderment. What was he supposed to think about an encounter like this? He had just signed his own death warrant, hadn’t he? So why did it feel like his reaction was entirely in-line with this new alien’s expectations? 

Even after all this time, Logan hated being made a fool of. Eyes narrowed, he pushed himself up to standing, watching as the alien had to tilt their head back at a slightly grotesque angle to follow his progress. If he had to be uncomfortable at the whims of this stranger, he at least wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

The stranger’s whipcord tail wagged even harder. It had to be some sort of threat display, no matter how firmly Logan’s brain was pulling up reference videos of puppies. He braced himself for some sort of lunge, but instead, without breaking eye contact, the stranger trotted over to the pile of goo that had formerly been an appendage and promptly stepped on it.

Logan almost grimaced, recalling at the last moment that showing teeth was a bad idea, but even at the curl of his lips, the stranger maintained their leisurely pace as they sidled back over to the door. There was hardly a trace of the biomatter left behind, which was intriguing enough that Logan’s attention was immediately dragged astray to theorizing on the structural principles one would need to manipulate a body that could apparently be disassembled and reincorporated with more ease than children’s play-doh. 

As such, he’d almost fooled himself into believing the bizarre interaction was done and over with, ignoring the faint buzz of the mechanical translator and the much louder scolding whistles from the staff member as they presumably discussed the psychological warfare they’d just waged on Logan for no reason. 

Maybe it was some sort of test. If he had passed it, perhaps they’d talk about transferring him to the space equivalent of a no-kill shelter. Even with his life on the line, it was hard to work up to will to care either way. 

Huffing, he sank down into a seated position, still eyeing the slight shine left on the floor from the encounter. Enough was enough. He was done uselessly guessing at the indecipherable motives of aliens. He only wanted to think about creative potential nerve structures of invertebrates for the next two weeks at least. 

Of course, his life could never be that easy. 

The strained silence that had fallen outside the cell caught his ear a mere moment before the staff member, sounding more winded and croaky than he’d ever heard, forced out a familiar phrase, one that had only ever been applied to him once before. 

“If you're sure, then… c-congratulations on finding your… your new best friend!” 

Inside the cell, Logan jolted back to his feet so quickly that he saw spots. What?!

He didn’t bother trying to turn back over and go back to sleep; even if the other creatures around him miraculously settled down enough to allow it, the harsh noise of the lighting system was at just the right irritating pitch to keep him awake whether he liked it or not.

It probably wasn’t intentional— from what he’d heard and observed thus far, this facility wasn’t anything close to the first one he’d been kept in. There weren’t any training sessions or punishments for bad behavior, nor was he constantly eyed by speculative buyers.

During the first few weeks he’d been here, he’d frequently observed his neighbors through the thin window that ran along the front of the cell, and most of them didn’t show any signs of discomfort or even irritation at the noise, meaning that it likely wasn’t intended as a deterrent.

He felt fairly confident in his assessment. Early on, he’d gleaned that this was the intergalactic version of an animal shelter, and one that seemed to value proper care for its unwilling residents. He didn’t expect that the aliens running it were intentionally trying to agitate the fauna they were trying to adopt out or rehabilitate.

His daily headache arrived regardless, but it soothed what little remained of his temper to know that this particular suffering wasn’t inflicted purposefully, just to be cruel. Ignorance was hardly an excuse, but he’d found it was far preferable to intentional cruelty.

The thought made him snort as he slowly, painstakingly pushed himself up to a sitting position. The Logan of five years ago would never have been placated by knowing his captors were simply ignorant. If anything, it would have only made him more furious; how could anyone pretend to be fulfilling an animal’s needs without doing sufficient research to understand the animal?

Then again, the person he’d been five years ago wouldn’t have accepted the idea of being trapped in an alien animal shelter, seen as little more than a mindless beast. He would find his present self unrecognizable, unable to reconcile with the very idea of sitting sedately in the alien equivalent of a kennel, silently waiting for the start of a day that was virtually indistinguishable from yesterday or tomorrow.

Sometimes, Logan missed being that person. He’d been overwhelmingly naive back then, but even when things had been at their most painful, there had been a sort of thrilling vindication in seeing his handlers grow furious, a heady satisfaction in his own stubborn refusal to give in.

