Stroodledoo

Chapter 1

The Mourner

Hollow footsteps resounded from the sleek stone floor on which I hastily stepped with a racing heart, weaving around those who stood as obstacles in my path. It was not a display I would have ever thought to see; people from all walks of life conversing amongst themselves—if some could even be considered people at all. A stout mountaineer talking with the android girl and insectile monster were the first I passed with quickened steps, offering them little regard beyond a nod of acknowledgment.

Though we had all fought the same battle—which must have linked us as comrades in some capacity—I hardly knew most of them, and as my eyes scanned the groups for familiar faces, I recognized the witch girl as someone I had exchanged at least a few words with prior to everything going to hell. Seeing my rush, her hand rose to send me a brief wave, and just as quickly I was gone, my scattered mind forgetting if I’d even bothered to return the gesture.

He has to be here somewhere.

“Oh my. Are you all alone again?”

I startled at the voice from behind me, stumbling to a slow as I turned my head to see a small, spectral figure clothed in a white sheet floating only a few paces back, an abyss behind the eye holes cut out of the cloth. I might have considered her comment antagonizing if her warm tone didn’t betray any hint of malice, and for a second, I almost understood why everyone was so insistent on calling her “Mama”.

Glancing about my surroundings, I saw the couple garbed in some sort of obscure prison uniform ahead of me—though it better resembled something worn in an asylum—hand in hand with the woman’s head lying against her partner’s chest. Next to them, the android sisters—could androids even have sisters?—speaking quietly but with a sense of closeness between them. I quickly realized that everyone had some sort of partner or comrade by their side. Everyone except…

“The captain went off somewhere,” I muttered after a moment. ‘Again’, I wanted to add as I turned my back on Mama to continue my search, but I didn’t waste my breath.

It seemed like all I had been doing in The Cage was trying to find him. If hours or days existed here, I couldn't even guess how many I had spent alone, wandering about bridges and corridors that looked like carbon copies of each other and hoping to find even the faintest sign of life before I inevitably lost my mind. And then right when I thought I finally had him, I just ended up losing him like every time to come before it.

Ironic, came the bitter remark I scarcely recognized as a thought of my own.

It was in combat that he said to me, “It's like you grew up while I wasn't looking.”

My lips parted to respond then, but I couldn't muster even a sound from them.

“It's because you couldn't live to see me do it,” I wanted to say. “I had plenty of time to think while you were gone.”

Instead, I only swallowed the words back, feeling them catch in my throat and pang in my chest. A similar feeling had washed over me also when I first saw my captain in The Cage, a man I had accepted to be long dead years ago when I received word about the passing of a young soldier who had dutifully served the country. “A platoon captain,” they said, “praised as a hero of his time and awarded medals for his efforts.” His body was discovered in a cemetery alongside another of his rank, the circumstances of their deaths mere speculation, but a bullet planted in both men all the same. I had paid the story little mind, not wishing to bother with things that didn't concern me. Or, at least, that was until I heard that the deceased soldier shared the name of my former captain.

“Griff,” I bit out under my breath, testing how well that word would roll off my tongue, and unsurprised when it still felt utterly foreign.

Even after deserting the military, it had never occurred to me that I might have come to outlive my former captain. In fact, that had never occurred to me about a lot of people, and I cursed myself for it. By now, I should have known better. But no matter how much I repeated that phrase to myself, it didn't stop the familiar melancholy that the news left me with. So when I saw him again, I couldn't suppress the torrent of emotions that shook my body. Relief, confusion, grief, spite, and each one waging war with the other.

Watching my once-captain struggling against a twisted copy of himself had been the first time I truly understood the absurdity of The Cage. It bared its teeth in a twisted grin, bullets flying freely from the chamber of its pistol in rapid succession and cutting at my captain like shards of broken glass. It could have killed him if it was aiming to do so, but anyone could see from the way it sporadically lurched about the field like a puppet on strings and flicked its wrist to squander perfect shots that its misses were purposeful; it was toying with him. I knew the articulate way in which my captain fought, and the impulsive savagery that the thing sharing his face possessed was nothing close to it.

I was willing to bet that if I had never found the captain when I did, the thing would have dragged him under. It made me wonder if that applied in the real world too—if my captain would have lived had I been there to save him as he had for me.

I shook my head. There was no point in thinking about something so useless, even when everything around me brought the thoughts spiraling back again.

As I passed, the sickly-looking kid regarded me with a look of burning gratitude, and the sharp grin on the brunet boy's face starkly contrasted the deep gloom that haunted him when we first met. They were both accompanied by their partners this time, their purposes restored like when you put a gun in a soldier's hands, and seeing the light returned to their eyes could only make me turn my face away.

It was almost shameful, weighing down a happy moment because I couldn't even begin to match that impossible energy, no matter how much I wanted to. I always avoided gatherings like this when I could, and now I remembered why.

But that was far from my biggest concern when that unmistakable figure came into view and I remembered with a harsh shudder that death had yet to claim him here—not yet.

Slowing my pace, I drew in closer. While everyone else spoke amongst themselves, the man I knew as cheerful and talkative to a fault was standing alone, seeming to admire the surrounding architecture that I certainly didn't think he would find more interesting than running his mouth. Silently, I slipped into the space beside him.

As he noticed me, he seemed to snap out of his trance, regarding me with a smile as he said, “Hey there. You know, for a place called The Cage, the design is surprisingly… open.”

I hesitated for a second before shrugging my shoulders. 

“Not all cages have iron bars.”

I would know.

“That's true,” he replied simply, the empty space causing his resounding words to be carried off to some distant place.

I took to memorizing the tiles of the floor, wondering who swept the place and how they did such a good job considering how there wasn't so much as a speck of dirt to be seen.

“It looks like the chaos of earlier is nothing but water under the bridge now,” my captain finally spoke again, softly, as he stared out at the endless horizon with a flicker of sadness in his eyes.

“Looks like it,” I echoed, trying to keep my tone free of how tense I felt.

“That fight was a real challenge, but it's a good thing that everyone made it out okay. After all of this, adjusting to life on the field again will certainly not be easy.”

“Yeah.”

“But it was an experience for the books, that's for sure!”

“Mm.”

From my time wandering about The Cage, I found that one of the only perfections here was the quiet. There wasn't a single birdsong or rustle of leaves against a steady wind, only a cold and hollow silence that leached into my bones. It might have been something I would find comfort in once upon a time, a reality I would chase when I was overwhelmed by the world and all the shit that came with it. But now every beat of horrible silence only reminded me that I couldn't run away anymore. Not from this.

“Well then,” my captain started again, “we had best be—”

He must have turned to look at me, but I couldn't make out his face, my vision blurred from the unforgiving tears that had begun spilling down my cheeks despite my best efforts to keep them contained.

“Fuck you,” my voice quaked. “Fuck you!”

He was speechless, and still, I didn't give a damn. My hands, trembling with rage, seized Griff's bandolier.

“‘Life on the field’? Don't make me laugh. What life do you intend to have exactly, one where you pretend that none of this ever happened and load another round through your thick skull just like last time? I know you will. I know that's what you're planning the second you get out of here, isn't it?!”

There was a moment of hesitation before my captain stammered, “Lars, no, I…”

“And why should I believe a single thing you say when every word out of your mouth has been bullshit from the start? ‘I'm glad that you survived’, were you even planning on surviving yourself when you said that to me, you hypocritical bastard?!” I spat, my throat burning with a familiar sensation. “You used that gun to protect me, did you forget? You used that gun to protect everyone. So why…”

Why?

That was the only thought that ran through my head when I stared down at the newspaper clipping that detailed his death as a mere mention among the flood of war propaganda. 

Why? Why? Would you use it against yourself?

And yet, even when I asked the man himself, he couldn't answer me. A solemn sort of melancholy clouded his eyes. They seemed to scream, “If only it were that simple”, and I knew it wasn't, but I couldn't relay that truth to my mouth as my words all came flooding out like a bursting dam.

Steadying my breathing, my voice was raw when I spoke again, quieter. “Back then, you gave me another chance. I was being a little shit and you saved me anyway. So, I finally got to return the favor.”

In no more than a whisper, my captain uttered, “By saving me in turn?”

“Not just that. By giving you another chance. And I'll be damned if I let you throw this one away, do you hear me?”

He nodded wordlessly, but I wasn't convinced. An unease had settled over me, as if letting go of him now would make him slip off the edge and plummet to the depths of The Cage. My grip tightened. 

“Promise me, Captain.”

“You know that I'm not your captain anymore,” he replied with a weak smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You were, and a lousy one at that. You were soft, a coward. You let your bias control you and compromised set plans for your own peace of mind. I did too—you know I did. The difference between me and you is that I grew up, I changed, and you…” My words faltered, a moment of silence passing before I found my voice again. “Did you think I wouldn’t care?” “You have more to care about than the captain of an old platoon that did you more harm than good.” Unlike his comments prior, this time his tone was cold, a hardened look overtaking his features.

“I did you more harm than good if you remember. And what did you do? You didn't give a damn. You covered for me and gave me second chances whether I deserved them or not. That's why I'm only finishing what you started. So, even if it's the last thing you ever do for me, I'm asking—begging—you to answer me. Why did you do it?”

“Lars,” he finally said, a brokenness beyond the calm of his voice, “I need you to understand this: I may have been your captain, but I'm not a good man. No matter how much I helped you in the past, I've done things that no manner of good deeds could ever wash away.”

“So have I!” I bit back, feeling renewed frustration boil over. “I put you through years of scrutiny and noncompliance, made trouble around every corner, fought and hurt so many people over nothing. Even more than that, I… killed my own father, made my mother a widow, and as if that wasn’t enough, marched countless innocent kids to slaughter. If you think that you’re beyond redemption, then by the same standards I guess that means I’ll be right there with you in the innermost depths of hell.”

I took a moment to catch my breath, urging the pounding in my chest to ease as I added, “Despite your sins—whatever they may be—you still have something to show for it. One headstone less, if nothing else. It's more than I could say, or that most could say.”

Before I abandoned the military, I remembered throwing myself into hundreds of battles, decorating my body with thousands of wounds of varying severity. I treated my injuries carelessly, tying off bandages simply to keep blood loss from hindering my efficiency. Scars naturally formed as a result, becoming legion before I had even reached adulthood. Each of them I viewed as another life I was given, another time the bullet grazed my skin a mere inch too far to kill me as I so desperately wished it would have. I had no intention of ending my life, yet each time my boots were caked in the gore of the battlefield, I wished for nothing more than a sniper to deliver me a quick and painless release. Maybe that was why I never did get that desire met. For no soldier is more effective than one who doesn't fear harm.

It was my captain who delivered me from that mindset, who told me that my survival was a blessing and not a curse as I had always considered it. Why couldn't I convince him the same? Why did my words always come out harsh and bitter?

“Really, Captain, when will it be enough? How many saved lives and self-sacrifices will it take until you're satisfied?”

“Saving a life doesn't justify taking another one. In the end, it's just disguising a selfish attempt to hide the sin as some act of heroism.” He hesitated. “But…”

“But I'm living proof that you're wrong,” I finished. “They called you a hero, you know. Everyone. The report they published under your name is what brought the war to its knees.”

He winced, turning his face from me, and I knew that this was probably the last thing he wanted to hear. But it was the first thing the stubborn fool needed to hear, so he could get the hell over it.

“How many people do you think would have kept suffering if you simply ceased to be? Our platoon would have been run by a tyrant, I would have died long before my time, and—”

“The war would have stretched on.”

I don't think his voice was ever as good to hear as it had been the moment he spoke those words.

“This might be the most I've ever heard you speak,” he managed, maybe as a weak attempt to lighten the mood with a sad smile and huffed laugh. But it was gone in seconds when he asked, “How did it happen?”

“The news spread quickly. People started testing the validity of your claims and couldn't find anything to dispute them, only more proof that you were right. Victims of the Infant Abduction Strategy started speaking out soon after, revolting if they could. Public outcry, riots, eventually it got to be too much. The government called for a cease-fire, and the rest is history.”

How ironic it was that the man who spurred the end of the war never got to see the very peace he created.

“And did you?”

“Did I what?” I wasted my breath for whatever reason, already knowing damn well what he was asking. He answered in unison with my thoughts that mimicked his voice.

“Did you speak out?”

I was never a participant in those particular rebellions. I had done my part, turning my blade on the military when no one else would and making a way for others to do the same in the coming years. It was unheard of, a band of children bringing down a governmental power. That was exactly why the Sunflower Uprising became a beacon of hope for those looking to do the same—a monumental event where a feat thought impossible to achieve was proven feasible. With that, I was no longer needed in the fight, and I told myself as much every time my captain's obnoxious voice haunted my mind, saying, “Everyone wants to hear your side of the story. Come home.”

The place he spoke of was no home to me anymore. Besides that, even if it was safe to do so—if my story would really be heard—knowing that my captain would never be among the faceless crowd of listeners made me only despair at the idea. It was his suggestion, after all. If I were going to speak on anything at all, I would only do so if he were at my side, and that was the decision I stood firm on.

I shook my head to kick the thoughts back into my subconscious.

“Who cares? The only thing that matters right now is if any of this is even getting through your head. So you've done unforgivable shit. That doesn't mean it was all for nothing. That it all has to be for nothing.”

I was never a motivational speaker, but I knew the only way he would listen was if I spoke his language.

This is hell.

“Lars, I wouldn't have made it long after the news got out no matter my choices. A man who rebels against his own military is a dead man, one way or another.”

“Maybe for most.”

That didn't stop me. It won't stop you.

He heaved a small sigh. “What do you suggest that I do instead?”

“You could run. Change your name, skip town.”

“And go where?”

“I…”

“Do what after?”

“You could come with me! We'll leave it behind. Everything. No more guilt of the past, no more what ifs. We can make a fresh start, carve out a new path with nothing but our own damn hands if we have to.”

He blinked in surprise, and I had to suppress the shame that washed over me after proposing such an idea. It was a half-baked suggestion lacking any real sense or foresight. Go where? Do what? Those were questions I still had yet to find answers for in my own life, much less in his. But at that moment, I was just so damn tired of searching for them alone.

We had both trodden the path of isolation and lost our purpose—our very reason for living—by the end. Vengeance had been mine, and I only continued to live because of the unfulfilled promises I made to the dead. What had my captain's purpose been? Maybe it was simply to remain on the battlefield for an eternity, a pursuit he gave up for the sake of peace, and at the cost of his life in turn. But a new beginning didn't have to be reached alone, did it? The odds of survival would be better with two if nothing else.

“I spoke to Mama while I was—” I hesitated, “—when I first made it here. If she was right about what she told me, then that means that the second we get out of here, we're going home. From there, we don't have to follow our fates anymore.”

“We can rewrite the future, you mean?”

“That's my guess.”

“It’s a nice idea, for certain. But that sounds like a dangerous gamble.”

“You think I don't know that?” I snapped. “One wrong move could spell the downfall of everything as we know it. But I'm not going to worry about the unknowns of changing fate, because the one thing I know for certain is that you're going to make the headlines as a captain felled by his own gun, and I'm going to stop that outcome even if I have to go through hell and back to do it.”

A look of resignation crossed my captain's face and he shifted on his feet, inching away from the ledge that we stood mere inches from. Releasing my once white-knuckled hold on him as he did so, I stepped back and wiped my hands off on my pants.

“I'll ask again,” I began in a hoarse voice, extending my hand to him. “Promise me, Captain. Promise me that we won't repeat the past.”

Yesterday's mistakes are today's lessons, he used to say.

“I can't make that promise, Lars,” he whispered now.

A cold gripped tightly at my heart, the crushing weight of hopelessness seeming to rest on my shoulders. I tried desperately to convince him that a better reality awaited him if only he would seek it out, and still every point came up short, every crack in my logic pulled up by the roots. My words were rushed, sure, but how could they not be when every wasted second could mean returning to a reality where one more person I cared about was dead in a ditch? I would never have seen him again whether he was alive or dead, and maybe I still wouldn’t even if this ridiculous plan worked, but that was a loss I could tolerate.

My hand lowered, gaze casting downwards, knowing I couldn't bear to look him in the eyes. Some fates could never be changed. That was something that I had been reminded of more times than I could count, and still I managed to fight against it.

“But… I can promise that we can give it our best shot.”

At the same moment that I heard those words, I felt the warmth of his hand taking a firm hold of mine as the final seal to a hopeful promise. I drew in an unsteady breath, letting it release as something between a sigh and a sob.

“One thing hasn't changed, at least,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking slightly as he looked down at me with regretful eyes. “You're as stubborn as ever.”

“I could say the same for you.”

It took every ounce of my strength to keep my voice from breaking. The hand that my captain shook was one scarred from battle. It wasn’t a hand that once pulled its comrades from the ground, it was a hand that had punched, strangled, and tightly gripped the hilt of weapons made for murder. And yet the tool used for little more than carnage and ruin was now clasped in an agreement that might break it free from its cycle of violence, that might give more than it takes, and maybe—just maybe—even be given more than it’s owed.

In the back of my mind, I lamented how I had reached a point where saving a life felt more terrifying than taking one ever had. Maybe that was the way of nature as a whole. Inflicting a wound was always easier than healing one. So also was it more tempting to tear down my old captain than it was to convince him not to tear down himself.

My captain’s eyes lifted to look past me, and glancing over my shoulder I saw Mama coming to a slow approach. That was when I noticed that everyone who once stood past her was gone, almost as if they had vanished out of thin air, and I was certain that we would be soon to follow.

“That must be our ride home,” my captain said, though his tone made it sound like there was almost a question mark behind his statement. How I had accepted the fact that a ghost was coming to spirit us back to our “world” so quickly made me wonder if I had gotten a little too used to this bizarre place.

“Mhm,” I simply hummed.

“Lars?”

“What?”

I could feel Mama’s presence behind me now, which certainly didn’t help my nerves as I listened in anticipation.

“If we return to the battlefield, do you think we’ll…?”

No matter what he was referring to, all of the implications came up equally grim.

Do you think we’ll repeat our failures?

Make mistakes worse than the last?

Die?

Either way, I knew only one answer.

“If we do, then we’ll just have to accept it.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how far in the past we would end up. Maybe it would start over from the very beginning of our tales and I would be forced to collect my scars as if it were the first time. All I knew was that I would feel those wounds over and over again if it meant that one day neither of us would have to hurt anymore. This man would go on to stop the war, and by God, he would see it to the end.

Ugh… When did I get so comfortable with thinking this corny shit, anyway?

Such were the last thoughts to race through my head before I was blanketed in a veil of pure light, my physical form seeming to melt away until all I could feel was the collective energy of my hardened will. It was similar to the feeling that overcame me when I was first drawn into The Cage, but this time was different, because while I entered The Cage as a lonely, hollow vessel, I could now feel the buzzing warmth of my captain's haggard soul practically joined at my hip.

Chapter 2

The Lamented

In the back of my mind when I fell unconscious during the fight, I was certain that I would never wake again. And yet I had, though the sight I awoke to could have easily been mistaken for some depiction of hell. Despite that, I knew that if I was able to open my eyes again, it could only mean that another part of me had died—had been killed, rather. Its absence felt like a gaping void in my chest, a very fragment of my soul that was ripped from my body and banished to oblivion.

It was freeing and yet so horribly wrong.

I could no longer hear its whispers or see its sharp-toothed grin in every passing reflection. There was a time when I would feel its claws every moment that my heart would pulsate, grasping the organ in its palm and never allowing me to forget how I yet live. Now, it was almost as if my chest had been hollowed out, and I occasionally found myself checking the pulse of my wrist to confirm that my blood hadn't run cold.

One moment I was on a raging battlefield, and the next I was lying in a stark white plane surrounded by people—familiar or otherwise—that stood armed before a towering goliath that no words could describe. I couldn't deny that it was something out of a nightmare that my restless sleep would bring about, but I also couldn't deny that every pinch, cut, and shot felt anything but fabricated. I suppose that they always did. Regardless, I had a nagging suspicion that I would be waking from this strange world soon, and so I took to memorizing the place I stood, hoping such an action might lessen my inevitable forgetfulness when it came time to face reality again.

The bleak, snow-white architecture almost gave the appearance of what might come to mind at the mention of heaven, but I was sure that couldn't be so. If heaven really was how my mother had described it to be, then I knew I didn't meet the requirements for seeing it with my own eyes, and I was sure that the Bible didn't mention a waiting room for the sinners anticipating the Day of Judgement.

Hesitant footsteps resounded from behind me, deliberately quiet in their approach as though attempting to erase their presence, yet my ears were keen to ambush. Eventually, a somber presence settled beside me, and only then did I spare a glance to address it, knowing already who it belonged to.

“Hey there,” I greeted, urging some cheer into my voice to contrast the glum look on his face. That was one thing that hadn't changed, but I quickly began to realize that it was the only thing.

Despite the familiar expression, he looked older. Not yet a man, and yet no longer a boy as I had known him to be. His hair had always been long, a direct defiance of military regulation that the higher-ups luckily couldn't be bothered to correct, but now it reached past his shoulders in a way that they would have never turned a blind eye to were he still bound in their chains. Scars licked up his exposed forearm where his sleeves ended and his gloves hadn't yet begun, and new marks I had never seen before coiled like vines to join themselves with the old ones that branded his skin. Just how much had I missed? Too much to bear, I was sure, and so I returned my gaze forward.

“You know, for a place called The Cage, the design is surprisingly—” I wracked my brain for a term to describe the sheer expanse, but I could only land on the understatement that was, “—open.”

“Not all cages have iron bars.” He shrugged.

That was true enough, I supposed. Though I left the battlefield scattered with the corpses of friends 11 years ago, my mind had remained imprisoned there every moment since, and only now that I was detached from my familiar reality did I recognize the mental cage that ensnared me for so long. I was sure that when I returned home, I would return to that cage just as well.

Ah. That's right, Lars was waiting for a response. Attempting to return my focus to the conversation, I muttered some small affirmation, though my attention quickly returned to drifting when I found myself at a loss for anything more to add.

At this rate, Lars would lose interest and leave just as quickly as he came. It was a miracle that I could capture his attention for even this long. I had to say something while I still had the chance.

Say something…

Say what?

“You've gotten taller”? “Have you seen a counselor since we last spoke”? I could see him going red from shame and turning on his heel already. Or maybe he would just get a melancholy look in his eyes the same way he did when I last commented on how much he had grown. I adopted a teasing tone as I said it, but I hoped he knew that I meant every word.

Right then. No time for indecision. I would just go with something easy.

“It looks like the chaos of earlier is nothing but water under the bridge now.”

I braced myself for the irritated remark I was sure would follow. A harsh tch followed by receding footsteps at best, that sounded about right. He never could stand small talk, but that never stopped me from trying.

And yet against all odds, he replied in a husky voice saying, “Looks like it.”

Well, this is different.

I spared a look in his direction to make sure that my mind wasn't fooling me, but his feet were planted firmly on the ground beside me. Hair veiled his face from where I stood, but nothing about his mannerisms suggested a desire to leave. Surely he wasn't staying just to listen to me talk, but when he gave no further input, I had no choice but to continue on.

“That fight was a real challenge, but it's a good thing that everyone made it out okay,” I yammered idly. “After all of this, adjusting to life on the field again will certainly not be easy.”

“Yeah.”

“But it was an experience for the books, that's for sure!”

Lars’ dry words quickly devolved to uninterested hums of acknowledgement. Clearly, I should have thought the topic over longer, as I was losing his attention faster than I could even gain it. But maybe that was okay. I wouldn’t want to wake up before being able to finish any meaningful conversations, after all, and given how our work here was done, there was little point in loitering any longer than necessary, wasn't there?

After the moment of silence passed without any further comments, I released a small sigh, hesitantly turning to look at the boy beside me. “Well then. We had best be…”

My next words were forgotten before they could ever surface. His hitched shoulders were shaking so hard that if I didn’t know any better, I would think he was crying…

Ah. And yet when he turned his face to me, I quickly realized that I didn’t know any better after all.

“Fuck you,” he choked out through trembling lips, his eyes turning glassy enough for me to practically see my dumbfounded visage reflecting in them. “Fuck you!”

I recoiled instinctively, yet his hand lashed out and grabbed hold of my clothes, keeping me in place with an iron grip. Lars always did as much moments before striking a comrade, so I braced for an oncoming blow even before knowing what prompted it. Never did I expect an assault from Lars to instead come in the form of words.

“‘Life on the field’?” he echoed, his voice colored in a pain I could only wonder how long he had been carrying. “Don't make me laugh. What life do you intend to have exactly, one where you pretend that none of this ever happened and load another round through your thick skull just like last time?”

I winced as memories were dredged from the depths of my mind. A single eye staring back with resignation past the outstretched barrel of a pistol, the shot that made my ears ring too loud to hear any cries of reasoning from my heart, the spilling red that tainted my vision, and the lunacy that made the corners of my mouth upturn. I cursed myself for not reading the room sooner and leaving before this inevitable conversation ever came up as I feared it would.

“I know you will. I know that's what you're planning the second you get out of here, isn't it?!” Lars screamed, his words carrying a strength that his sorrow-stricken face didn't match.

I began to stammer some poor attempt to defuse the topic, but the second I could manage a rejection, he cut me off, saying, “And why should I believe a single thing you say when every word out of your mouth has been bullshit from the start?”

When was the start, I wondered. The moment we first met, when I stared down at the new recruit wondering how hatred could burn so fiercely in someone so young? The day I offered him a fresh set of gloves so he could retire the ones stained with the blood of his first kill, and how I was painfully familiar with the kind of grief that was going through his head when he rejected them? Was I lying to him even then?

And yet as he continued, I soon came to understand the exact moment he was referring to. “‘I'm glad that you survived’. Were you even planning on surviving yourself when you said that to me, you hypocritical bastard?!”

Ah. Of course. That was where it always began, wasn't it? Maybe by saying that, I only burdened him with a cursed legacy. To survive means to outlive. If he didn't realize that then, he definitely did now.

“You used that gun to protect me, did you forget? You used that gun to protect everyone. So why…” his voice faltered, leaving his rant lingering in the air, waiting for a conclusion that wouldn't come.

Maybe I shouldn't have disregarded the possibility of this conversation so quickly. If I hadn't, then I might have known what to say—what explanation to give or what comfort to offer. Though ultimately, I doubted that any would have been enough to satisfy him.

In all of the years that I knew him, I had only seen Lars break down this way when he clung to corpses. The irony that he did so now as he clutched my bandolier wasn't lost on me. In fact, it only seemed to deepen in my wordlessness. Silence was the native tongue of the dead, after all.

“Back then, you gave me another chance. I was being a little shit and you saved me anyway. So, consider today—or tonight, or whatever the hell it is here—me returning the favor.”

“You mean by saving me in turn?” I uttered, recalling the moment I was almost felled by the half of myself that I couldn't hear taunting me anymore. Lars was the last person I would have expected to pull me from the clutches of defeat—better yet, the clutches of death—at that moment.

He shook his head, unruly strands of unshorn hair falling into his face. “Not just that. By giving you another chance. And I'll be damned if I let you throw this one away, do you hear me?”