It had been pointless, of course, just as his nostalgia for that vivacious attitude was pointless. His pride had only earned him more pain.

He began his usual morning routine of simple stretches, keeping one ear on the ruckus around him. There likely hadn’t been any notable new arrivals overnight, but trying to guess which creatures were nearby by sound alone was one of the few sources of entertainment left to him.

Most of the closest noises were dog-like, growls or barks or heavy rumbling. Further away, the cacophony took a much higher pitch, full of the whining, squeaking, and whistling of smaller, less aggressive beasts. As always, Logan was glad for the distance. There may have been more daily variety— the more harmless creatures got adopted out much more frequently— but it wouldn’t have been worth upgrading his daily headache to a daily migraine.

He paused mid-stretch, finally picking out the source of his unease. There was a sound missing, no sign of the familiar rattle of the food and water dish being pulled through the bars and refilled. It was almost always the first thing the employees here did after the lights came on, and while inherently degrading, he had found the routine reassuring.

If they weren’t yet offering the morning meal, there were two prevalent possibilities as to why. Logan didn’t think any of the animals had injured itself or passed away overnight, since there was no urgent calling or somber conversation. That meant an alien had come in to adopt as soon as the facility had opened, a rare but not outstanding occurrence.

If he strained to hear past the growing noise levels, he could make out the mechanical chatter of a translator, confirming his suspicions.

To his surprise, the voices seemed to be coming closer. He shifted out of his stretch, drawing his knees up under him and adjusting the makeshift toga he’d created for himself from one of the provided linens. After being actively dehumanized for years, Logan had long since lost any sense of humiliation or modesty, but he still found some small comfort in clothing, and most aliens didn’t think much of it. There were apparently plenty of animals out there that created simple coverings or incorporated materials around them into fur or feathers.

(At one point, Logan had mistakenly believed that one of his neighbors had been another sapient creature after watching it meticulously tie shredded fabric into little strips and tuck it between feathers in a decorative display. He’d wasted a week attempting to communicate in various ways before realizing the futility, and had accidentally unnerved the poor creature enough to get his cell moved to a different part of the holding room.)

It was unusual that he saw a client approach this section of the shelter so quickly. He was well aware that this was the area designated for undesirables, higher-risk fauna that was more aggressive or feral, similar to how humans would take care to isolate dogs that had been rescued from fighting rings or cats that hadn’t ever been socialized. They didn’t often get visitors, and adoptions were even less frequent.

On his end, Logan hadn’t lashed out too severely at the staff or scared potential clients away like most of the others, but he’d still been relegated to this section. He knew why, of course. Suffice to say, his previous “adoption” had ended poorly.

His mood soured at the memories, and by the time footsteps reached his aisle, he’d shuffled to one corner of the cell and seated himself solidly on the floor, leaning his shoulder against the wall. It would be easier to focus on translating what he could of the conversation if he didn’t have to worry about a sudden headrush or the fatigue that occasionally swept over him after standing for too long.

“—great to hear!” The voice of a staff member trailed into proper hearing range, chirping a phrase used so frequently that Logan had no trouble parsing it out in accented Common.

They launched into a well-worn recitation of what Logan was assuming was standard information about the facility and its available fauna. He still didn’t know enough Common to keep up with the more complicated terms, and could only guess at the general meaning.

Frankly, his attention was diverted by the number of overlapping steps he could make out as they approached. Entire family units came in to look around occasionally, sure, but not to this section. Some of the creatures here were vicious enough to give children nightmares.

There was the clicking sound of a button, and Logan watched dully as the front wall of his cell slowly shifted from opaque to transparent, gradually revealing the muted colors of the narrow hallway outside the cell. Most of the staff used the small viewing windows to check in on them during meals, but when a prospective client came to look, they made sure everything was fully visible.

Two figures came into view as the wall turned almost entirely see-through, with only a faint grey tinge to the material. One was a staff member he’d seen often enough before: a small, feathery alien with big eyes, fluffy antennae, and a poncho that draped over most of its dust-colored form. The other was no species that he’d ever seen before.

It was built vaguely like a centaur, with four stubby legs, two upper limbs, and a long, prehensile tail. Nearly every inch of it was encased in a shining, thick layer of what Logan could only describe as goo. It was as though the alien was covered in an outer shell of vibrant radioactive green gelatin, with only indistinct shadowy shapes visible to indicate that there was any sort of underlying structure at all.