Then you'll be damned. It was a fleeting and instinctive thought, one that I would—could—never give voice to. It was true that I had no real plan, I never suspected I would come to this place and so I never thought to consider what came after. But one thing I did know was that every moment of my life always circled back to one fate, and every failed attempt only served to prolong that inevitable conclusion.

In the end, I still didn't have the heart to tell him. All I could manage was a slight nod, futilely hoping that a gesture as small as that might ease his grief and put this behind us.

“Promise me, Captain,” Lars whispered with pleading eyes, and the sight caused my chest to ache with a selfish pain. How could I make that promise to him when I couldn't even to myself?

I could hardly fathom how the young man begging me to survive with shaking knees was the same boy who would hurl a torrent of curses and death threats my way so long ago. But more than that, he was so, so much stronger than he had been before. Though the boy I knew would have done anything to stem his tears, now they flowed without shame, and his grip remained firm despite his trembling. I had seen Lars lose control of himself more times than I could count, yet even with his emotions pouring over like they were, it was nothing like the reckless outbursts I had familiarized myself with.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to tell him how proud I was of him—of the person he had become in spite of a world that left no room for him. But I had no right to say that anymore. After all…

“I'm not your captain anymore.”

Despite how I said it with utmost sincerity, Lars’ brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth harshly twisting in equal parts a scowl and a grimace.

“You were,” his voice shook. “And a lousy one, at that. You were soft—a coward.”

How many times had I heard that now?

“You let your bias control you and compromised set plans for your own peace of mind. I did too. You know I did. The difference between me and you is that I grew up. I changed. And you…”

In the back of my mind, I urged him to continue, to twist the knife that his words had plunged into my chest like he always did before. But his eyes briefly fell, his lips wavering to form words until he eventually landed on the question, “Did you think I wouldn’t care?”

Honestly, he hadn't given me much reason to think he would, and certainly not to this degree. I would often assure myself that somewhere in his subconscious, Lars didn't hate me nearly as much as I was led to believe, but that was all little more than wishful thinking and idle daydreaming. My hopes for that reality ended when I pulled the trigger, replaced instead by the wish that Lars, alongside every other soldier I once commanded, would move on and leave me as a figment of the past without a hint of grief left in their hearts.

Fueled by that resolve, I hardened my features. “You have more to care about than the captain of an old platoon that did you more harm than good.”

There it was, that look of profound loathing I remembered. Though his face had since matured, seeing the expression again made me nearly sick with nostalgia, feeling as though we were back in those dusty old barracks that a part of us must have never truly left. I had seen plenty of fury and frustration played across plenty of faces, but Lars’ was different than them all, because though I might have been pierced by the palpable hatred in the gaze of anyone else, the fire that burned in Lars’ eyes never truly met mine, as though it were never meant for me at all.

“I did you more harm than good if you remember. And what did you do?” Lars spat. “You didn't give a damn. You covered for me and gave me second chances whether I deserved them or not. That's why I'm only finishing what you started. So, even if it's the last thing you ever do for me, I'm asking… no, begging you to answer me. Why did you do it?”

Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Why? Why?

“Lars, I need you to understand this: I may have been your captain, but I'm not a good man. No matter how much I helped you in the past, I've done things that no manner of good deeds could ever wash away.”

I could hardly get the last words out before the boy's counter snapped down on me like the teeth of a sprung bear trap.

“So have I! I put you through years of scrutiny and noncompliance, made trouble around every corner, fought and hurt so many people over nothing. Even more than that, I…” he winced, his features briefly flashing with grief well beyond his years before it was replaced by cold composure, “killed my own father, made my mother a widow, and as if that wasn’t enough, marched countless innocent kids to slaughter. If you think that you’re beyond redemption, then by the same standards I guess that means I’ll be right there with you in the innermost depths of hell.”

He drew in a shuddered breath, his heavy exhale leaving a puff of white in the frigid air. “Despite your sins—whatever they may be—you still have something to show for it. One headstone less, if nothing else. It's more than I could say. More than most could say. I mean, really, Captain, when will it be enough? How many saved lives and self-sacrifices will it take until you're finally satisfied?”

Swallowing hard, I let his question ring in my head over and over again. It was something I often asked myself and just as quickly disregarded, refusing to face the answer I always knew to be true.

“Saving a life doesn't justify taking another one. In the end, it's just disguising a selfish attempt to hide the sin as some act of heroism.”

That was the conclusion I reached in my last days. I never wanted to be satisfied or strove to be forgiven, and I refused to remain in the shadows of the lie that I was someone who could be. Maybe to the onlookers I carried the medals with pride, all smiles and perfect posture as I delivered my speeches of robotic gratitude to the masses. They could never know that the weight of one medal alone was like a ball and chain, making every morning a struggle between lifting my body from my bed or simply giving up. I had a good run of fighting off the inevitable, but the moment I received the second medal was the moment my choice was cemented. It was only right that I would die as I lived, a craven too weak to carry the burdens he made.

“But…”

So then why did I find myself hesitating to say this?

“But I'm living proof that you're wrong,” Lars answered. “They called you a hero, you know. Everyone did. The report they published under your name is what brought the war to its knees. So, how many people do you think would have kept suffering if you simply ceased to be?” 

It wasn't like it was ever a matter of numbers. People on the outskirts of war often judged it comparatively. Hundreds of lost lives were minuscule when compared to the thousands of casualties that the other side sustained. But the soldiers who spent every day in the midst of that carnage didn't have the luxury of such an apathetic outlook. Every human life was invaluable, and while one loss would be just a small number to a greater total in the eyes of those who never knew war, they were like family to the soldiers who fought alongside them. How could I ever use the lives spared as a means to justify the lives lost?

Regardless, Lars’ rant carried on, “Our platoon would have been run by a tyrant, I would have died long before my time, and…”

“The war would have stretched on,” I finished.

Maybe guilt was the only thing that urged me to respond, the innate part of my mind that was still convinced I was his captain wishing to lighten his load if only a little. Before I knew it, I found myself giving voice to my wandering thoughts with a light chuckle.

“This might be the most I've ever heard you speak.” 

His face went flush within seconds, but I knew well that the small diversion did little to distract either of us. By this point, I couldn’t even hope to change the subject, and the moments where I tried to avoid the subject altogether felt like a lifetime ago.

No going back.

I let a silent sigh settle in my throat. “How did it happen?”

Not like it really mattered. I knew that my place was on the battlefield only, and if the war were to end, then I had no choice but to fall with it.

“The news spread quickly. People started testing the validity of your claims and couldn't find anything to dispute them, only more proof that you were right. Victims of the Infant Abduction Strategy started speaking out soon after, revolting if they could. Public outcry, riots, eventually it got to be too much. The government called for a cease-fire, and the rest is history.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you speak out?”

“Who cares?” He shrugged after a pause long enough to make me think he certainly did. “The only thing that matters right now is if any of this is even getting through your head. So you've done unforgivable shit. That doesn't mean it was all for nothing, or… that it all has to be for nothing.”

“Lars, I wouldn't have made it long after the news got out no matter my choices. A man who rebels against his own military is a dead man, one way or another.”

“Maybe for most.”

His eyes narrowed stubbornly when they finally gained the courage to meet mine again, and this time, my sigh came too instinctively for me to keep inaudible as I opened my arms.

“What do you suggest that I do instead?”

“You could run. Change your name, skip town...”

“And go where?”

His eyes widened. “I—”

“Do what after?”

As much as I didn't want to scare him or give him any sense of responsibility for my own actions, these questions were the only thing that would make him actually understand that—

“You could come with me!” he stammered, making me nearly choke on my next words. “We'll leave it behind. Everything. No more guilt of the past, no more ‘what if’s. We can make a fresh start, carve out a new path with nothing but our own damn hands if we have to.”

He shifted awkwardly on his feet, his face beginning to burn as the palpable silence dragged on. Meanwhile, with this strange place making my mind a little more open to the possibility of the impossible, I could only wonder if Lars had been replaced by some sort of doppelgänger.

The last time I saw him before today, he desperately urged me to have nothing to do with him. Of course, I knew there was more to the story than that, a suspicion proven correct when I uncovered the secrets he had been harboring about our military. But the fact still remained that his new demand couldn't be any more opposite from the ones he made time and time again.

“I spoke to Mama while I was—” he winced in his hesitation, “—when I first made it here. If she was right about what she told me, then that means that the second we get out of here, we're going home. From there, we don't have to follow our fates anymore.”

“We can rewrite the future, you mean?” I asked, hesitant to even entertain a crazy concept like that before remembering the even crazier ones I had seen just today.

“That's my guess.”

“It’s a nice idea, for certain. But that sounds like a dangerous gamble.”

His eye twitched with the annoyed click of his tongue. “You think I don't know that? One wrong move could spell the downfall of everything as we know it. But I'm not going to worry about the unknowns of changing fate, because the one thing I know for certain is that you're going to make the headlines as a captain felled by his own gun, and I'm going to stop that outcome even if I have to go through hell and back to do it. So…”

I could almost predict his words, but not because they were anything I would expect Lars to say. Rather because they were the type of things I would think to myself years ago while lost in a drunken delusion, thinking there was a chance that I could somehow undo my old platoon’s genocide and start fresh. It was a fantasy.

“I'll ask again,” he mumbled. “Promise me, Captain. Promise me that we won't repeat the past.”

A fantasy impossible for me. But not for him anymore.

Lars had stepped back, wiping off his hands as though sullied by the simple hold of my bandolier. Or maybe he was just resigning control, letting me decide on my own terms as his hand snapped out to offer an untrained shake. If this were the seal to a business deal, I might think that it was the first one he ever struck, but that idea only humored me for a fleeting second.

“I can't make that promise, Lars.”

History repeated itself. It wasn't pessimism as much as it was a simple fact of the world. The war that ended after my passing would no doubt start again one day, renamed and rebranded, but bloodshed disguised as justice all the same. I could swear off alcohol a dozen times and the bottom of the glass would still greet me a hundred more. I could promise that I wouldn't let a single man die under my leadership and end the night with a pocket full of dog tags. I could whisper false promises to myself, but I wouldn't sell that lie to my soldier by promising not to repeat the past that I was nothing without.

“But…” I firmly clasped his hand just as I noticed it begin to lower. “I can promise that we can give it our best shot?”

His darkened eyes lit up in an instant, flashing a look of confusion before it turned into a swell of overwhelming relief that he tried to blink back with a nod as he used his palm to wipe his cheek. I managed a half-hearted laugh that would usually pair with a hearty pat on the shoulder, but I had luckily read the room enough to resist my initial instincts, instead giving him time to compose himself as I muttered, “One thing hasn't changed, at least. You're as stubborn as ever.”

“I could say the same for you,” he croaked back with his narrowed gaze lacking its usual bite.

I couldn’t guarantee that my best shot would be anything new, really. I couldn’t say that any attempts we made to “rewrite the future” wouldn’t just end with the same conclusion as before and leave us chasing our tails. Of course, I knew that I didn’t have to tell Lars as much. There was a fine line between assurance and ignorance, even if I often felt like that line blurred when I was the one issuing commands. That thought made me realize—with a warranted amount of shock—that maybe Lars had the makings of a strong leader, one that might even surpass me before too long if he acted on the potential.

There was so much I missed, and so much that I was sure no one would miss about me when I faded into the background of history. I did my part, snuffing out invaluable lives whether intentionally or mistakenly to honor my own, and later tried to atone through that same bloodshed. But now that the fog of cynicism had lifted ever so slightly from my mind, I could only wonder if there was a life to be had outside of that penance.

Ordinarily, I would have scorned myself for even entertaining the idea. Imagine my surprise when my mind was quiet, as if holding its breath just waiting for the chastisement to come and equally astounded when it didn’t. It felt like the silence of a battlefield after the smoke had cleared in the conclusion of a very, very long war, leaving only a scarred and debris-filled land in its wake. It would take a while before the battlefield could be cleared completely, even longer before it would be repurposed. But better a cold and hollow silence than the gunfire nightmare it was.

Taking in The Cage one last time, ironically the very place that loosened my own mental shackles, I peered over Lars’ shoulder where the white-clad keeper of the place was steadily floating towards us. It might have been an ominous sight had she not shared the appearance of a ghost from a children's storybook, effectively killing the fear factor and once again reminding me of my “this is all a dream” theory—which honestly wasn't any less plausible now than it was when all of this started.

Lars followed my gaze as I said, “That must be our ride home.”

“Mhm…” he replied after a moment.

“Lars?”

He tilted his head just enough to see me out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

“If we return to the battlefield,” I lowered my voice, “do you think we’ll…?”

A few beats passed in silence as he waited for me to finish before he turned to face me fully. No matter if he caught my implications, he set his jaw and hardened his eyes with certainty so fierce that it practically pierced right through me.

“If we do, then we’ll just have to accept it.”

No point in worrying about it yet, it sounded like to me. Really, it was the only answer I expected. The most we could do was pray for the best and prepare for the worst, as was always the case. But something felt… different this time around.

Maybe it was the weight lifted from my heart after Lars took care of the thing keeping it captive. Maybe it was Lars himself, equally as difficult as he always was but in a way I never expected. Or maybe it was just the weightless, warm feeling that overcame me as I felt Mama remove every accumulated aspect of my being from the body that tethered it to the world. If I had to guess, she had taken my soul—or the closest thing that existed to it—and would be guiding it back to the world where it belonged. Any other day and I might have questioned it more, but somehow it just made sense.

Regardless, the intense presence that thrummed at my side assured me that Lars and I were headed for the same destination. Maybe we would keep to our original paths, or branch off from there and find new directions? Ah, well…

“Real pretty sight, isn't it? Krat's little safe haven,” my younger brother whistled. “A shame what happened to it, though. I mean, truly. What. A. Shame.”

“You mean what's going to happen to it?” the Youngest piped up.

The Eccentric heaved a drawn-out sigh before he replied, “It's called method acting, sister. Trying to play the part of the poor idiots that'll be hearing about tonight for years to come. Look it, the whole city's dark as death and they've still got all their fancy lights on full blast! A bunch of show-offs, they are...”

“It looks like a castle from here,” said our little sister.

The Eccentric snorted, “Might as well be one.”

“Not for long,” I finally spoke, drawing the eyes of my siblings. “They live comfortably in their safehouse while we spend every day fighting for scraps and fending off the creations they once called ‘innovation’. But come morning, they will know fear just as we have.”

“Hah! Damn right! Ah, I can't wait to see the look on that toffee-nosed vulture Venigni's face! Much less,” I could practically hear the snarl in his voice as he grumbled, “Geppetto.”

The name hung in the air like a curse in a cathedral.

The apparel of an aristocrat, downy hair like a doll’s, the freckled face of a naive boy, and yet every illusion of humanity about it was betrayed by a body that moved like a trained animal—more poised than even a Bastard, yet simultaneously more vicious than any Sweeper. What made it so threatening wasn’t a spiteful fire or hungry thrill that might rage in the eyes of any other adversary, it was how there was nothing behind its eyes at all, only a hollow gaze that didn’t so much as offer a flinch to the blood of our elder brother when it splattered across its face.

The old codger must have been content with himself, sitting back in his protected fortress just waiting to hear how much carnage his dutiful little puppet had wrought this time. Perhaps the puppet was only a tool used to carry out the madman’s every whim without him getting so much as a spec of dirt on his fine clothes. But no matter the circumstances, neither the creator nor his wretched creation would be safe from the wrath we reserved for them both.

Geppetto's puppet had been plaguing my sleep since the very moment that I faced it in battle, making sure that even the rare instances of peaceful dreams were twisted into loathsome nightmares by morning. But on the lucky nights that I could take control of my subconscious mind, I would make myself the object of horror instead, demonstrating every way I would have torn it apart if only I could have done the battle over again.

Each time, I awoke consumed by loathing, bloodlust growing like a black hole inside of my chest. And where I now perched, staring out at the imposing silhouette of Hotel Krat from the rooftop, I could practically feel my hands tightening around Geppetto's neck already, my blood pulsing with exhilaration at the thought and making my impatience grow with every wasted moment.

“It's a beautiful night, isn't it?” came the smooth voice of a woman from behind us.

The hand that I had rested on my hilt was gripping it tightly in an instant, and I saw my siblings similarly flinch in my peripheral vision. How she hardly made a single sound upon approach wasn't lost on me, especially considering how keenly I had been listening for them. The only thing that gave her away was the light jingling of bells that followed her, the kind like you might hear from a cat's collar.

Slowly, I turned my head, meeting her out of the corner of my eye. Her fixed posture was poised, footing cautious—which explained her light steps—and she was dressed finely, especially notable from her stainless white breeches. Just as well, the fox mask that concealed her visage was nearly pristine.

The same could not be said for her companion, a short boy dressed in rags and refurbished junk who vaulted the roof's ledge not a second later and fell into place at her side. Despite him going by the title “Black Cat”, I couldn't help but notice that only half of his cat mask was truly black, the rest being eaten by corrosion. And yet even though he carried himself with far less dignity than his counterpart, it remained apparent that he had made himself equally untraceable, save for the small bells that he too seemed to have attached to his clothing. I couldn't even begin to imagine why one of them would wear something meant for the sole purpose of making noise, much less both, but their ability to stay undetected despite it was nearly impressive.

It was a subtle detail, unimportant to most, but such a small thing made it easy to verify who was a talented Stalker and who was a fraud with a mask. Of course, I hardly needed to expend the effort, because I was painfully familiar with these two already.

“Look, bro, it's them,” the Youngest whispered.

It seemed that my brother wasn't keen on ignoring the elephant in the room, instead throwing it on full display as he said, “Well, well, look who finally showed up! If it isn't our favorite little street rats!”

“Hey, easy with the names. Is that how you greet your new business partners?” said the Black Cat, half-joking by the sarcastic tone of his voice.

“Tact is a rare thing these days, it would seem. But we're just charmed that you've heard of us. It makes formal introductions much easier, wouldn't you say?” the Red Fox spoke next.

“We've done a lot more than just hear of you,” brother snorted.

“Yeah! They're the silly Stalkers I saw trampling around in our territory!” sister added.

“Us?” the Cat laughed nervously. “Funny, we must have some impersonators running amok. I'm almost honored.”

The Fox shook her head. “Regardless, this is our first official meeting, no? We would be happy to put any old grudges behind us.”

“I'm sure you would,” I hummed coldly.

I heard the Cat whisper to his companion, something along the lines of ‘I bet he's real fun at parties’ before he peered at me past my siblings and asked, “You in the back, got something to say?”

Dismissively, I turned my head back to the hotel and extended a hand to motion towards it.

“The Hound will give us a signal. When he does, we march.”

“The Hound?” echoed the Black Cat. “Wait, you can't mean Alidoro the Legend. He's in on this whole scandal too?”

“Have the Alchemists told you nothing?” I asked.

The Fox replied, “That seems to be their preferred approach to these kinds of things.”

“Apparently, the Hound has been holed up in the hotel with the rest this whole time,” brother explained. “But unlike all the other high society snobsters, a little bribery and he was willin’ to sell out everyone. He's sure a legend, alright!”

Sister piped up, “I like legends like him. They're more fun than all the boring ones.”

To expand on my brother's point, I continued, “He's deactivating the hotel's security systems. Given that he does his job properly, they will be blindsided, and no one will be coming to save them.”

“So we'll have the place all to ourselves!” the Youngest cried happily.

“And I hear they've got themselves a proper technician girl in there too. I wonder what kind of wares she's cooking up for us,” brother snickered.

“Don't get carried away,” I warned him. “The objective comes first. Looting comes later.”

“Yes, and speaking of that,” said the Fox, “who is to, shall we say, take care of Geppetto?”

“Us, obviously,” my brother replied in perfect unison with the Black Cat, making the two whip around to face each other.

“Hah! That's rich!” brother argued, raising his voice to be heard over sister's laughing fit.

“I said it first,” the Cat insisted.

But the Fox spoke as calmly as ever, saying, “Geppetto is only one man. To ask the three of you to capture him is, well, an excessive demand, wouldn't you say?”

“No, I wouldn't,” I replied, standing to my full height and matching her controlled demeanor as I addressed her.

“Oh? Then let me put it a different way: I understand that you might have a more personal vendetta against Geppetto, but we have direct orders to bring him in warm. You must know that we wouldn't want any… accidents happening to risk his safety.”

“And I understand that you don't have a personal vendetta against Geppetto, so what makes you think that we would entrust you with him?”

“We have our reasons for accepting this work just as well as you, no?”

“And we'd be stupid to make enemies of the Alchemists, anyway!” the Cat added.

Brother leaned over to our sister and me, mumbling under his breath, “They're sure not making it easy for us.”

Our little sister snapped her fingers as though an idea had just dawned on her. “Ooh, I've got it! What if we split up? Then one of us can go with—”

“No,” I retorted harshly.

Sister flinched. Brother froze. End of discussion. The last time that we had the bright idea to split up, it cost us our elder brother's life, and for as long as I still remained under the shadow of that mistake, I would never, ever let that happen again.

I turned back to the Fox and Cat, striking a reconsidered offer: “The two of you will handle Geppetto. But if you do anything to threaten this mission, the old man's safety will be the least of your concerns.”

The Red Fox tilted her head as though to convey a charming smile that hid behind her mask as she practically purred, “Likewise.”

“Sounds like you've got yourself a deal, and the easiest one I've ever made at that,” the Cat said as though he were the one to strike it, but I couldn't help but notice how he had waited for the Fox to speak first.

“And now, we wait,” said the Fox as she leaned back against the wall of the building that jutted high above the one that we were posted upon.

My sister huffed, dropping onto the ledge of the roof and kicking her legs impatiently.

“How much longer is he gonna take? It feels like we've been waiting for ages...” she whined.

“That's what I'm saying! Maybe he set security off on himself,” brother laughed at his own joke, because God knows nobody else would.

And then it died out into silence—a silence that would have felt natural had it just been us three, but the addition of our late guests made it painfully uncomfortable.

It seemed like the feeling was mutual, as the Black Cat was the first to break it.

“Sooo,” he hummed, “why rabbits, anyway?”

“Why a cat?” I shot back.

“Well, ‘coz cats are fast on their feet—er, paws. Quick-witted, might I add, and when it comes to wit, I'm your guy—er, cat!”

I was sure that I was meant to see how his description of a cat correlated with him, but in my mind, the resemblance was nearly nonexistent.

“There's plenty of other reasons,” he blabbered on. “But I'd hate to bore you with the details—”

Too late.

“—And besides, I'm much more interested in you lot. The tyrants of the Malum District, I hear. Oops! I mean, rulers, isn't that what you call yourselves?” I could hear a shit eating grin bleeding into the tone of his voice before he offered an impressed whistle. “That's no small title, you know.”

“I'm well aware,” I bit out, causing him to instantly raise his hands in surrender.

“Whoa! No need to get so aggressive, friend. That's just what I've heard, honest!”

“I'm no friend of yours.”

“Are you sure? Because we're a team now, you and I. We might as well be like brothers—”

The word could scarcely leave his tongue before my blade found itself pressing against his throat. At the same moment, I felt the very same kind of cool steel resting against my neck.

“Keep that word out of your mouth,” I spat, ignoring the deep glare of the Red Fox.

“My brother said no wrong, Rabbit. Lower your weapon,” she demanded coldly.

The Black Cat went stiff as a board, drawing a shuddered breath before he stammered, “Aye. Meant no harm by it. I swear it.”

The battery of the pocket watch I carried had long since run its course, turning the watch into little more than a useless memento from a simpler time. Despite that, I could practically hear the seconds slowly tick, tick, ticking by, a standoff that seemed to last for hours and yet end in a single moment when my saber returned to its scabbard. Thus prompted the Red Fox to lower her brand as well, though I didn't miss how her shadowed eyes still glinted with something spiteful behind her mask.

“Rabbits are prey animals,” I finally spoke again, my thoughts returning to the Cat's earlier query. “From birth, predators thrive atop the food chain. They don't know true hate or pain because they're born only to inflict such things upon the weak for their own survival.”

The Black Cat nodded apprehensively, seeming unsure of whether he was allowed to respond or not. Glad to go uninterrupted, I continued.

“Rabbits are born victims of natural selection and are easy prey for every predator as a result. But tell me this: how much more vicious than a privileged hawk do you think a hateful rabbit might be if it had the chance to become the hunter instead?”

“Hm…” the Black Cat gave it some thought before he finally replied. “The hawk would still win, if you ask me. What with talons like that, no determination in the world could make a rabbit last more than a few seconds tops.”

“That's where you're wrong!” my little brother piped in with a barking laugh. “If that were the case, you wouldn't be here working for us rabbits, now would you, Kitty? Looks like the tables can turn after all!”

“Aw. Did you hear that, brother? Someone wasn't paying attention.” The Red Fox shook her head in a slow display of mocking pity.

“Do we have a problem here, sweetheart?” my brother hissed through his teeth, clearly trying not to let show the irritation that he wore on his sleeve.

“Oh, no,” the Fox replied in that sickeningly sweet tone of hers. “It's just that the only tie we have to you is our mutual employment under the Alchemists. Beyond that, I'm afraid to say that you have remotely no power over us.”

Our sister exploded into a fit of amused giggles, prompting my little brother to join in the cacophony with a degrading cackle of his own, but I had no intention of mocking our unfortunate allies.

There was no doubt in my mind that our skill and numbers far surpassed theirs, granting us superiority by default, but it was equally true that Stalkers were a rare breed. Sweepers and Bastards had their own sets of skills, but a fight against two of each alignment at the same time was a challenge that I would rather not needlessly provoke, even if I was admittedly curious about how they would fare.

“You're funny!” my sister laughed, clapping her hands as though she were cheering on a jester. “Tell another joke! Tell another joke!”

“Oh, I've got one!” the Cat piped up with the raise of his hand. “Did you hear the story about the Stalkers that got kicked out of their own territory? That's not even the best part, they say it was a puppet that drove them away!”

The mood of my siblings instantly went sour, and the Fox put a warning hand on her brother's shoulder.

“Y'know, I heard a story myself recently. Let's see, what was it again?” the Eccentric mused, stepping up so close to the Cat that the boy shrank away when my brother leaned down to him. “Oh yeah! That two idiots got real chummy with said puppet. You wouldn't happen to know them, would you?”

The Cat shrugged. “I'm maybe a little familiar. But I don't know if I would call them idiots. For one, I hear that Geppetto's puppet is a lot more charitable than, say, any of you. But that's just what I've heard, hah!”

Anger flared in both of my siblings instantaneously, and my brother reached to seize the Cat's collar as my sister jumped to her feet to argue, but I interrupted both with a spiteful comment of my own.

“You say that, and yet you've aligned your loyalties with us instead of it.” I settled my gaze upon him, taking care that my next words were heard. “For your sake, I sincerely hope you aren't having second thoughts.”

The Red Fox pulled the Cat back with a gentle hand, taking a notably less gentle step in front of him as she said, “We would never dream of it, Coniglio. We all need this payment, and as long as that is true, we work together."

Suddenly sheepish, the Cat nodded his head with a nervous, “Yeah! No traitors here. Us? No way.”

“Don't mind him,” the Fox reassured us. “Big jobs like this get him jittery.”

“Aw! The kitty-cat's nervous!” the Youngest teased.

“Am not!” he argued back.