It had no mouth or nose, only two flat black eyes that didn’t blink, and a discolored gray spot below them that was uncannily reminiscent of a handlebar mustache. There were two large, shell-like protrusions on either side of its head, extending past the gelatin layer. From the crown of its head to the base of its spine, there was a stretch of brown plantlike tendrils that writhed subtly in place, looking like a horse’s mane if a horse’s mane was also made of rotting seaweed.

Logan’s interest sharpened despite himself. Most of the shine of being in space had worn off somewhere in the first two years of methodical torture, but occasionally he still felt a glint of that familiar curiosity.

The unknown alien watched him right back, taking in every detail of the small room. A thin pad with blankets piled on it in one corner, and Logan sitting slumped in the other. A few simple toys scattered on the floor, largely untouched.

It asked a question, and Logan noted the way it seemed to hum in different tones before the translator echoed its words. Vibrations produced by an internal organ? Unlike humans, it had no mouth to shape the noise with, so the language must have been composed of variations in the tonal humming itself.

The employee chirped back an affirmative, keeping their gaze averted from meeting Logan’s dull stare directly in the automatic way that he’d noticed in most aliens. The staff especially were careful about eye contact, presumably they received some sort of training to reduce agitation in the fauna they were looking after.

It was somehow refreshing, the way the new alien unabashedly locked eyes with him. He hadn’t realized how much one could miss simple things like eye contact until he was suddenly entirely deprived of it.

It couldn’t last, of course. Logan hadn’t followed most of the conversation thus far, mostly out of general disinterest, but he knew more than enough to recognize the phrase that always came up when he was spoken about.

“There are recorded violent incidents with multiple previous fosters,” the employee recited, the cadence of the phrase so familiar that Logan could have imitated it perfectly, if he was feeling masochistic.

Instead, he kept his mouth firmly closed and idly waited for the duo to move on to the next cage.

The new alien shifted slightly, the reflections of the overhead lights warping along its glossy body.

“What are its—,” it asked, the translator adding a questioning tone indicator. Logan didn’t recognize the last word, but the employee’s response cleared things up within a few sentences.

“Not good,” they answered, antennae angling back in a display of upset. “It’s already been here for a while. If we can’t find the source planet and nobody takes it in, we’ll have to put it down.”

Those weren’t the words exactly, of course. The employee was using a strange euphemism, but unlike most of the creatures here, Logan had more than enough memory retention and cognitive processing to notice just what inevitably happened to the creatures that were referred to as such.

He waited for the spike of panic, the natural response of his body to the threat of death, but it didn’t come. His heart rate may have jumped by a beat or three, but he mostly felt a strange sense of distance from it all.

What difference did it make? Could what he was doing now really be called ‘living’ by any stretch of the imagination?

Logan met the alien’s eyes plainly, still oddly numb to it all.

The alien hummed a long, toneless note, one that didn’t translate into any specific words, and then stepped forward and tapped on the clear material with one of its thick fingers. As though everything up to this point hadn’t been dehumanizing enough.

If things were different, maybe Logan would have tried to snap out a demand or insult to cover for his wounded pride. As it was, he only turned his head further into the wall and closed his eyes.

This didn’t remotely deter the alien. The resulting thunking noises continued to be loud and repetitive, and Logan gained a sudden and unhappy empathy for every fish he’d ever witnessed being pestered by a child in a pet store. Even the employee looked uncomfortable, feathers fluffing out slightly, though surprisingly enough they didn’t try to stop the stranger’s irritating behavior.

Finally, Logan turned back to it with a glare, letting his lips curl back to bare his teeth in an odd configuration, half-sneer and half-snarl. There, he’d confirmed it. He was scary and aggressive, nothing more than a beast waiting to be executed. Now, move along already.

The tail behind the stranger began to wag slightly, a rapid back-and-forth movement that was so reminiscent of a happy dog, it genuinely startled Logan for a moment. Not many species would react to a threat display with playful excitement. Surely, the matching body language was just a coincidence?

Without hesitation, the stranger turned and asked something that Logan heard almost daily, though never before about his own person.