But even when everything they said sounded like it was shrouded in deception, I could at least tell that this particular comment from the Fox was nothing if not honest. Because from the very moment that he saw us—even before he got started talking—he always made sure to tuck his hands out of sight. At first, I assumed he was concealing a weapon, but in the brief instances that he would show his cards, I realized that the only thing he was hiding was how terribly his hands were shaking.

I knew better now than to underestimate anyone from outward appearance alone, but I was confident that these people would be powerless if they foolishly chose to turn their blades against us. The Fox was dangerously cunning, but her brother was her weakness, and that much was clear. As for him, though his smart mouth was irritating to no end, he was clearly putting on airs.

The argument between my sister and the Cat quickly died down when a distant sound rang out from the direction of Hotel Krat, one which I hadn't heard in a very long time, but dredged up much nostalgia. It was the common birdsong of a parrot, or more accurately, a near-perfect imitation of one.

In the old days, Stalkers were trained to use animal sounds as subtle indicators to their fellows, natural enough to blend into their environment, yet distinct enough to catch the ear of any listening Stalker. Of course, parrots could only be found in Krat Zoo, but how was the uninformed passerby supposed to make that differentiation? Not that it mattered anymore, considering how only puppets passed anyone by these days.

“Oh, would you listen to that? Sounds like our cue, doesn't it?” The Red Fox pushed off the wall.

“Finally!” My ever-impatient brother and sister both sighed.

Brother dropped off the ledge without hesitation as sister took to springing from one rooftop to the next until she disappeared into the dark. I quickly matched their pace, regarding the Fox and Cat with a glance that said ‘try not to slow us down’ before a wire shot from my grappling hook and yanked me into the street beyond.

I zipped towards the hooked structure at breakneck speed, detaching from the wire at the last second and allowing momentum to swing me further. For a priceless moment—one I had come to look forward to every time I used the device—the wandering puppets in the streets below looked like ants as I soared above them, but the scene was short-lived when I began to plummet just as quickly. Almost as if it had a mind of its own, another hook sprang from my arm and caught my approaching fall, propelling me lower to the ground. Twisting a mechanism built into the grappling hook, I decreased the speed at which it drew me in, allowing my momentum to gradually drop.

With a heavy clink, I freed myself from the wire once more, swinging low before breaking into a natural sprint to keep from falling as I skid to the ground. By the time my pace could slow, the daunting form of Hotel Krat was towering high above me.

At the same moment that I heard someone drop to the ground behind me, I heard my sister's voice breathe, “Wow. I've never gotten this close before. I mean, at least from the outside.”

After a moment, my brother also emerged, but what I didn't expect was for the Fox and Cat to be hot on his tail, walking as though they had just gotten back from an evening stroll.

“We didn't miss anything, did we?” called the Fox.

When the Cat drew in closer, I could practically hear the smirk on his face as he spoke, “Like I said, fast on my feet, eh? Er, paws.”

But even if I wanted to reply, the conversation was cut short by a new voice.

“There they are, the rabbits of the hour—and company, of course. To what do I owe the pleasure?” came the booming words of the stranger, and the mask of a German Shepherd was the first thing that came into view as the Hound stepped out of the shadows with arms stretched wide. “I’m sure is what you’re wondering. But worry not, I only greet you to say that I made good on my part of our little arrangement, which must come as no surprise.”

The Cat perked up, sounding like a giddy kipper trying and failing to hide his awe as he said, “Whoa. Are you really the Alidoro?”

The Hound laughed lightly, whispering the question to himself as though amused by the babbling of a child. “What a ridiculous question. Do these golden wings ever lie?”

He ran a thumb over the pin on his coat, an emblem depicting a pair of wings that had become the Hound's trademark in years past.

But before the Cat could offer his own quip, Alidoro answered himself, “Rhetorical, really. The answer is, of course, no. No they do not.”

“Can I have an autograph?” the Cat asked next.

I heard the Eccentric snicker from behind me. “You gonna ask to suck his knob next?”

“You sound jealous that I'm not asking you for one. Listen, all I'm saying is that an autograph from Alidoro the Hound could probably make anyone rich beyond their wildest dreams.” He cleared his throat. “And by rich, I mean rich with joy, of course.”

Alidoro slowly crossed his arms over his chest. “I can't say I'm fond of your implications. But you know me, charitable is practically my middle name! If you make it out of this alive, perhaps I'll… consider it, when I have the time.”

“Hey, wait, something's not adding up,” the Youngest mumbled. “If you're a dog, then why were you making all those chirping sounds?”

“Oh, that? It's simple,” replied Alidoro with the upward tilt of his head. “A howl as mighty as mine would be heard from even the farthest reaches of Cerasani Alley, and that's hardly secretive. Why, every merchant in the city would be flocking to my side if they heard Alidoro's famous call, and I can't very well be hosting a meet-and-greet at this hour, I'm a busy hound! Speaking of which, important business never ceases for a treasure hunter like myself, so let's hurry things along, shall we?"

“Let’s,” I deadpanned, sure that my flat tone portrayed what my eye twitch otherwise would have if only he could see my face. “Talkers don't do well in this kind of business.”

“True, very true.” He nodded solemnly.

“Since you're not getting it through your head, let me be more clear,” I practically hissed, stepping closer to the man. “We reap the consequences of your ignorance, and clearly it doesn't take much prompting for that mouth of yours to run like a fountain. So you can understand why I'm skeptical to believe that you didn't tip off the whole damn hotel.”

Scoffing indignantly, he waved me off. “You're still on that? I thought rabbits were supposed to have keen ears. As I said, I was quite thorough. You'll find waltzing into Hotel Krat to be as easy as, say, being impressed by just how skillfully I managed to disarm the intruder precautions. Ruffians like you fellows must know that it isn't any small feat, but a hound is as clever as his nose is sharp. My main concern is just how my presence would no doubt be duly missed. Why, all of my adoring customers in the hotel must be searching high and low for me right this very moment! But I suppose that can't be helped. To be honest, I was already planning on saying my farewells to this place as it is. Treasures abound, and they wait for none but the best to lay claim to them! It would be a waste of my talent to remain stuffed away in a drab old safehouse. And, while we're on the topic, I have quite the reward to redeem for my good work here, so I'd best be on my way!”

With that bold announcement, the Hound began to walk past us, glancing here and there with a skittish hint to his mannerisms that starkly contrasted the confidence that he had openly displayed only seconds prior.

I turned back to the hotel, shaking my head to clear it and refocus on the task at hand, but I couldn't ignore the sound of the Hound's boots scuffing to a halt when the deep and metallic groaning of a particularly loud puppet echoed in the distance.

“On second thought,” he said, making me instinctively grit my teeth, “it is my noble duty to watch over the little people. It wouldn't reflect well on my part if I let you all bumble about with no backup should you need it. So I've decided to take it upon myself and stay right here, just in case.”

“You would really be willing to sacrifice your time for us? How noble of you. You're just as the rumors say,” the Fox drawled, and it was impossible for me to tell whether she was buying into his bullshit or simply toying with him.

The Hound stood a little taller regardless, flattery coloring his voice as he said, “Yes, well, it's what I do.”

“Enough,” I snapped, drawing my saber and commanding silence with the ringing of the blade as it slid from the sheath. All warmth seemed to sap from the air in an instant, lighthearted energy draining from the demeanor of every last Stalker who knew what had to be done from here. My footsteps echoed with resolution as I stormed up to the gilded doors of Hotel Krat, which was decorated on either side with broken puppets.

There was no hesitation from any of the others—save for the Hound—in following my example, their weapons drawn in an instant and gleaming under the lamplight. Despite the strained relationship some of us had with one another, now each of us acted in perfect unison, as if the fall of Krat was a very long dream, as if we were true Stalkers once more.

“Good luck,” called the Hound behind us with an amused hitch to his voice that only fueled the fire burning in my chest.

Without a backward glance, I hissed in reply, “Save it for the ones who need it.”

The Prince of Krat, Geppetto, his damnable puppet, and all who continued to live under the same roof as such scum. They remained in blissful peace when they were the very ones who stripped such a luxury from every last corner of this wretched city. They turned the slums into a rich man's dumping ground, and yet they had the gall to boast, claiming that their grand achievements fed the starved when they only satiated gluttons to line their own pockets. There was only one name befitting a person like that.

Filthy hypocrite.

My siblings and I thought we were safe, unstoppable with our elder brother at our side, but Geppetto's puppet proved us all horribly wrong. In truth, nowhere was safe, and perhaps forgetting that reality made us fools. But if that were the case, then there were no greater fools in the city than the ones behind the double doors that towered before us.

It was a nice dream, wasn't it, Geppetto?

My hands pressed against the chilling surface, pushing until a crack of light shone between the heavy doors. A serene song escaped from inside, the lyrics that crackled through the gramophone gently commanding me to close my eyes, and I did so, allowing dreadful imagery to flash through my head: My elder brother's ruined body collapsing to the ground like a ragdoll, deep crimson permeating the water that pooled beneath my feet, the sound of my family's helpless cries and desperate shrieking, and finally the fleeting impression of the human faced puppet flicking blood from its blade before it was lost to the thick smoke.

With each passing memory, all of the hatred and mourning that I felt in those moments swirled into a renewed torrent of fury that my breaking mind could no longer contain. My eyes snapped open with a sharp draw of breath, and at the same moment, the doors were thrown wide. In a blur of motion, quick bursts of wind flew past me, each of the companions at my side flitting into the hotel like a swarm of mosquitoes drunk on the scent of fresh blood in the air.

Puppets mindlessly patrolled the dreary evening streets of Cerasani Alley, each following their rigid patterns of movement and never wandering far before they would loop back around to where they began in a mad cycle. Perhaps they would never stop, carrying out this task until their bodies rusted too terribly for them to fulfill their duty any longer.

But that wouldn't be the case today. For a butler puppet was pulled from its wandering when a projectile clashed harshly against the side of its head, stopping it in place with a stumble. As it recovered from its shock and scanned its surroundings, it saw nothing to indicate where the object had come from, the streets being as still as they always were. And yet a sound emerged at its feet, a slight crackling that, although quiet, was amplified all the greater by the surrounding silence that it broke through.

Rigidly, the puppet inclined its head, but all that it saw was a blackened rock. A rock that soon began to tremor, a split forming across the center of it that released sparks of blue electricity. It shook more fiercely as the pressure inside of it built, and the puppet would not have a moment to even consider its impending demise as in an instant, the device cracked like an egg and exploded in a blast of electric energy.

In the same moment, chaos was unleashed upon the square. Another puppet turned, jolted into action upon seeing its fallen brethren, but my blade skewered through its chest from behind and lifted it off its feet before discarding it into the oncoming crowd of its alerted friends. With their balance thrown off, the puppets stumbled over each other in a pitiful display, swiftly ended when a spear danced circles in the air before cracking down on them and sending them scattering.

“Who wants some more? Any takers?” the spear-wielding figure announced with a laugh that rivaled yipping hyenas, but he backtracked when some began clambering to their feet. “Ah! Popular today, am I? One at a time, ladies!”

“Don't taunt them, brother,” I spoke in a low voice as I stepped across a body of one and felt its head concave beneath my boot. “Your breath would be wasted on these.”

He shrugged, leaning into the effort of running another through with his spear and dashing it against the cobbles until it fell free. “Someone's gotta make this whole shebang entertaining.”

But I could hear his breath running ragged the longer he fought, his every movement becoming sloppier than I knew he was capable of. No matter, the fight would be over soon.

“Hey, brother?” he chirped, voice slightly muffled from the leather-bound bucket that masked his face.

“What?” I replied through the effort of a swing that cut down the puppet mindlessly shambling my way and painted my clothes in its oil. My blade breached its defensive plating as though slicing through air, and the harsh grinding of steel against steel reverberated in my ears and set my heart ablaze with thrill.

“Maybe we should take a rest after this. Think I heard some merchants back there saying the puppets up ahead are some real crafty bastards.”

“And?”

“And we're not trying to get knocked on our arses the second we go out there, blades gleaming?”

“We have plenty of tricks of our own. We'll be fine.”

“Let me put it this way then: I'm tired,” he said as he crouched down to the broken puppet I freed from my skewer and tossed to the ground before him.

“Already?”

“What do ya mean ‘already'? We've been at it for at least three… no, four hours straight now. You're not even a teensy bit worn out?”

“Not particularly.”

“Hah! Walked right into that one,” he said with the click of his tongue in that way that I hated—the way that almost mimed the sound of a puppet's winding servos and never failed to set off my danger instincts. “Hey, you know our code when it comes to lying, don't you, brother?”

“Of course.”

In a world built upon the foundations of stealing, cheating, and any form of deception that might ensure you live another day, we would lower ourselves to any standards if it bought our survival, but we would never use such underhanded tactics on one another. That was—and had always been—the creed of our brotherhood. But if I had been lying in that moment, it wasn't a conscious effort.

My lungs felt heavy, sure, and sweat made my clothes cling to my back like a second skin, but such was the daily discomfort required of every resident of Krat that had managed to make it this far—well, everyone except the Bastards, maybe. I was numb to the exertion, so much so that it was almost insulting of my brother to think I would be winded after only a few hours.

I couldn't blame him for his part, though. He pulled his weight, true, but when it came to combat prowess, the path of the Stalker wasn't much his style back before everything went to hell in a handbasket. As it turned out, a rejection notice from the Workshop Union would make you turn to alternatives you would have never seen yourself in otherwise, and an apocalypse would make you glad for it.

“Oookay! Whatever you say,” my brother sing-songed, and my eyes rolled on instinct.

But my annoyance was fleeting. From above, a girl's voice suddenly cried out, “Hey, hey, bro! Think fast!”

With hardly a delay, my saber swung up as though it had a mind of its own, batting aside a projectile that rocketed my way. It was instantly riven in two when it met my wicked blade, and it clattered to the ground just as I recognized it to be a severed puppet head.

Giggles broke out from where the voice had emerged, and lifting my eyes, I saw my black clad little sister perched at the edge of the rooftop that overlooked me, the floppy ears of her rabbit mask bouncing in rhythm with her shoulders.

“Better luck next time.” I shrugged, brushing off her third attempt of the week to catch me by surprise with that little trick of hers.

“I'll get you one of these days! Sleep with one eye open,” she shouted down to me, covering one eye of her mask before peaking through the cracks of her fingers.

“Already do,” I replied as I dismissively waved her off, turning back to my little brother. “Don't get comfortable yet. Your job isn't finished.”

Perfectly on cue, a loud CRACK resounded beside us like thunder as a battered puppet crash-landed into a pile of crates, sending woodchips and loose parts exploding in every direction.

“Oopsie!” the Youngest squeaked, but the snorts and snickers that followed ruined any chance she had at framing how she launched the puppet from the roof as an accident.

My brother yelped, “Agh! It's raining puppets, now? Oi, I'm doing sensitive work here. Keep the surprises to a minimum, sister!”

“But I thought you loved surprises,” she argued. “That's what you said last week! I heard it!”

“Yeah, when I'M the one scaring someone shitless! There's a huge bloody difference.”

Even as they bickered, my brother's hands continued to work without a moment of pause, pulling apart the deactivated puppet before him as though it were as easy as peeling an orange. Occasionally, he would pocket his findings, wrenching out some sort of cog or mechanism that I had no way of even guessing how he would find a use for, but he stopped when he cracked open the puppet's chest cavity and reached its core. His fiddling quickly went from the mannerisms of an excited child grabbing handfuls of complimentary candies to the articulation of an engineer disarming a time bomb, and he pulled an assortment of crude tools from his pack that were meant to dismantle it.

This display was one I had watched time and time again. Ergo extraction. He first got to work unscrewing the bolts that kept the unbeating core secure, then carefully inserted a specialized type of lockpick. He had explained the process before, saying that the Workshop engineered a tool designed for the sole purpose of taking apart puppet cores, and after weeks of dedicating himself to studying the things, brother finally managed to recreate it. Annoying as it was that he insisted on calling it “The Heart-stopper”, it saved us a hell of a lot of trouble in these damned puppet hunts.

“You'll like this surprise though. Look, look! I caught a puppy for you!” the Youngest proudly announced, making a strained grunt before another puppet corpse came tumbling to the ground, this one in the deceptively friendly shape of a canine. My brother flinched, clearly tempted to jump with more exaggeration had his task not been so delicate.

“Well, ain't that nice?” he said, tilting his ear to his work until it made a sudden click.

“Jackpot,” he whispered under his breath, ripping open the core and pulling out the small blue gem inside that shimmered as though it were almost a new element entirely. It reflected in the lenses of the blackout goggles built into his mask, giving the illusion that sparkles were dancing in his eyes, but I was sure that even if his mask were off, he would look no less bewitched.

He then unbuckled the pack that was strapped to his leg, dropping the Ergo fragment inside where many others welcomed it.

“That makes, let’s see… 19?” he mused as he spun the lockpick between his fingers with a trained finesse.

“And 16 more until we're through,” I said.

“Whoa, whoa! Where's all these new numbers coming from? I thought the agreement was 20 this week.”

“Who said that we're confined to the shipments? Worst case scenario, we have next week's payment early. Best case? We have a little extra spending money.”

“6 maybe, but we'll be here ‘til the wee hours of the morning if we're cramming two hunting trips in one, y'know?”

“Wait!” the Youngest interrupted. “I see something! I see something!”

Looking up, I noticed that she was pointing excitedly into the distance, and as I followed her gaze, I spotted a faint line of smoke rising up in the distance.

“Someone's putting together a party for us!” she cheered with delight.

“Oooh,” our brother hummed. “I wonder what's cooking. I don't know about you lot, but I'm starved. What do ya say we take a breather and pay our friend out there a visit?”

I considered it for a moment before I warned, “It might be—”

“A trap?”

“An ambush!”

“—rude of us to go without our big brother to share the spoils with,” I finished.

Just as I did, heavy footfalls became perceptible from around the corner, crunching against the gravel road and drawing closer with each step. If I didn't know them so well, I might have assumed that they originated from a colossal puppet mindlessly thirsting to paint the streets in the blood of whoever had made such a ruckus. But puppets were far too clumsy, and big brother was far too calculated.

“Big bro, you made it just in time!” the Youngest squealed happily when he turned the corner, and rickety metal groaned under her weight as she slid down a drain pipe and hopped to the ground. “We were about to go say hello to the campers sending us a supper invitation. Look! Do ya see it?”

“Oh, he's seen it alright,” my little brother said with an impressed whistle. “Looks like big brother came bearing gifts and all!”

Rested against one of big brother's shoulders was his massive sword coated in gleaming oil, a mountain of puppet bodies slung across the other, and his hand clutched a worn pack practically overflowing with campsite goods. The pleasant aroma of freshly cooked meat wafted from it and teased the raging hunger that I had been too distracted to take proper notice of until now. But clearly I wasn't the only one, as my two younger siblings looked just about ready to pounce and tear the bag to shreds.

“I'll take that off your hands,” the Eccentric said with a tone dripping with faux kindness as he picked up the pack and began digging through it not a second later.

“Wait, but I wanted to do it!” the Youngest whined as she lunged for the bag, stopped short by my little brother's hand pushing her back.

“Ah ha ha! Should've been faster!” he snidely retorted, which only made her fight harder to get her hands on it.

In retaliation, he held the bag up over his head, forcing her to jump to reach it. I shared a look with our big brother, lightly shaking my head before I snatched it from them both.

“If you don't want to go hungry then sit down,” I ordered, which put a swift end to their roughhousing.

Though my little brother still teased under his breath, saying,“I bet you just want the best cut for yourself."

That earned a snicker from the Youngest despite how they were fighting only seconds ago. It seemed like they would be satisfied as long as someone was the object of taunting.

I rolled my eyes. “Keep talking and I won't pity you when you get the scraps—”

My shoulders hitched, an abrupt cough catching in my throat before I could stifle it. Though I quickly managed to gain control of my breathing, when I lifted my head, each of my siblings had turned to look at me in silence so complete that even the birds perched upon overhead ledges had quieted their songs. In an instant, all prior humor was now dead in the air and swept away with the haunting breeze.

“What?” I deadpanned, flinging the two their share of the plunder. Half-roasted dog meat, by the looks of it, though I couldn't be sure.

But, of course, I knew exactly why they acted this way. It was something of a custom of Krat's to gawk any time the slightest cough was heard, though for most of us, we were so desensitized to it that we wouldn't even offer a flinch to the rasping from windows and bodies hidden among street trash. Still, our pace would quicken all the same, consciously or otherwise.

Another beat of silence passed before they hesitantly relaxed, big brother lowering the puppets to the ground before little brother made a seat out of them and pulled his mask from his head. Our sister's attention darted between us all, but seeing the mood begin to return, the displeased pout to her lip subsided, and she dropped beside little brother before beginning to ravage the roast the same as him.

In the main streets, we kept exposing our faces to a minimum, not wishing to needlessly risk our image. That was the idea, anyway, but there was really no risk involved. Anyone stupid enough to follow us never got farther than a mile before being caught by their tail, and all who had seen our uncovered faces had made that sight their last. Such was why the others had no hesitation in removing their masks to eat, but I alone refrained, only passing big brother his share of the meal before rummaging through the other items in the bag to tally up our profits.

Big brother watched quietly before he offered his cut back to me, but I shook my head. In return, he shook his head more fiercely.

“Eat,” he insisted.

“I will. When the job is done.”

“You will now.”

“I said no,” I coldly snapped.

Little brother gave a low whistle before saying, “Wow. What's got your knickers all twisted like? Oh, wait, they're always like that.”

The Youngest cracked up, whispering a light, “It's true.”

“Don't worry, big brother, not all of us are ungrateful like him. If you're offering, I'll gladly take it off your hands!” the Eccentric followed up with a cheeky grin.

The Eldest regarded him with an unimpressed look, sparing me one last worried glance before bringing the food to his mouth, which made little brother dramatically feign disappointment. But he dropped his act instantly when I dismissed the subject and replaced it with a more pressing one.

“Alright, listen up. Here is the plan moving forward: Little brother and I will handle the shipment. Big brother, take sister back to Malum with you,” I said, then turned my head to address the Eccentric specifically. “I want you to handle the transaction. Meet back up with the others when you're done.”

The Eccentric blinked in surprise before he said, “You're asking me? To handle the shipment? Without you lording over it? You sure you're alright, mate? Did one of those puppets back there knock a screw outta you?”

“Wait, brother's catching up with us, but not you? Where are you going?” the Youngest pouted.

I replied, “Carcasses won't clear out themselves. Pilgrim's Path is overrun by them, and getting to the point that traversal will be hard for even us if I don't regulate it. I'll make sure that little brother doesn't screw up the shipment again. After that, I'm back on the hunt."

“It was one time! Saints, you people can't let go of anything,” the Eccentric groaned.

The Youngest's frown deepened the longer I spoke. “Aw. You've been out an awful lot lately, brother.”

“I'll bring you back something good,” I assured her.

This promise usually reignited her energy almost instantly, but while that was still the case now, her returning smile was not as bright as it seemed to have been in the past. That made me certain that I would find only the best for her this time, no cheap trinkets or already-cracked porcelain.

Little brother teased her, claiming that she only acted sad so that I would try to bribe her spirits into lifting again. She argued back, and the two pushed each other around until big brother stepped in to stop the fighting. It was yet another normal trip with our brotherhood, and yet another normal quarrel that would throw tension to the wind.

It would for them, anyway. But as I sat back watching it all unfold, it felt as though there was an invisible wall separating me from them, and a deep dread tugged relentlessly at my heart.

At least I could be glad that their voices drowned out the growling of my stomach, and their banter distracted them from how terribly my hands trembled.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

My body was on fire, and yet I shivered like a dog. Coughs rattled off in my throat one after another, gasps for breath soon to follow, but the foul air that entered my lungs felt all the more suffocating. I clawed my scarf from my neck, futilely hoping that it would ease my asphyxiation, and the decorative puppet hand that was fastened to it clattered harshly to the dirty stone floor.

Get yourself together, dammit…

And yet I couldn't bring myself to stand from the creaking and filth-stained bed I sat upon, or even move my legs that hung off of the side of it, for that matter. Every muscle cried out for relief that only pain relievers could give them, every joint locked firmly in place, and the only action I could bring myself to make was to grit my teeth just waiting for it all to pass. It would, I was sure. It always did. Even if every time took longer than the last, and the feeling of a thousand pinpricks stung a little more fiercely than I remembered. While I could easily brush off the clothes clinging to my back before, every inch of my skin was crawling and itching and making the sensation drive me mad.

The only way I could differentiate my body from the cloth was when I could feel the trickling of crusted-over wounds reopening, chilling the surrounding skin so deeply that it felt like it was leaching into my nerves. The warmth of blood was a sensation I knew well, which made it all the more startling when now it was so, so cold. I urged myself to breathe heavier despite my swimming head and spotted vision, hoping it would make my heartbeat drum faster in my ears, hoping it would give me anything to remind me that I was alive.

Then, the door handle across the small room suddenly began to rattle. Click went its lock after a moment of stall, and my pounding heart caught in my throat.

I thought I told him to leave for Malum. Damn you, brother, why don't you ever listen?

Without a moment of delay, the door to the Rabbit Hole came bursting open, and at the same moment that heavy boots tracked mud into the room, keys jingled as they spun circles around his waving finger.

“Hah! Easy as pie! And the Alchemists didn't scrimp on us this time, can you believe it?” came my little brother's boisterous voice, accompanied by the clattering of the keys as he tossed them onto a desk that lay against the wall. “At this rate, we'll score enough for a nice vacation, eh? Y’know, I heard once that there was a reaaal proper spot outside Krat's impenetrable walls. ‘Seaside paradise’, the little birdie called it. If the outside world is as untouched by all the puppets and plagues nonsense as everyone’s been saying, then— Uh…”

His rapid-fire monologing faltered when he finally tilted his head in my direction, and the silence was only broken by the breathing I tried to contain and the groaning of the metal door as it creaked shut behind him, leaving us basked in a darkness that only the dull, warm light of the overhead oil lamp could pierce.

“Ah. Did I go and wake you? Didn't realize you were snoozing it up in here,” he laughed. “I guess that explains why ya wanted to hang back. Y'know, I could go for a catnap too. How's about a cuddle session with your best bro, huh?”

He opened his arms wide and took a step forward to solidify his joke, but he yelped and nearly slipped when his foot caught on an empty bottle and sent it rolling.

“Ay, what's all this?” he whistled as he plucked it from the floor. “Don't tell me you snuck away to jack up on Miss Emma all by yourse— Er…”

Faded though the label may have been, laudanum was a heavily treasured nectar, making it easily distinguishable by the shape of its bottle alone. What's more, I generally avoided taking painkillers, not wishing to find myself wasting or becoming reliant on a temporary resource, and I was sure that he knew that with sobering clarity.

He glanced up briefly, then looked the bottle over again as a final confirmation before he said, “Damn. You got hurt good enough to shelve your pride for once?”

“A few scratches,” I muttered morosely.

“‘A few scratches’ did you in that much, did it? Pfft. Color me… not buying it for a second!”

“Believe what you will,” I replied.

“What did I tell ya? Keep working your arse off like a bloodthirsty maniac and this is what happens.” He let out an exaggerated sigh, pinching the bridge of his mask’s nonexistent nose and shaking his head. “Let's see ‘em then, these few scratches of yours.”

“I'm fine,” I hissed through my teeth.

“And I'm the least charming dickhead Krat has ever seen.”

“Is that supposed to be a lie?”

“Are you supposed to be convincing anyone?”

“I…”

To better argue my point, I summoned my strength and attempted to rocket to my feet, but yet another fit of uncontrollable coughs came upon me and sent my legs buckling, forcing me back onto the bed lest I otherwise crumple to the cold floor.

How pathetic...

“Yeah? Is that so?” he quipped. But instead of taunting me further, his tense shoulders dropped with a sigh, and he shoved the bottle to the side as he drew in closer. “Listen, if you gotta stick around for a bit then by all means. I'm sure big brother has something to take the edge off around here, and it's not like he'd care if you—”

“No,” I managed to force out between rasping breaths.

“Why are you so damn stubborn?! Do I need to feel your forehead just to prove to you that you're not going out in that street again?” he demanded, slipping his glove off and reaching for me.

“Shove off,” I murmured as I smacked his hand away, but he remained ever persistent in checking my temperature.

“Prove that you're not sick as a dog and maybe I will! So far, I ain't convinced,” he argued back, but the moment he grabbed my arm in an attempt to force it away and made contact with the skin beneath my sleeve, his hand recoiled as though it had been electrocuted.

“Wha…” he confusedly stammered, cradling his hand in shock. “No… No, that's not right. It's not. You're fuckin’ freezing.”

“It's cold,” I deadpanned.

“I mean you feel like a bloody corpse! I know it's cold, but ain't nothing cold like that. Well, nothing except…”

The oppressive silence made my ears ring.

No matter how scorching the sun or how hot the summer, every Stalker was, one way or another, agonizingly familiar with the unearthly chill that sapped the streets when danger was near. For some, it was the last thing they felt, for others only a constant sensation that leached the hope from their hearts and replaced it with the deepest of dread. But that chill was as physical as it was psychological, for it was the calling card of the petrified and zombified, an unmistakable temperature flux that only accompanied the sick and the Carcass.

And the way that my brother violently wrenched himself from me as if he had been struck told me more than enough about how closely I resembled such monsters.

“Oh,” came his voice, now an empty husk of what it had been only moments before.

I focused deeply on keeping my words from faltering, trying to salvage the situation as I said, “We're in an underground facility. What did you expect?”

He wavered in place for a moment, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back again.

“You're sick,” he stated at last, less of a question and more like the punchline of the big joke we had been dancing around until now.

“A fever at worst. It's nothing I haven't—”

“No, you're sick.” There was a hint of mania in the cracks of his voice as he stumbled backwards, slowly nearing the door.

And I could do nothing to stop him from fleeing. Surely he was better for it, fearfully making distance to protect himself from my contagion.

Or so I thought at first, and yet his retreating steps became far more resolute. Not frightened, but determined.

“We're in an underground facility. What did you expect?”

An underground facility dedicated to the research of petrification…

Hesitantly, I rasped, “Stop.”

“The Alchemists will have a cure, I know it,” he barked as he whipped around and took hold of the door handle.

“Stop!” I snapped this time, dropping to my feet and rushing to him on still-shaking legs. I caught myself from collapsing by roughly seizing his clothes between my fingers. “I don't want any damned cure from them!”

I had seen what “cure” the Alchemists perfected. I watched what it did to people, how it twisted them into the monsters that rattled on their cages and screeched so wildly that I could hear their distant wails even now. My siblings mocked them, laughing at their struggles, but I alone knew how human those screams once were before they were drowned out by the effects of the Alchemists’ so-called elixir of life.

My brother shoved me away as he retorted, “Well I don't want to have to build your coffin!”

“You think I want that either? I don't want any of this!”

A wet cough shook in my throat, leaving a metallic taste on my tongue, and with it came an overpowering flavor so bitter that I could only describe it as decay.

“It's little more than a fever,” I whispered futilely. Maybe desperation was the only thing that made me think he would be convinced if only I said it enough times. Or maybe it wasn't him that I was trying to convince altogether.

“Oh, is that right? Take off your mask then. Let me get a goood look at that nasty mug of yours.”

“Take a good look in the mirror if you want to see a ‘nasty mug’.”

“Take. It. Off!”

He lunged forward, grabbing at my mask, and despite my best efforts to drive him away, apparent fatigue had taken a toll on my reaction time and left me vulnerable for a priceless moment. My footing slipped, sending us both slamming into the floor, but our mad wrestling only continued unperturbed. In the chaos, his mask fell away, giving me the opportunity to pull at his hair and batter him with countless shoves and strikes to the face, but every adrenaline-fueled blow only fed the fire of his unwavering determination.

Snap!

The second that I heard the buckles on my mask unclip, I felt it slip free from my head and take with it the hot musk that I never seemed to notice until I felt ventilated air hit my face again. Instinctively, I raised my hand to hide the sight from him, but he grabbed my wrist and forced it away.

His face twisted, fury and frustration falling away into a look of profound despair.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered, croaking a disbelieving laugh that sounded as soulless as his vacant eyes now looked. “Worst case of a fever I've ever seen, that’s for damn sure.”

I never saw it for myself, refusing to look in the mirror after I began to feel my skin hardening with sores and crystalline scales—first along my jaw before it started reaching for my eye. I had seen victims of the Petrification Disease before, I didn't need to see it again—I didn't want to know how bad it really was. But witnessing my brother's reaction only made what I had been running from become achingly real.

“I'm getting you that cure, dammit.”

“You're not listening to me.”

“Like doing that would make any difference! Have you seen yourself? ‘Cause if you have, you wouldn't be spouting bullshit like ‘it's just a fever’. Since you're so keen on lying to us all, clearly your word doesn't mean a damn thing! Hell, maybe it never has.”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Oh, I don't know, maybe start by telling us you've got a little parasite in your blood? You forget that we're your family?”

“None of this will matter once we get out of here.”

“News flash: we won't get out of here at all if you're dead.”

“And we won't get out of here if we owe a debt to the Alchemists.”

“Who fuckin’ cares? As long as y—”

“I do! All we've been working towards since the moment that this city went to shit is getting the hell out of Krat! If we throw all of that away over something like this, then we're already as good as dead.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?! Would you still be saying that if it were one of us who was infected?”

I fell silent. Of course not. But that doesn't matter, does it?

“Every word out of your mouth is betraying everything we stand for. You realize that, right?” he asked.

“I had no choice. I knew that if I told you, you would act irrationally, which you've proven to be true. And the Youngest is… out of the question. She shouldn't have to worry about any of this.”

“Yeah? Is that so? And—now hear me out on this one—have you maybe considered that if it keeps getting worse, we'll all have to worry about it eventually? Wow! Crazy concept, huh?!”

“I know that. But there's nothing to be done about it, don't you get it? The Alchemists aren't the answer, no matter how much you want to believe they are. They have their methods and miracle drugs, but if they think that we need them, then they'll make sure we always do,” I insisted, lightly shaking my head. “You're many things, brother, but stupid isn't one of them. You see what they're doing—”

“I see that they're our only way of fixing this!” he interrupted, clearly becoming flustered. He knew that I was right and he hated it. “No one knows more about the disease than the Alchemists, and no one can get them whatever ‘materials’ they ask for like us. They need us. We're irreplaceable assets, we are! So they wouldn't just leave you for dead like that, it makes no sense.”

“They've let plenty of people die for their cause. What we do is what anyone else could, we're not important enough to be an exception.”

His brow twitched as I spoke, and I knew exactly why. For so long, I had proclaimed us to be exactly that. Important. When it came to skill, equipment, and most importantly bond, we were superior to every Sweeper in the Malum District. That was something that I genuinely believed, but it was only when we began taking work for the Alchemists that a truth became clear to me: we were big fish in a very, very small pond.

The Alchemists introduced me to a world unlike any I had ever seen, a world filled with corruption so very vile that criminals like us became nobodies. We were legends in the Malum District, but here? Side characters in a storybook, making the heroes drunk with greatness while we remain crushed under their spotlight. Awaken, evolve, ascend, and may everyone who doesn't be damned. That was the true mantra of the Alchemists and their Order.

My family was the most important thing to me, greater than any fame, deeper than any grudge. But in the eyes of history, would we be anything more than the pinnacle of unimportance? Was it arrogance or ignorance that made us think we wouldn't? I hated how knowing my days were numbered made me reflect on these things more than ever.

Lost in thought, I hadn't realized how long my brother was considering it all until he finally said, “Alright, alright. I'll give it to you.”

“What?” I blurted instinctively, reeling from his sudden change of heart.

“No, it's just…” he trailed off. “Maybe I forgot myself a bit there. Can't lie, even if I don't like it, the Alchemists are a fascinating lot. But I got carried away. Truth is, we can't rely on them. Not them or anyone.” He paused for a moment before he went on, “But we are getting outta here. And when we do, we're gonna find you a cure, even if we gotta make one ourselves! Don't sweat the specifics though, I already got a few ideas brewing in the ol’ thinker.”

He gave a knock to the side of his head as he said it, and the corner of my mouth briefly twitched with a melancholy smile.

“I'm sure,” I said.

To think that he alone could make a cure that hundreds had already attempted and failed to create was insanity, and what's more, so like him.

“What, you think I can't do it?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Still, I owed him my honesty.

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up this time before he narrowed them and flashed a sharp smile, clearly accepting the challenge. “Then I'd best get to work, eh?”

I absently shook my head and took a deep breath, preparing to pull myself from the floor. Despite that, he wavered, as if there was more to be said, and there was an uncertain quiver in his smile that I couldn't quite read. My mouth cracked open to question him, but the words never escaped, forgotten instantly when in the blink of an eye I was practically tackled by the enveloping warmth of an embrace so tight that it pushed the air from my lungs. So tight that it was heartbreaking, as though he feared that I would be lost to him if he let go for even a moment.

The seconds passed like hours before I found the will to return the gesture, cradling him close in a way that ignited a cruel nostalgia within me. The feeling must have been mutual, for I couldn't tell whether it was he or I who was trembling terribly, but there seemed to be a silent agreement to ignore it that passed between us.

The day of the Puppet Frenzy was the last time that I held my little brother this way. As we grew older, it began to feel like we were more like equals, our age difference becoming overshadowed by our greater worries and blurring into the background. But back then, I had to be the older brother that he could rely on above anyone else, and I had to embrace his wild sobs without shedding a single tear of my own. I couldn't cry. I couldn't stumble. I couldn't bleed. Not for his sake, not for the Youngest's sake, and not even for the Eldest's. Holding him now felt as though we were once again the children that we had been that day, clinging to one another after watching everything be taken from us, unable to bear the thought of losing the last thing that we had.

In a weak voice, my brother asked, “How long's it been?”

“Since my expedition to the Barren Swamp, I'd wager.”

I had been especially reckless at that time, certain to strip the place of all the Ergo I could get my hands on before I had to return. Puppets, Carcass monsters, humans, as long as they had Ergo they were all the same, and detached from the usual company of my siblings, I had none to hold me back from my blinding greed. After all, while ordinary human corpses came up dry of all worth, the bodies of the petrified acted as soil for the seeds of Ergo fragments to sprout from. I was well aware of the risks involved, but how could I contain myself from ripping open their rotted chest cavities when I saw the pretty blue glimmer of the forbidden fruit tucked inside, practically begging for me to alleviate its host of its weight?

In the end, I couldn't say when the exact moment was that I contracted the disease, but I knew that even after I returned home, a persistent little piece of that swamp seemed to have burrowed itself deep inside of me and never left.

“Dammit… Dammit, dammit!” he ranted, voice muffling as he nestled against my shoulder. “That was so long ago. I knew you shouldn't have gone by yourself, I knew it. I didn't say it, but I… I thought it! I think!”

“It wouldn't have changed anything.”

“Yeah, but—” he paused, sucking in a shuddered breath as though a very grave realization dawned on him. “Your mask, the filter should've…”

The Workshop Union was in shambles alongside every other organization in Krat worth their salt, so when it came to mask repairs—or in my brother's case, obtaining a Stalker mask in general—we were left to our own devices. That meant that when my spore filter failed, my brother was the one to install a new one that he claimed should have kept me safe from the Petrification Disease. In truth, that was one of the biggest reasons I didn't want him to know. How could he ever be passionate about his craft again if he thought that one design mistake or miscalculation—whatever it could have been—might have caused his brother to contract the most feared affliction in all of Krat?

“We knew that the masks were only a safeguard. You said it yourself when you first modified them. ‘They're not a fix-all, but they minimize the risk at least,’” I quoted, paraphrasing the lengthy rant he gave our little sister when she insisted that she was above such “ugly” commodities and would simply resist infection by will alone.

“Using my own words against me, I see,” he mumbled bitterly. “I could've made them one. I just needed to do more workshopping, or maybe use better materials, or at least slap it onto one of our local tax-evading tightwads, throw him into Elysion's quarantine zone, and see if he comes back coughing—if he doesn't come back dead. But I guess if he were dead, he wouldn't be coming back at all, now would he? Ugh, there goes that plan—sploosh!—right down the tubes. I must've mucked up the design somewhere, but where? Christ…”

Attempting to lift the melancholy veil that clouded the conversation, I said, “To have a fix-all against the disease, we'd have to wear full-body protection gear. Where's the fashion in that?”

That was something that the Youngest would have said if she were here, I'd bet. She always had a way of lifting the mood with small quips like that. But judging by how little his demeanor shifted, maybe that skill of hers was a weak point of mine.

My brother let out a small huff—some abandoned attempt at a laugh, perhaps—before pulling away from me. He was never good at subtlety, especially apparent now that he kept his gaze screwed onto my mask that lay discarded beside us, trying his very hardest to avoid looking at my face again.

Quickly, he snatched the mask by one of its rabbit ears as he stood, flipping it this way and that to analyze its spore filter with a critical eye. He began to mumble under his breath, half-incoherent rants to himself, the only one of which I could properly understand being a complaint about the room's poor lighting. That sentiment I could agree with, because when he started to pace wildly, the shadows painted him to look like a raving lunatic.

It was only when I grasped the cold metal bar of the bed frame at my side and used it to ground myself as I began to clamber to my feet that he snapped back to attention, but though he attempted to grab my arm and pull me up, I brushed him off with a stern wave of my hand.

His display was normal, an effort we would always lend to one another when we could. But now, it felt wrong, as though he were coddling me. This, too, was something I had feared; The idea that if they knew I was ill, my brothers would burden themselves to no end for my sake.

He struck a good point when he asked if I would disregard the illness had it been the others who contracted it and not myself. Considering it now, I realized that I could apply that thinking to everything. If a brother or sister were ill, would I give them special treatment, pushing myself to the brink of collapse if it meant that I could ease their suffering even slightly? The answer was—and had always been—yes. So the same was undoubtedly true for them. They would make themselves sick with worry for me, and so I would make sure that never happened.

After all, though our lives today couldn't be any more different than our lives past, a few things stayed consistent throughout the years: I couldn't cry—not now that energy was a resource as precious as gold, I couldn't stumble—not now that any ill-timed step could be my last, and I certainly couldn't bleed—not now that cruel reminders flowed from wounds in the form of a lurid blue ichor.

When I pushed away his help, my brother's expression flashed something like hurt or confusion, but the distraction only worked in my favor. In one fluid motion, I swiped the mask from his hand and fastened it around my head, taking only seconds to secure it despite the elaborate straps and buckles. The action was a trained one, and there was a small comfort in being able to perform it once more. In a world where even the slightest privacy was the highest of luxuries, bearing the rabbit persona offered me some much-needed anonymity.

“Oi!” he argued. “I was looking at that!”

“There's no point,” I replied. What good would a new filter do me now?

“There's plenty point…” he began, but his words slowly devolved into a confused stammer. “Ay, where do you think you're going?”

I was wandering out of the room as he said it, slinging my scarf back around my neck with one hand and throwing the door open with the other before stalking onto the catwalk beyond. Without sparing him a backward glance, I answered, “Out.”

Through the grates I walked along, I could see cold mist shrouding the ground far below, obscuring all view of what might await any soul unfortunate enough to slip off the unguarded edge, but the inhumane chittering and gasping that carried up from the ground level gave me greater assurance of what horrors lay beyond sight.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he called behind me, the rustling that followed telling me that he was once more donning his mask.

But I continued nonetheless, stepping across a creaking drawbridge stabilized by rusted chains that coiled around a pulley on the ceiling. Set in the center of the bridge was a ladder that ascended into the ceiling, the route that would eventually lead to the surface, and without allowing myself any delay, I took hold of the steel rungs and began to climb.

My brother's racing footsteps were quick to tail me, harshly rattling the unsteady bridge below as he caught up and sprung onto the ladder after me. At the same moment, he began speaking again, saying, “Hah. You're not getting out of this so easy.”

With a sigh, I replied, “I'm sure you wouldn't make it that simple for me.”

Even the harshest winters seemed to have never chilled me more deeply than this damned laboratory, more of a warehouse for cold storage than anything. Even when I was far from the heart of the facility, I couldn't stand being in this place any longer, and with the medicine I had emptied out earlier finally beginning to dull my senses, I could effectively repress my urges to wince and groan with every painstaking step up.

Fatigue was still heavy on my mind, but the initial sense of sickness had mostly passed. It was manageable enough to ignore, at least, and I hated to admit that the distraction of the day helped ever-so-slightly in that.

Before now, I had been picking up more work, using mindless slaughter to occupy my thoughts. But I found that the more I let myself loose maiming puppet after puppet, the harder I came crashing down in a fiery inferno at the end of the day—only instead of the pain igniting solely in my aching muscles as I was otherwise used to, it was now an icy blaze that pulsated through my very bloodstream, somehow feeling as though it were boiling my plasma and freezing my veins at the same time. If ever there was a moment that I understood why Petrification victims came to be so wild, it was now that I knew this maddening sensation would only get worse from here.

Regardless, that gave me no excuse to slack off. If I became lazy, I was sure that my joints would stiffen in half the time. That was how the disease got its name, after all, and that was why I found myself back on the job every time my body would lock up on me after a long day. Was it from infection, or just exhaustion? Better to be paranoid than paralyzed, I figured. Sleep could always wait.

“You don't gotta be getting back out there already, y'know? The job's over with. Ain't none of us gonna blame you for taking a load off,” my brother said as though he had read my mind, which admittedly made me tense, even though I knew better than to think his comment's timing was anything but a coincidence.

“There's always another hunt on the horizon,” I replied darkly, pushing through the strain of the last few rungs before finally reaching the end of the ladder and lifting myself onto the platform where a long corridor awaited me.

“Maybe you should reevaluate who's gonna be hunted here. I dunno about you, but the rabbit with the bad leg looks like it could make a hearty appetizer to me.”

I scarcely stopped myself from cursing under my breath. I thought I had been careful in hiding my limp, but it was becoming frustratingly undeniable that I was losing my edge, and the toothy grin painted in white upon his mask now looked almost patronizing in the corner of my eye where his head popped up from the ladder.

But my irritation was short-lived, quickly dissipating when he added in a softer tone, “At least come back to Malum with us. We've barely seen you all month, and the little coney won't stop whining about it any chance she gets.”

I slowly came to a halt, allowing a bleak silence to settle over us before I looked back at him from over my shoulder and offered, “On one condition.”

“How much am I gonna regret this?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Saints… that much?”

My eyes rolled on instinct. “Then forget it.”

“Alright, alright! Out with it already.”

“I want you to promise that you won't tell the others about this. Not even big brother.”

He gave pause, awkwardly dropping his hands before he apprehensively replied, “You know I won't.”

“Do I?” I asked at the same moment that I snatched his wrist where it hid barely out of my view. And just as I suspected, his fingers were crossed like a child. “What was all that you were saying about lying?”

He tore his hand away from me with a scoff. “What, you mean how it goes against our creed?”

“Ye—”

“You know what else goes against the creed?”

“Ugh... Enough with thi—”

“Keeping secrets!”

“We have to do what we must for the sake of the brotherhood, even if it means bending a few rules. That's what we’re good at.”

“It's clearly what you're good at.”

“I don't have a choice!” I snapped. “I never wished this burden upon you, but you insisted on being involved, and now you are. You know as well as I that it's better for them to be ignorant of problems they can't solve.”

He hesitated for a moment before he dejectedly said, “It's not right.”

“It's not,” I agreed, whipping back around and resuming my pace.

But though I expected him to argue or run in circles trying to find an alternative answer again, he didn’t make another sound, only picking up his feet and falling into step at my side. Our footfalls against the stone floor echoed off the walls, a lonely and hollow sort of sound that seemed to grow louder, louder, louder…

“Brother?” I finally whispered, but my next word caught in my throat, utterly unfit for the tongue that formed it. And yet left with no other choice, I harshly swallowed my pride. “Please.”

He shook his head. Unable to read his expression, I couldn't say whether it was in rejection, frustration, or disbelief, but his fidgeting wasn't lost on me. It was a nervous habit that cost his clothes more buttons than I had the patience to count. I always knew that he was bothered when I would find pieces dismantled from his clothing and littering the floor of our hideouts—buckles freed from their belts or once-seams turned to loose threads. Rarely did I see how he managed it for myself, but as I watched him now mindlessly tug and tug on a leather strap that fastened around his glove, I was finally certain of his methods.

He took an even draw of breath, preparing to respond, but he was cut off when a distant and shrill squeal interrupted him.

“There you are, brothers! Took you long enough! We've been waiting all day!”

Pattered footsteps raced towards us as she bounded our way, energetically bouncing about and waving her hands in the air.

Shit. Our sister's timing was so impeccably horrendous that I couldn't help but think it felt like something out of a novel. A lazy writer's attempt to draw out drama in a story, maybe.

Behind our sister, the towering form of our big brother also began to approach, though at a far more controlled pace. I wasn't expecting them to grow so impatient that they would come looking for us, but maybe I shouldn't have been surprised.

I cast a glance back at my little brother, but he didn't turn his head to meet it. In fact, upon seeing our siblings, his fingers were working more vigorously than ever before to rip the leather strip from his cuff, and a cold unease spiked in my chest.

“I told you to go back to Malum,” I chided.

“Well, yeah, but then we figured brother would only be a few minutes. So we might as well wait and all go together, right?” she replied with a sheepish smile. “What took you guys so long?”

Taking care not to stall and warrant suspicion, I replied, “We got lost in conversation.”

“Lost in conversation? You?” she laughed, but trailed off no sooner than she began.

She must have been expecting our ever-jovial brother to join in the teasing as he always did, offering a snicker at the very least, but none came. The sharp pride in her grin slowly slipped into uncertainty. Our big brother, too, sensed the tension in the air, his shoulders becoming taut.

She gasped, “What? What is it? Did you guys run into big trouble with the broker man?”

“No trouble. The job is done,” I assured her.

“Then,” she tapped her chin in thought as she looked us up and down, “what were you talking about? Something scary?”

My heart thundered in my chest, and once again, I looked apprehensively at my little brother where he stood static. This question I would not answer, even when every part of me screamed to do so.

One thing I always knew was that my brother was a lousy liar. His mouth worked faster than his mind—something I would've thought was impossible if he didn't demonstrate it every time his thoughts spilled freely from his lips like a flowing waterfall with no hope of containing them. I was certain that there wasn't a secret in the world that would ever be safe with him. They never had been—not in our younger years, surely not now. Still, I owed him the honor of making his choice.

Even if what he would say might tear down every hope I had worked so, so hard to build…

“Well?” our sister urged impatiently. “What were you talking about? C'mon, don't be scarce with the details!”

I could hear my little brother swallow hard, taking an unsteady breath. Then, his voice finally broke through the silence.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?! I don't…” she trailed off. “Hey. Hey! Where are you going, bro?”

But he was already walking past her, pushing through the metal door that led outside while ranting under his breath.

While the Youngest bolted after him, my older brother turned back to me for answers with a slight tilt to his head.

“We had an argument,” I explained. It wasn't untrue, after all. “I would rather not go back over it.”

With nothing else to be said, I began to resume my pace after the others. Just as quickly, a massive hand clamped down on my shoulder and halted me in place. His grip on me was gentle yet firm, a concerned sort of check-up that made shame well up within me, and behind the dark lenses of his rabbit mask, I could have sworn I saw narrowed eyes looking back at me.

How badly I wished I could tell him everything. How badly I would regret it if I did. Both ideas waged war against each other in my mind, digging up emotions that I would have rather left buried.

“We're fine,” I insisted, which only seemed to make his gaze harden.

Nothing could slip past big brother, I knew that well. Which was why I also knew there was only one thing I could say that would undeniably lower his guard, though I hated it with a burning passion.

Forgive me, brother.

“You know that I would never lie to you.”

As I said it with a cold resolve, his grip loosened just as I was sure it would. Yet try as I might, I couldn't find it in me to look at him, and so I took the opportunity to slip free and escape beyond the door with quickened steps. Despite that, the phantom warmth of his hand lingered, remaining a heavy weight on my shoulder.

Forgive me…

The first step outside greeted me with a thick splash, mud beginning to form from the steady rain that pattered against the leaves of the surrounding verdure, and judging by the dark clouds that blotted out the sky overhead, it would surely turn into a raging torrent within the hour. A part of me hoped that standing beneath the storm might wash me clean of my guilty conscience, but the rational parts knew that water would sooner mix with oil than it would purify this blighted heart of mine.

Though my little brother and I kept our distance, we walked the same miles, eventually making it out of the forest to rejoin the city. He did as promised, after all, and so I was obligated to do the same.

All throughout, the Youngest zipped to and fro, chatting my ear off before she would grow dissatisfied and wander back to my brothers, then return to me after a generous few minutes, and the cycle continued. What surprised me was that I didn't become tired of the charade, her voice simply seemed so far away that it was as though she were barely there, and in turn, my responses were so instinctual that I hardly registered what I said back.

This really is my end. My demise.

I had been so overconfident, thinking we bested the inevitability of death itself. Ironic that such overconfidence—such assurance that the world owed me mercies that it never promised—was what caused me to act in a reckless abandon that cost me the immortality that I was so sure was within my grasp.

How long would it take until our four was down to three? Would they be able to maintain authority when other Stalkers learned that the renowned Black Rabbit Brotherhood was one man down? Even worse, would they fall into a despair so great that they abandoned our goal altogether, deciding that the risk wasn't worth the payoff and returning to a life of playing prey?

Maybe my worries were a wasted effort. After all, I would be long gone by the time those things would ever be a concern, wouldn't I?

No… as long as I still breathed, I would spend every waking moment of this wretched life making sure that they didn't. I would pave the way to our freedom, even if I might never get to tread its path. And if by the very end our souls would still be damned, I hoped—wishful thinking though it may have been—that through my efforts, I would at least be able to make amends for the traditions I would continue to break and the lies I would continue to tell.

It was what we were good at, after all. Our brotherhood was built upon the very foundation of lies, deluding ourselves with boastings of strength and superiority as though we weren't pawns in another's game just like everyone else. A part of me always knew it. Another part shelved the idea. But now the undeniable truth lived within me, growing and corroding my body from the inside out just trying to claw free of this vessel caging it. I alone knew the truth, and I alone would die with it.

But there was another truth just below the surface of my mind. A persistent little thought that reared its ugly head, quieting the storm of my headspace with a reality that I could never utter to another soul: