Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Calm down, honey, the voice whispers. An old guitar plays familiar melodies in her ear. She struggles, attempting to sit up through the fog in her head, but cold hands press her shoulders into crinkled bedsheets. I know. I know. Hush, darling, it’s not real.

It’s happening again , she says. It’s like I can’t escape my own brain.

Don’t worry, Tallulah, it will be over soon , the voice promises. She isn’t quite sure where it’s coming from, but she’ll grasp onto any semblance of comfort she can.

She reaches out a shaking hand, grabbing desperately for the person by her side.

She finds nothing but empty air.

I just want this nightmare to be over.

On an island ruined by virus and decay, a cat walks along the edge of a fence, surveying the government building beyond.

**

In the Federation, every day began and ended the same. It was an intentional choice of theirs; any slight differences throughout the day, such as changes in guard and disappointing experimentation results, were made minimal. Forgotten easily. Major differences—mainly, outbursts—were punished.

Four did not have outbursts. She had never planned an escape attempt—only once had she ever tried to escape, and it was because One got the old passcode to her cell and dragged her along with him in the attempt. She was still suffering the punishment from that one, the wound to her leg that ensured she wouldn’t be running again anytime soon.

Four did not like punishment.

Her surroundings were the same, too: every wall and floor was white, and the guards’ uniforms and faceless masks were white, and the patients’ gowns were white. Except for the courtyard, their world was drowned in the monotony of sameness, just the way the Federation liked it.

If everything was the same, then nobody could disobey. At least, that’s what Four assumed was their thought process.

As predicted, her day began as each day did. At precisely six in the morning, her lights switched on and a long, even beep ensured she woke. And the girl hated loud noises—not only did they cause her sensory overload, but they scared her—but she would never bring that up to Cucurucho, because she would only be punished.

So, like every morning, she stayed in bed as long as she possibly could, face buried into her pillow—white like everything else in her cell—and dreamed she was somewhere else. Her imagination never provided her much, given that she couldn’t remember anything outside the Federation, but she tried anyway. Sometimes, she dreamed that she was a character from one of her books; other times, she looked out into the glimpse of forest beyond the courtyard and liked to imagine what lurked inside its trees, thinking maybe she could be one of the creatures out there.

Daydreaming her reality away was the best part of her day.

Then, when she feared she’d stayed in bed too long and that they would find out, Four left the comfort of her sheets and made for her bathroom. She showered, she avoided her reflection, and she dressed in the same white hospital gown and white runners she wore every day.

At precisely six-thirty, a man entered her room, dressed in a white suit with a head disguised under a mascot head depicting a white bear. The mask had two oval black eyes, a pink nose, and a smile that was supposed to make him look friendly—perhaps so the children would feel more comfortable around him—but if anything, Four found it creepy. She had never learned his name, but One seemed to call him Cucurucho, so she went with that.

And, like every morning, Cucurucho said, “Good morning. What are you doing?” He only ever said a certain number of things, and the words never actually came from his mouth, but the automated voice tech stitched into his throat. The pop of gunmetal grey cut a sharp line against the pink of his throat, and alongside the details on his mask, they were the only colours that stood in defiance of the Federation’s blinding white facade.

What are you doing. It was code for, you better be doing the right thing, or else.

She was. Four was one of the most obedient of the five children who existed within these wicked walls.

She raised her hands to sign a response. “Good morning.” Because she was always polite. Because sometimes, politeness could save her life. “I am ready to go to breakfast.”

“Good,” Cucurucho signed in response. He extended one hand expectantly, gazing down at her with lifeless black eyes.

She took a step forward and ignored the twinge of pain in her leg. That wound, a slash cut into her leg a few inches above her ankle, was still new, and it hurt a little to walk on.

She did not voice this. She did not dare.

For now, she would have to limp.

The little girl took Cucurucho’s hand, and together, they walked out of her cell and into a high-ceilinged, empty hallway, so expansive that the sounds of their footsteps bounced high off the walls and echoed in Four’s ears, a reminder that no matter where she was, she was still trapped inside the Federation.

No, she reminded herself, she lived inside the Federation. She learned inside the Federation. Cucurucho had told her those were more positive words than “trapped”.

She was faintly aware of the footfalls of two Federation guards walking several paces behind them. Always closeby, but never too close. Just a few steps away, ensuring she would have no chance to escape.

Cucurucho’s hand was warm around hers, and she focused on that bit of human contact to keep her going. It made the halls feel less empty, made them feel almost normal. Reminded her that underneath the mask, Cucurucho was still a person, and she didn’t have to fear him as long as she was nice.

After all, Four was his favourite. She was almost convinced of it: every time the children received group punishment for talking or stepping out of line, Cucurucho made sure Four was barely harmed. He fired the guards that were mean to her, and one time, he’d even wiped her tears when she’d cried.

It paid to be nice. Few other kids in this place had experienced a life as easy as hers.

**

Mealtimes were the only parts of Four’s day that she got to be close to the other children. Of course, she saw them all day; but every other time, she had to stay distanced from them to avoid any of the patients conversing. Four thought the Federation was terrified the kids would start plotting an escape attempt the second they got a chance.

Which, to be fair, was usually the case.

But at meal time? Four got to sit so close to the other children that if she reached out, she could touch them. She could touch another living, breathing being, one with a face that wasn’t obscured by a mask. Someone her age—or, at least, close to it.

She only wished she knew their names. If they were anything like her, they did not have names, or did not remember them. Only numbers.

Eventually, the blindingly white marble halls gave way to a doorless white dining room, so similar to the halls it was practically an extension of them. A singular white dining table, long enough that the children could still have some separation, took up the majority of the floor.

Cucurucho released Four’s hand, and Four tried not to notice the sting of the cold room in the absence of his warmth. As he took a seat at the head of the table, Four dutifully and silently made her way to her own chair, seated right between Three and Five and across from One and Two.

One looked a little worse for wear. Long, raw burns crawled up his neck and mottled his left cheek, leaving it irritated and red and warped. The burns ducked into the collar of his gown and out the bottom of his left sleeve, wrapping around his forearm and down his left hand. Even now, the fingers were raw and twitching in the aftermath of the punishment.

It was hard to burn a dragon hybrid. Very, very hard.

They’d been meaner to him for the escape attempt than they were to Four. The Federation did not like One–it was reciprocal. 

He stared blankly at the table with grey, washed out eyes, but his working fist clenched around his knife when Cucurucho took a seat.

When One looked up, Four made sure to smile, hoping he’d find it comforting. If she was allowed, she would’ve talked to him—he always seemed to calm down in her presence. Actually, to date, she was the only one in the Federation who could calm the boy down.

To her right, Three’s left hand, the one sheltered from Cucurucho’s view by Four’s body, was fidgeting. It was so subtle that Four barely noticed it, but then Three’s wrist rotated in a quarter circle, and her eyes were focused on Two sitting across from her.

In return, Two furrowed their brows, and their fingers began moving in response.

Four knew what it was. She was aware that Three was developing a secret method of communication, but she didn’t yet know any of the words. It was mostly just Two and Three so far who knew enough to communicate. As far as Four knew, it was a modified version of the sign language taught to them by the Federation, except reduced to the most subtle of twitches and fidgets so that the guards wouldn’t realize they were communicating.

Three was intelligent. That was one of the few things Four knew about the girl, despite having spent most of their lives under the same roof. Both Three and Five liked painting, although they were never allowed to paint together, and Three spent most of her time in the courtyard hunched over a little diary, eyes narrowed towards its pages. She’d seemed more secretive about it recently, and Four wondered whether it was because she developed her revised sign language inside the pages of the journal. If so, Four was sure it was written in some elaborate code so the Federation would never find out.

Three was the most put together of the five children. At twelve years old, she was directly in the middle of the age order, but she was mature and reserved enough to seem much older. She kept her hair, white and lifeless like the rest of them, tied into pigtails split by a perfect part, and the white scales of her wings were always the most polished.

It was unlike Five, who was brought into the Federation long before he was old enough to know about the importance of keeping clean. Four assumed nobody ever taught him how to keep clean, and so his white, bouncy curls were always too long and fell into his eyes, and his knees and gown were perpetually stained with mud from the courtyard. His prosthetic leg sometimes squeaked, partially rusted over, and Four hated the sound with her whole heart.

Cucurucho tapped his fork against the glass to bring the table’s attention to himself. With a flicker of his hand, he gestured towards the dishes, a sign it was time to begin eating.

Or else.

Four hadn’t quite taken the time to look at her breakfast yet; it was usually all the same, anyway, or at least a rotation of the same foods again and again. Today, it was a fried egg and half an avocado cut and sliced along the edge. Both were unseasoned, and they were accompanied by a simple glass of water.

They rolled down Four’s tongue dully, so bland they were nearly tasteless.

At breakfast, nobody was allowed to speak, and yet the room never felt empty. Perhaps it was because of the eleven guards that stood around the outside of the room, statuesque and eerily still with their hands clasped behind their backs. They all wore the same white uniforms and faceless white masks, ones that made them look less like humans and more like strange entities. Cucurucho ordered two guards to attend each child—except for One, who had three guards, because One was dangerous and prone to outbursts.

It wasn’t long before One would age out of the experiments and be expected to join the guards, either. He still had a couple years to go, but the Federation had already started preparing him for it—scheduling him for fewer experiments and blocking out more time for guard training.

If the punishments littered all over One’s body were any indication, it was not going well.

Even now, as the boy ate, he sat with his cheek resting on his palm in just the right way so it covered up his burn scars. Hiding it from the younger ones so they wouldn’t worry about what was happening to their oldest.

It scared Four. Quite a bit.

Everyone was aware of it, anyway. Four could see the way Three shared a look with Five, and Two kept glancing over at One, eyes lingering on the burns disappearing into his collar. 

And then Two caught Four looking, and they made a silly face at her. Just a little one, subtle enough that the guards wouldn’t notice, but enough to make Four stifle a smile.

Cucurucho’s knife pinged against the side of his glass again, and Four looked up to see the man watching her silently. His knife pointed back down at his food, and then the room went quiet again.

Apparently, he’d been watching her and Two interact.

So Four put down her head and focused on the remnants of her meal, letting the silence swallow her whole.

Sometimes she really hated meal time.

**

Scratch that, she hated courtyard time more. Especially in the fall, when the air grew chilly and she was never provided a coat, because it wasn't officially winter yet. She got to be outside, sure, and wasn’t suffocating within a constant nightmare of blinding white architecture, but the skies weren’t too different. They were streaked with grey, but on cloudy days like today, they were white enough that the world just became another container for her miserable life.

It was a bland sort of courtyard—more of a lawn than anything, if what Four had heard about lawns was correct, and fenced in by an old wire fence bent and rusty in places. After Five’s only escape attempt, they’d topped the fence with barbed wire. He’d run away in the middle of the night, and was almost immediately attacked by one of the virus-infected monsters existing outside the walls. Five was immune to the virus, of course, but the bite to his leg still caused him an infection so severe that when the Federation found him shaking and cold on the forest floor several days later, they had to amputate it.

After that, they didn’t give Five a punishment. They thought having his leg removed was punishment enough.

That was two years ago now. He had been five.

Because of it, Four always stayed far, far away from the fence, and took up a seat somewhere in the muddy expanse of yellowing grass that made up the small courtyard. The others still preferred to sit close to the outside, as if repelled by the building itself, but Four couldn’t bear the thought of the monsters that lay beyond.

So, when she was brought outside for courtyard time, she sat in her usual patch of grass in the middle of the yard, and stared at the world churning on without her outside the fence.

The Federation was situated somewhere on top of a mountain and surrounded by forest. Trees so dark they appeared almost black rose on either side of the building, swathed in shadow and sitting upon old, broken earth. The mountain sloped downwards towards flat land that turned to endless sea. If Four looked closely, she might be able to see what remained of a little town peeking out over the treeline many miles away.

The Federation had found a good place to hide. It was somewhere that made it near impossible for the patients to escape, and somewhere they wouldn’t be found.

Not like there was anyone left to find them.

As always, One was the first to be taken in for his morning experiments, while the others took their usual spots in the yard and tried to pass the time without going mad. Two sat with her back pressed against an old, gnarled tree, the only one in the courtyard, and flipped open a book. They spent nearly all his time reading—Four thought it might be why he ended up the most knowledgeable of the group.

Three and Five sat as close together as they could without freaking out the guards. Which was very far apart. They each had an empty canvas and their well-loved paint sets spread out in front of them, although neither had touched their supplies. Three cradled her journal secretively in her lap, and Five leaned against the fence and shivered.

Four wrapped her arms around her knees in an effort to stay warm. If it weren’t for the cold, she would’ve practised her flute, or tried to come up with some new melody she hadn’t already played a thousand times.

Instead, she decided today was a daydreaming day. Which was okay, because she spent most of her free time daydreaming anyway. Occasionally, she’d stand up and pace around the courtyard while doing it, if only to keep herself busy. She thought nobody really understood what she was doing—to them, she was only zoning out for long periods of time. By now, she had plotlines that had been unravelling for years, ones about loving parents swooping into the Federation and stealing her away, giving her and the other children a warm home where they could talk as much as they wanted. Or tales about them becoming one with the forest in a land where virus-infected monsters didn’t exist and they could be happy. Where One didn’t have to worry about keeping them safe, and he could enjoy his last few years as a child.

About thirty minutes passed before One returned, skin drained of colour and limbs moving sluggishly. His experiment sessions had been getting shorter and shorter, and the Federation always returned him pale and sweating and furious.

And then they immediately shoved a sword in his hand and told him to fight. It was important to his guard training, they said, even when he felt he couldn’t. So he spun the blade like it was second nature and met his sparring partner—an experienced guard who was much older, much bigger, and much stronger than One—in the right hand corner of the courtyard.

Four tried not to let the clang of metal and One’s ragged breathing disturb her, comforted only by the notion that One was good at defending himself. If he didn’t want the guard to hurt him, they wouldn’t.

She hoped.

Meanwhile, the guards took Two inside to begin his experiment.

A hand tapped on Four’s shoulder, and she flinched. A guard stood behind her—she recognized them as one of One’s regular guards through body type and body language alone. “Excuse me,” they signed, “we need this space to practise more in-depth training with One.”

“I thought you were already doing that,” Four responded.

“We’ll be trying something different.” The guard’s hands moved so quickly and so lazily that Four could barely catch it. “Please relocate yourself to the outskirts of the courtyard.”

Hesitantly, Four situated herself closer to the fence. She considered laying against it as Five was doing, but then remembered the creatures that lay waiting in the world beyond, and decided against it. Her back straightened uncomfortably against open air, but it was better than the alternative.

She watched nauseously as the guard tore into One, ruthless and skilful. She doubted they’d given him much instruction—if any at all—on how to handle the weapon or combat a guard. Perhaps it was just another elaborate form of punishment, she thought.

The guard swept their sword dangerously close to One, who jumped away just in time to avoid being hurt. He advanced on the guard, furious, but they only swept a leg out underneath him, causing the boy to slip and fall onto his back. The guard raised their sword high in the air and plunged downward, and One had just enough time to roll out of the way before the blade sunk itself into muddy earth with a sickening squelch.

Four watched as One took the opportunity to jab the hilt of his sword into the guard’s middle, taking them unaware and leaving them unstable. He kicked the back of their knee, sending them careening forwards, and was at their heels in a minute. He gripped the back of their mask and pulled, wrenching their head up.

Which, of course, wasn’t allowed, and the other guards supervising interrupted the round to pull him away.

He was supposed to fight. He just wasn’t supposed to win.

They grabbed him under the arms and yanked him away, handling the teenager as if he were a bomb, and he flinched at the sudden contact, flailing and kicking out behind him in fear. They always handled One as roughly as possible—so different from the tolerant gentility with which Cucurucho made the guards treat Four—and it made her nauseous to watch.

She turned her head away, grimacing at the twinge of pain in her back from sitting up straight so long. Hesitantly, she rested her back lightly against the fence. A few minutes couldn’t hurt, she supposed.

And Four did what she did best. She pretended.

She pretended she was anywhere else, was any one else: a bird flying through open sky, wings warmed by the sun; a coyote darting through trees and over gnarled roots; even one of the residents of the little town down below, as desolate and destroyed by the virus as it must have been.

Sometimes, anywhere was better than here. It made her selfish to think; she was treated the best out of any of the patients. She shouldn’t have been complaining, and yet here she was, dreaming her very world away. 

It was wilful, at least. She put herself inside a world of make-believe, one where she was greeted by familiar daydream characters that took care of her and treated her with gentle hands and smiles born only of kindness.

She let the sounds of the fight settle into a dull hum in her ears, allowing her surroundings to give way to her daydreams. She was quiet again, peaceful again, the favourite again. Barely aware of the panting coming from behind her, the quiet sounds of struggle and of a body thumping itself along the forest floor, coming closer and closer to the fence.

It wasn’t until she heard the horrible rattling of metal behind her, followed by an inhuman sort of screech, that she startled to attention.

Four jumped away like she’d been stung. Was that her own voice screaming? It came out hoarse from disuse, and still it was distinctly more human than the thing on the other side of the fence. She scrambled away from the creature that was clawing at the thin, breakable metal, hands shaking and heart pounding in her chest.

The thing wasn’t quite human, although perhaps it once had been. Now, it crawled on its stomach along the ground, maybe because it didn't have the strength to walk anymore. Its skin was slowly eating itself away, flecked with rot and decay, and its jaw perpetually hung open, panting like it was desperate for air. Its eyes were bloodshot and terrified, and long, black talons wrapped around the fence, stretching for Four. 

The virus. It did terrible things to people.

Four felt frozen in place, watching the thing’s claws stretch closer and closer to her. The wire was weak enough that the being could slice right through it if they tried.

This was why she didn’t go near the fence.

Somehow, none of the guards had noticed, or none of them cared. Here she was, only a foot or two away from something that would certainly delight at the prospect of having her as a divine little dragon meal.

A flash of movement put a white-clad body between Four and the creature.

One. He’d come to her rescue. He would save her.

A sword sliced down towards the fence, chopping smoothly through the creature’s talons. It shrieked again, a noise high-pitched and so grating it made Four flinch, but at least it seemed effective. The thing backed away from the fence, cowering away from One, who gripped his sword with terrifying intent despite the exhausted slump to his shoulders. He was breathing hard, chest tight, but looked at the thing as if he really would’ve killed it.

Four watched in muted shock as it crawled away again towards the treeline, moving faster than she thought possible for such a weak thing.

The sword thumped to the grass.

She snapped back into the real world as One’s hands landed on her shoulders. He helped her to her feet with hands that were laughably more gentle than the ones that had gripped his sword moments ago, and he crouched down so they were eye-level. His thumbs were cool against the heat of her face. He wiped away tears she didn’t even realize were there.

“It’s okay,” he was signing, eyes full of sympathy and concern, “It’s all going to be okay.”

Four didn’t quite know what to say. She felt caught in a state of shock. Her vision went in and out of focus, blurring with the weight of her tears. In her mind remained the image of the creature stretching out for her, just inches from her face, replaying again and again and again.

She didn’t have much time. Even without looking, she knew the guards had definitely seen that little encounter, and it wasn’t long before one of them would rip the two apart, and they’d gather gleefully together to decide what punishments they’d be given.

Her breath sped up again, shoulders shrinking into themselves in panic, and she felt hot tears spring once more in the corners of her eyes.

One tried on a smile for her. “It’s gone, alright? Just breathe with me.” His hands readjusted themselves to cup her cheeks, and he watched her face carefully.

Four tried to breathe. In, hold, out. Breathing in a way that slowed down her heart, that helped her think clearly.

“Good,” One signed.

A white-gloved hand clamped down on One’s shoulder. Four hadn’t even seen Cucurucho coming, but the man stared down at One with blank costume eyes, furious even through the mask.

His automated voice said, “What are you doing?”

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no. That was not good.

They were not supposed to talk, but they definitely were not supposed to touch. Even if it was to help each other.

One hardly even seemed surprised. It was as though he’d expected to be caught, which, as admirable as it was, scared Four. She didn’t want One to get in trouble again, especially not because of her.

“It’s my fault,” Four pleaded, feeling her hands begin to quiver in fear. “He was only trying to help. I shouldn’t have had an outburst in the first place.”

Cucurucho turned his lifeless gaze to Four, holding her in his vision for far too long to be comfortable.

Finally, his hand tightened on One’s shoulder, and he signed with the other, “Come with me.”

Oh God.

One only nodded grimly, mouth set into a thin line. Four figured that he was happy to take the punishment if it meant Four remained unharmed.

Four watched with stinging eyes as Cucurucho swept One away, long fingers splayed on the small of One’s back. She reached out for the boy, but he was too far away already.

Her eyes tracked them all the way until the guards at the door parted and let them through the white doors to the Federation, and they disappeared.

Another guard moved closer to Four. She hadn’t ever posed the slightest threat to the Federation, but ever since her and One’s failed escape attempt the previous week, the guards had swarmed a little closer to her. As if they realized, oh , maybe she did want to leave as much as the others.

She was just smart enough to hide it.

One didn’t return to the courtyard for the rest of the day. The next time she saw him, she was passing by in the halls when she caught a glimpse of his face. He was flanked by guards, white bandages wrapped around his neck like a curse, and Cucurucho walked behind him, one hand pressed to the top of One’s spine to guide him forwards.

Cucurucho must have seen Four lingering in the hall, tugged along by her guards, because he stopped, masked head tilting cautiously to the side, as if evaluating her concern.

“Move along,” he signed dismissively, keeping the other hand clasped around One’s injured neck. And then his automated voice continued, and it sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. “I hope you enjoy your stay at the Federation.”

**

For the first time in a long time, something particularly out of the ordinary happened.

Most of the evening had gone according to schedule. Ten minutes before dinnertime, the night shift began, which meant the guards changed. In that time, the doors to the Federation were unlocked for a period of exactly five minutes to allow all the daytime guards a chance to leave.

It never affected Four. It was just another piece of the monotonous mosaic that was her life. Through the window to her cell, she watched without any sort of interest as two new guards took the places of her previous guards. They looked all the same, so to Four, they were the same.

However, two minutes into the night shift, the power went out. It happened suddenly—the fluorescent bulbs above flickered once, and then powered off, one by one, until even the constant buzzing noise that accompanied them faded into silence.

Four’s heart leapt to her throat when even the bulb in her own cell turned dark.

It was too early for lights out. Even after curfew, the lights remained on in the halls twenty-four hours a day.

What was going on?

They’d experienced a power outage before during a particularly nasty storm, but within minutes, the Federation’s powerful backup generators were up and running.

Today was just another cloudy day. There shouldn’t have been a storm.

She felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Darkness wrapped itself around her middle with shadowy fingers, settling into the crook of her neck, and she hated it. It was eerily quiet in a way that felt unusual even for the Federation. Like the whole building waited with baited breath for what was to come next.

A crash sounded in the hallway, followed by a wretched scream. Before Four could process what was happening, her feet carried her to the door, and she stood on her tiptoes to press her face to the window.

The same moment she got a peek at the corridor, the walls were showered in angry red light—a sign of emergency. It was accompanied by an irritatingly loud alarm bell that had Four clamping her palms over her ears.

Through the glass, she saw One and Two in their respective cells, craning their necks to see the commotion. Two’s face watched the fight in calculated thoughtfulness, but there was a bitter, sadistic smile glittering in One’s eyes. After what they’d done to him, he enjoyed seeing the Federation get hurt.

Four’s breath fogged up the window, making misty white clouds pillow in front of her vision. She wiped her forearm against the cool glass, raising herself up as much as possible to get a good view.

Her breath caught in her throat.

There was a man there. Not one of the guards, and not Cucurucho. Dark-tinted, mechanical goggles obscured his eyes, and a black bandana was tied around his mouth and nose, perhaps to further disguise himself or perhaps, Four considered, as a preventative measure against the virus. His face was sheltered by a head of dark, shoulder-length curls, and a streak of white was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

At the moment, he was trying to fend off half a dozen guards on his own. Four didn’t know how they hadn’t overwhelmed him yet, but it appeared as though the man was experienced in combat. He threw a sharp elbow into one of the guard’s backs, sending them stumbling forwards, and kicked them into the nearest wall. The guard’s head hit the wall with a crack so loud Four heard it from her cell, and she shuddered as they crumpled into a heap on the ground.

Dripping red splattered across the white paint like a warning.

One of the guards reached into the white utility belt at their waist and pulled out something that glittered like silver under the scarlet emergency lights.

A handgun. Oh God.

She didn’t know why part of her was secretly rooting for the man. He could’ve been there under any intentions, and yet some little piece of her insisted he wanted to help the patients. If he was against the guards, that meant he was on her side, right?

The man reacted on instinct, ducking seconds before a long gunshot rang out. The bullet flew like the deadliest of birds. Instead of hitting its intended mark, it sank into the guard standing where the man had been seconds before.

The man didn’t hesitate. Before the guards could react, he forced the gun out of their hand and knocked them over the head with it, moving in a quick, deliberate way not unlike a cat.

One of the guards jumped on him, but he bent forwards and threw them onto the ground where they landed with a horrifying crack.

The guards kept coming and coming. He reached into a leather satchel situated around his waist and pulled out a black, round thing. One gloved hand raised it high into the air, and then the man brought it down, throwing it against the floor.

Black smoke billowed like paint into water, bleeding openly from the open smoke bomb. Right before he disappeared into the smoke, Four thought she saw the man stand straight once more, a certain boldness turning back his shoulders that displayed only confidence.

Four felt nauseous. She turned away from the window, sliding her back against the door. Her breath came unnaturally fast in her chest, and she hadn’t realized she’d been holding it. She didn’t want to watch the white floors slowly turn red with the guards’ blood.

Her head spun, a flurry of emotions turning her mind into fuzz.

Who was this man? Why was he here, and why did the guards despise him so much?

She flinched at every noise. At each gunshot—like a slap ricocheting off the walls—at the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor, at the awful screams.

It continued and continued and continued, which meant that the man was still going strong.

And then, after Four thought she couldn’t take any more of it, the corridor turned quiet.

It scared her almost more than the noise.

She looked up at the window channelling a panel of red light into her room, watching as it slowly dimmed and darkened from the smoke. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.

She pushed her ear against the door, trying to slow the hammering of her heart long enough to be able to hear something. Anything , a clue as to whether the man was still alive. As to whether anyone was.

Click. Another click. It was an awfully familiar sort of buzzing noise, mechanical and flat, one she heard countless times per day. The click trailed down the far end of the hall—One and Two’s side—slow and purposeful.

Her body began to tremble without her consent.

Finally, a click rang out before her very own door, and she felt like she could have thrown up. She pressed her body as firmly as she could against the door, and a terrified squeak escaped her lips as pressure leaned into the other side.

It opened a crack. More. The man was stronger than her, and it didn’t take too much effort for him to heave open the door the rest of the way.

She scrambled backwards, eyes watering as black smoke poured into her room, turned a dark crimson by the glaring emergency lights.

The man was an imposing figure that loomed in her doorway, silhouetted in red light. Smoke billowed like a warning behind him. If she squinted her eyes, she noticed the pointed shape of cat ears extending out of his curls.

Perhaps he really was part cat, then. A hybrid, just like the children were.

“Why are you here?” Four signed, hands quivering so hard she wondered whether the sign came out clear.

But the man only tilted his head, as if trying to decipher the words. Perhaps he couldn’t speak sign language at all. In a clear, very human and not automated voice, he said, “Come on. You should leave before reinforcement comes.”

It had been a long time since she’d heard a real voice. Actually, it was the only one in her working memory, and it both thrilled and terrified her.

The man was something from a complete other world—not one of white walls and orderly schedules and chilling experiments, but one of endless forest and devastating virus and calamity.

She wasn’t sure which sounded worse.

But she didn’t have time to think, because the man was extending his hand impatiently, glancing behind him, shoulders forming a tense line.

Four took his hand without another thought and let him lead her out into the fray.

Smoke swirled around her every step, tickling her ankles, but it did not bother her. She was surprised when the man released her hand to dig inside his satchel, and he offered her a bandana not unlike his own. “So you don’t breathe in the smoke,” he explained.

She shook her head, hands signing fast. “Keep it. Dragon hybrids can breathe smoke just fine.”

He craned his neck lower, and though Four couldn’t see his expressions, she imagined his eyebrows were knitted together in confusion.

Then, signing with clumsy hands belonging to a clear beginner, he signed, “I don’t understand.”

So he did know the Federation’s sign language. Or a little, at least.

Before she could hand the bandana back to him, she felt hands grabbing her arms. On instinct, her heart leapt to her throat, and she ripped herself out of their grasp.

Three came into view. “Sorry, sorry,” she signed, hands moving fast. “Have you seen the others?”

The man seemed to understand that much. He cleared his throat. “Follow me. I told them to stick together.”

Four grasped Three’s wrist with a bit of a death grip, terrified of losing her amidst the smoke. At the moment, she acted as an anchor for Four, something that grounded her into the present and reminded her that she wasn’t completely alone in the smoke.

They followed the man dutifully until the other patients came into view. All three of them held hands as if they were scared of losing each other, and as soon as Four came into view, One grabbed her free hand, holding on tightly.

The man crossed his arms over his chest, keeping his voice low despite the fact that they were alone. “Alright, do you know how to get out of here?”

One nodded, face grim. Out of everyone, he knew the internal map of the building the best—he had the most escape attempts on record, even if he’d been caught every time.

“Okay.” The man dipped his head in understanding. “Now, once you step into the forest, there’s a dirt road that will take you straight down the mountain—it’s the one the guards use to get up here. Follow that until you reach the bottom, and then turn left and head towards the sea. There’s a town on the edge of the island, and the people will take care of you.” He paused. “Tell them that Cellbit sent you.”

Four nodded. She remembered seeing glimpses of the town from the courtyard. It was a small, desolate thing shrouded in fog and sparkling with yellow light that twinkled from the windows of scattered houses.

Her heart fluttered in excitement at the thought of seeing it in person.

Two seemed suspicious. They unlinked hands to sign, “And what about you?”

The man took a second to process, but eventually answered, “I have some unfinished business with a certain bear.” He didn’t need to clarify who; the realization sunk into all the children at the same time. Cucurucho.

She didn’t want to know how they knew each other.

The next five minutes passed in a bit of a blur. They thanked the man, and she watched as her own shoes passed white tile after white tile, free from the guards for the first time in years. She sidestepped bodies and puddles of blood littered across the floor, feeling sick, and tried to ignore the pain in her leg.

From behind her, Three squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

She didn’t quite know how they made it out of there, but as the smoke cleared and two doors that marked the entrance came into sight, the reality that Four was actually escaping began to sink in. Not only was she escaping, but with everyone else, each of the children who had raised her in the absence of parental care.

Everybody she loved.

One, who stood at the front of the line before her, used his free hand to push open the doors, and the group of them stumbled into a wide, open evening speckled with white pinpricks of light dotting a dusty blue sky.

“Look, Four,” One said, using his free hand to sign. “The stars.”

Oh. Four had never seen those before. They were so breathtaking she found her chest dry and empty of breath.

It wasn’t until the group kept moving that she snapped back to awareness, and drank in the very real, very alive world around her. Trees stretched far above her head, and a cold, biting wind whistled through her hair. It looked brittle and white as snow in comparison to the twilight.

She eased her hand out of Three’s to sign to One. “Where are we going now?” He was the oldest—he’d have things figured out. He’d know what to do, and he’d protect them from anything that came their way.

She was sure of it.

His eyes traced up and down her face for a long moment, as if searching for the right words.

“Away,” he finally responded, words slow and careful. “As far away from this place as we can run.”

**

I’m scared, Papa, she says, hands aching and body weak. She isn’t sure when the pain will go away. Reality becomes a confusing blur in front of her eyes, and she fears it. I don’t want to go back.

The silence is filled only by warm, mellow guitar and the distant humming of her father. It’s musical, loving, familiar.

He gives no verbal response. She wonders if he heard her at all. Perhaps he just doesn’t know what to say.

Five little dragons begin their descent down a mountain as big as it is new. They are heading towards home, even if they do not realize it yet.

Chapter Text

Wilbur, why did you take us in? The long sleeves of the yellow sweater keep falling over her fingers, interfering with her sign, and she struggles to push them back. The rain is drumming so hard outside the veranda that the backyard disappears behind a sleet of silver droplets.

He chuckles softly, and, with gentle hands, helps her fold the massive sleeves around her elbows. What? You mean, like, why did I let you into my home? Tallulah, of course I would.

She looks down. I was just curious.

Wilbur’s gaze goes distant. I mean, how could I not? You were shivering and you looked hungry, and I thought you were alone. His voice goes all funny. I didn’t know there were any kids left.

She pauses, something thick and weighted settling into her throat. Are we really the last ones? Part of her doesn’t want to know.

He holds her gaze for a moment, hands stilling, before he busies himself with fixing the sweater once more. He’s wrapped and unwrapped that fold three times now. This fickle thing , he says. It never stays stable.

She thinks that’s the end of the conversation.

A little dragon folds her wings tight over her body, hoping they will keep out the cold.

**

This island, as Four was quickly learning, had a whole lot of forest.

She had not foreseen this being a problem. The man with the bandana—Cellbit, he’d said—directed them towards the town as if the route was easy. Down for a long time, and then left. That simple.

The only problem was, after a day and a half of walking, the steep slope of the mountain had begun to even itself out. It was still a downhill trek, but the path wound itself into patches of earth that were so flat that Four was sure they’d reached the bottom. And then they’d keep walking and walking, and realize the flat earth tipped downwards once more into another earthy slope. It was maddening.

Cellbit certainly hadn’t warned them about it—if that really was his name. She liked to think it was, because then she would finally know a name that was true to its owner. Everyone else around her was labelled by a number. Even Cucurucho’s name was made up by One.

The night was infinitely more treacherous than the day. Which was unfortunate, really, because they’d thrown themselves into the woods right at the beginning of the evening. It didn’t take them long to figure out that the entire population of the forest was out to get them, but luckily One, who’d picked up a long, jagged stick and wielded it like a sword, was proficient in poking anything that came along their way.

It worked better sometimes than others.

Just as the moon turned the pine trees to silver, they stumbled across an abandoned cottage tucked deep into the woods. All the windows had been broken, and most of the place had been raided, but they were lucky enough to find a case of disposable water bottles and three cans of beans tucked into the back of a dusty cupboard.

Which was good, Two explained, because then they wouldn’t die from dehydration.

And great, Four had never even considered that as an option. She knew the monsters and ex-humans ruined by virus posed a threat to their lives—even infection was a risk—but nobody ever told her she could die from being thirsty . Next, they’d say she could die from hunger or something, too.

It sounded ridiculous. But then again, she hadn’t eaten in a long time, and the longer she walked, the more her head spun. Her muscles were sore and tired, and eventually numbed out from cold the longer they had trudged through the forest.

Huh. Her body was a lot weaker than she thought.

She was learning that living in the real world was harder than she’d expected, especially as sheltered by the Federation as she’d been.

They searched all the closets for any blankets and layers they could find, and huddled together in a mass on the floor. She and Five, as the little ones, got to go in the middle where the older ones would keep them warm. She didn’t know why, but the older three seemed to understand it as a sort of instinctual thing, without even explaining it.

One insisted on keeping watch. Three tried multiple times to get him to sleep, but it wasn’t until she and Two offered to take shifts that he settled down.

She fell asleep with Five clinging onto her body for warmth, constantly aware of the rise and fall of his little chest. Her fingers on one hand were interlocked with Three’s, and her other hand went to fidget with the bandana tied around her elbow, the one Cellbit gave her. She kept it close without quite realizing why. Part of her thought it was because it was a testament to the man’s existence, proof that they really had been saved, and that this wasn’t all a strange dream.

They left the next morning—much to Five’s dismay. Two insisted they couldn’t stay there: the rations would only last them another half day, and they were screwed anyway if they didn’t have more water than what was left in the bottles. So they spent the morning searching the cabin for supplies. One filled a backpack with the leftover rations and water bottles and a pocket knife, and a second backpack for Two carried rolled up blankets, a half-used first aid kit, and a hand-held, cylindrical thing that One said was a flashlight.

The closet had been mostly raided of clothes, but in the pocket of a moth-eaten jean jacket, Three found a folded up slip of paper. She spread it on the table, and with some decoding, they recognized it as an old map. The Federation was not located on the map, unfortunately, so they couldn’t estimate how far they’d walked, but it was useful, anyway. Three said she’d be the navigator, because she was the only one who could make any sense of the map, which was probably a good decision.

One found a metal bat hiding under a creaky floorboard. It was a much better weapon than a stick, he said.

And so they set out again, and struggled once more to follow Cellbit’s bare-bones, too-good-to-be-true directions.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult if the forest would just end . If she didn’t know the town existed, she would’ve thought the entire island was just forest. After about the first ten hours of walking, the deep green pines eventually gave way to shorter, white-trunked trees whose paper-thin leaves shone red in the early sun, and several hours after that, they’d stumbled into an array of trees with dark, chipping bark and fluttering pink petals.

They didn’t sleep the second night. They couldn’t afford to, not when the forest was crawling with things that wanted them dead. They just kept walking and walking and walking.

And then they were back into another green pine just like the first. It was all forest, regardless of appearance. Woods upon woods upon woods. Like they were walking in an elaborate circle without even realizing it.

It wasn’t long until Five started complaining. He was hungry and he was tired and his prosthetic leg, which was shorter than the other after his last growth spurt, made him slower than the others. Two eventually handed off their backpack to Three so he could carry Five on their back.

By noon the following day, they came across a river that ran in the direction they walked, which was a blessing in disguise, because they could fill up their water bottles whenever they needed. It didn’t taste great, and little pebbles and bits of debris got stuck in the water, but it was better than suffering from dehydration.

Plus, the river was located on the map, if the little blue line that cut through the forest was any indication.

It meant they weren’t too far from town, either. In fact, it was only another hour of walking before they were sure the mountain ran flat, and then it was finally time to turn left.

So, all they had to do now was keep walking towards the sea until they reached the village.

Four kept her head down as she walked. Eventually, her environment faded into grey before her eyes, and Three’s hand still clutching hers was the only thing keeping her grounded in the present. Otherwise, she let herself drift off into the world of her imagination, let her daydreams spin the wheel of reality in a different direction.

She’d never spent time with people in this way before, she realized. She got to hold Cucurucho’s hand sometimes, sure, but it was a discomforting and unsettling thing, a reminder he had complete control over her existence.

This was nice. Three was like a reminder that things would be okay. Even if they were cold, hungry, dehydrated, and sore, even if they had no home and they were throwing themselves into a world full of decay and virus, it was still better than the Federation.

Out here, they had each other.

It wasn’t until Three stopped in front of her that she came to a halt, barely stopping herself from crashing into the other girl’s back. Three’s eyes were wide and sparkling, lips parted slightly, and a flush of painted sky through the trees washed her face in pink light. She squeezed Four’s hand.

They had approached the treeline.

**

When they found the town, they were greeted first by a street that stopped at the edge of the forest and hosted two houses that remained intact. The one on the left was long abandoned—door breezing wide open, planks of the front deck sagging and rotted, paint faded to a greyish-black from mould.

Gross.

The one on the right side of the street, however, stood out in sharp contrast to its abandoned companion. It was clearly inhabited, if the warm yellow light pouring through the windows and washing the grass in comforting gold was any indication. The house was perhaps two stories with a backyard, and it looked cozy. Like a lovely sort of relief after days of walking. The exterior was a soft cream colour upholstered by a mid-toned wood trim and a sage green tiled roof where dewy moss grew in patches. Even in the early evening, its French-style windows were propped open, looking over a front lawn that had grown a little wild. Flowers and climbing vines were featured around every window.

Four’s insides felt as though they were buzzing. Her hands began stimming quietly, a small expression of the warm bubbles tickling her skin.

Five brightened, hopping off of Two’s back without warning and pointing at the house excitedly. “We can stay there!” He grabbed Two’s hand and yanked him forward.

One shook his head, gaze remaining fixated on the house. “No chance. We’re finding somewhere uninhabited.”

Three’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped in front of him, tilting her head in confusion. “One, Cellbit told us to get help from the townspeople. He said they’d keep us safe, remember?”

“And you believe him?” One scoffed, and his sign became extra expressive. “For all we know, Cellbit could just be another elaborate trap set by the Federation. Or punishment. I don’t know why we should listen to him until we can scope out the town for ourselves.”

Three did not seem happy about that. “I swear to God, One, I have been walking for forever at this point, and if you suggest we live in that abandoned house right now, I will deck you. I don’t even care.”

But One only shook his head. “No. It’s not protected enough.” He squinted into the blooming sunset and the town slowly darkening below it. “There have to be some other uninhabited places in the town. We’ll search until we can find something that will keep us for now.”

Three raised her hands to sign her response, but Two butted in. “I agree. We can’t just trust any adult that comes along.”

And, listen, Four knew it was easy to protest against One. He was often impulsive and irrational, decisions led by his innate need to keep the other children safe. But when Two , the logic of the group, agreed with him?

Four was more inclined to listen.

It seemed that Three was the same. She gritted her teeth, raising an eyebrow and schooling her face into an expression that made her look much more mature and intelligent than what was common for a twelve year old. For a long moment, she paused, seeming less than pleased.

“Fine,” she eventually signed. “But if this turns out to be a bad decision, I’m blaming both of you.”

By the time they slipped away from the trees and made their way into town, the sun was halfway hidden by the horizon, and it tugged a sheet of scarlet over the sky. The houses turned into black silhouettes around them. Two searched through their backpack for the flashlight, but One stopped her. A light would only draw attention to them, apparently.

The abandoned house and the cozy cottage were the only two buildings still intact along the street. The pavement was wide and the houses were spread far apart, and as they continued down the road, they came across the skeletal ruins of what must have once been other houses.

Four didn’t want to think about what might have happened to their owners.

Like they had a habit of doing every night, the group all linked hands so as not to lose each other in the dark. They wove through wide streets and crumbling alleyways, past houses that varied in decay, until they came into a larger part of town where the residential area gave way to a number of densely-packed businesses and storefronts. This part of town was so brightly coloured that, long ago, it might have looked cheerful.

At one point, they passed by a brick building with a vibrant mural spray-painted on one side that depicted a number of small children who bore halos above their heads. Below the mural read the fading words, Our lost heroes.

The child furthest to the left, for whatever apparent reason, made One falter. It was only for a second, but Four was good enough at reading One’s emotions to notice a flash of something dark crossing his eyes—perhaps disappointment, or even nausea.

The child on the mural was small—probably around Five’s age—and raised a sword high into the air, a wide grin slapped upon their face. Long blonde locks almost obscured the child’s effervescent green eyes. An inflatable duck floatie sat around the child’s waist.

And then, as if it was merely Four’s imagination, One moved on, undisturbed and unaffected. “We should move. The monsters might be coming soon.”

Two had their eyes narrowed, tracking the buildings with perhaps something that resembled familiarity. “If I’m correct, we shouldn’t be too far away from an old schoolhouse. Given the whole virus situation, it’ll probably be abandoned.” He frowned. “If it’s still intact, that is.”

Five widened his eyes, curiosity blooming brightly in his gaze. “How do you know that?”

Two shrugged. “I grew up here. I think all of us probably did, although I doubt anyone but One and I would remember anything.”

Three pitched in, “I remember some things. Pictures. Individual buildings.” Her eyes flitted up to One. “You’d probably remember the most of any of us.”

One didn’t respond. He seemed a bit lost in his own world, face paling and eyes going distant.

Four didn’t comment. Of course she didn’t remember anything—she’d been taken by the Federation when she was two. Her earliest memories existed only within blinding white walls.

At this point, everyone was too exhausted to try to protest against the schoolhouse idea, so they trailed silently after Two as he tried desperately to remember how to get there. They took several wrong turns, leading them back into a string of houses, before Three pulled out her map and the five of them craned their heads together to try to distinguish which tiny dot on the map belonged to the school.

They’d been aimlessly wandering for over forty-five minutes when they finally came across it, though it hadn’t been more than six blocks away from where they were in the first place.

The schoolhouse was small—only one room, from what it looked like—and it sat upon one side of the road, blanketed by overgrown green grass on either side and a spiked black fence.

Inviting. 

Despite what they’d expected, the building was still in relatively good shape, which meant someone was probably still taking care of it. Four thought the light grey exterior may have been white at some point, and the window situated in the front door had been smashed in. When Four peered inside, she noticed all the little desks were coated in a layer of dust. 

Otherwise, it was in good condition.

It would do for tonight. If they stayed out of view of all the windows and blocked off the door, it would be perfectly safe.

The moment they were inside and had put down the backpacks, One was pushing a desk and chair in front of the door. Five dug inside the packs. Ceremoniously and without hesitation, he threw down the blankets on the floor, sending up pillowing clouds of dust in the process.

The room was sparsely decorated, although perhaps it had been raided. Old cubicles full of books were crammed against each wall, which immediately drew Two’s attention. About two dozen desks faced the front of the room, where a long, mahogany desk sat under a stained-glass window, collecting dust.

It was kind of a sad sight.

Not long after they’d settled down, Three dragged Four into a mess of a storage room in the back to search for more useful tools or rations.

Four’s eye caught a cardboard box sitting on the edge of a shelf, and her mind immediately went flute. Flute flute flute.

Moments later, she pulled out a flute sculpted from bamboo and wasted no time blowing into the mouthpiece. A puff of dust came out the other side, and she coughed, causing Three to giggle with a sound that made her feel warm. 

They didn’t find much else worth bringing with them, unfortunately, but Three did pull out an unused notebook and a set of pencils. She clutched them protectively to her chest, and it was only then that Four remembered she had to leave her precious diary behind. She’d have a lot of signs to draw again, if she wanted to keep developing her secret language.

The moment they got back into the main room, Three shoved the new sketchbook and pencils into the front pocket of Two’s backpack, explaining that she didn’t know when they’d have to make a quick escape, but she didn’t want to risk leaving them behind.

Four thought that was probably smart. She added her new flute, too.

By then, the schoolhouse’s floors were awash with the silver light of the moon, and the other three were already settling under the blankets. Three’s hand settled gently around Four’s fingertips as always, and she pulled Four into their pile of warmth.

Four fell asleep listening to the gentle symphony of breaths rising and falling. Again and again and again.

**

She woke to a rustling and a jingle of something thin and metal. She launched into a sitting position, hands curling into her blanket, chest heaving quick breaths and heart fluttering. Through the crack of the splintered window above the door, she saw the top of a man’s head.

Someone’s coming in.

Oh, someone found them already. Before she was aware of what she was doing, she was shaking Five’s shoulders, yanking him out of sleep, and then she moved to Two.

Where was One?

Cold hands pressed down on her arms, and she flinched—hard—and twirled around to face a pair of stone-cold grey eyes. One shook his head at her slowly and pointed at the man on the other side of the door.

Oh. There was One.

He flicked the side of Three’s head to wake her up—which did not go over well with Three—and when Four peeked over the tables to get a better look at the man, One pushed her head out of sight. He slipped his hands around his bat in preparation for an altercation and pressed his back against the legs of a desk, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the door. The rest of the children followed, using the desks to hide themselves from view as much as possible.

Four counted in her head. One. Two. Three.

The door swung open with a creak that had Four’s shoulders rising to her ears uncomfortably. She tucked herself into a ball beside One, and, like always, her hand clamped around Three’s as a sort of silent comfort. It was very quickly becoming a habit, or perhaps a method of self-soothing.

The man entered with a slow, even gait, face blank and unaware of the children hiding only twenty feet away. The door tapped shut behind him quietly, and he sauntered over to the massive mahogany desk at the front of the room.

He was a short man—shorter than One, and definitely shorter than Two—and he walked without any sort of worry, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders turned down slightly. Black hair stuck out in tufts from a grey beanie, and when he turned his back to them, Four noticed small yellow wings fluttering gently against his back.

Some sort of hybrid, then. An avian, if she remembered correctly.

One tightened his grip around the bat. He was at just the right angle now so that the man wouldn’t see him over the desk. Four reached out to stop him, but he’d already darted away, crouched low and moving in pure silence towards the desk.

She could practically feel Two sighing in disappointment behind them.

The man kept his head pointed towards the desk as he dug into his pocket and pulled out something that made the jingling noise again. Keys. He flipped to the right one, past jagged and rusty bits of metal, and inserted the key into one of the desk drawers.

Meanwhile, One pressed his back against the desk, the side where the man wouldn’t be able to see him, bat clutched in still and steady hands.

A long moment passed. Two. 

“You can come out, you know,” the man spoke into the silence, and Four flinched. She hadn’t been expecting that. “I know you’re there, little mouse.”

She watched as One’s eyes widened slightly. But he’d been so quiet.

“I don’t know who it is this time, but unless you’re infected or stealing from me, then I don’t plan on hurting you.” The man’s face remained still. His voice was accompanied by the rustling sounds of him digging through the desk drawer. “I’ve played this game of paranoia long enough to know when it’s my imagination and when there’s actually someone in my school.”

My school. It dawned on Four that this man was a teacher. Or, perhaps he had been one seven years ago, before the virus hit.

Now, there weren’t any kids left to teach.

“You can stay,” he added, voice softening strangely, and cleared his throat. “If you’re passing through or escaping something, I mean. It happens more often than you’d expect.”

Oh. For a second, Four thought that perhaps that would be a good idea. If this man was offering shelter, then wasn’t he worth their trust? Hadn’t Cellbit promised these people would help them?

One certainly didn’t seem to think the same. He rolled his eyes in response to the man’s words, obviously distrusting, and gripped the bat tighter. His body shuffled against the desk, impossibly silent, and he slipped behind the man, rising on unsteady feet.

He raised the bat higher.

If the man noticed, he certainly wasn’t worried about it. He tilted his head to the side and continued digging through the drawer, pulling out an ink-stained envelope that was already ripped open and a pair of dull-edged pencils.

One snuck behind him gently, arms outstretched and bat held in front of him like he was planning on hurting the man. Maybe he was. Knowing One, it was probable.

The boy had a thirst for violence. Not that it was his fault—it had been ingrained into him early on in his life.

But the man must have had acute hearing, because the moment One swung the bat, he turned and wrapped his hands around the metal, stopping the blow from landing.

Four stifled her gasp. She couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried.

Both One and the man froze as their eyes landed on each other, and for a brief period of time, it was as though the world was still. The room went quiet, only interrupted by the thick pounding of Four’s heartbeat chugging dully in her ears.

And then the man’s face fell. He faltered, eyes crinkling and brow furrowing in confusion, mouth turning downwards. “Wait. Wait, are you a fucking kid? What the fuck?! ” His wings followed the trajectory of his emotions, flapping as if to punctuate his question with alarm. “You’re a kid?! ”

Fear flashed on One’s face. It was a subtle expression on him, one he knew how to hide well, but Four had spent enough time around the boy to diagnose the way his eyes went all sharp and darted around, looking for escape routes, and his shoulders tensed, white dragon wings pressed firmly to his back.

He pushed harder with the bat, and the man reacted by pushing back. The weapon shook between them.

And then, taking the man by surprise, One pulled away. The man stumbled forwards. One recovered faster, and—quicker than Four thought possible—jammed the handle of the bat into the man’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

“ ¡Ay, cabrón! ” The man shouted in pain, and dropped to the floor. His face twisted into a scowl, shoulders hunching, and he sucked in a breath. “ Motherfucker, that hurt. Jesus Christ. ”

One wasted no time. He slid around the desk, white sneakers slipping on the floor, and ran for Four and the other children. Four felt Two’s dead, unimpressed glare burning into One from a far distance, but she still stood when One gestured wildly to follow.

The man was staggering to his feet. “Wait, wait, asshole, come ba—oh my God, there are more. There are so many children. What the fuck, why are there so many children.”

Four didn’t have time to think. She felt the man’s gaze on her face as One grabbed her hand and pulled her into a stumbling run. She tried not to limp, ignoring the searing pain in her leg.

They didn’t have time to pack up the blankets. They only grabbed what was left in the backpacks and ran. She saw Two scooping up Five out of the corner of her eye and bolting.

The man’s distant shouting faded into silence the further they ran from the schoolhouse. Apparently, he didn’t try to follow them. Perhaps he was in such a state of shock that it didn’t cross his mind.

It was still early in the morning, and the rest of the town seemed to be deep in slumber. The sun was barely a gold spot on the billowing red silk of the horizon, and it showered the path in front of them in orange light. One’s hand was tight around hers as he practically yanked her down the street and into the thick of town, and she tried her best to keep up.

They didn’t care about being quiet this time. Their footfalls were dull slaps echoing off the walls of the desolate little market that flashed by them. Scraps of cloth in various bright colours sat, tattered and blowing on a faint breeze, on long wires above their heads. Terracotta bricks crumbled under their feet, packed into what had once been a tight formation and had since fallen apart. It would’ve been a beautiful place if she’d had the time to admire it.

They ran and ran and ran, weaving their way through tight alleys and empty streets, until they’d navigated their way to the edge of town once more. The familiar forest of green pines sat like a mockery to their left, smiling at their failure.

The moment they’d stopped, Four doubled over, planting her hands on her knees to gulp down as much air as possible. Her lungs were tight and her leg pulsed in pain and her stomach growled.

Two arrived last, slower than the others because she was carrying Five, and they set him gently on the ground. They walked up to One, crossing his arms, and oh, they did not look pleased. “Dumbass,” he signed, before promptly slapping One across the face.

One clutched his cheek, giving Two a wide-eyed look of shock. “What was that for?”

Two frowned. “We’re taking the abandoned house. And you’re not complaining, or else you sleep on the porch.”

She left no room for argument.

**

Well, at least the abandoned house had more blankets.

Scratch that, it had blanket. Four liked blanket.

She did not, however, like sharing Blanket with four other people, two of whom were blanket hogs.

This was very apparent over the next five nights that they spent cold and shivering, all pressed up together on an old bed frame on a sagging mattress that reeked of mould and sadness.

She didn’t get much sleep those nights, but the daydreams made it better. She imagined her situation away, and at least that made her warm. Plus, Five had a tendency to cling onto her body as tightly as possible in sleep, so that wasn’t too bad.

What sucked were the chores. One went out every day to try to catch some food, and he spent the rest of the day cooking it for them. Two was in charge of lists—taking note of supplies, needs, and working with Three to develop a plan for protecting the property. They all had cleaning and house restoration duties, so those were the only tasks given to Five, but Four was on scavenging duty. Meaning that she spent most of her day outside, and it was scary outside.

However, if she didn’t go with One to the forest, she stayed as close to the property as possible. Mostly sneaking up and down the streets closest to the house, rummaging through garbage cans for food that hadn’t spoiled or hopping fences to see if anyone was growing vegetables or fruit in backyard gardens.

Most people weren’t. Many of her efforts were in vain, and she felt like a failure for it. Once, she’d even stuck her hand into a trash bag and cut herself on the shards of a broken bottle. Three had shushed her gently and wiped the tears from her eyes as Two disinfected and cleaned the wound, and then she had to go back out and continue with a fresh bandage wrapped around her palm.

She didn’t like it out here in the real world. Well, she didn’t like it in the Federation, either, but this was different. Perhaps she was just impossible to please.

After all, she was free. She wouldn’t trade that luxury for anything.

On the sixth day living at the house, she was sitting on the curb, stomach growling, and staring longingly at the little cottage directly across the street. It was well-maintained, soft and cozy if not for the spikes and barbed wire decorated around the fence, and that same warm yellow light always shone through the window. Sometimes, Four would give anywhere to live in a place like that.

It was raining that day. Hard enough that, when she saw a figure appear in the window of the cottage, she had to squint to make out their features.

It was the first time she’d ever spotted the person who lived inside.

He was a tall man—maybe even taller than Cucurucho, as impossible as that seemed—and wore a mustard yellow sweater that made his hardened edges appear soft. He was pale, perhaps tired, but his eyes glistened even from afar with undeniable warmth. He leaned close to his reflection in the window and adjusted his fluffy brown curls. Then, several minutes later, the man entered his garden from the front door, something large and wooden with a long stick out the end in his hand.

Without noticing Four watching him from across the street, the man settled into a cushioned chair seated on the edge of the porch, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee, and settled the strange object in his lap.

Calloused fingers fluttered over six strings pulled taut from one end of the object to the other, and when he plucked them, Four shivered.

That sound.

It was music. He was playing an instrument.

For several minutes, she watched the man play in pure awe, unaware of the fact that she was completely in his line of vision. Luckily, he seemed distracted enough with the heavenly instrument that he didn’t seem to notice her. It helped that the splattering rain somewhat hid her from sight.

However, the rain also acted as a partial blanket for the music, and Four found herself straining to hear the lulls and dips of the melody. Cold droplets plinked lightly on her arms and slithered through her eyelashes, slipping off the tip of her nose.

She moved a little closer. It wouldn’t hurt, after all. The man was too engrossed in his music—he wouldn’t see her.

Four edged closer to the building, her runners sliding across wet pavement and stepping onto the sidewalk that harboured the cottage. The girl had to stand on her tiptoes to see the man over the fence.

He played. And he played, and he played, and he played, and though Four’s hair was plastered to her forehead from rain and she was shivering from cold, she could’ve watched the man play for another hour without complaint.

She’d never heard music like that before.

And then the man looked up, and Four didn’t have the chance to hide before their eyes locked.

“Oh.” The man’s movements slowed, eyes fluttering wider. The music came to an abrupt stop. “Hello, little one.” And she thought she heard him whisper, “ Holy shit. ”

She understood his surprise. He probably hadn’t seen a child in seven years.

The instrument was long forgotten in his grasp. He looked as if he was about to stand, but then he remained in place, mouth opening and closing like he was looking for the right words. Any words. He ran a long-fingered hand through his hair, looking positively bewildered.

Four’s gaze flitted down to the instrument in his hands again, and he must have followed her eye-line, because he said, “Guitar? Do you like guitar?” His fingers strummed the strings softly, and she felt herself smile. Her hands flapped excitedly. “Yeah? You like music?” The fingers of his other hand pressed down onto the tops of the strings, and when he strummed them this time, they made a different sort of sound.

She nodded. She did like music. Especially whatever music it was that he was playing.

Faintly, she realized the others might kill her for getting close to one of the townspeople like this. Even a man isolated on the edge of town. They never knew who might be secretly working for the Federation.

“Okay. Good,” the man said, his voice wavering only a little, and he laughed a little apprehensively. Four thought he might have been so shocked that he didn’t know what else to do. “Good, me—yeah, me too.”

Four tilted her head to the side, watching the man with wide, unblinking eyes. He was a bit of a strange man, that was for sure.

Gosh. Adults were weird.

He watched Four’s expression change, watched her momentary excitement fade into a profound sort of curiosity, and he softened, something like worry entering his gaze. “Hey, uh, do you—I mean, are you okay, little one?” He pushed his thin-framed, round glasses further up his nose. “You look hungry. Do you want any food?”

Four blinked at him.

“Okay,” he said nervously. “Uh, if you want to come inside, I can get you something to eat. Would you like that?”

Again, she remained quiet. If he was anything like the adults at the Federation, he would not take well to her signing back at him.

In absence of a response from Four, the man slowly put the instrument—guitar, did he say?—on the deck, and stood, one hand held steadily in front of him as if he was approaching a frightened animal.

Maybe he was.

And then he took a step forward, and Four’s brain leaped into action all at once. Because that meant he was coming for her, and oh, God, she’d revealed her existence to another townsperson, hadn’t she? Which not only put herself at risk, but her entire chosen family. Each of the other children hiding across the street were now in danger of being discovered.

She inhaled sharply and scrambled backwards, heart hammering in her chest.

She shouldn’t have done this. She knew she was doing something wrong, and she still did it.

The man’s face dropped. “Wait, wait—no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He backed up again, hands raised high in the air. “I shouldn’t have come towards you like that without warning. I’m sorry. Please don’t be scared.”

Oh, it was too late for that. Now, Four couldn’t take back the damage she’d caused.

She backed away, eyes pinned on the strange man the whole time.

“Wait, little one, come back. It’s not safe out there.”

It wasn’t safe with him, either. One said they couldn’t trust the townspeople, so certainly this man wasn’t worth a shred of her trust.

She couldn’t run back into the abandoned house now—that would just give away her location. So she was stuck, wasn’t she?

She couldn’t get out of this.

She turned on her heel and ran into the woods, ignoring the man’s fading shouts.

**

Were you really that scared of me? He asks, watching her through glasses tinted a greyish-blue in the reflection of the rain.

Cold air pours up her spine like an old, familiar song, and she shivers. I thought you wanted to hurt me. I thought all the adults did.

Oh, darling, we would never hurt you , he promises, his voice warm and sweet like honey. I know I certainly won’t. We’re not like the Federation, you know.

She nods. I know. I didn’t know that back then, though.

He frowns. Looking as if he wants to reach out, to pull her close, but he knows better. Eventually, he says, Tallulah, I promise you that as long as I’m around, no harm will ever come to you. Alright? I mean it.

She dips her chin into her collarbone, letting her bouncy curls hide her soft smile.

She thinks she likes her new name. She thinks she likes it a lot.

A little dragon hides behind a tree, wings pressed nervously against the bark, waiting for the man on the edge of society to go back home.

Chapter Text

The only thing scarier than a dark past is the potential of a bright future. Wilbur meets a ghost of a child and questions whether they have ever lived in the present.

Then again, has anyone?

He watches, he waits, he wonders.

The ghost disappears into the fog.

**

For once in his life, Wilbur didn’t know what to do. He was positively baffled by the child, mouth hanging slightly ajar and cheeks paling in shock. The moment their tiny frame disappeared behind the treeline, Wilbur blinked, heaving in a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and promptly decided he’d hallucinated the poor kid.

Children did not exist on this island. Not anymore. Not since the virus.

Yeah, he definitely hallucinated them.

Or maybe, he thought hysterically, they were a ghost. He really hoped they weren’t. He didn’t want to develop clairvoyance anytime soon—those he’d met who had it told him the island was practically drowning in ghosts, although that was no surprise.

They said seeing ghosts wasn’t uncommon in these parts, though he’d never experienced a sighting himself. According to Bad, one would only see spirits during a near-death experience. After being restored to health, most of the ghosts would fade into the background, unable to communicate. Most. Sometimes, a few still desperately devoted themselves to the seers. Those were the scary ones.

But Wilbur wasn’t dying. He’d never been close to death before. So that couldn’t be it, right?

Wilbur sat in silence for at least five minutes, nearly convinced the child was merely a spirit. That had to be the only explanation for the sighting, because somehow, the concept of clairvoyance was more acceptable than the concept of a living, breathing child.

It was simply impossible. Right? Children couldn’t develop virus immunity. They simply couldn’t.

No, fuck that, it had to have been a child. What was he thinking? He’d never believed in all that creepy mediumship stuff.

It felt so real . They had been right there , and Wilbur had talked to them, and they’d listened to Wilbur play, blinking at him through wide, sparkling eyes.

It had been a long time since he’d been in the presence of a child that young, and he’d forgotten how impossibly warm and curious and all-encompassing their gazes could become.

They were skinny, though—knobbly bones visible through their skin at the elbows and knees, and they appeared worryingly weak. Dark eyebags stained the skin beneath their eyes, and one of their hands was wrapped in a bloodied bandage. Their hair was a wild poof of white curls that bounced and flowed down their shoulders, even whiter than the hospital gown covering their frame, which was perhaps the thing about the child that concerned Wilbur the most.

There was no hospital on the island. Not even a medical clinic. Everyone tended to their own wounds, and if they couldn’t, they went to Foolish.

So where did this little kid come from?

At first glance, Wilbur thought they had to have been six or seven. They looked about that height and weight, anyway—but then Wilbur took a closer look at their face, and saw in it the wisdom and maturity of a child closer to ten.

Which made him start to worry that their growth had been stunted. The child was too little for a ten year old, but given how hungry they appeared, they could have simply been malnourished.

Why was he getting so protective of a child he didn’t know? Perhaps it was the old, rusted fatherly instincts kicking back into gear after years of disuse, but he thought that he’d beat up the person who raised this kid, if he ever had the misfortune of meeting them. Whatever asshole would look at those eyes and leave that kid homeless and frightened was not someone Wilbur wanted to encounter.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He sat frozen in place, arms curled around his chair, eyes pinned on the space where the child disappeared and throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously.

He could, uh. Well. He could. He could…?

Damn it, he didn’t know.

You could call Phil , a little voice rang in the back of his head. You know he’s better with kids than you. And then, his mind supplied unhelpfully, Or, he was.

No, he decided. That poor child was already terrified enough of Wilbur alone. He doubted they’d be too happy if Wilbur told someone else about them. If he wanted to help the kid, he had to take things slow and earn their trust first.

So he watched. And he waited. And he wondered.

Over the next few days, spent under perpetual cloud and chill, he kept a keen eye on his window, waiting for the return of a wide-eyed, adorable child. He left a candle flickering on his front porch—the island’s unspoken sign of welcome—just so they knew that, should they change their mind, Wilbur’s door was always open to them. He didn’t want to push or to force. He wanted to earn the child’s trust in full, and only of their own will.

The candle wasn’t enough. He started losing sleep thinking about the little kid, wondering if they were cold and starving and sleep-deprived, wherever they were. If they were living out in the forest, they probably were, and it made Wilbur sick to the stomach.

So he started leaving out food. At first, it was just a slice of bread wrapped in paper that he left on a ceramic plate outside his gate and paired with a glass of water. He figured that if the child was hungry, they shouldn’t be eating too much at once—they’d only get sick.

It wasn’t twenty minutes later that he slipped outside and found the plate and glass empty.

So they were still in the area, then. Either that, or some animal or infected creature had come by and somehow figured out how to delicately unwrap the paper to get to the food. Somehow, that seemed unlikely, but then again, was it more unlikely than a child?

The next time he refilled the plate—this time with an orange—it was gone within the hour.

His gut twisted with nausea, mouth turning downwards in a frown and wishing he could do more. The kid was probably really, really hungry.

He continued the pattern for three days, filling up the plate and glass multiple times each day. Every time, he came back to find them empty.

So he started filling it up a little more. By the end of the third day, he thought it might have been three-fourths of what a ten year old might normally eat per serving, and he hoped it wasn’t too much for their little stomach to handle before it was ready.

On the fourth day, he was passing by the front window when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His shoulders immediately hunched in response, feeling out the static tension in the air.

He knew what that sensation meant.

He was being watched.

Wilbur whipped around, looking for the pair of eyes, and eventually found them peering at him through the window. From the other side of the gate, the child watched him through eyes that were a dull, washed-out grey, yet so spectacularly alive with emotion that they might as well have been bursting with colour. In their hands, they clutched an uneaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, the one Wilbur had laid out for them not fifteen minutes earlier.

Wilbur’s breath caught in his throat. So he really wasn’t hallucinating, then.

“Wait,” he breathed, and made a mad dash for the front door. But by the time he’d yanked it open, the child was already zipping away into the trees, faster than he thought possible for someone their size. When they turned, he caught a glimpse of scaly white wings fluttering behind their back, and then they disappeared into the roiling forest once more.

Wilbur waited for several minutes, eyes pinned to the spot where they’d disappeared, but the child was well and truly gone.

“Fuck.” He blew out the breath he’d been holding, wiping a hand down his face, and half-heartedly kicked the doorstep in frustration.

And then immediately regretted it when pain bloomed in his foot. “Ah. Oh, shit. Oh, I hate everything.”

It was pathetic, really. He was kind of glad the kid wasn’t there to see that.

Back to the drawing board.

**

Facts he knew about this child:

1: They were drawn to music, particularly guitar.

2: They stimmed by flapping their hands, which could be an indication of neurodivergency.

3: Although they seemed to understand English, they had not spoken a word yet.

4: They could have potentially come from a hidden institution or hospital. (But where?)

5: They were a hybrid , which made things a lot more interesting. Judging by their wings, they were probably a reptilian sort of hybrid, although not one he recognized based on his limited knowledge of hybrids. And what sort of hybrids had wings?

Phil was the hybrid expert, not him. Wilbur was just a plain old human. Boring as could be.

For the thousandth time, he worried he’d made the wrong choice not bringing in Phil earlier. Phil was also the child expert, having raised two kids all on his own.

Well. One. There was only Wilbur now, and he supposed he was too old now to be considered a kid.

But Wilbur had several years of experience taking care of a child, so that had to count for something, right? Yes, he was rusty after so many years out of practice, and yes, he had been co parenting back then, which would be wildly different from taking care of a random child on his own.

He didn’t want to think about it. His chest only turned tight, and he felt his lungs stop in favour of letting the old memories steal his breath away. Those fickle old things always seemed to sting.

**

On the fifth day, he decided he’d take a bit of a risk. Which meant that, if he failed, the child might go hungry today—but if he succeeded, perhaps he could earn a bit of that trust.

That morning, when he set out the usual plate of chopped fruit and the glass of water, he pulled up a chair in front of the fence, settling his guitar into his lap. He left the front gate purposely open so that he’d be able to properly communicate to the child, should they decide to show up.

And he played. Fingers plucked an old, disgruntled melody he’d memorized through muscle memory, as much a part of him as his own blood. He could’ve played the song with his eyes closed—so he did, turning the world into a dull red beneath his closed eyelids. He tipped his head up to the sky, basking in the little sliver of sun that had decided to peek through the clouds today.

He cracked open an eye only to check on the plate of food.

It remained untouched. The child was nowhere to be seen.

He sighed, closing his eyes once more. A chill ran across his exposed face and neck, whistling through his hair, and he shivered. He began humming along to the melody in the hopes it would distract him from the cold.

It was the one tune that, despite how many times he’d played it, would always bring him comfort. Perhaps it was just stubborn nostalgia, but it reminded him of a time before the virus, back when he was young and things were bright and lovely—at least, comparatively.

Way back in the day, he used to sing it to them , too. He liked to think they still existed in the fabric of the melody, that they danced on the wind as the song twisted through the air.

(He didn’t want to think about that. Seven years and he still wasn’t ready.)

Maybe his nostalgia was why he decided to play the song on loop. Surely, if it was so comforting for him, then the child would find a bit of comfort in it, too.

Sure enough, several minutes later, he heard a rustling several feet in front of him. His eyes flickered open, and as soon as they did, the child in front of him froze. Their eyes were wide as always, this time with what looked like fear, and they clutched a strawberry in one still hand.

It was Wilbur’s first time seeing them up close. Now, he could distinguish the freckles trailing up their cheeks and dotting their nose, even speckled here and there on their chin and neck. They were almost like pretty little paint splatters, tiny and delicate where they dusted over light brown skin and cheeks bitten rosy by the cold. They held their emotion not just in their face but in their entire body, taut with apprehension, like they already anticipated something going wrong. Several bandaids had been plastered over their knees, and another one curled over the edge of their jaw. Though their entire body was still, the wind blew gentle white curls across their face.

They blinked at them through brilliant white eyelashes so long they were like spider legs.

This time, Wilbur kept the music playing as he addressed them. “It’s alright,” he encouraged, keeping his voice gentle and friendly, “you can eat. I won’t disturb you.”

The child only remained eerily still, eyes fixated on Wilbur as though he might not see them if they stayed still enough. It was somewhat familiar to a deer caught in headlights, and that comparison made Wilbur feel unsettled.

Then, as Wilbur refocused his gaze on his guitar, continuing his soft humming, he heard the telltale sounds of shifting and the scrape of ceramic against pavement. The next time he looked up, the child had sat down cross-legged in front of him, the plate of food pulled into their lap. Each time they made eye contact, the child went still, as if frightened that this time would be the time Wilbur would…he didn’t know, attack them? Eat them? Harm them?

Again, he thought about what it would be like to beat up whoever had hurt the kid. No child should feel that afraid.

As he felt their starry-eyed gaze watching him, he didn’t dare look up again—he knew how much the child liked music, and he’d hate to make them feel unsafe with any sort of unexpected eye contact.

They were seemingly entranced by the guitar. Wilbur understood. He’d been just the same when he was that young.

And then, when he’d finished the song, he allowed the silence to fill up the space previously occupied by the music for just a second. Long enough that in the absence of the melody, he heard the plink of the child setting the plate back down on the pavement.

And Wilbur made the mistake of looking up again, and the child froze once more—except this time, they held a little stained pouch in their hands, and were shovelling everything they hadn’t eaten into the bag. The moment Wilbur saw them moving, they hid the bag behind their back, cheeks going red as if caught doing something naughty.

Wilbur shook his head, eyes widening in alarm. “No, no, it’s alright. You can take it with you, I don’t mind. Go ahead.”

Faintly, he wondered how much the child had been taking away with them. He’d just been assuming they were eating it all in one go, but if they were saving it for later or consuming it throughout the day, they could avoid getting sick.

6: The child was smart. Even more impressive, they showed restraint. If Wilbur was that hungry, he might’ve just torn into the food as soon as possible.

He stored away the new information for later.

The child watched Wilbur curiously for a few more seconds, until Wilbur grew slightly uncomfortable with the pressure of their intelligent eyes. Eventually, he averted his gaze.

Not seconds later, something red and waxy flittered into the corner of his vision, landing gently on the grass by his shoes.

He furrowed his eyebrows.

A poppy. An amapola , he’d heard them called.

The child tucked themself into a ball, wrapping their arms around their knees and hiding their head so only their eyes and poofy hair were visible. It was kind of adorable. Their gaze flickered down to the flower, and then up to Wilbur, and then down and up again.

Like they were waiting for him to take it.

And Wilbur thought he might have melted.

A wide smile slowly wavered into existence on his face, and his chest bloomed with something bright and warm. “Is that—is that for me?”

The child didn’t respond. Their unblinking grey eyes only tracked Wilbur’s movements as he bent down to pick up the flower. He moved slowly, remembering how they’d reacted last time, and cradled the poppy in gentle hands.

It was just beginning the peak of its bloom, petals extending hungrily towards the sky, impossibly red. The texture was soft and almost rubbery, and in the centre, the petals were held together by a black pistil.

It made him want to crumble into shaking pieces. It was adorable.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, and his own voice was so sweet and full of warmth that he barely recognized it. It had been so long since he’d been around a child that he’d forgotten his voice grew different around them. “I love it.” He tucked the poppy proudly into the front pocket of his jacket. This was a most precious object.

If anything, the child beamed upon seeing how happy the flower made Wilbur. It was just a little twitch of their lips and a crinkle of their eyes before they hid their face into their knees—but Wilbur saw that smile. Their snowy curls blew faintly on the breeze, scattering tendrils of white across their exposed skin, and they shivered.

Hm. 

“Are you cold?” Wilbur asked, suddenly aware of the temperature. The poor thing didn’t even have a coat—only a muddy pair of runners and their paper-thin hospital gown. Without thinking, he pulled off his jacket and placed the poppy instead in his lap.

He made sure to move extra slowly and carefully when he extended the jacket to them, and placed it on the ground between them. “You can take that if you want. It’ll keep you warm.”

Their eyes flicked between him and the jacket warily. Something in their gaze was still blatantly distrusting, which was smart in a sad sort of way.

They shuffled backwards nervously from the jacket, but remained seated in front of Wilbur, eyes fixating themselves on his face with that same wild curiosity, as though Wilbur held all the secrets to the universe at his very fingertips.

“Okay. Well, uh, I’ll just leave that there for now, and you can think about it.” The child stayed put. After a moment, Wilbur cleared his throat and continued, “I guess I should introduce myself, huh? My name is Wilbur.” Silence. The child had no apparent reaction to the statement. “Do—do you have a name?”

And then they did that thing —where they tilted their head just a little to the side, and their pupils grew a bit wider, lips quirking up like they found something funny.

They shook their head.

And, well, Wilbur hadn’t actually expected a no from that. Usually, when he asked that question, the response was always just the name . Not a yes or no. Especially not a no.

Wilbur felt something ache hollowly in his chest. “You don’t…you don’t have a name?”

Their shoulders curled in on themselves. Wilbur wondered if he’d done something wrong again, if he’d pried, but before it could eat away at him, the child brightened again. They proudly held up four fingers on one hand.

Wilbur stared at them. Four. What was four supposed to mean?

He voiced the question. The child only raised the four fingers higher, shaking them slightly to add emphasis. Their eyes sparkled with determination, like they needed Wilbur to understand.

They placed a palm flat against their chest, and then made the number four again. Chest. Four. Chest. Four.

“You. Four.” All of a sudden, it clicked. “Wait, like you are Four? That’s your name?”

The child nodded excitedly, a grin cracking on their face. Then, their mouth twisted to the side, and their hand made a wishy-washy movement.

“It’s kind of your name.” It made no sense. “Alright.” It was not alright, in fact. He didn’t want to know why this child was named after a number. Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m sorry if this is blunt, and you don’t have to answer this, but why…why can’t you talk?”

They froze. It wasn’t as much filled with fear this time as careful thought, like they were trying to figure out how to explain to Wilbur. Finally, to Wilbur’s surprise, they stuck out their tongue and pointed at it.

It was thin and forked, only a glimpse of pale pink. Much more reptilian than human.

Oh. Their tongue probably couldn’t form English words.

“Oh,” Wilbur breathed. “Cool.”

The child positively beamed in response to Wilbur’s support, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. They were endearing, he had to admit that, and they seemed to soon be warming up to Wilbur. Perhaps they’d been lonely.

Their face scrunched up slightly, mouth turning downwards into a little frown, as if trying to decide something. Their hands began moving in front of them—slowly at first, but then they picked up speed—moving so quickly and intricately that Wilbur could barely figure out what they were doing.

And then it hit him all at once like a train, and for a brief second, he felt dizzy. He swallowed down the bout of nausea that threatened to rise, and nodded slowly in understanding.

They were speaking sign language. That wasn’t the upsetting part, however—he recognized the intricate simplicity of the language, far less expressive than other forms of sign language he’d seen. Beautiful in the way that was almost deadly, but analytical, each sign calculated and schooled into perfection.

It was the sign language of the Federation. He’d seen Osito Bimbo, the bastard with the bear head, signing in eerily similar ways to his little prick friends, the creepy masked ones who seemed to trail the bear man everywhere when he went out in public.

He felt sick all over again. What did it mean if this kid, this precious little ray of sunshine, spoke his language?

Suddenly, Wilbur’s vision of beating up whoever hurt them got a lot clearer, and involved a man with a bear mask for a head.

Only three of the islanders in town spoke any of the sign—Cellbit and Bad, who’d decoded bits and pieces by watching back old footage of Osito Bimbo and looking for patterns in the language—and Roier, who knew a few lone words by extension of Cellbit alone.

Wilbur must have gone pale or distant or something, because the child’s warm smile dropped, and their head cocked to the side. Less out of curiosity—this time, it was touched with a note of concern, of extreme pinpointed caution.

“Little one,” Wilbur began, trying to keep the shake out of his voice, “where did you say you were from, again?”

And just like that, he’d fucked up. The child’s eyes widened, and their breath caught fast in their throat. They scrambled away, grabbing their pouch tightly in one hand, and stumbled to their feet. When they stood, he noticed a gash cut deep into their leg.

“Wait,” Wilbur said, and before he knew it, he was standing, too. His guitar was placed gently on the seat of the chair, but the child was already taking off. “Wait, wait, don’t go! Not again!”

The thing was, he knew he should’ve left them alone. He knew they were scared, and he shouldn’t have tried to follow them if he wanted to earn even a sliver of their trust.

But he’d come so close. They were bonding. Hell, the kid had even smiled at Wilbur, and it had felt like pure sunlight grew a second home in Wilbur’s chest.

His footsteps picked up to a run.

When they noticed Wilbur trailing them to the edge of the woods, their eyes widened. They quickened their pace, and Wilbur did, too.

At the last moment, when they were so close to the trees that the child could have reached out and touched the bark, they made a full turn and bolted in the other direction, towards the abandoned house across from Wilbur’s own. It hadn’t been inhabited in years, not since the owners had…well. Since the virus happened.

Wilbur watched as they slipped inside the front door and disappeared.

Oh , Wilbur thought. That was where they’d been hiding all this time.

At least they’d be warmer and safer there than in the woods.

Wilbur wasted no time in chasing after them, too committed now to running after the child to slow down. He’d already caused enough damage that he couldn’t take away now, and he needed to find out more about this kid, if only for his own sanity. Part of him needed to reassure himself that there was something about this world that would let the kid be okay. Whether it was safety or comfort or good food, there had to be some saving grace for them in this awful, awful situation.

He marched up the front steps of the abandoned house, careful to avoid the sagging parts of the deck, and pulled open the door in front of him.

And stopped.

This time, it was he who froze. Because there, crouched in a huddle in front of him, all their shoulders tense with the realization that they’d been found out, were five little reptilian hybrid children with matching white hair. Hiding amongst them was the child, the one that had been coming to Wilbur’s house.

So that’s why they’d saved up the rest of their food. They had other mouths to feed.

If Wilbur knew, he would’ve left out a lot more food on that plate.

They were of varying ages: two of them were teenagers, and a third seemed to be approaching it, whereas the other two—including Wilbur’s little friend—appeared several years younger.

“ Fucking hell ,” he heard himself whisper, mouth feeling dry.

Yeah, he thought, maybe now was the time to bring in Phil.

**

It is said that poppies are bringers of wild dreams and hallucinations. He certainly thinks he’s dreaming.

The ghost is only one of five little spirits, and they watch him with matching frightened eyes.

He clutches the little poppy tighter. He has some decisions to make.

Chapter Text

Two: Uninjured. Location: the abandoned house.

Three: Sprained wrist. Bandaged and resting. Location: the abandoned house.

Four: Minor cuts across hand. Bandaged. Deep gash in leg. Cause of minor pain and mild infection risk. Difficulty running—walking is fine. Location: one block North of the abandoned house—within sight.

Five: Notable fatigue and minor scrapes on left arm. Little to no infection risk. Location: the abandoned house.

All were accounted for. Chayanne could rest.

**

He didn’t know where Four was getting the scraps.

For the first few days spent at the house, Four struggled to scavenge. It made sense: she had to walk a few blocks just to find inhabited houses—other than the one across the street, of course, which they’d already agreed was a no-go zone—and even then, the most she’d find was leftover browning fruit or stale bagels taken from garbage bins and the occasional vegetable pulled straight from the ground.

Chayanne had taken it upon himself to hunt for food in the woods, but after he’d returned the first night with a rabbit and had figured out how to skin and cook it for them, he realized his mistake. The fact that he’d killed a little animal made Five and Three cry and Four stop talking to him for days. Two only stood there and shook his head disapprovingly—the bastard.

He soon learned after that he would not be killing any more animals for food, even if they were slowly beginning to starve.

So, that made his job a lot harder. The kids hesitantly accepted eating animal meat if the animal was already dead, but most of the corpses he found rotting on the forest floor—and there were many—were little more than bones. He pointedly avoided looking at any body that appeared even remotely human. Again, there were many.

Even when he did find meat, it made most of them sick. They’d never been fed meat at the Federation, and although Chayanne was pretty sure it was part of his diet as a child, his body wasn’t used to it anymore.

They decided to go vegetarian for the time being, at least until their bodies were stable enough to handle more. It wasn’t ideal, but then again, nothing about the situation was.

Chayanne felt like a failure. Most days, he returned with a few handfuls of berries collected lamely in his backpack. Sometimes, he’d bring back a water bottle of sap, because at least they could boil that down and have something sweet in a measly mimicry of dessert. Any mushrooms he brought back would have to be identified as edible before consumption. Other than that, their diet consisted of stinging nettle, pine nuts, the occasional fern, and whatever Four could bring back from her trips into the neighbourhood.

That was, at least, until last week, at which point Four brought them back an entire slice of white bread. Fresh bread, he might add, which was even more of a surprise. When they asked where she found it, she merely said it was laying by someone’s compost bin. He didn’t have the energy to try to tell whether or not she was lying. He was just happy to have food.

The next day, she brought home an orange, and then a banana, and in the afternoon, a little plastic bag of trail mix.

That was a little more suspicious.

Still, she insisted she found it by the compost, so they accepted it hungrily. It still wasn’t much, especially split between five of them, but it was something , at least. And the food was always fresh and delicious, so it wasn’t like any of them were complaining.

It did make Chayanne wonder, though. Because if Four was telling the truth, and she really had been finding fresh food waiting for her multiple times a day, then it meant someone probably knew she was coming. Which was bad. Either that, or Four was lying, and she had found it somewhere else. Which was also bad.

Chayanne had a tendency to worry about it either way, and so he did .

Two weeks after their escape from the Federation, Chayanne returned tired, hungry, and apart from a few bottles of river water and a small handful of mushrooms, empty-handed. His head pounded with an oncoming headache, probably as a result of dehydration, but as always, the others got first priority to the food and water. They were younger, and they needed it more.

For now, he’d just stay silent.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t already in a bad mood when he slumped through the front door and dropped his pack on the ground, kicking his shoes off so they banged against the wall. His switchblade—the one they’d taken from the cabin all those days ago—burned a hole in his pocket, but he didn’t dare take it out yet. It remained permanently attached to him. Just in case.

A number of rhythmic footfalls down the stairs was the only warning before Three came sliding down the railing and jumped off at the end. She landed near silently, although the rotting plank beneath her foot gave a sickening creak in response to her sudden weight.

“I told you not to do that,” Chayanne said blandly, barely putting any effort into his signs. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Three ignored him. Apparently, she already had her own agenda—as she usually did—and she raised her hands to sign to him.

“Have you seen Four today?” Her brows were weighed down with concern. Though Three was certainly the most put-together of the five, even she looked dishevelled after nearly two weeks of living on their own. They had no access to running water or fresh clothing, so she was as filthy as the rest of them, and her newly-sprained wrist was wrapped in a number of bandages stained a reddish-brown from dirt and dried blood.

He could tell she hated it, too. That was the worst part of it all.

Chayanne shrugged. “She’s supposed to be out right now. It’s scavenging time.”

“One, listen to me,” she signed, and Chayanne wiped a tired hand down his face. He hated when they used that name for them—fuck, it wasn’t even a name, it was a number —because his name was Chayanne, even if they didn’t know it. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t told them—something about waiting for a time when they weren’t slowly dying.

But he was the oldest, and he had to protect them, so when Three was concerned, Chayanne would listen. “Is something wrong?”

She shrugged. “I just think it’s weird she hasn’t come back since this morning. Usually she gets bored and starts bugging us by now. She never spends all day out there without complaint.”

That sounded about right. As much as Chayanne loved Four, she could be a hard girl to please.

“And…what, she’s been out since morning?”

Three nodded.

Update: Location of Four unknown. Likely in the area. Could be at risk.

Chayanne sighed. God, he did not want to deal with this right now. Still, he ignored the aches and pains in his shoulders and made his way to the staircase. He curled one hand into a fist and thumped it against the shaky railing twice so it made a loud knocking noise. Then, there was a pause, and he knocked in a pattern of five.

Moments later, he heard two sets of footsteps pattering upstairs, and Two and Five poked their heads into view, craning their heads over the upstairs railing to see him.

“Do either of you know where Four is?” He signed, and he knew he looked less than pleased, as much as he tried to hide his expression.

Five shrugged, unbothered. He started to walk away again, but Two grabbed his collar and yanked him back into sight. She signed with the other hand, “Is she still out?”

Chayanne raised his hands to answer, but he didn’t have time to formulate a response before the front door banged open. He resisted flinching, pulling the fear deep under his skin, and turned.

A blur of white curls was his only warning before Four burst into the front hall, running so fast she nearly crashed. Chayanne hardly had time to grab onto the girl before she went sliding right into the railing.

He crouched down in front of her. “What? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes were wide and panicked, and her little lungs swelled and deflated rapidly. The sounds of Two’s and Five’s footsteps fleeing down the stairs followed, accompanied by the noisy creaking of each hazardous step.

Four didn’t answer. She only pointed at the door, which hung partially ajar, her eyes wild and laced with fear, not unlike a scared animal.

Chayanne didn’t need to be told twice. He didn’t need an explanation or a proper reason; he just knew that his family was scared, and that was enough for him.

He was the oldest, after all, so he had to take care of the others. He stepped in front of Four, pushing her behind him, and his fingertips closed around the switchblade in his pocket. He drew it out, hands slow and steady, as his ears became aware of the sound of heavy boots coming up the stairs to the front porch.

He pressed down hard on the handle of the knife, and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the blade slide out with a gentle shing .

The door pushed open with a creak, revealing an inordinately tall man. As in, a very tall man, which was not good, because Chayanne had less of a chance of standing up to a very tall man. He wore a sunny yellow sweater that looked out of place in this dreary, bleak house, and when he saw the group of children standing before him, his lips parted in clear surprise.

The man’s chest sunk, as if the very air had been sucked out of it. “ What the fuck ,” he whispered.

Well, that was enough of that. Chayanne moved fast, hurling the switchblade at the man without another thought. He refused to let anyone close to his family, not when he could hurt or deceive or threaten them. He would protect his family until the end.

The man shouted in surprise. He only barely managed to shut the door again in time for the knife to land with a solid thunk into the rotting wood in the exact place where his head had been moments before.

Part of Chayanne’s throat tightened thinking about how, if the man’s reflexes weren’t so fast, he could’ve killed him. He didn’t want to kill anyone, not unless he had good reason.

Hey, it wasn’t Chayanne’s fault that he had good aim. Blame it on the guards for training him.

It was a dangerous thing to turn a lover into a fighter.

For a long pause, everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. As if a single exhale would cause a rupture in the momentary peace that occupied the aftermath of the tension.

Chayanne was all too aware of the man’s presence on the other side of the door. He hadn’t made a move to leave yet, which meant that he might try to come back in.

Absolutely not.

“Come on,” he signed to Two, hands shaking more than he would’ve liked. Something burned in the corners of his eyes, but he wasn’t scared, he wasn’t , because he was the oldest and he couldn’t afford to get scared.

With the help of Two and Three, they managed to push an old desk against the door, one that would hopefully keep the man out for now. For the man’s part, he hadn’t even tried to leave, apparently paralyzed by shock.

While the three of them worked, Four and Five huddled on the dusty, mildewy couch that faced the front windows, and Five rubbed at the glass to wipe away the dirt.

Chayanne raised his hands to tell them to get away from the windows, but paused. He crept over and crouched down to their level, eyes narrowing in on the man outside the door, who hadn’t noticed them watching him yet.

For several long minutes, he stood in front of the door, eyes wide open and lips slightly parted, looking like a complete idiot.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he laughed. It was humourless and full of nerves, probably more to shake his anxiety free. After a few moments of pacing restlessly, one hand tugging at his hair, he sat down on the front steps and pulled out a phone.

“Hi, Phil,” he said. “I have a bit of a problem.”

Update:

Potentially dangerous entities: the man across the street, who just burst through the front fucking door.

**

Alright. Time to leave. Their stay in the abandoned house was short and only barely tolerated, but they’d been found out, so it was high time to find somewhere new.

There had to be another place in town for them. They’d just have to be more careful, set new rules.

In the meantime, Chayanne had Four and Five watch like hawks through the window to see when the man left.

He didn’t. In fact, as the rest of the group scrambled to pack up everything they’d need to take with them, he remained on the front steps, occasionally looking back towards the door in a slight resemblance of fear. His hands rubbed together in the cold, breath puffing up in the air, shoulders hunched together. A few minutes after he hung up the phone, he craned his neck to peer down the street.

As if looking for someone.

Fuck , Chayanne thought, that wasn’t good. Oh, he’d be having words with Four to figure out what the fuck happened and how the man found out about her.

And then he stopped, because he realized, oh. That’s where she was getting the food. She’d been taking it from the man.

Or, even worse, he’d been giving the food to her.

Huh. 

Chayanne wasn’t mad, not really. How could he be? She was nine years old and hungry—of course she’d willingly take food if it was offered.

But he was frustrated. And stressed , because now he had to relocate four other people to an unknown location without the man on their front porch finding out.

Ten minutes later, he somehow managed to wrangle the rest of the kids over to the back door, his backpack settled on his shoulders and weighed down by the few things they’d managed to collect during their weeks there. He gave Three their frying pan and Two a little cooking pot, because at least those could serve as alternative weapons if needed. Chayanne gripped his bat tightly in his right hand, his switchblade tucked into the fraying pocket of his gown.

A tug on his sleeve. Four stared at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Do we really have to leave?”

Chayanne nodded. “They can’t know about us, Four.”

“But he was trying to help.”

Chayanne merely shook his head, mouth twisted into a frown. The man had chased Four to the front step. Clearly, he had no intentions of helping. He was trying to catch her, probably. Maybe he’d planned on giving her back to the Federation for a cheap reward.

Chayanne settled his shoulders, heart pounding in his chest with nerves, and took a deep breath. The worst thing he could do right now was panic.

Before he could open the back door, however, the knob turned beneath his very fingertips. As if on its very own. If he strained, he could hear a very soft rustling on the other side.

Immediately, he grabbed the hand of the nearest person and yanked them backwards, throwing out his other hand to push the others back and as far away from the door as possible. It caught the other children by surprise, and they barely had time to react before the door clicked open, pushed by the wind alone.

This time, a different man stood behind the door—this one perhaps half a foot shorter than the first. Blonde hair fluttered by his shoulders, and a weak gust of wind stirred the hem of his dark green robes. What was more concerning, however, were his massive fucking wings, black as night and so long they draped across the floor. They weren’t like Chayanne’s, which were small and scaly—powerful feathers drooped from every inch of his wings, polished and preened and beautiful. The man looked like a harbinger of the night itself, and it terrified Chayanne.

Well, the first man had at least been a little bit pathetic, but if the sword resting at this new intruder’s hip meant anything, they were in danger.

The man stopped, apparently surprised by the presence of the children. “Oh,” he said, slightly breathless. Then, as Chayanne watched, paralyzed, he stuck his head out the door and cupped a hand around his mouth. “Wil! They’re back here!”

Someone was grabbing Chayanne’s hand. He didn’t have time to figure out who it was; he only ran after them, feet carrying him back through the house before his mind could catch up.

“Wait, wait!” The man called, but they were already sweeping through the house. Mouldy wood planks creaked beneath his shoes as someone pulled him up the stairs, and God , would his brain start working again, please? He needed to focus , he needed to lead , he needed to protect his family.

He wasn’t quite sure what was happening anymore. His brain kept going back to the image of the sword resting at the man’s hip. That was much more powerful than any of the weapons they owned. Plus, the man was bigger and stronger and likely had much more experience than the rest of them combined.

They were easy prey.

Hands were shoving him inside a door, and then he found himself in the bedroom, and Three was locking the door after them.

He faintly registered Two snapping her fingers in front of Chayanne’s face, and when that didn’t work, they landed an elbow roughly in Chayanne’s ribs. Their face was slack, but Chayanne knew he was just as scared as the rest of them. “Snap out of it. We need you.”

He nodded, although hesitantly. “Lock the door behind me.”

Chayanne shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing until the pressure eased in his chest.

He had a job to do. His backpack slid off his shoulders, and he glanced at Two.

Before the others could stop him, he stepped outside the door. His hands gripped his bat so tightly that his fingers turned white, and he struggled to see through suddenly blurry vision.

He had to protect them. It was his job.

Without that, he was nothing.

The hall was silent. He ignored the tension sizzling on the air like wild electricity, casting his gaze down the stairs, bluntly aware of the fact that the others had not in fact locked the door again. Which, frankly, he expected.

No soldier left behind, or however that old saying went. He couldn’t quite remember.

The men’s footsteps were surprisingly soft, accompanied by gentle muttering. They explored the bottom floor for a good three or four minutes—that felt like hours to Chayanne—before they apparently realized the children had gone upstairs.

Each boot thudding up the stairs was a death sentence. He counted off the seconds until they’d reach the top, wishing desperately that the other children would just escape while the men were distracted. They could swing the chair at the window until it shattered and climb out onto the roof. Use the tree to shimmy down to the lawn and run. Leave Chayanne behind, because at least then they’d be safe.

Chayanne didn’t matter as long as they were okay.

The moment the taller man’s head poked up above the staircase, he was searching the top floor with his eyes. When his unfamiliar gaze landed on Chayanne, the man jumped a little, as if he hadn’t expected him to be there.

“Holy shit,” the winged one muttered.

Chayanne barely registered them reaching the top step. His head was a blur, but he forced it to focus. They finally came into clear view as they stood at the other end of the short hallway, keeping a safe distance from Chayanne.

“Hello,” the taller man breathed.

Chayanne didn’t respond. His heart beat was so loud he thought it must have been audible to the men. His feet were planted on the ground, but his aching body was alive with adrenaline. The moment the taller man tried to take a step forward, Chayanne swung the bat, closing the distance quickly. He would’ve struck him, too, if the winged one hadn’t pulled him back in time.

“Woah, woah, woah,” the avian said, voice like a warning and wings flaring out behind him, “Calm down, mate. We’re not here to hurt you.”

Yeah fucking right. Chayanne knew adults like the back of his hand. They always had an ulterior motive, always had a way to trick or deceive him.

He held the bat higher, tilting his chin up in a way he hoped only bled confidence. He ignored the way his fingers shook and his eyes pricked with fearful tears, gaze fixated on the sword at the avian’s hip.

But the avian must have seen, because his posture relaxed, and he pulled out the sword from its sheath with a soft ringing. It glinted in the pale white light filtering through the grimy window.

“See this?” The man said, holding the weapon in front of him gently. And oh, Chayanne certainly did. He couldn’t fucking look away.

However, the man placed the sword on the ground, keeping his hands high in a surrender position.

Chayanne’s eyes didn’t leave the sword until the avian kicked it down the stairs and out of sight. The sound of the metal clanking down the steps one by one was the only noise to fill the quiet.

“It’s gone now,” the avian continued, keeping his voice soft. “We only want to help you, mate, we promise.”

Then the other man, the tall one, moved—and Chayanne flinched in surprise, but the man only placed a wrapped sandwich on the ground between them. His movements were slow, and his eyes remained stuck on Chayanne the entire time. His throat bobbed.

Huh. Perhaps that one was more scared than Chayanne thought.

Good.

Chayanne didn’t linger on the sandwich, but his stomach did growl in response to seeing the food. He took a step backwards, closer to the door where the other children were undoubtedly listening in.

“Yeah? Are you hungry?” The taller one smiled, or at least attempted one. “I have plenty more where that comes from. You can have as much as you want.”

Chayanne narrowed his eyes. If that was even true, there was a catch. There had to be. No way were strangers offering him food for free.

Nothing in the world came without a price. Chayanne had learned that one the hard way.

“We have water, too,” he continued. “For all your friends—not just you. And we’ll give you fresh clothes and a shower, if you’d like that.”

If you’d like that. As in, it was an option.

Hm.

Chayanne backed up closer to the door, not realizing how close he’d gotten until his back bumped up against the old wood.

He wasn’t scared. He didn’t get scared. It was just a fact.

The avian held one hand out, as if trying to placate him, and took a step closer. “You can keep your weapons, alright? We won’t try to take those away from you. We’re not going to touch or hurt or scare you.”

“And if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to, alright?” The taller man added, gaze soft and worried. “We want to help, but we’ll leave you alone if you would really prefer.” He smiled. “If  you want to stay with us, you’re welcome. But you can also leave at any time.”

Chayanne frowned, heart mimicking a hummingbird. Something about that offer did sound awfully appealing.

“Think about your friends, mate,” the avian said. “They’ll get to be warm and safe and fed, and then you can leave whenever you want. It’s all up to you.”

All up to you. Somehow, he doubted that. He’d never had the option of choice, at least not in such a way. He didn’t even know what that would look like.

Subconsciously, his hand slipped around the doorknob behind him, and he let the door crack open behind him. Another hand, warm and little, was immediately there to hold his own, and it gave his fingertips a tight squeeze.

If anything, the avian’s gaze got a little warmer. A little sadder, too, but he didn’t linger on that for long. He didn’t want to be pitied.

He let the warmth of the other hand soothe him. There was another human behind him, another child like him, a family member , one who was hungry and cold and filthy. One who’d spent two weeks crammed together on a single mattress, who’d spent every day surviving on scraps alone.

Didn’t they deserve something nice for once?

“Come on, mate,” the avian said, and offered Chayanne an inviting smile. His posture was relaxed, hands up submissively, and he regarded Chayanne with only warmth.

Chayanne lifted the bat, a warning.

Not a hit. Not yet.

This was only the first part of their test.

**

Not an hour later, Chayanne sat at an unfamiliar dining table, flipping the switchblade nervously in his hands. He tried to make it look like a threat, but in all honesty, he needed something for his hands to do. For the first time in weeks, his skin was clean and warm and the residual water from his shower plastered damp hair to his face. He wore a hoodie and jeans that were several sizes too large for him, and he rolled up the sleeves to the elbows in an effort to make the hoodie fit him better. It didn’t really work.

He didn’t like to look small. Or young. Or incapable. He didn’t want to be underestimated.

The men eventually coaxed him to put down the bat, but when they tried to take away the switchblade, he’d flipped the weapon out at them without a sliver of hesitation. After that, they decided to let him keep the knife, so he fidgeted with it absentmindedly in his fingers.

At the present moment, he was engaged in a very tense staring competition with the two men sitting at the other side of the table.

In the stifling silence that overtook them, bearing down on them like an invisible weight, Chayanne could make out the distant sounds of plates clinking in the kitchen. Some of the kids were still showering, and the tall man—Wilbur, apparently—had given the others food in the meantime.

Chayanne’s own plate of food sat untouched to his right. His stomach complained hungrily, but to give in now would be to let them win. If he ate something, that would give them the subconscious sign that he trusted them—even a little. And Chayanne couldn’t afford that just yet.

Phil, the blonde one with the massive, feathered wings, cleared his throat. “Alright, mate.” His hands were clasped in front of him on the table, like this was some fucking interrogation. “Is it alright if we ask you some questions?”

Oh. So, it genuinely was an interrogation. Nice to know. Chayanne tried not to show his discomfort, and instead stared at them blankly. He refused to give them any sort of response.

Wilbur glanced at Phil, but the blonde man didn’t hesitate, as if he was expecting a lack of an answer. Instead, Phil sighed and lifted his arms from the table, revealing a thin notepad and a pencil, and slid them across the table to Chayanne.

Chayanne’s eyes flicked towards the notepad, but he didn’t move.

“We’re going to start off easy, alright?” Wilbur said calmly, like he was trying to keep his voice as non-threatening as possible. “Do you mind telling us your name?”

Oh. Chayanne almost breathed a sigh of relief—he was expecting the question to be more invasive.

That question was one he didn’t mind answering. Because his name was Chayanne, it was fucking Chayanne , not One . The Federation might have tried to limit his existence to a simple number, but Chayanne refused to let them dehumanise him as they’d done with the others.

So, he wrote Chayanne on the paper, and he slid the notebook back to them.

Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. 

Phil, meanwhile, let his eyes linger on the notepad for a second longer, expression unreadable. When he did look up, his eyes crinkled in the corners, and he leaned backwards in his chair, arms folding over his chest. “Chayanne.” He smiled. “It’s a nice name. I used to know a Chayanne.”

Hm. Chayanne didn’t know what to make of the distant, reflective note in his tone.

When Wilbur slid the notebook back, Chayanne wrote, What happened to him?

Phil’s face was still. “What do you think, mate? He died with the rest of the kids when the virus hit.”

Wilbur kept quiet, but he did raise an eyebrow at Phil. Whatever he was thinking, he let it slide. He focused instead on Chayanne. “I thought you were named after numbers.”

We are. Two, Three, Four, and Five. Chayanne thought about sliding it over, but simply held it up instead. He was sure they could read it from a distance, even if they had to squint.

Wilbur narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “So are you One? Or are you Six?”

Dumbass.

I’m Chayanne , he insisted, and underlined his name twice. It was the name his father had given him, and he didn’t like being known by anything else. The Federation had tried their hardest to gaslight him out of his childhood memories, to confuse him enough that he’d never remember which were real and which were fabricated. After seven years of separation, he couldn’t remember the faces of his family, nor their names. But he remembered his own name, and it was Chayanne , and sometimes that was the only thing that kept him sane.

“Are there more of you?” Phil asked. “Or just the five?”

That made Chayanne still. He brought up one knee onto the chair and deadened his gaze, unaware of the way his grip tightened around the knife.

Phil sighed. “Just the five, then.”

And, oh, that sent nausea churning through him like a wave. He didn’t want to be analyzed, he didn’t want his body language to give away any of the answers. He hadn’t even thought either of them were smart enough to read him.

Chayanne relaxed his grip, shifting uncomfortably on the chair. He reminded himself of the exits—one to the left, which led to the front door, and one to the right, which led through the living room into the kitchen.

“Calm down, mate, it’s alright,” Phil said, holding his hands out in front of him patiently, “We’re not trying to scare you. We just want to understand what’s going on.”

Yeah fucking right. Chayanne was about two seconds from bolting and taking the other kids with him.

But then he remembered what Cellbit told them back in the Federation on the day of their escape. There’s a town on the edge of the island, and the people will take care of you. Tell them that Cellbit sent you.

If these people really wanted to help them, then wasn’t that the test?

He picked up the pencil, twiddling it in his fingers for a moment as he grit his teeth, and scribbled something down. What do you know about Cellbit?

The moment he showed the paper to the men, their eyes turned dead, and they gave each other similar confused glances. Wilbur asked, “Have you seen him? How do you know about Cellbit?”

Chayanne shrugged. He didn’t want to give them an easy answer—that way, if they and Cellbit were secretly working for the Federation, they’d be able to craft a more lucid story.

“Mate, Cellbit’s been missing for weeks,” Phil continued, eyebrows knitted in concern. “Not even his husband has heard from him. If there’s anything you know about his whereabouts, we’d love to hear.”

Hm. That was concerning. It probably meant one of three things:

One, that Cellbit was killed shortly after they left;

Two, that they were holding Cellbit in the Federation to gain information, or;

Three, Phil’s answer was part of an elaborate ploy to weasel information out of Chayanne himself. Which was probably the most likely, because it seemed like the entire world was out to get the kids. For all he knew, everybody on this island could have worked for the Federation, and this was all another experiment.

Wilbur nudged Phil softly. Though he spoke under his breath, Chayanne could still make out enough words to know what he was saying. “Four made it seem like they were from the Federation, Phil. Maybe Cellbit got to them somehow.” And then his eyes widened, as if realizing something. “Maybe they took him.”

Chayanne tensed. He gripped his knife steadily in his hands now, body ready to jump up and run if needed.

But Phil looked over, and he winced. “Hey, Wil, let’s maybe not talk about the Federation right now, yeah?”

Wilbur’s eyes fell on Chayanne, and he softened. “Sorry.”

Chayanne didn’t respond. He let that uncomfortable silence creep over them again, long enough that when he heard a shuffling coming from the right, he nearly jumped.

He hadn’t meant to be that flighty. He hoped it didn’t make him look weak.

Two sauntered into the room, much too relaxed for Chayanne’s liking. Five shuffled in after them curiously, holding a plate with an overstuffed sandwich on it.

“Why are you taking so long?” Two asked, hands signing quickly enough that Phil’s eyes widened. The Federation sign language was one best spoken fast, and tended to need a certain lifeless precision uncommon in other forms of sign language. From what Chayanne remembered of the sign he used to communicate as a kid, the movement was more poetic, like a language expressed through art itself.

“I’m not giving them answers,” Chayanne signed back, and then narrowed his eyes at Five. “Hey, hey, too much food at once. You’re going to get sick.”

Five slumped his shoulders forwards. He shuffled closer to Chayanne’s chair and used his good leg to give it a hard kick.

He heard Wilbur stifle a laugh from across the table.

Chayanne sighed. “Don’t be like that, Five. Go see Three and she’ll give you a smaller portion.”

Five stuck out his tongue, but, seeing the seriousness in Chayanne’s face, he gave in and walked away, sulking intentionally in a way that was supposed to make Chayanne feel bad. It didn’t.

Two stepped closer to get Chayanne’s attention. “Why aren’t you giving them answers?”

“Because I don’t trust them.”

“Asshole. They gave you food; you could at least talk. ”

Chayanne glared at the two men across the table, who seemed utterly lost staring at the kids having an entirely silent argument. “Two, I know what I’m doing.”

Two scoffed. His hair, still wet from their shower, was starkly white in comparison to their dark grey skin. “You’d think they’d want to talk to the smart ones.”

Chayanne threw out an arm and smacked Two—lightly, only enough to get her to leave. “Jerk.”

“Dumbass.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Bitch.”

They continued to throw insults back and forth, all the words they hadn’t taught Four and Five, until Wilbur cleared his throat, and both Two and Chayanne sighed at their pace having been interrupted.

“Is everything alright?” He asked awkwardly.

Chayanne nodded curtly, unwilling to give the pathetic man his full attention, and turned back to Two. “Go back with the others. I have this handled.”

“Fine. But these people are being nice, and if you mess this up, I will find you.” Two slunk away into the adjoining living room, eyes narrowed. “I’ll be so sneaky. You won’t even see me coming.”

“Go away, Two.”

Chayanne waited until they were completely alone again to continue. The heavy atmosphere of the room, which had become just a bit lighter when Two had entered, returned with a vengeance. He readjusted his position so he was facing the men again, and he gestured with the pencil for them to talk.

Wilbur looked only moderately freaked out. “Uh—was that—”

“Can you tell us about that language you were speaking, Chayanne?” Phil asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity, and the name slipped off his tongue in a way that made Chayanne feel…comforted? Warm? He wasn’t quite sure.

Nobody had actually called him that name in a long, long time.

Chayanne shrugged again, which only made Wilbur sigh.

Phil didn’t seem discouraged. “I mean, I assume you’re all dragon hybrids, right? Which would mean you can’t speak using your tongue. So…is that a sign language you developed on your own? Did you learn it?”

Wilbur sat up straight, giving Phil a confused look. “Dad, do you not recognize it? It’s—”

“Not now, Wil,” Phil interrupted, making Wilbur pause. He nodded at Chayanne, encouraging him to write. “Go on, mate. Take your time.”

Chayanne hesitated, pencil hovering over the paper with only a little shake.

So, Phil definitely already knew the answer, right? If the way Wilbur had reacted was any indication, they were both fully aware of the fact that the kids spoke the Federation’s sign language.

Why would he ask if he already knew? Was it a sort of trap?

It took Chayanne a while to write down a response. I don’t think I need to tell you. He held it up confidently, keeping his face blank.

Phil didn’t seem offended in the slightest by Chayanne’s answer. If anything, he looked pleased Chayanne had written something at all, and regarded the boy with a warm smile. “Do you know any other sign languages?”

Chayanne shrugged. He was seven years out of practice with his childhood sign language, the one he assumed he learned from his family members—he couldn’t remember anymore—but there were still bits and pieces of the language floating around his subconscious. He was sure he could get through basic communication if necessary.

His hands formed his childhood sign language hesitantly. “A little, I guess.” He still wasn’t sure the signs were right, but he tried to keep his shoulders steady and collected to block out any signs of insecurity. “Why, do you?”

Phil’s eyes only crinkled with warmth. One hand came up in front of him, clasped into a fist, and he knocked twice in the air, forming the word “Yes.” He spoke the rest of the sentence in English. “I’m sure I’m a little rusty, though. It’s been a while.”

Huh. Chayanne thought about that for a minute.

“Do all of you speak other sign languages?” Wilbur asked, watching the interaction between Chayanne and Phil curiously. Chayanne wasn’t sure if Wilbur knew what either of them were saying.

He wrote the answer down. I don’t know. But Three speaks French and Five speaks Portuguese. Most of us speak Spanish, too.

“Oh, my,” Phil said, sounding almost pleased. “That’s certainly a lot of languages.”

We had a lot of time to learn.

He wasn’t sure what they would think when Chayanne flipped the page around this time, but Phil’s face went pale. Wilbur was regarding Chayanne with something like pity, and Chayanne wanted nothing more than to hide from it. If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was fucking pity.

“You don’t have to answer this, but what’s up with the white?” Wilbur asked cautiously. He gestured to the top of Chayanne’s head, and Chayanne shrank. “I mean, you all have white hair and white wings.”

Fuck that. Chayanne wasn’t going to answer that much.

Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—Phil had an answer to that one. He turned to Wilbur. “It’s probably a dragon hybrid thing, mate. I don’t know too much about them, but I do know their genes work a bit differently than ours. Their colouring can be affected by their surroundings in early development.” He glanced over at Chayanne, gaze ridden with concern. “Which probably means that their primary caretaker, whoever that was, had white hair and white wings. That, or they were exposed to a lot of white throughout their childhood, enough that their environment itself might change their appearance.”

Chayanne barely noticed the way he tucked into himself uncomfortably, face turning into a distrusting scowl. He was right in front of them . He didn’t know why they had to treat him like he wasn’t there.

From there, he let the questions fade into a bit of a blur. He didn’t want them to know—hell, they already knew too much. Phil seemed to know an uncomfortable amount about hybrids, and even that information alone could be dangerous.

A multitude of questions passed him by. Mostly, they were skirting around things like where did you come from or how have you stayed hidden this long or who hurt you . They posed the questions in politer, vaguer words, but Chayanne knew exactly what they were trying to say.

And he didn’t like it. He certainly wasn’t going to be answering anytime soon.

They even asked about the burn scars up his arm and face—like he would answer that—and the bandages around Chayanne’s neck, which almost made Chayanne laugh. They asked if he needed the bandages changed, which was really code for, What are you hiding under there? He was sure that’s what they really meant. After all, the Federation liked to hide secret meanings in their words in the exact same way.

He hadn’t even told the kids what was under those bandages, so there was no way he’d tell a pair of strangers.

If he did, they might hate him for it. Everyone would. And he couldn’t risk that.

Finally, Wilbur asked, “What about the virus?”

And that—well, it made Chayanne freeze. He locked eyes with the man, heart fluttering a rapid song in his chest, and he swallowed nervously.

“I mean, all the kids on the island got it, right?” Wilbur continued. He kept his voice light and soft, the most approachable it could get. “So why didn’t any of you?”

“Wil,” Phil said, and placed a warning hand on Wilbur’s arm. “You don’t have to answer, Chayanne. I know that’s a big one.” He looked over Chayanne with brilliant blue eyes laced with worry, looking as though he wanted to say more.

Instead, his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out to Chayanne. And then, keeping his movements slow, he did , fingernails painted black stretching across the table towards the boy. It was gentle, patient, but still, Chayanne didn’t trust it.

He flinched back, far away from the hand. He hadn’t expected to have such a reaction—it was more of an instinctual thing than anything. He did not like adults getting close to him; historically, that never went well.

His breath quickened in his chest. Was Phil trying to…what, hurt him? Take the knife away? Why would he be stretching out his hand like that?

Phil quickly retracted the hand, holding it in view of Chayanne. “Sorry. Sorry, Chayanne, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Chayanne wasn’t scared. He was never scared. He was just…cautious.

Wilbur’s eyes bounced between Chayanne and Phil silently, as if unsure what to make of the conversation. As if seeing something the others didn’t.

Chayanne found it infuriating.

Wilbur cleared his throat. “Uh, maybe we should end it there today.” There was an added, while we still can that Wilbur thankfully didn’t voice. “Thank you, Chayanne. For talking to us. You’ve been very helpful.”

Chayanne only flicked his eyes up and down Wilbur, distrusting.

He was done talking. He’d already done enough damage.

Chapter Text

Usually, the world is not so hazy. She doesn't like it; she tries without success to blink the mist out of her eyes.

Someone stands in front of her, stick-thin and tiny, and they wrap gentle yellow wings around her torso. The wings are little, still fluffed up with the feathers of youth, but they are cold.

They are saying something to her, but her ears are blocked with cotton. She blinks again, and the world only clears a little. Not nearly enough to see.

She makes out a head of black hair and a gap-toothed smile. If she strains to hear, she can pick out daydream floating amongst the other disorganized words chattering in her head.

She raises her hands to sign. But why would I daydream about someone I’ve never met?

When the child speaks again, their voice is clear and high. Haven’t you always?

She has.

Somehow, this feels different.

She opens her palms to the red ribbon curled like a bloodstain in her hands.

A little dragon is still with fear. She doesn't think she likes this daydream.

**

One refused to sleep. It was a bit of an issue, Four thought, because he was clearly exhausted, especially after the day they’d had, but he sat cross-legged on the floor with his back rigid and a metal bat clutched between his hands, eyes pointed at the staircase where Wilbur last disappeared.

The afternoon passed quickly and quietly, and after One’s impossibly long interrogation had finished, the sun was already making its descent below the horizon, turning the rest of the town outside Wilbur’s windows into a landscape of black set against the red sky.

Arranging a sleeping space for the kids was their first problem of the night. After much deliberation (and a little panic on Wilbur’s part), Phil convinced him that they’d have to make do with a sleeping bag and a number of blankets and pillows set upon his living room floor. It wasn’t ideal, Wilbur said, and apologized profusely to the children for not having a better solution, but Four wasn’t complaining.

Frankly, after many sleepless nights clustered on a mouldy mattress, Four was delighted. She had her own blanket—her own —and a warm rug underneath her. Even One seemed a bit happy at the change of pace, if the little smile he tried to force down was any indication.

Phil left for his own house shortly after sunset, and after much worried hovering, Wilbur eventually made his way upstairs, saying goodnight for the time being.

And they were alone again.

Somehow, this felt different. Only a day had passed, and yet they lived in an entirely different world, one where they were clean and warm and cared for, and it was strange. Wilbur didn’t force them to be separate or punish them for talking, and though it should have made Four feel comforted, part of her began to worry when the ball would drop, when he’d let out his real side.

People couldn’t actually be that nice, could they? Did he want something in return? Was that why he’d given them so much?

Four lay awake, completely incapable of getting a moment’s rest. She felt alive with energy and excitement, nearly buzzing —for the first time in her life, she was free , and she was warm and clean and full and she couldn’t sleep because she was too busy being happy.

She shifted to her side, trying to get comfortable. There, the moon cast a prideful glare across the floor, slipping into her eyes, and she blinked away colourful after images.

When her vision cleared, she made out Two’s face in the dark, illuminated by a slice of moonlight. He peered out the glass with squinted eyes, hugging her knees with a slouched back. They were the only other child awake, although the droop to their eyes and shoulders gave her an air of exhaustion. Soon, it would be Three’s shift, Four thought.

Four wondered how long they’d have to keep taking shifts during the night. Surely, they were safer than they’d been in the abandoned house—and yet, they now resided with a man they didn’t know, which meant he could betray them at any moment.

None of them were willing to take those chances.

Four nudged them with her foot, which was covered by the worn blanket in which she had cocooned herself.

Two blinked at her blearily. “What do you want?”

“I can’t sleep.” As the words lifted off her hands, she yawned. She was tired , sure, but every time she closed her eyes she immediately wanted to open them again.

Two raised her arms in a half-shrug, as if to say, What do you want me to do about it? “Do you want a story or something?”

“I don’t know.” She tucked her face into the blanket until only her eyes were visible, watching Two carefully. The fabric was soft, and she was cascaded in a warmth so gentle it blocked out the chill of the twilight.

Two wiped an exhausted hand down their face. “Okay. Well. Can you please bug One about it or something?”

Rude. Four frowned, lifted one foot, and kicked Two in the thigh. It wasn’t hard—Four was a lot smaller than them, and weak enough that she didn’t cause much damage—but still, Two blinked at Four, unimpressed. He leaned over and flicked her knee, which just wasn’t fair, honestly. She bit back a hiss of pain.

So Four stood on shaky knees, wrapping the blanket tight around her shoulders, and began stepping delicately over the sleeping bodies of Three and Five, who were tightly wound around each other, breathing at opposite times. She made sure to “accidentally” bump into Two in the dark.

“That seemed unnecessary, but okay,” Two signed into the darkness.

She simply stuck out her tongue and settled down onto the ground beside One, careful not to wake him. He was already worried enough as it was, and Four thought that he might not sleep again if he woke up now.

Still, she curled up at his side, tucking herself deep into her blanket and humming happily. It took her a moment to smooth out the crinkles from the blanket, ensuring the sensation of bunched up fabric wouldn’t trigger any sensory issues. God, she hated fabric sometimes. It just simply wasn't her thing.

But One must have felt her moving, because he groaned softly in half-sleep, drawing one arm over her shoulders to pull her closer. She didn’t complain, only snuggled closer into her blankets as the boy clung onto her like a teddy bear.

He was certainly the warmest of the five, that was for sure. She settled her head on top of One’s shoulder, adjusting herself so it was comfortable and her jaw wouldn’t grate into his bony skin.

Gentle fingers began running through her hair, and finally, she began to feel sleepy.

Oh. That was nice, she thought.

She fell asleep to the rhythmic rise and fall of One’s lungs somewhere below her head and the gentle sensation of fingers running through her curls, and for once, she slept without fear of what would meet her when she woke.

**

Her morning started with a flash of bright light. Her heart flew in a rapid rhythm before her eyes even opened, and for a brief moment, she was back in her cell in the Federation, waiting for the long beep that would serve as her alarm.

Her chest ached. So then was everything else just a dream? If she was really back at the Federation, then had her daydreams gotten the best of her again? Was none of that real?

But then a pair of arms tightened around her shoulders, and she sunk into the warmth that openly accepted her, overwhelmed with relief.

She wasn’t there anymore. She had escaped.

She was free.

Still, her eyes flicked around the room to ensure herself she was somewhere new. Instead of the Federation’s achingly white architecture, she took in the muted blueish-grey walls and worn couch of Wilbur’s house and the fluffy rug laid across the floor, reminding herself that this was real.

And instead of Cucurucho, Phil entered the room with a woven basket full of unfolded clothing, which he promptly dumped on the floor in front of them. “Wakey, wakey!” Though his tone was playful, he kept his voice soft, and Four knew it was because he didn’t want to scare them. “I come bearing gifts!”

Four blinked sleepily, and beside her, One huffed grumpily, burying his face into Four’s curls to block out the light. Five remained still on the floor, a frown on his face, and Three was still sound asleep. Two practically glared daggers at the winged man.

A little laugh sounded from the entrance to the dining room, and Four turned to see Wilbur leaning against the wall, a coffee cup settled into one hand. “I don’t think they’re morning people, Phil.”

Phil sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Should’ve expected it.”

With a snort of amusement, Wilbur settled his coffee mug on the little table beside him and stepped closer to the kids, careful to keep a wide berth around them just in case. “Alright, first order of business. I—,” he started, but then noticed that Three was still asleep. He muttered to Five, “Can you wake her up, please?”

Beside her, Four heard One laugh a little.

Four agreed. Three slept through everything. They’d learned long ago that trying to wake her up was a mission not only pointless but dangerous.

Still, Five rolled over and firmly shoved an elbow into her ribs, causing the girl to splutter awake, eyebrows creased in concern. She crumpled in on herself, and then when she saw Five giggling beside her, her eyes filled with rage.

Well, that was the end of Five.

“Oooookay, maybe no violence this early in the morning,” Phil said, looking moderately concerned.

By now, the rest of them had shaken themselves free of sleep at least a little. Four sat up with only some hesitation, and moments later, One joined her, rubbing at his eyes sleepily. Two’s leg was bouncing with adrenaline and impatience—they always got up easier than the others, anyway.

Wilbur’s eyes were wide in worry, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to approach the children. “Um, anyway,” he started, and cleared his throat again. “So, Phil went out early to the lost and found this morning and picked out a bunch of clothes for all of you. You can take as many as you want, and then I can get my clothes back.”

Phil chuckled, but didn’t add anything.

Four looked down at the T-shirt covering her frame. It was so large on her that it fell almost to her knees. Yeah, maybe clothing actually designed for children would be better.

Four eyed the pile of clothing on the floor a little closer, wincing when she thought about having to sort through a multitude of textures again. Maybe someone who wasn’t neurodivergent could do that for her, she thought. That would be nice.

Before Wilbur could continue, Five immediately stumbled out of his sleeping bag, limping excitedly over to the pile of clothes. He shakily lowered himself to his knees, and after a few moments of digging, pulled out a soccer jersey in fluorescent yellow and green colours. In response, his face broke out into a massive smile. A number nine was plastered onto the jersey underneath the name Richarlyson , and though the jersey was entirely too big for him, Four knew that look. He’d already claimed the clothing item.

Phil chuckled in response to the boy’s sudden joy, and Wilbur’s eyes softened with warmth.

Three wandered over to the clothing pile next, a little more hesitant than Five, and Two was quick to follow. They busied themselves with sorting through the pile as Wilbur began to speak again.

“Second order of business—hey, guys, listen, alright?” Wilbur continued, and raised his eyebrows, waiting for their eyes. “Second order of business: I want you all to pick names for yourself. Personally, calling you by numbers seems dehumanising, unless that’s what you really want.”

Four hummed in thought, tucking her knees into her chest. She’d often considered what sort of name she’d choose for herself if given the chance—she had plenty of time at the Federation to dream about a different life, a different self.

Now that the opportunity was real, however, the thought of a new name felt cold and distant. It certainly felt a lot more weighted than when it was a mere dream.

Five, however, didn’t seem to hold the same worries. He held up the jersey in his hands immediately, pointing at the name on it. He put the shirt down to sign, “How do you pronounce that?”

Wilbur shrugged, looking lost. He surely didn’t pick up a word of the sign, and for a moment, Four worried it was just another one of their questions that would be lost on the adults.

To her surprise, however, One seemed to pick up on something, because he signed something else to Phil. Four tried to decipher what he said, but—that wasn’t Federation sign, was it? And since when did he and Phil speak the same sign language?

Four’s head spun. Now that was confusing.

Phil gave a little nod, something like warmth in his eyes, and then he cast his gaze over to Five. “Richarlyson.”

Five positively beamed, and signed, “I want that as my name.”

That was the first name they figured out. One second, Five was Five, and the next, he was Richarlyson. Four wasn’t really sure how it happened, but as soon as she saw Richarlyson with a name, she ached for one of her own, something personal and special and given just to her.

So far, she hadn’t come up with anything nice. As she searched through the pile of clothes restlessly, nothing in particular called out to her. It wasn’t like she wanted to call herself Skirt or Plaid or something.

One was the next to discover a name—not even a minute after Richarlyson, he’d declared himself Chayanne. Nobody knew where it came from, and nobody questioned it. He said he was Chayanne, so Chayanne he became.

And maybe Four envied it just a little bit—just a tiny little bit —but she kept quiet. Her name would come. It would, right?

She just had to be patient.

Unfortunately, Four was not known for her patience.

At least she wasn’t alone. Two and Three certainly seemed more interested in the clothing than the need for a name, at least for now. Three’s eyes were bright and her cheeks were coloured a rosy pink from excitement as she held up abandoned clothing in front of her face. She seemed as though she was on a mission, one the adults watched fondly.

And then, eventually, she pulled some little plastic palette out of the clothing pile, and it was used and the cover was slightly broken, but her eyes immediately lit up. She held up the palette to the adults questioningly.

Wilbur squinted, trying to see the palette a little better. He frowned. “I think that’s face paint.”

Four didn’t think she’d ever seen Three so excited in her life.

Twenty minutes afterwards, Three emerged from the bathroom wearing a white blouse underneath a forest green overall dress with a hole in one of the pockets. It had taken her an impossibly long time to find a matching pair of white socks, but she’d tucked them into polished black mary jane shoes, and she’d secured a pale green hat to her head—Wilbur called it a beret. A felt stem and leaf attached themselves to the top of the beret in the style of an apple.

She was still tying her hair into pigtails—as she always did back at the Federation—and tied up her right pigtail with a blue ribbon and the left one with a red ribbon.

Hm. Four paused. There was something important about a red ribbon, she thought, but she couldn’t remember who told her that.

She shrugged it off. Perhaps it was just something from one of her daydreams.

Most notable about Three, however, was the face paint she’d dotted underneath her eyes—again, blue on her right cheek and red on her left. Something about added French flair, she said, although Four knew part of it came from her innate need to look nice.

Upon seeing her, Two immediately burst into laughter, and exaggeratedly stopped himself from falling off the couch. “You look like an apple. Like, like a French apple.”

Three raised an eyebrow. “ Pomme ,” she corrected haughtily, fingerspelling out the name.

“Yeah? You should name yourself that. Imagine being named Pomme of all things.”

Four watched anxiously from the side, hands wringing each other out. She didn’t want to be left behind. She didn’t want another child to have a name when she was nowhere near finding one.

“For the record, I think Pomme is a nice name,” Three—or, perhaps, Pomme—signed, and then glanced unsurely up and down Two’s form. “What would you name yourself? … Dapper? ”

Two looked down at the button up they were currently trying to figure out. He was one button off, so one half of the shirt hung lower than the other. “Yeah, actually,” they said defensively. “At least Dapper is better than Pomme.”

“Says who?!”

Four was starting to feel more than a little left behind.

Three decided not long after that that she did , in fact, want to be called Pomme. For Two, it was a longer thought process—she wrote down a long list of potential names, and returned to it periodically to scratch off the ones that didn’t fit.

He ended up choosing Dapper anyway. Four thought they’d never admit it, but she knew they were drawn to the name because it was Pomme who had suggested it. Because there was a story behind that name, as silly as it was.

It was an easy choice, really.

By the end of the day, they were Chayanne, Dapper, Pomme, and Richarlyson.

And, well, Four.

Four. At least when they were all named numbers, it felt like she was part of something. She was Four out of five, the second last of a group of runaways who’d become family.

Now, she was Four out of…what? The others had shed their numbers like old skins, and now, they each held something beautiful and individual in their hands—a name, one of their own choosing—and they were happy .

Four was still Four. Well, she was Four with a red beanie that fell into her eyes and a burgundy dress, one that didn’t create a disturbing noise when it brushed against her skin. So at least she was somewhat separated from her Federation self, she supposed.

She tried not to worry about it. Instead, she spent her first full day at Wilbur’s house exploring. A thick rain had settled outside the windows, cold and biting, and Phil said with a bristle of his feathers that a storm might settle in overnight. So, for now, they stayed inside.

Wilbur’s house was two floors, both well-maintained if not for the dust accumulating on the top floor. It was cozy, she thought, lit mostly by hand-held lanterns and lamps and the occasional ceiling light. And sure, Wilbur led her away from the top floor before she’d gotten to any of the rooms, but she didn’t mind—people were allowed their privacy. She understood that need deeply after having her own right to privacy refused for so many years.

By the time evening rolled around, after Phil had fed them with warm soup and tea, he departed once again for his own house—wherever that was—in enough time that he could fly home before the storm hit. Four settled herself on a window at the back of the cottage, pressed up against the ledge. The glass was cold against her side, but she didn’t quite mind.

Rain drummed like an endless melody. She looked on into Wilbur’s backyard, at grass wet and muddy with precipitation. Her breath puffed a white cloud against the glass.

Wilbur always remained on the outskirts of the room, careful to supervise the kids without invading their personal space or causing them to feel threatened. She thought he was particularly careful around Chayanne, which was probably good, because Chayanne gripped his switchblade like his life depended on it anytime Wilbur came near.

This time, however, Wilbur jolted in surprise when he entered the living room and saw Four sitting there, a silent and small presence on the sill. Her knees were tucked into her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She’d learned long ago that adults liked her better when she was quiet and obedient, so she watched the man in pure silence, only blinking in acknowledgement when he entered the room.

“God, you scared me,” Wilbur said, a hand clasped over his chest in surprise. “I keep forgetting there are little people all over my house now.”

Four had no response. At least she wasn’t the only one still getting used to all these changes, she thought, although she didn’t dare bring that up—not that Wilbur would understand her, anyway.

Then, he must have noticed her energy, because his expression softened. “Are you alright?”

No. Of course she wasn’t.

Four wasn’t too fond of change—in fact, change had always involved much adjusting for her—and she felt nauseous. She started her day surrounded by a family of children that were achingly familiar, and now, they all wore strikingly different clothing, and worse, they all had new names. It was strange, and it was out of the ordinary, and Four felt terribly left behind.

Four was still the same. Just Four—nothing special.

Shouldn’t she have felt happy for them? The fact that they were quick to move on, even if she wasn’t? As much as she hated the Federation, there was some part of her clinging to the familiarity of it. It was the only thing she knew —all of this around her was different territory, and she didn’t like it.

But she nodded, because that was probably what Wilbur wanted to hear. She even offered him a closed-lipped smile, hoping it would make her case more convincing.

Wilbur frowned, eyes flickering over her face, and hummed in consideration.

Still, he didn’t mention it—the only worry showing through the gentle bob of his throat before he spoke. “I better go look for more blankets,” he said distractedly, and quickly turned his head away. “It’ll be a cold night.”

**

Wilbur was right. It was a cold night.

And, unfortunately, another one she spent restlessly awake. She’d curled up with Chayanne again, content to let him keep her warm. He’d had the first shift awake, so she pretended to sleep as he watched over the living room cautiously, his bat lying only a few feet to his left. Rain hammered on the windows soothingly, like it yearned to see inside the curtains, and yet Four remained achingly awake. Wind battered the edges of the house, a high-pitched whistle accompanied by a low, unearthly shushing.

It wasn’t until Chayanne woke Dapper up for his shift that she got a bit of rest. Chayanne must have noticed Four still awake beside him, because he gave her hand a little squeeze shortly before he fell asleep himself. The light of the moon through the window drowned him in white light, igniting the burn scars mottling the side of his face and the old bandages around his neck that he stubbornly refused to change—for whatever reason. Four thought she probably shouldn’t ask.

She wasn’t exactly sure when she fell asleep, but some time later, she woke with a start, mind burning and her dreams slowly fading to oblivion around her.

It was freezing, even with a thick blanket covering her, and she shivered. Moonlight turned the floor to silver, washing the faces of the other sleeping children in pale light.

They were right there, and yet they were all somewhere far, far away. She was alone, in a sense.

Her throat was tight. She tried to remember the dream that had woken her, but it was little more than a hazy blur.

There was…a child? She thought. Not one she’d met before, certainly not one that had ever been part of the Federation, and yet they were familiar in a way that stung.

Which was strange, because Four was absolutely positive they had never met that child before in their life. Their existence was contained within the confines of Four’s brain and an image of a faded red ribbon. Otherwise, they were little more than a dream.

Maybe it was something about the house.

Before Four could dwell on it any longer, a crash sounded from the kitchen. She jumped, heart leaping to her throat with a sharp inhale. A spike of adrenaline shot through her veins, alive and racing.

Calm down , she told herself. It’s probably nothing.

Keeping her movements as silent and unnoticeable as possible, she slipped her hand out of Chayanne’s and rolled to her feet, letting her blanket flutter to the floor and shivering in its absence.

A gentle light flickered in the kitchen. She padded closer, footsteps made noiseless by her socks, and spied from within the shadows of the living room.

An old glass lantern sat upon the kitchen counter, casting panes of orange light across the table and igniting the sharp angles of Wilbur’s face. He leaned his elbows against the counter, face in his hands and brown curls sticking out at odd angles, an untouched glass of water to his right. He swept his hands under his glasses to wipe them tiredly down his face, and then when his eyes finally came into view, Four noticed a sort of worried exhaustion in them.

And then he must’ve seen Four standing in the doorway, because he flinched. “ Jesus . You’ve got to stop doing that.” His voice was a quiet hush in the darkness, but Four heard every word clear as a bell. “How long have you been standing there?”

She stared back, arms folded over her middle nervously. Anything she might’ve said would’ve been lost, anyway—she hadn’t thought to bring her notebook with her.

A soft smile crossed his face, touched almost with amusement. “You’re like a little ghost, you know. Always standing there silently.”

She blinked. Fingers bunching up the fabric of her shirt, unsure what else she was supposed to do. She still didn’t know his boundaries, didn’t know what would make him tick or anger him. So far, he was completely out of the realm of Cucurucho’s behaviour, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He laughed, but it was only a thin exhale of air through his nose, smile deepening. “You can sit down, if you want. I’ll get you some water.”

And—well, that did sound nice.

Slowly, she crept closer, never taking her eyes off the man. As long as he stayed on the other side of the counter, she’d remain distant from him, and then she didn’t have to worry about any sudden movements. There, she was safe.

At least, she hoped so.

She hoisted herself up onto a barstool. Her legs dangled high off the ground, and she kicked them absentmindedly, letting her gaze drift towards the window over the sink and the black night beyond. The storm churned on outside, distant and yet so close it was tangible.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Wilbur said, snapping her attention back to the room. “Or were you already up?” He turned towards the pale wooden cabinets pressed to the back wall and grabbed an empty glass, back turned to her. As he moved to the sink, the sound of rushing water was the only thing to intercept the silence.

Four shrugged. She wasn’t really sure what else to say—she didn’t really have a way of communicating with the man, at least not right now.

Wilbur slid the glass of water over to her. She clutched it between calloused palms and nails bitten to the quick. The water was cold and slid down her throat without complaint.

She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.

“Ah,” the man said, and turned around himself, eyes flicking around the kitchen as if looking for something. Eventually, he pulled open a messy cupboard and dug around in it haphazardly. Moments later, he placed down a pad of pink sticky notes and a Sharpie beside her.

And oh, she hated the sound Sharpies made when they touched paper, but it would have to do for now.

She uncapped the marker, and, with a grimace, touched the tip to the sticky note.

Nightmare , she wrote, her printing small but clunky, characteristic of a child.

He craned his neck to the side to read the note, squinting in the low light. Eventually, he hummed. “Makes sense. This place is scary enough as a grown adult; I can’t imagine how it would feel as a little kid.”

Not that little , she wrote, conscious of the limited space she had on the sticky notes, and underneath, I’m almost ten. She didn’t know what date her birthday was—only that it was thirty-five days after Chayanne’s birthday, which was coming up soon.

His eyebrows lifted up in surprise, and a grin touched his face. “Double digits?! That is pretty old.” His eyes danced. “Well, you’re a very brave big girl, Four. I hope you know that.”

She ducked her face down, hiding the bright smile that blossomed on her cheeks. She thought Wilbur saw anyway, if his little chuckle was any indication.

The marker swirled in her hand. Why are you awake?

She tilted her head upwards to look at him, trying to decipher his expression. Even in proper lighting, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the meaning behind the flickering neutrality that crossed his expression. His shoulders softened—just a little, but enough that it caught Four’s eye.

“Like I said, this world isn’t just scary for children.”

Four furrowed her eyebrows. Even if he’d worded his response vaguely, she could read between the lines.

He’d had a nightmare, too.

What about?

Momentary surprise crossed his face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, and something in his eyes almost looked a little sad. “You don’t have to worry about that, alright? I can handle my own problems.”

Doesn’t mean you should , she wrote. It was the code between the children, after all. Honesty and openness and communication—all the privileges they weren’t allowed at the Federation—were what helped them stay so close. None of them should have to shoulder their own burdens alone, not with the rest of the family there to help them.

If Wilbur was taking them in, shouldn’t that kindness extend to him?

His gaze lingered on the note for a long moment, expression unreadable. Finally, he looked up, plastering on a smile. “Hey, you thought of a name yet?”

It was an obvious change of subject, but Four understood that well. There were some things she would never be able to discuss, either.

She frowned, casting her gaze elsewhere, and shook her head. She couldn’t ignore the sudden tight band that had wrapped itself around her throat, squeezing like a thick pressure.

Right. The names. The unignorable pressure that had turned this wonderful miracle of a situation into a source of stress.

Sure, she didn’t want to be called Four, but did anything suit her better? Even given all the words in the world, she wouldn’t know how to describe herself. And they wanted her to do that in a single name?

It baffled her that none of the others had struggled with it. They ditched their numbers without a moment of hesitation, more than happy to use the first name that came to them.

But Wilbur didn’t seem to judge. He merely shrugged. “That’s alright. You’ll find one eventually.”

And the way he said it—like he didn’t have a sliver of doubt in his mind, like he had full confidence in Four’s ability to define herself—made her feel just a little better.

His eyes were still tracking her face, perhaps reading the intricacies in her expression, and he frowned. “You said you had a nightmare too, right? Do you want to talk about that?”

She paused, considering it, but shook her head. Like there was any way she could describe her meaningless encounters with the strange child that only seemed to appear in her subconscious. She’d love for those dreams to be analyzed. They had no purpose, usually not even a plot; they were unusually short, often just a snippet of conversation with someone she’d never met, whose face she couldn’t see.

Still, they left her uncomfortable. There was something about the child that left her unsettled, perhaps even a little frightened, though she wasn’t willing to admit it.

It didn’t help that the child had showed up in one of her daydreams, as well. Not the intentional ones, the ones with the elaborate plots that she could control, but one of the ones that came without warning. The ones that kept her trapped inside her own brain.

Wilbur hummed softly, and it was full of concern. “Wait here, alright? Don’t go anywhere.” He shifted, extending to his full height, and disappeared up the stairs, casting his eyes over his shoulder once to ensure she remained in place.

As if she’d move after being given direct orders. Betraying the commands of an adult never ended well, even if spoken with Wilbur’s unpredictable kindness.

She listened to the sounds of his footsteps padding up the stairs, fabric against hardwood, and then the soft thumps of him moving upstairs. A door creaked open and closed again, and a few moments later, he made his way down the stairs again, hopping them in a pattern of two at a time.

In his hand he clutched something small that glistened in the low light. When he laid it on the counter in front of Four, her heart might have swelled a little.

A rock—smooth and purple, swirled with lavender and white. A crystal, maybe.

She’d never seen anything like it.

I like that colour , she wrote, pushing down her impulse to happy stim. Colours like purple were practically unseen at the Federation, and looking at the delicate swirls of lavender and mauve and violet, she soon decided purple was her favourite.

“Yeah? Good.” Wilbur said. “It’s an amethyst. My friend Jaiden gave it to me a few years ago when I started having insomnia. Apparently, it’s a bird hybrid thing to give shiny rocks to friends. Phil tried to explain it to me, but I still don’t get it.”

Four furrowed her eyebrows. She didn’t really know what any of that meant. Why would a rock help you sleep?

He laughed. “Uh. That’s a good question. She said amethyst is supposed to help you sleep better, but I never really believed in all that stuff anyway. But you can have it, if you want.”

Four flicked her eyes down to the rock and back up to Wilbur, confused. He wanted to give it … to her? It didn’t make any sense.

She hadn’t really owned much in her life. Sure, she’d had her flute, but even that was taken away from her every time she returned to her cell. Her hospital gown and shoes had been her own—kind of—but never had she been given a material gift . What was she supposed to do? Keep it? Would he think her selfish for wanting it?

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want,” he added, seeing her hesitation. “I just thought you might like it.”

She did. She really, really did.

Are you sure? She asked. If she really was going to be taking it, Four wanted to be sure he didn’t want it anymore.

“Of course, Four. I have no need for it.” His smile faltered. “I won’t try to take it away, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s all yours.”

Hm.

She really wanted to believe him.

Hesitantly, she stuck her hand out, glancing up at him to make sure it was okay. When he didn’t move, she slipped her fingers around the rock, pulling it close to her before he got a chance to change his mind.

It was cold against her skin, smooth and polished, and she pressed it firmly into her palms, as if reassuring herself that it was real and it wouldn’t dissipate in her grasp.

It was hers . She’d been given a gift.

She still wasn’t sure what he wanted in response—was she supposed to give him something now? She wasn’t sure she had anything to give.

So, instead, she wrote a small Thank you on a sticky note and drew a little heart underneath. When she slid it over, she watched his expression melt into one of fondness, and she thought maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

“Alright, little Four,” he said, standing and stretching, “I’m off to bed. I have plans to stare at my ceiling until I hate myself.”

She wasn’t sure what to make of that, so instead she nodded. She should probably go back to sleep soon, too, before any of the other children woke up and found her missing. They probably wouldn’t approve of her talking to Wilbur alone when none of the older kids were there to protect her.

Whatever. In all honesty, she didn’t trust Wilbur—she didn’t trust any adults—but at least she thought that he didn’t want to hurt her. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t betray or scare her down the road, but he’d given her a rock, which was essentially an invitation for friendship. Right? 

With only a little difficulty, she slid off the barstool, greeting a freezing cold floor that sent immediate shivers up her spine. Rain lashed the window, and a distant rumble turned the night thick and churning outside the little cottage.

Back in the abandoned house, she might have been scared of the storm. It was a little bit of a shock to realize that here, bundled up inside Wilbur’s cottage, she felt safe from the thunder that threatened the rest of the island.

Wasn’t that strange? She wasn’t safe, but she was safer.

Wilbur didn’t dare come closer, but as his hand slipped around his lantern, causing the orange panes of light to sway and bounce off the walls, he fixed Four with a smile. “Sweet dreams, Four,” he whispered, eyes crinkling in the corners kindly. “Wake me up if you need anything.”

She wouldn’t. Not yet, at least, not until she knew the man’s limits and temper better—but still, the offer sent something warm and appreciative running through her veins.

Four watched Wilbur disappear up the stairs, taking his golden lamplight with him, until she was alone with the watchful moon and the quiet of the kitchen.

When she returned to the living room, tucking herself into warm arms and listening to the soft, rhythmic breaths of four sleeping children, she finally let her eyes slip close. In her hands, she clutched the rock, a cold slice of humanity cradled in her palms.

And, for better or for worse, she fell asleep.

**

Golden light, warm and steady like the sun, paints the room in the shades of summer. Four sits at a mirror, detangling her curls with thin fingers.

A figure stands on their tiptoes behind her: a child smaller than her, one wearing a blue tracksuit that’s much too big for their little frame. They push back the sleeves to tie a red ribbon into their wavy black hair.

Four turns, meeting their gaze for the first time. Why do you keep visiting me?

The child stares back. Their face is still mostly a blur, a tangle of unidentifiable skin and candlelight. Maybe you’re the only one who listens.

I don’t know who you are. It’s an accusation.

The child smiles, and it’s a gap-toothed and sad thing. If Four squints, she can make out individual features, but the child’s whole figure is a mystery to her.

And I don’t know you. Their hands find Four’s shoulders. In response to the touch, her vision begins to spin, both distracting and nauseating, leaving the child’s face behind in a haze.

Go to sleep , the child whispers. Somehow, they’re much too mature for someone so young. It’s not real. Not yet.

She doesn’t have time to figure out what that means. The world turns into a swirl of gold feathers and scarlet thread, leaving Four in the aftermath of her own spiralling subconscious.

On the edge of a haunted and lonely town, a dragon tosses and turns, unable to escape her own brain.

Chapter Text

Wooden floorboards creak under little feet. Her hands slip around the doorknob, cold to the touch, and she pushes the door open.

It’s grey in here, and hazy. Like trying to unlock a dream already passed, she reaches out into a cold fog for details. Swirls of white make up a headboard and a rumpled blanket over a mattress that is long abandoned.

This room is coated in a layer of dust. Preserved in time, as though it cannot and should never be touched.

A hand is warm on her shoulder, and she looks up to meet brown eyes.

I told you not to go up here, Tallulah .

A little dragon wakes in a house that is as empty as it is full. It has not been a home for a long, long time.

**

Four woke up with a twinge of pain in her leg; which wasn’t unusual, but it still made her wince. She unravelled herself from her blankets to peek at the gash cut into her calf.

Huh. She didn’t remember it being so puffy. The skin around the wound was slightly swollen and red, as though the gash itself was slowly spreading. A thin line of something yellow had shown up in the centre of the wound.

She didn’t think much of it; after all, she didn’t know too much about wounds, so she assumed it was just part of the healing process.

She stood, ignoring the sting of pain. If she left it alone, it would probably go away.

**

Five days into living at Wilbur’s house, the rain still hadn’t ceased. It came and went in teasing fluctuations, sometimes a mere mist and other times a downpour. Four didn’t mind so much; she rarely got to see the rain back at the Federation, and she liked the way the droplets were so cold they stung her hands. Sometimes, she’d stand out in the mud of Wilbur’s backyard, turning her face up to the sky, and let the rain turn her face icy and wet with running rivulets of water.

Once, Dapper and Richarlyson had surprised her by throwing handfuls of mud at her the moment she’d stepped outside — supposedly because she’d find it upsetting. Instead, Four scooped up handfuls of wet mud and threw them right back, only feeling a little guilty when she nailed Dapper in the face. The mud fight that followed ended up in an onslaught of giggles, and Four had laughed so hard she could barely breathe.

Wilbur watched with a tinge of amusement from the back porch, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest to keep out the cold. “That’s my lawn you’re destroying, you know.”

Four thought he didn’t actually mind. Part of him, she knew, liked to see them happy.

Speaking of Wilbur, Four was beginning to get more and more curious about the man. Every day, she walked on eggshells, anticipating the moment his kindness would disintegrate in her fingers, the moment she’d step over the line and he’d turn cruel and hollow like the adults at the Federation.

But he didn’t. Wilbur didn’t get mad, and he wasn’t mean. He was an adult , and he wasn’t mean. He was even…kind? Was that the word to describe the man who woke up early every day to ensure he’d have breakfast ready before anyone else was awake? Who stayed at home constantly to keep a watchful eye over the children so they were safe? Who spent his own money on more clothing and blankets so they stayed warm and comfortable?

Somehow, kind didn’t seem like a strong enough word.

And he was experienced with kids, too. She hadn’t even noticed it herself until Pomme brought it up one day, but he treated them with an expertise only a parent could have.

But unless Four was very, very mistaken, Wilbur had no children. Right? 

It didn’t make sense.

He was fascinating. And scary, but not scary in the same way Cucurucho was scary. No, Wilbur was scary because he was different from all the other adults in her life, and she wanted to know how far that would go.

He didn’t seem to mind when Four followed him into the kitchens in the morning to keep him company while he cooked, nor when she stood nervously at the door when he’d go out to the porch to play his guitar. She especially liked it when he played his guitar.

In fact, he didn’t seem to mind her following him around at all.

On the third day, he sat at the kitchen table with a book in his hands, reading silently, and only smiled when she entered the room—he had quickly grown used to her quiet entrances.

“Are you my little shadow now?” He’d asked, laughing a little, and she nodded, unwilling to admit how the words made her feel warm.

He took their language seriously, too. On only the second day, he started asking the kids how to fingerspell the alphabet, and then how to sign basic communicative phrases, and by the end of the fourth day, he could form a few full sentences—albeit clumsily, slowly and with hesitation, but still. His hands were big and clunky, and didn’t yet know the precision required to speak the Federation’s sign, but he was learning , and he wanted to get better so they could talk with him. Now, he could understand Four—at least, if she spoke in very, very simple terms and signed slower than she’d ever had to sign—and she fingerspelled out any words he hadn’t yet learned.

He was quite the insomniac, as well. Four would know: she’d woken up every night to the sounds of him moving about the first floor. It had become a sort of nightly routine to visit him in the kitchen, where he’d make her a glass of water and ask about her dreams, and she would refuse to answer. Then she’d ask him about his dreams, and he’d go all quiet and pretend she hadn’t asked.

It was a funny little game of forced innocence, but they both played it well.

On the fifth morning, before any of the other children had woken, Four padded around the first floor in her socks, her notepad cradled to her chest. She carried it around just in case—after all, Wilbur was still learning the most fundamental, rudimentary signs. Her flute—or, the one she’d stolen from the schoolhouse—was tucked into the deep pocket of her dress alongside a pencil.

She ignored the sting of pain in her leg, and though her instinct was to limp, she forced herself not to. The wound wasn’t important. It was healing.

If she dug into Dapper’s backpack and wrapped her wound with a white roll of bandages, then that was her business alone. She’d never wrapped her own injuries before, but she’d seen the others do it countless of times by now, so her tight wrapping would have to do.

Wilbur probably wasn’t up yet, and while she could’ve laid back down with the other children, she opted to sit on the windowsill, folding her legs underneath her and pressing her nose up to the glass, icy like a shock.

It was still raining. Day five of endless, endless rain. This morning, it was so thick she couldn’t see the fence on the other side of Wilbur’s yard. The old, gnarled tree that sat at the back of the plot was a vague grey shape sliced through by pellets of silver rain.

And, through the thunder of droplets outside, she made out another sound. Something soft and melodic, drifting through the house like it was made of wind.

Music.

She turned her head, peering down the hall, but the lights were still out.

The door to the back porch was cracked open, however, creating a thin white line of light that spilled onto the carpet. When Four approached it, she shivered in the cold draft that blew underneath the door.

She slipped open the door further and watched Wilbur from the doorway. He sat on a bench pressed up against the window, fingerpicking a song on his guitar and staring out into the monotonous rain. His glasses reflected the grey of the world beyond, but his sweater, that perpetual sunny yellow, made him stand out like a bright pop of colour amidst all the washed out muted tones made dull by the weather.

She must have made a noise by the door, because he was looking over, and he smiled at the sight of her.

“Good morning, my little shadow,” Wilbur said, voice gentle and amicable as always. “You’re up early.”

Four shrugged. It wasn’t like she could fall back asleep, anyway. Her brain was up, so her body had to be, too.

“Would you like to come sit?” Wilbur continued, and scooted over on the bench, glancing down at the place beside him.

Four looked down at the spot as if it would eat her alive.

So far, she’d spent all her time with Wilbur from a distance—always on the other side of the room, always separated by the kitchen counter, always clustered with Chayanne and the others while Wilbur stayed several feet away, careful not to scare them.

Never had she been so close. And he was asking her to sit beside him.

“On the bench?” She signed cautiously, shifting her notepad in her arms so she could sign with both hands.

Wilbur’s brows furrowed. “What was that last word?” And then, when Four fingerspelled the word out for him, his eyebrows turned down in thought. “Bench.” He signed it out, and then again. “ Bench. I like it.” A wide smile spread upon his face. “Yeah, you can sit down with me, if you like. Only if you want to.”

She thought about it for a long moment. The others would probably hate her for getting even remotely close to someone they didn’t trust, and yet…

The others were still asleep. She could deal with them later; bad decision-making was for now.

She nodded silently but decisively, and though her face remained unchanged, she warmed at the way his grin widened. The wooden planks of the veranda were freezing underneath her socks, and she realized very, very quickly how much colder the world outside was. She withheld the shiver that threatened to break through her spine, rumbling along her skin, and tried to will away the goosebumps that rose on her arms. It didn’t work.

Still, she kept quiet about it. Historically, complaining about the cold only seemed to annoy people, and the last thing she wanted to do was irritate Wilbur when they were all alone.

When she took a seat beside the man, she pressed herself as far as she could to the opposite side of the bench, careful to put as much distance as possible between them. Her knees pressed themselves into her chest, and she interlocked her fingers around her ankles.

And stared out at the rain. The droplets were thin and white and precious, and Four had to wonder just how much they’d seen on their journey between the skies and the earth. She wondered why she was lucky enough to be the last person to see them before each gentle droplet melded with the soil once more.

Beside her, Wilbur continued fingerpicking, and they settled into a comfortable silence. He looked tired—Wilbur always looked tired—but content, a small smile painting his cheeks with a rosy flush. Or maybe that was just the cold.

“Did you have a good sleep?” He asked calmly, startling her out of the silence.

She shrugged. Not really, but neither had he. “What about you?” She signed.

He frowned. “It wasn’t bad.” It was. He was up at least three or four times; Four lay awake, listening to the sounds of his footsteps upstairs, wondering just what it was that always prevented the strange man from sleeping.

It was all comparative, she supposed.

She folded her arms over her legs, eyes turning to the rain drumming on the veranda just outside her reach. Goosebumps made the hairs stand up on her arms, and this time, she couldn’t help the shivers that went cascading down her spine.

“Oh, are you cold?” Wilbur shifted beside her, making her flinch. He didn’t seem to notice; he was resting his guitar against the bench, and leaned forwards so he could pull off his sweater, revealing a worn band T-shirt underneath. He placed the sweater in between him and Four and edged it towards her slowly. “You can take that. It’ll keep you warm.”

Four’s eyes flickered up and down, shifting between the sweater extended towards her and Wilbur’s genuine face. She remembered vividly when he’d done something similar almost a week prior; when she’d been out in the cold, watching him play guitar from a few feet away, and he’d tried to give her his jacket. She’d flinched away at first, thinking about how suspicious her siblings would be if she returned home wearing a stranger’s jacket, but…

This time was different, right? She knew now that Wilbur—at least for the moment—didn’t want to hurt or trick her. He’d been helping her, right? Wilbur seemed to be in a constant state of worry over the kids, as though they’d crumble to pieces if he got a single thing wrong. Now, his eyes flickered over her face, and she could tell he was trying not to look concerned.

He was failing.

That was a gesture, right? If she didn’t accept the sweater, would he get mad? Or was this a test, and he wanted her to refuse it?

Her head spun. Wilbur was confusing.

Slowly, keeping her movements recognizable, she stretched a hand out. For a long moment, she kept it hovering inches above the fabric, eyebrows raised at him, waiting for confirmation.

“I’m not lying,” he said casually, shrugging. “I won’t be mad if you want to take it.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was lying or not. Still, her fist closed around the sweater.

She watched his face for reactions the whole time she pulled the sweater closer to her, as if he’d attack at any moment. But he stayed perfectly still, even regarding Four with joy when she took the sweater, pulling it over her head and letting her white curls bounce out after her.

Wilbur’s yellow sweater was still a touch warm, although the rain had cooled it quickly, and it was much too large for her. As in, the sleeves practically drooped a foot longer than her hands, and fabric bunched up all around her where it met the seat of the bench.

But it was a nice sweater, and she buried her face back into her knees, looking at Wilbur through positively euphoric eyes. She was more than pleased, especially when the sweater blocked out the chill of the early morning.

Wilbur chuckled fondly. “I’m not getting that back, am I?”

She shook her head, unable to keep the burning smile off her cheeks.

He seemed almost amused. With a chuckle, he wiped an exhausted hand down his face. “Christ, I really am taking care of kids again, aren’t I?”

And Four didn’t think he meant for it to come off as sad, but she couldn’t help frowning. There was something purely melancholic in his word choice that Wilbur himself didn’t seem to realize.

Again. She wondered about that word. It was a funny word; never used without meaning.

Wilbur was distant like the rain and just as transparent.

Furrowing her brows, she picked up her pencil, and he watched with muted interest as she wrote. The sleeves of the yellow sweater were long and kept falling over her fingers; she had to push them back to her elbows multiple times, only for the fabric to fall once more.

She didn’t quite mind, but it did make it harder to write.

Wilbur, why did you take us in? She thought about erasing and rewriting the words. Perhaps they were too harshly worded. But, before she could consider it, she was showing the page to Wilbur, and he squinted to read it.

She watched as something unreadable flickered across his face. The fingerpicking stopped, leaving them with the plummeting rain as their only accompaniment. The rain drummed so hard outside the veranda that the backyard nearly disappeared behind a sleet of rain.

He chuckled softly. “What? You mean, like, why did I let you into my home?” Almost nervously. “Four, of course I would.”

Huh. That wasn’t the answer she was looking for. She wrote, I was just curious.

His gaze fell upon the sleeves that threatened with every moment to swallow her hands whole, and something in his expression lifted, like he found it endearing. “I mean, how could I not? You were shivering and you looked hungry, and I thought you were alone.” His voice went all funny, and he swallowed in thought. “I didn’t know there were any kids left.”

When she wrote down a response this time, she struggled with the sleeves more, and eventually gave up, letting them slip down way past her fingertips, spilling onto the paper.

He chuckled. “Do you want help with that?” Without thinking, as if it was instinctual, he reached a hand out towards her.

Reacting on pure fear alone, she flinched back and away from his grasp, eyes widening and heartbeat rising to a fast murmur in her chest, loud and unavoidable. For a second, she considered running, and gripped the edge of the bench, ready to take off at a moment’s notice if needed.

He instantly backed away, raising his hands in the air in surrender. “Sorry, I just—I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He kept his hands up, waiting until she relaxed backwards, before he let them lower. “I just wanted to roll the sleeves up for you, I promise. Nothing scary.”

Oh.

She wasn’t sure she believed him quite yet, but he didn’t seem to be lying.

Keeping a careful eye on him, she rolled up her own sleeves bit by bit until they rested on her elbows. When she picked up her pencil to finally finish writing the sentence, they stayed put.

She paused, something thick and weighted settling into her throat, and showed him the notepad. Are we really the last ones? Part of her didn’t want to know.

He held her gaze for a moment, hands stilling, before busying himself with the guitar once more. He’d moved his fingers up to the tuning keys, although she thought to herself that it already sounded perfectly tuned. Still, he fiddled with one of the keys, avoiding her gaze.

“This fickle thing,” he muttered distractedly, “It never stays stable.”

She realized with a jolt that this was familiar; she’d been here already, sitting on this veranda and watching the rain drum by, despite knowing instinctively that this hadn’t ever happened. Those words had run through her head at least once before.

Back in the Federation, she often daydreamed about what life might have looked like if she had a family. They never had particular faces or voices, but they were always the same people, she thought. Often, the daydreams involved other children— the other children, the ones who had escaped alongside her—but they also involved a man with a kind smile who treated her like she was special.

She’d seen this happen, but in her daydream, she’d let him push up her sleeves. In her daydream, she wasn’t afraid of him, and it was nice. It kind of hurt to realize that she could never make that version of the daydream a reality, not without putting herself at risk.

But he must have noticed the way she stilled in thought, because he asked, “What?”

She hesitated before writing, I’ve seen this before.

His brows furrowed in confusion, and he laughed nervously. He opened his mouth, as if trying to form a response, but closed it again. Brows furrowing. Perplexed. 

Hm. 

In a daydream , she added, but her stomach went all tight and anxious in response to his sudden pause. Was this something she wasn’t supposed to talk about? Hurriedly, she added, but you knew sign language already, so I didn’t have to write. And you knew my name. She scrunched up her nose, trying to remember what the figure had called her in the daydream, but it was one of those fleeting, vague ones. Not the ones she controlled, but the lazy ones that came without any sort of warning, the ones she never saw coming. The ones that got her in trouble at the Federation, because she couldn’t make them stop when they told her to snap out of it.

They’d tried to forcefully snap her out of those daydreams once or twice. She didn’t like it when they did that.

But Wilbur’s face was calm, if she ignored the way his throat bobbed nervously. He ran a hand through his hair. “When did…when did you have this daydream?”

Did he know something she didn’t? Or was there another reason he suddenly got so weird?

She shifted uncomfortably, edging away from him. A few weeks ago. The day after I got out.

Falling rain. The rest of the world was blanketed in silence.

“Huh.” He paused, mulling over the words with a bewildered sort of look. “Imagine that: daydreaming about people you haven’t met yet.” He smiled, but it was clearly forced. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a daydream like that before, Four.”

Hm. She frowned, eyebrows drawing together in thought. Maybe it’s a dragon hybrid thing, she wrote. She’d never talked to the others about it, so for all she knew, they could’ve been hiding their own daydreams, too.

She’d have to ask Chayanne about it. Maybe.

“Yeah,” Wilbur said, but it was hollow.

He shook his head. Whatever he was thinking, it was cut off when he changed the subject, looking away from Four. “You still haven’t thought of a name, then?” He asked, but it wasn’t judgmental. Just open. Genuine. Nothing else hiding behind the words.

She shrugged, but that was enough of an answer for the two of them to fall into a comfortable silence. Wilbur continued strumming, but for several long seconds, his gaze remained on Four’s face.

With a sharp inhale, she scribbled out a message. If you were a girl, what would you name yourself?

The question seemed to surprise him, if the momentary curve to his eyebrows meant anything. But then he was chuckling, eyes dancing with mirth, and he leaned back against the bench. “Tallulah,” he said eventually, eyes somewhere else. “It’s what my biological mother wanted to call me. She was very upset when I ended up a boy.”

Four glossed over his last words without even meaning to miss them. Something warmed hesitantly in her stomach. She turned the name around and around in her mind, processing it. Thinking about it. Evaluating it.

Was it enough to define her? Probably not, she thought. But it was a nice name. And Wilbur seemed to like it, so that must have meant it was a good thing.

Plus, she was getting a bit tired of Four. And a bit more tired of feeling left out from the whole ‘name’ thing.

“I like that name,” she signed, watching him wondrously.

He watched her sign, furrowing his brows, until a mix of understanding and relief washed over his face. “Yeah?” He laughed. “You can have it, if you like it.”

She nodded softly. She did like that name; quite a bit, actually.

His smile turned kind and authentic. “Well then, Tallulah . It’s very nice to properly meet you, I suppose, name and all.”

Tallulah giggled. It was more of an excited stim than anything, but it still brought an affectionate grin to Wilbur’s face.

She drew her knees into her chest, watching the man curiously. She hadn’t even noticed her own body relaxing into the bench. Perhaps it was that she slowly realized that even this close, he didn’t want to hurt or attack or scare her, which was a terrifying enough realization on its own.

He pushed his glasses further up his nose subconsciously, face falling. She was still pressed up against the edge of the bench; she wondered if that was why he frowned.

“Were you really that scared of me?” He asked, watching her through lenses tinted a greyish-blue in the reflection of the rain. “When I reached forward?”

Cold air poured up her spine like an old, familiar song, and she shivered. If she said the wrong thing, and if she revealed that she still didn’t trust him, would he be mad?

Tallulah thought for a long time about what she wanted to write. Scribbled out something and quickly erased it. She erased the next thing too. Finally, she looked up, shrugging at the man for lack of a better answer.

She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say, and so she said nothing. Most of the time, that was easiest.

He frowned. Looking as if he wanted to reach out again, but he knew better. The guitar music on the air stilled with his fingers. “Tallulah, I promise you that as long as I’m around, no harm will ever come to you.” He raised his eyebrows, but his tone lowered, serious. “Alright?”

She wanted to thank him—really, she just wanted to be sure he was telling the truth. But then she thought of the others, thought how they would react to her getting so close to the man. Hm.

She dipped her chin into her collarbone, letting her bouncy curls hide her face.

Tallulah looked out into the hammering silver and tucked herself further into the massive yellow sweater, marveling in its warmth.

For now, it would keep her safe. Even if nothing and nobody else could.

**

She watches as it flutters to the floor, red and lonely, knowing it has not seen its owner in a long, long time.

Part of her wonders if this is even real. If any of it ever was.

The dragon tucks herself deeper into the sweater.

And she is cold. And she is cold. And she is cold.

Chapter Text

A man sits on a blindingly white floor, legs crossed under his body. He is weaker than he used to be. His eyes are wide and panicked, and in his hand is cradled a black pen slowly running out of ink. Across from him, the white walls of his cell are blanketed with diagrams and hastily scribbled theories, bullet points and lists scribbled with a restless hand. Eventually, everything dissolves into the same sentence, written over and over and over again.

I HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY AT THE FEDERATION , he writes. His eyes are red and bloodshot, perhaps from crying and perhaps from something else. Droplets of sweat pool at his forehead, covering his skin in a sheer glow. With one hand, he scratches at the mould spot growing on his neck.

I’ll get home to you, Guapito , he whispers, voice a broken crack. It won’t be long now.

Tallulah has seen this cell and this man before, but they both look different now. When she steps forward, closer to the man, her footsteps echo hollowly on the ground.

And then the man turns and makes eye contact with her. At the same moment, his pen breaks.

The last bits of ink spill over his fingertips, turning his skin to inky black.

He throws the remnants of the pen against the wall and screams.

A little dragon starts to limp. The pain in her leg is getting worse and worse.

**

Like Chayanne, Wilbur’s father lived life on edge. (Note: not on the edge. In fact, very much the opposite.) Any risks were made calamitous, and protection was of the utmost importance.

Perhaps that was why Tallulah had seen the changes in Chayanne, she thought. They happened quietly, almost without warning—so subtle that, had she not known Chayanne so well, she wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary. But even as the master of masks that Chayanne was, she still knew.

She would always be the unknowing audience, quiet but observant.

It started in the smallest ways. Little glances, or watching Phil from afar. Tallulah was aware Chayanne didn’t like how much Phil knew about hybrids, because it meant Phil could break down much of their behaviour, and Chayanne liked to hide. Tallulah thought it might be that Phil could decipher Chayanne’s body language, too.

It wasn’t more than a few days into staying at Wilbur’s house that Phil started paying more attention to Dapper, too. At one point, he asked Dapper if they didn’t have any demon hybridity. Apparently, demon hybrids often had Dapper’s greyish undertone and the slight glow to their eyes—which, frankly, Tallulah had barely even noticed . According to Phil, demons had a tendency towards mischief in their youth, which made sense for Dapper.

Dapper had merely shrugged. He didn’t even remember their real name—how was she supposed to remember something like that? Tallulah didn’t know that someone could have mixed hybridity, but she supposed it made sense. Phil sure did know a lot.

Tallulah had seen the mix of curiosity and distrust in Chayanne’s eyes. At least he was getting used to Phil’s presence.

“It’s rude to ask someone about their hybridity without invitation,” Chayanne explained to Tallulah, glaring at Phil. “He’s being intrusive.”

Tallulah merely shrugged. Phil had said he wouldn’t usually ask except for the fact that different hybrids had different needs in terms of diet and mental stimulation, which sounded alright to Tallulah. But Chayanne was a big kid, so she didn’t question him.

On the seventh day, Phil finally saw the state of Wilbur’s backyard, and the old fence rotted through with rain and moss.

It just wouldn’t do.

They were in the living room, staring out the window, and Tallulah sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes flicked between Wilbur and his father as they bickered amongst themselves quietly.

“It’s unsafe, Wil. You have kids in your house now.”

“It’s fine, Dad,” Wilbur insisted, wiping a tired hand down his face. “I’ve had this fence since the start of the pandemic, and never have I had problems.”

“Yeah, and you’ll regret saying that when you finally do.”

And then Chayanne snuck up behind her and took a seat to her left, keen to listen in. Because of course it was the conversation about safety that piqued Chayanne’s interest. Although he said nothing, Tallulah saw the way his eyes narrowed in focus, wings twitching behind him where they were pressed against his hoodie.

He was watching Phil. Evaluating him silently.

To Wilbur’s embarrassment, Phil spent the entire next day sourcing materials so he could tear down and rebuild Wilbur’s fence. There wasn’t any shortage of wood to be found around the island—after all, they could steal just about anything from the wreckages of the houses down the block. It was just a matter of finding the right resources, Phil said.

By noon, Phil was lining up and counting all his scavenged materials in Wilbur’s backyard. Wilbur leaned against the doorframe, sighing in disappointment.

It was a little like watching a game of tug-of-war.

The entire time, Tallulah trailed after Chayanne, curious about Chayanne’s curiosity. He tried to hide it, she knew, but the flicker in his eyes whenever Phil passed and the way his eyes lingered on the wood planks was enough indication of his interest.

Once Wilbur had left, Tallulah followed Chayanne outside, where he stopped at the base of the veranda stairs, crossing his arms in the cold.

And when Phil looked up, Chayanne signed something to him in that other sign language, the one seemingly only he and Phil understood. It was a little infuriating to Tallulah, because she wanted to know what he was saying , but she didn’t mention it. If she could stay in the background, she would.

The rain was only a light mist today. Tallulah still thought it weird that it hadn’t stopped raining, but she didn’t question it. The sky could do what the sky wanted.

But Phil frowned, looked down at the materials in hand, and nodded. “You’re right, Chayanne,” he said. “It’s not enough.”

Tallulah sighed. They were paranoid. They really were.

But she wasn’t a cat, and curiosity couldn’t kill her, so she sat on the top stair and watched them all afternoon. Phil brought over a massive toolkit, and together, he and Chayanne sharpened old, rusted nails and hammered them through each plank of wood meticulously, so that any infected who might try to bust down the fence would be shredded by the nails before they could do any real damage.

At some point, while heavy grey clouds turned the afternoon dark and cold, Wilbur joined Tallulah on the back porch. He wordlessly handed her a mug of hot chocolate, and sat down several feet away with his own cup of coffee. Together, they watched the two at work with shared distaste.

Wilbur grimaced into his coffee. “God, I think they’re using their trauma responses to bond.”

Well, “trauma” was a difficult word for a nine year old, a concept that involved a lot of complicated thinking that she didn’t quite understand. But Wilbur was smart, and Wilbur had a complex vocabulary, so she nodded.

And then Phil and Chayanne started enthusiastically discussing barbed wire, and even without a full understanding of the term, she thought, yeah. Yeah, Wilbur was right.

Three days later, they’d finished with the newer fence, and even expanded Wilbur’s backyard. Because, as Phil reminded him, the children needed space.

And with an extra plank, Chayanne wrote in Sharpie, BEWARE OF DOG.

“You don’t have a dog, do you?” Tallulah asked Wilbur, who shook his head, so Phil crossed out DOG and wrote CHAYANNE instead.

Chayanne narrowed his eyes at Phil’s neat printing. He nodded in approval.

It was a weird little bond they had.

**

On the eighth day, Wilbur decided he wanted to learn the Federation sign language faster. He’d been making great improvements, eager to be able to communicate with the kids, but, as he told Tallulah, it wasn’t enough.

While he made breakfast, Tallulah sat at the barstools, listening into his conversation with Phil.

“Have you heard anything about Cellbit, Dad?” He asked over the hiss of butter sizzling in the frying pan. “I’m curious about that journal of his.” She’d found that the kitchen was always too loud for her, but she liked hanging out with Wilbur. If she covered her ears, it was usually good enough.

“Journal, mate?” Phil asked. He opened up the fridge and pulled out a tray of sliced fruit covered in cling wrap. “Cellbit had a lot of journals.”

Tallulah picked up on his phrasing very quickly. Had . Not has .

They never referred to Cellbit in the present tense anymore. It was almost like he was gone forever, and maybe he was.

“The journal he kept for decoding the Federation sign,” Wilbur clarified.

“I don’t know, mate. You could ask Roier about it.”

Wilbur’s nose wrinkled in disapproval, and he pushed around a chunk of melting butter with his spatula. Even with his back turned, Tallulah noticed the exhaustion hanging off of him. “I’m not going to ask Roier, Dad. He’s been a mess lately. I’m sure making him go through his missing husband’s journals will only make things worse.”

Phil shrugged, sighing, as if he had no patience for Wilbur this morning. Instead, he offered a strawberry to Tallulah from across the counter, and she took it without complaint.

Phil turned around and leaned against the counter. “You could ask Bad. He helped Cellbit with a lot of the decoding, and he might know where the journal is.”

Wilbur hummed. “Yeah, but then I’d have to, like, reveal to him that I’m hiding a bunch of children from the government.”

Phil considered it with a frown, head tilting to the side in thought. And then, slowly, he said, “Not necessarily.”

And that made Wilbur look up, and they shared one of those looks that Tallulah had come to learn never meant anything good.

She didn’t like that. She didn’t like it one bit.

**

Chayanne was not happy about the plan. When Phil broke the news to him that Bad, a demon hybrid from town, would be coming over, Chayanne regarded Phil with a full glare. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, Tallulah shivered.

And, look, Chayanne was hard to read due to the way he hid his emotions, but Tallulah was fluent in Chayanne. Even if she wasn’t, she would’ve been able to understand the bitter distrust flickering in his eyes.

According to Phil, he and Wilbur couldn’t go over to Bad’s place, because they didn’t feel comfortable leaving the kids home alone. Which meant Bad had to come over to Wilbur’s. Which meant the kids had to hide.

“That’s stupid,” Chayanne signed, face crinkling in disgust. “Why don’t you just stay here and let Wilbur go?”

“Because I want to talk to Bad, too, mate,” Phil answered, sounding a little strained. He offered Chayanne a patient smile. “I know it’s not ideal, Chayanne. Just—please trust in us for now, okay? We’ll keep you safe.”

Hm. Tallulah thought it was odd phrasing; Chayanne didn’t trust anyone . It was kind of his whole deal.

Still, it wasn’t really like Chayanne could do anything about it. So he gave Phil a scalding look and put another foot of distance between them on the couch. Making his motions as obvious as possible, he turned towards the window, forcing their conversation to come to a swift end.

Tallulah watched as Phil sighed. He leaned over, putting his head in his hands, and glanced up at Chayanne through his fingers. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but kept quiet. Sometimes that was the best thing to do around Chayanne.

Again, it was a weird little bond they had.

**

She woke only when a firm pressure pounced on her, nearly winding her.

In response, Tallulah bolted straight up, heart leaping to her chest, but familiar hands were pushing her back down, and a gentle voice giggled softly above her. As her vision cleared, she saw a pair of white pigtails above her, and blinked away the strange haze overcoming her vision. Her mouth was dry, leg pulsing in pain, but, as always, she ignored it.

Even if it was getting worse.

It was still early in the morning—one quick look outside the window told her it was slightly after sunrise—and most of the other children were still asleep. That was, except for Chayanne, who was nowhere to be seen, and Pomme, who was currently on top of her, pressing a finger to her lips to shush Tallulah despite her own giggles.

Tallulah pushed at Pomme’s shoulder. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.” Pomme raised her hands to sign. She did not seem sorry. “I’m bored.”

Tallulah wrinkled up her nose and raised herself onto her elbows sleepily. She was still blinking away the edges of unconsciousness, and rubbed at her face with one hand. The air outside her blanket was cold, and she immediately wanted to wrap herself back up in its warmth. “What does that have to do with me?”

Pomme placed her hands on Tallulah’s shoulders, shaking them. Then, when that did nothing, and Tallulah dramatically collapsed back into her pile of blankets, Pomme signed, “Tallulaaaaah.” She dragged out the second “A” with her hand for effect. “C’mon. Don’t be boring.”

“What do you even want me to say? There’s nothing to do in this house.” As much as she hated to admit it, it was true. She loved Wilbur’s house—it was a lot better than the abandoned one, anyway—but it was a small house, and not necessarily built for children. Tallulah had her flute and the other children to keep her company, and when that didn’t work, she could always follow around Wilbur. Even then, it was hard to keep herself occupied. Thank God Phil had been keeping Chayanne busy teaching him home defence strategies—weirdos.

“Tallulah, we have the house to ourselves ,” Pomme explained, eyes twinkling with excitement. “Wilbur’s out getting Mr. Bad.”

That made Tallulah pause. She pushed off Pomme enough that she could sit up straight, only faintly aware of the curly bush that had become of her hair during the night. “We’re not being supervised?”

Pomme shrugged. “I mean, kinda. Phil’s supposed to supervise, but he got busy with Chayanne in the backyard again.” Her eyes trailed to her left, where Richarlyson was clinging onto Dapper in his sleep, and Dapper was somehow looking uncomfortable with the tight contact even while unconscious. “And they’re sleeping. So they won’t find out.”

Tallulah shrugged. “I don’t even know what you plan on exploring. There are only, like, four rooms down here.” It was true: they had the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room, where they were staying, plus a little bathroom they all shared.

“ Upstairs , Tallulah,” Pomme insisted, and a wild smile painted her face. “We can go upstairs .”

Huh. The place they were not allowed to go.

“I don’t know, Pomme,” Tallulah said, and curled into the yellow sweater still hanging off her frame. Her knees tucked into her chest, and she pulled her fingers through her tangled hair subconsciously. “That’s one of the only rules Wilbur established: don’t go upstairs.”

“We’re going to have to go upstairs anyway if Wilbur’s planning on hiding us in the attic.” Pomme leaned forwards, grasping Tallulah’s hands and practically vibrating in excitement. “Please, Tallulah? You’re the only one who would ever even consider saying yes.”

“Not true. Richarlyson and Dapper both like snooping more than I do.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but they’re boring .” And before Tallulah could protest further, she stood up, her hands clasped around Tallulah’s. She was tugging on the sleepy girl, met with only a little resistance, and when that didn’t work, she grabbed Tallulah around the waist and pulled her to her feet.

“For someone so light, you really know how to make yourself heavy,” Pomme said, almost seeming out of breath.

“Maybe you’re just weak.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’m the weak one.” Then she grabbed Tallulah’s hand, promptly tugging her along behind her.

And, well, Tallulah was curious. The only time she’d gone up there, Wilbur had immediately ushered her back down, despite the fact that she’d only been met with a single empty hallway.

Was that shady? Should she have been suspicious of that?

No, she thought. People deserved privacy, especially from a bunch of random kids.

Did that make her a bad person? Should she have felt more guilty as her sister pulled her upstairs and she willingly followed? Should she have simply told Pomme she wasn’t interested?

Tallulah didn’t know.

She let her mind dull as Pomme’s fingertips readjusted themselves around Tallulah’s wrist. Her mind was hazy today, riddled with sleep or perhaps something else, and she rubbed the tiredness from her eyes with the palm of her free hand.

She barely noticed the stairs slipping away and turning to flat ground underneath her feet.

Well, they were on the top floor. A thin layer of trepidation hung heavy on the air, as if the house was waiting to see what she’d do, but Tallulah chose pointedly to ignore it. It would only make their little operation harder.

Pomme took her to the tall white door at the end of the hall first and pulled it open softly. That one was clearly Wilbur’s room, if the stuffed laundry hamper and guitar stand and multiple half-full cups of cold coffee on the bedside table were any indication. Tallulah noted that it was the first room in the house she’d seen that was messy, but it made sense: nobody else had to go in there, so why should Wilbur care?

Another room down the hall turned out to be a little bathroom, cramped but cute. A third had strange wallpaper, she thought, covered in this bumpy black stuff that Pomme said would make the room soundproof. There were another two guitars sitting in that room, although they didn’t look as used as Wilbur’s usual guitar. According to Pomme, it might have been a music studio, which Tallulah thought was a very fancy addition to a cottage like this.

There was one more room down the hall. She hadn’t thought anything about it yet, but as she and Pomme neared the door, she felt a prickle in the back of her neck, almost like a warning. A last reminder that they weren’t really supposed to be doing this; in fact, Wilbur had set a rule against it.

But Pomme was already pushing open the door, and Tallulah’s momentary regret was washed clean with an overwhelming sense of curiosity.

Oh, this room was different from the others. This room was very different from the others.

This was another bedroom, Tallulah thought, and messy like the first, except in a different way: the bed was much smaller, and its white sheets were more rumpled than in the last room. A little yellow rug designed to look like a duck sat in the corner, onto which a little toy car and a number of plastic dolls had been spilled. The walls were a similar shade of yellow, bright and sunny and unlike the muted tones of the rest of the house, like there was something distinctly alive about this room. Something distinctly happy.

But there was something distinctly the opposite, too, Tallulah realized. Perhaps it was the empty pot filled with dry soil sitting on the windowsill. Something had once grown there, a long time ago.

Really, she thought, it was the layer of dust that covered everything here. It turned everything a little bit grey, even despite the room’s vividness. The second she and Pomme walked into the room, the second they stirred up the dust on the floor, they saw it echoing in the panes of early white light filtering through the window, curling pensively in the air.

Nobody had lived in this room in a long, long time.

It was a child’s room. That was the part that went unsaid, but the thought that clearly stuck with both Tallulah and Pomme. It was the thing that turned their energy sombre and cautious. Tallulah watched Pomme’s eyebrows turn downwards and her eyes turn sad, and Tallulah felt the exact same. She wasn’t sure why; it just lingered, unexplainable.

This room held a lot of stuffed animals, endearing but lonely. They had been someone’s friends at some point, but now they stared off distantly into space, laid at the foot of the child’s bed and against the wall on top of their dresser. Tallulah stepped closer to a well-loved stuffed tiger sitting on the edge of the dresser, and ran her fingertips absentmindedly along the edge of its ear.

She didn’t know why her chest ached, or why she felt like she was about to crumble. Maybe it was just something about the room.

Pomme had made her way to a little desk and a vanity set atop it, and was looking at a little metal jewellery stand. It was shaped to look like a tree, and though its branches were mostly untouched, there were several silver limbs that held a number of red hair ribbons, hung delicately over the metal and waiting for use. They fluttered on an invisible wind, waiting for a child that was long, long gone.

Oh.

Oh no.

Tallulah’s heart lurched. She did not like seeing those hair ribbons right there, tucked away into a little corner of the place they were not supposed to go.

Pomme tilted her head to the side, curious. She reached out her hand towards the ribbons, but before she could get close, Tallulah grabbed her wrist, forcing her hand back. She wasn’t quite sure what came over her, why her throat was so tight and why she knew without even a sliver of doubt that she could not let Pomme touch those ribbons.

They were not for her. They belonged to nobody in this house. Not anymore.

Pomme whirled around, eyeing Tallulah with wild concern. She eased her hand out of Tallulah’s grip just long enough to sign, “What was that for?”

Tallulah was starting to get a very, very bad feeling about this room. A feeling that said, Huh, maybe we shouldn’t have gone up here after all .

She had known Wilbur was hiding something, but she hadn’t expected it to be this. She hadn’t expected the remnants of an entire child’s existence to be rotting up here alone for nobody to witness but Wilbur. Hell, maybe Wilbur was rotting up here, too.

“Don’t touch anything,” she signed back, swallowing thickly. “It’s not for us.”

Part of her wanted to make sure it was real. That this wasn’t just another daydream inside which she was stuck.

She wrung her hands out in front of her, keeping them in a tight lock to her body. Afraid that she might get burned if she touched something here. This was a place for someone else, a treasured place, and the more time she spent in it, the more she started to feel like she’d made the wrong choice in coming up here.

Maybe Wilbur was allowed to keep his secrets. Maybe it was okay that she wasn’t allowed to know, and maybe if Wilbur was sinking, she was supposed to let him.

She had half a mind to grab Pomme right then and there and yank her out of the room, even if it would seem suspicious, but something unexplainable rooted her in place. Like her bones were made of wet concrete, thick and heavy, she stuck herself to the middle of the room, lips slightly parted and eyes casting themselves over the dusty toys on the corner, spilled out on the carpet like a child still intended to play with them, and the little books neatly stacked against each other in a little cubby pressed against the bed.

Someone had lived here. Lived . Past tense. That realization sent something cold and nauseating churning through her.

Grief was a thing that lived in spite of death, and Tallulah could feel it like a thick fog in this room.

No wonder Wilbur kept this place a secret.

Slowly, as if compelled towards it, Tallulah felt herself drawn to the bedside table, small and white and cluttered. On it, an unplugged lamp sat beside an empty glass and a black frame that had been turned down, like somebody hadn’t wanted to look at it anymore.

A photograph, likely.

She wanted to make sure. She needed to make sure, because otherwise it would eat her alive.

She felt Pomme’s curious eyes on her back, and Tallulah shielded the photo from her sister’s view.

Her fingertips scraped along a thin layer of dust coating the top of the frame, and if she squinted, she thought she could see another layer of fingerprints there in the dust, almost faded with time.

She stared at the photo with the most fearful gaze, and swallowed down the sick guilt that settled in her stomach.

Three figures stood memorialised in time. One was Wilbur—he looked younger, just fresh out of his teenage years. In his early twenties at the most. It was a candid sort of photo, washed out in colour as if the years had faded the memory. Wilbur sat on a red-and-white checkered picnic blanket, his guitar cradled in his hands. There, it looked new—not worn by time, as Tallulah knew it.

What Tallulah found interesting, however, was that Wilbur wasn’t looking down at the instrument. Instead, he was grinning widely at the shorter man beside him, a duck hybrid who cradled a little child in his lap. The latter two were practically replicas of each other: matching black hair and bright yellow wings turned gold in the sun. The toddler’s wings were composed of fluffy down, characteristic of a chick, and they stared at Wilbur with wide, curious eyes as the other man pushed the hair back from the child’s face fondly. Although it was partially obscured from the camera, it seemed as though he was tying something red and familiar into the child’s hair, and Tallulah felt sick.

Wilbur looked so happy ; eyes crinkling in immeasurable warmth just upon looking at his child. A sort of youthful joy on his face that Tallulah had never seen since knowing the man.

She wondered if he could still be that happy anymore. Probably not.

A cold shock shuddered along her arm, as if a little hand was trying to get her attention.

I told you not to go up here, Tallulah.

Before Pomme could get a look at it, she turned the photograph face-down again. She’d already caused enough damage, and if the sizzling electricity on the air and the burning adrenaline meant anything, then it was time to get out.

Her brain was bright and staticky, and she understood with a shock of realization that she needed to leave. Now. 

She only distantly registered Pomme’s face falling. She stepped closer to Tallulah, and signed, “Tallulah? What’s wrong?”

“We need to get out,” Tallulah responded, already distracted. She felt hollow, caved out, but a pulsing urgency beneath her skin told her that no matter what, they couldn’t be in this room anymore. She barely even noticed herself grasping onto Pomme’s wrist and dragging her older sister out of the room. The door clicked quietly shut behind them, and the sound was almost tangibly empty.

Her feet found the top stair and her fingertips brushed along the railing unsteadily, and she fled down the stairs without looking, her mind a flurry of thoughts. The sudden movement made her leg feel as though it was on fire, but she wasn’t in the right state to care.

She yanked Pomme down onto the first floor and scrambled away from the staircase, ignoring Pomme’s little noise of complaint. The living room wasn’t far away, and before Pomme could stop her, Tallulah pulled her back into the little room, where Dapper and Richarlyson still remained sleeping in a pile on the floor.

Not a second later, the door to the backyard clicked open, and the sounds of two heavy pairs of boots followed. Tallulah flinched in response, shocked by the noise, and her heart leapt to her throat.

Oh, she was jumpy. Whatever sensation had told her to leave had fried her nerves, leaving her scared and wildly on edge. She curled into herself, hands wrapping around her middle and shoulders hunching slightly, as if she was trying to shrink into herself.

She didn’t like this feeling. She didn’t like it at all. It was a mix of grief, sticky and cold, and fear, impossibly fast and even harder to catch. It made her head spin.

“Wakey wakey!” Phil called, voice booming out over the floor. “Time to get up! Wil’s going to be back with Bad soon, so I need to show you all to the attic.”

Tallulah’s breath came fast in her throat. Pomme stood in front of her now, one hand on her wrist and the other brushing her curls from her eyes, watching Tallulah with a certain amount of concern that made Tallulah feel sick.

Pomme was clearly questioning what had happened, if her bright and startled eyes were any indication. She shushed Tallulah gently, cupping the back of Tallulah’s neck with a warm hand and forcing Tallulah to meet her gaze in a firm effort to calm her down. If Phil came into the room to see Tallulah freaking out, he’d have questions, and then they’d have to answer those questions, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to think of any good excuse.

And, frankly, Tallulah didn’t know why she was shaking. Or why her face felt hot and her eyes stung with tears. Why her mind kept going back to a little photograph turned down on a child’s bedside table, left untouched for years.

Wilbur had a child. God, Wilbur had a child.

A child who, for whatever reason, had been stuck in Tallulah’s head for nearly a week, tormenting her both while awake and asleep. Which meant that there was something very, very wrong with Tallulah.

She focused on the sensation of Pomme’s warmth against her skin and ignored the pulsating pain in her leg.

**

In the centre of town, a man wipes the rain from his eyes. The community centre cork board sits abandoned and lonely in front of him, harbouring the faces of the many missing islanders who would never come home. There’s a woman to his left, and she watches him sadly, humming in thought.

A long, crinkled sheet of paper sits creased between her hands. This one too?

He nods. This one too.

They shelter the poster from the rain as they tack it up to the board, ignoring the squelch of wet, mouldy cork oak beneath their fingers.

The face on the poster is only one among many.

For a moment, the man drags his fingertips down the edge of the paper, ignoring the twist of his stomach. He misses when the days were warm and when he didn’t feel so confused. He’s standing in a sea of missing posters, and yet somehow, he feels like the one who’s lost.

Come home soon, Gatinho , he whispers, and it’s a heartbroken sort of thing. I’m starting to lose hope.

Standing under a sleet of rain and hail, a spider tries not to feel so empty.

Chapter Text

Unbidden, he rots from the inside out. Here is a place where he will never be found: his home, his grave, his very own mind. There’s a comfort in the uncomfortable; he is so safe in a lack of safety that he will never seek an alternative.

He does not deserve good things anymore, he thinks; he’s done enough damage in his time.

But he is obstinately quiet about it, and it will be his own undoing. It’s a funny little thing.

**

Wilbur felt as though he’d aged ten years in the past week. Over a week now, he supposed, although it felt much longer.

It was a taxing job, suddenly having to take care of so many kids with such different needs, and after years out of practice, he wasn’t ready. The last time he had little feet pattering around his cottage, he’d only had to care for one child. Not five. Plus, Tilín was an avian, and so was Quackity, so Quackity handled all the hybrid-specific forms of care.

Wilbur could never quite figure out the hybrid stuff. He tried—he really, really did—but he never understood what was a human response and what was otherwise. In his opinion, it all tended to blur.

But God, was he stressed. He’d slept a total of five hours in the past two or three days—he couldn’t even remember anymore—and had had enough coffee to keep him running on a constant low level of anxiety. He was a frantic, nervous wreck, but at least he was still operating. Colours were too bright, the world was too real, and every time he heard a little child giggling in another room, his throat went tight.

It reminded him of them. Everything reminded him of them.

The house was becoming a bit of a mess, and he hated it. The night before Bad’s visit, he hastily cleared and wiped down the cluttered counters and swept up all the dust from the floor, then mopped the back door where a number of little footprints had tracked in mud.

And then he almost went into the living room, to fold all the blankets making a mess of the ground. But Chayanne was in there, and he eyed Wilbur nervously the whole time, so Wilbur backed out gently. Phil said that dragon hybrids liked to have a communal safe space—den, he called it—and the last thing Wilbur wanted to do was encroach on that. Even if the room was a bit of a disaster.

The kids still hadn’t unpacked what was leftover in those backpacks they brought with them, and Wilbur was starting to get curious. He’d seen bandages and a first aid kit come out of there, as well as a little book Pomme liked to write in, and he thought that was where Chayanne had stored their switchblade. Whatever else remained in the bags was a mystery.

Which made him think that, oh, maybe it really was a poor idea to bring Bad to the house. Maybe the kids weren’t ready. The only thing that kept him convinced of his plan was the memory of a little girl sitting with him on the veranda, telling Wilbur she’d seen that very scenario before.

There was another reason he wanted to talk to Bad. He needed to do it for Tallulah. Because whatever was going on with her wasn’t good, and if it was what he suspected, then Tallulah might be in danger.

Fuck , this was hard. Was he going about this all wrong?

Part of him was convinced he’d mess this all up. He’d walked on eggshells for a painstakingly long week to even earn a sliver of their trust, but it would only take one mistake to lose it again. What if his house wasn’t safe enough? What if he crossed a boundary and hurt one of them?

What if one of the kids was deathly allergic to something, and he’d never know until it was too late? Before the epidemic, Charlie’s and Mariana’s kid used to come over for playdates all the time, and it was hell trying to cook something that wouldn’t give her an allergic reaction. He’d been lucky so far with the Federation’s kids, but there was no telling when he would finally slip up. And then, oh no , he’d either have to go to Foolish for some sort of life-saving remedy—which would mean revealing the existence of the kids—or risk digging their graves.

He couldn’t deal with that again. To have a kid live by his hands was hard enough, but to have another kid die under his care?

He’d dug a child-sized grave once before in his life, and that was traumatizing enough. Even thinking about it squeezed on his heart, turning the breath in his lungs sour and stale.

So yeah, maybe he wasn’t sleeping well, but it was alright as long as they were. Maybe he wasn’t eating enough, because he had to cook for five more people and hadn’t had time to adjust to that change, but at least they had enough food to eat.

He’d deal with it later. Even if it killed Phil to see him this stressed.

As long as the kids didn’t know, it was fine.

**

The walk to Bad’s was cold and quiet, a path that cut through the desolate remnants of town, where the buildings were packed tight and standing strong despite the apocalypse’s attempts at destruction. As always, the streets were so empty that his footfalls echoed off the storefronts and old abandoned buildings on either side. He kept a mask up over his mouth and nose, even though it was only necessary if he came into contact with an infected or another person. But it still kept his identity partially hidden—which was hard, considering there weren’t many people his height in town—but he’d take what he could get.

This early in the morning, a low fog swept over town, obscuring anything more than twenty feet away. Infected rarely went into this part of town, into the maze of terracotta, but Phil had still insisted Wilbur keep his handgun at his side. Just in case.

If you asked Wilbur, Phil was a paranoid old bird. Loving, sure, but paranoid. Wilbur wasn’t the best shot with a gun, but he supposed it would do in a pinch.

As he turned the corner onto an identical narrow street, sheltered by crumbling brick and the smell of smoke that never quite went away, he thought he picked up on something white parked down the street through the fog.

A Federation van.

Now, those weren’t necessarily unusual to see, but they still set a nervous band of tension running up Wilbur’s spine. Osito Bimbo—or, as the kids seemed to call him, Cucurucho—never came into town without reason, and he and Wilbur had never quite gotten along, even before Wilbur hid a group of Osito Bimbo’s runaways in his cottage.

This was probably only a van of his little minions doing their usual check-ups on town. Creeps.

Best thing to do was to ignore it. Walk in a straight line, perhaps smile if he saw a white-masked worker pass by. Politeness, although it wasn’t real or reciprocated, was one of the only things keeping him safe.

If he silently kicked a shard of glass from the street in front of the van’s back tires, that was his business alone. He was in the van’s blind spot by then, and they could deal with a flat tire anyway. They were the Federation.

They deserved it. That and so much worse.

**

The journal sat flat on Wilbur’s dining room table. Leather-bound and unassuming, frayed at the edges with a cracked spine and several waterlogged pages. Well-loved, surely. Cellbit had undoubtedly spent many sleepless nights reviewing the security footage of the workers talking again and again, trying to pick up on the littlest patterns in the hopes of decoding a single word. The journal had clearly suffered as a result.

But Bad had found it, which was the important part, and it was almost— almost —in Wilbur’s grasp. For now, though, it was in the demon hybrid’s care, one pitch-black and long-taloned hand resting softly on the journal’s cover.

“Remind me why I’m supposed to give this to you?” Bad asked, narrowing his eyes. They were a brilliant white that cast refractions off the hardwood of Wilbur’s table. Wilbur had to keep reminding himself not to make eye contact for too long, lest he burn colourful after images into his vision, and refocused his gaze instead on Bad’s long black cloak and the red lining that pitched the rest of his face into shadow.

He had always been a dramatic motherfucker, that guy.

Wilbur swallowed, looking to Phil, who sat to his right, and said, “My dad and I did some talking, and we decided that it would be a valuable thing to learn.”

“I didn’t ask why you wanted it, I asked why I’m supposed to give it to you,” Bad clarified. If the way his talons tightened on the journal was any indication, he was getting suspicious, which was probably a valid reaction. “I mean, you’ve never shown any interest in learning the Federation’s language before. You’ve put in no effort to help decode anything, and in the past week and a half, you’ve stopped helping the search for Cellbit. And now you’re asking for full access to his journal—without his permission?”

Wilbur shrunk into himself. “Well, when you put it that way, it doesn’t sound great.” In all honesty, what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t really leave the house with five kids under his care, and he definitely couldn’t leave for long enough to join Roier’s search parties.

Phil tipped up his chin. “Look, Bad, you’re right. But we thought it might serve us all to be a little more proactive, don’t you think?”

Bad paused. “Go on.”

“Well, you’re the only one left who really knows any of the language in town, what with Cellbit gone. If you ignore the little pieces Roier learned by osmosis, that is, but don’t you think it’s beneficial to have other people who understand?”

“I mean, I’m nowhere near fluency myself,” Bad commented, shrugging. “Cellbit speaks it better than I ever will, and even his understanding is, like, super broken. It takes a long time to decode a language, especially if you’re not a trained linguist.”

Wilbur swallowed. He hadn’t really considered that bit. That journal could’ve contained a plethora of foreign signs, but there was a small chance Wilbur knew most of what was in there already. Assuming it was even accurate.

And that was the part that stung, wasn’t it? Cellbit had spent months poring over the same old grainy videos of Federation workers for simply a few words here and there. And yet Wilbur had learned enough for basic communication within the past week.

The joy of children. They knew everything, and it was terrifying.

Still, somehow, it didn’t seem fair. Which was perhaps why Bad was so resistant to let Wilbur have access to the journal. Cellbit had done all the heavy lifting on his own, so was Wilbur selfish for wanting to learn from his leftovers?

Probably. Best not to analyze it too much.

“What if I wanted to help more with the investigation?” Wilbur folded his arms over his chest, shrugging. Which was probably a dumb thing to say, because he definitely didn’t have time to get involved in all of that. “Bad, if you’d let me have that journal, I could continue Cellbit’s decoding attempts until he gets back. But I can’t do that until I know what he’s already done.”

“Wait—okay, let me get this straight.” Bad narrowed his eyes. “You want to help decode the rest of the language in Cellbit’s absence. You. ” It was painfully skeptical.

He practically felt Phil sighing to his side. He tended to do that a lot when Wilbur was around.

Luckily, Bad didn’t seem to notice Phil’s exasperation. Or, if he did, he pointedly ignored it. “Why the sudden interest?”

Wilbur looked to his father for help, but Phil only raised an eyebrow back. His face said something along the lines of you dug your grave, now lie in it.

Time to bullshit the fuck out of this situation. Or perhaps deeper into it. He couldn’t tell. “It’s like you said: I haven’t been doing anything to help any of you with his disappearance. And I thought about what Roier’s going through, you know, with missing his husband, and how I’d feel if I lost someone that close to me.” He already had. Twice. Except one of them was never coming back, and he never wanted to see the other one again. “And I’m good with language, so I thought I could at least try my hand at deciphering something.”

Bad’s expression softened, thinking. “So you’re saying that if I give you Cellbit’s journal, you’re going to return it to me with more insight and research into the language?”

Wilbur’s stomach twisted into a knot. He knew that if he looked over at Phil right now, he’d receive one of those classic disappointed dad looks.

Of course, he didn’t like lying to Bad. And maybe it wasn’t the best lie, maybe it was hasty, but at least he could follow through with his promise. He’d already learned enough about the Federation’s sign language to fill in a few gaps Cellbit had likely been missing, and with the kids’ help, it would go a lot faster.

So Wilbur ignored the guilt settling on his shoulders and smiled at Bad. “I can try. If you’d let me, of course.”

Bad watched Wilbur for another long moment, as if trying to figure out whether or not Wilbur was telling the truth. Then, heaving a sigh, Bad wiped an exhausted hand down his face. His talons loosened around the journal. “I’m probably making a mistake, aren’t I?”

And oh, Wilbur was a bad person. Or, at least, he definitely wasn’t looking great right now, after lying to a friend in order to get a missing person’s journal for Wilbur’s own benefits. At least he’d be helping with the decoding. Kind of. Not really—just learning from the children he was hiding upstairs.

He didn’t want to think about it.

But Bad still leaned over the table, stretching out one hand, journal clasped in his fingers.

It was lighter than Wilbur expected, and now that it was actually in his hands, it felt wrong. The thing buzzed in his fingers like it wanted to burn him, although maybe that was just his imagination. He set the leather-bound old thing on the table, unwilling to look at it lest his guilt consume him.

“Alright, is that it?” Bad asked, as if he wanted to be anywhere else. “Did you need me for anything else?”

Phil frowned, glancing at Wilbur, and shrugged. “That’s all I wanted.”

Wilbur felt the pressure of the room’s gaze fall upon him, and his focus sharpened in on the conversation. Something thick and important settled in his throat, and he remembered the other reason he’d called Bad over.

Which was unfortunate, because he didn’t exactly feel comfortable talking about it with his father in the room, who tended to turn even the smallest situations into a cause for concern.

“Dad, do you mind giving me a moment to talk to Bad alone?” Wilbur asked under his breath, giving his father one of those looks. “I have something I want to ask him.”

Phil raised a single eyebrow at Wilbur. His wings bristled behind him, pressing flat against his back, which was definitely not a good sign. “Whatever you want to say to him, Wil, you can say in front of me.”

He regarded his father for a moment longer, but the man didn’t back down. Wilbur inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh. Fuck.

Bad’s glowing white eyes bounced uncomfortably between Phil and Wilbur, but he remained quiet.

“It’ll only stress you out,” Wilbur continued, almost hopefully. The last thing he wanted to do was activate Phil’s worried dad mode—which was extremely easy to activate—and this conversation would certainly serve as an immediate trigger.

“All the more reason for me to stay, don’t you think?”

Wilbur glared at his father. There was no point fighting: when his father got that look in his eyes, the narrowing firmness and thin downward tilt to his lips, it meant something serious. He wouldn’t give into Wilbur on this one.

“Yeah,” Wilbur finally said, biting on the inside of his cheek and shaking his head, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He wasn’t. “Bad, do you mind if my father stays?” He leaned forward on the table, cupping his elbows with his palms, and gave Bad a pleading sort of look. One that said, please, tell Phil to go away.

But Bad—loveable, sweet, oblivious Bad—merely shrugged. “I don’t have anything against it. Is something wrong, Wilbur?”

Wilbur’s eyes widened. “What? No, no, it’s not anything like that, Bad, it’s just—,” he started, but paused when he felt Phil’s eyes burning into him. So he paused. Leaned back. Collected himself, and prepared himself to rip off the bandaid. “I’m wondering what you know about clairvoyance.”

Silence. The atmosphere turned uncomfortably hot and pressurized in the absence of their voices, and Wilbur wished he could disappear. Still, he kept the line of his shoulders straight, kept his face neutral—anything to avoid looking suspicious.

And—oh, he hadn’t noticed that worried sort of look come into his father’s eyes. “Wil, why do you want to know about clairvoyance?”

“Yeah, Wilbur, why—,” Bad started, his brows furrowed. “You’re not experiencing any symptoms, are you?”

Wilbur knew the hidden meaning behind it. Clairvoyance was one of those weird, uncomfortable topics that always made people start speaking in tongues, as if talking about it directly would kill them. It showed up around the same time as the virus—and, like the virus, nobody knew why. Cellbit originally theorized it was a rare side effect or alternate symptom of the virus, until the rare virus-immune hybrid started developing clairvoyance symptoms, too.

Mostly, it was linked to death, or the closeness of it. Which was what worried Wilbur the most.

But there was nobody who understood death better than a demon hybrid, which was exactly why it was so perfect he got to chat with Bad as soon as he did.

Pity Phil had to be there to witness it.

“Mate?” Phil prompted, voice soft, and it was only then that Wilbur realized he hadn’t given them a proper answer yet.

“No,” Wilbur answered carefully, although perhaps a bit too fast. “Wh—no, no, I’m not talking about me. I’m totally fine. Never been better, actually.”

“Then who are you talking about?” Phil’s eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to examine between the lines of the lie Wilbur was currently setting up in his head. God, today was all about lying, wasn’t it?

Wilbur felt nauseous. He’d never been a great liar.

“Nobody,” Wilbur answered, feeling his shoulders rise in defence. “I just fell down a research hole the other day. So I was curious.”

“Is this still related to Cellbit’s journal?” Bad asked, glancing at Phil momentarily, who looked equally lost. “I didn’t know you knew about his clairvoyance.”

Wilbur paused. “...Yes,” he answered carefully, although he had no idea until now that Cellbit was even remotely clairvoyant. It would make sense: after all, most clairvoyant people ended up as paranoid and sleep-deprived as Cellbit, corrupted by the ghosts in their heads. “I mean, I don’t know much about it, but foresight is one of the symptoms, right?” Wilbur clasped his fingers under his chin, giving Bad an analytical sort of look. “You know, making predictions and seeing things, and—can you talk me through that?”

Bad looked suspicious of Wilbur. He looked the man up and down with brilliant white eyes, but if he thought anything strange of Wilbur, he said nothing. “Yeah. Yeah, foresight is one of the more common symptoms. Which is good, because it’s not actually that bad. It doesn’t, y’know, mess people up that much, not like the other parts of clairvoyance. Most people actually say it feels a little bit like dreaming, except it can occur at random points during the day. Kind of like—”

“—daydreaming,” Wilbur finished, breath catching in his throat.

Phil’s arms folded over his chest. “Mate, if you need to tell us something, you should. You’re starting to worry me.”

But Wilbur only leaned further forwards across the table, ignoring his dad. His heart thrummed a little in his chest, and he wasn’t quite aware of the way his fingers tightened around his arms. He didn’t know what to expect from this conversation, but the fact that it made so much sense already was almost concerning. “But that’s not something to worry about, right? If it’s a lesser symptom?”

“Oh, yeah, foresight alone is totally normal.” Bad shrugged. “It’s the only part of clairvoyance you can experience without a near-death experience. No, it’s the other symptoms you need to look out for.”

Wilbur waved his hand, as if prompting Bad to continue. Now, he was really getting into the important bit. “Such as?”

Bad regarded Wilbur carefully. “Wilbur, maybe we should—”

“ Such as? ” Wilbur repeated. If there was something he needed to worry about, he would. Wilbur was very good at worrying about things. After all, it was the best way he could protect Tallulah from whatever was going on.

Phil leaned back in his seat, tossed into an uncomfortable silence. At first, he’d been glaring at Wilbur, as though the very mention of clairvoyance had unsettled him. Now, that look was something born of pure worry, free of the irritation that had previously riddled his features into a scowl.

Wilbur resisted commenting on it. This was the reason he didn’t want his father there—because Phil would interpret it as a problem Wilbur was having, when it wasn’t a Wilbur thing at all. And then Phil’s concern would make the issue larger than it had to be, and then Wilbur would have to either continue lying to his father or tell him the truth, which would likely cross Tallulah’s boundaries.

“I mean, paranormal communication is the most common one, right?” Bad started, rubbing the back of his neck. Again, if he noticed the tension rising between Wilbur and Phil, he made a point of respectfully ignoring it. “Which can come in a few different ways: physically seeing ghosts is one thing, but some people report feeling, like, cold hands on them, or little gusts of wind. Sometimes they hear things.” He paused, eyes flipping up to the ceiling as he thought about it. “I guess the most mild form would be sensing energy or static on the air. That in itself isn’t too bad. Usually, if you start seeing ghosts in your visions, and that’s how you know things are starting to go downhill.”

Huh.

Wilbur blinked. He wondered if he should be taking notes, but he supposed it was too late now. That might have raised suspicion, anyway. “Anything else I should worry about?”

Phil’s gaze burned a hole into Wilbur’s side. But the man stayed quiet, which, in all honesty, was almost worse.

“I don’t know, Wilbur, I’m not a clairvoyance expert.” Bad sighed. “I’ve heard of two clairvoyant people sharing visions across long distances, but I think that’s just a rumour. It’s hard enough to find one clairvoyant person, nevermind two.” His talons tapped gently on the table in thought, almost like a subconscious habit. “In general, expect anything involved with extrasensory perception. There’s something like insight—or…brain hopping, I think Cellbit called it? I think that’s how he tracks down the workers when they come into town. Anyway, they’re like these moments of insight into other people’s lives. Just flashes, I think, but I don’t know much about it.”

Somehow, that eased a knot of tension in Wilbur’s chest. As far as he knew, Tallulah had only been experiencing foresight. And maybe Tallulah wouldn’t be comfortable sharing those other symptoms with Wilbur, but she’d been trusting enough to tell him about the foresight, right? “So, what would that mean? If someone with foresight alone started experiencing those other things?”

Bad paused. He opened his mouth and closed it again, like he was trying to find the right words. And Wilbur realized he’d hit that vulnerable spot that made people go quiet about it, and remembered exactly why people hesitated when discussing clairvoyance.

Eventually, Bad managed, “Well—I mean, you know what causes clairvoyance, Wilbur.”

Wilbur’s throat went tight, and he looked down at where his hands were tightly clasped in front of him. That journal stared back at him tauntingly. It was a bit of a ghost itself.

Well, fuck. He should have seen that coming, really—it was one of the few things he did know about clairvoyance—and yet to actually hear it come out of Bad’s mouth was another thing.

The one thing that kept him comforted was the fact that, as far as he knew, Tallulah hadn’t been experiencing anything extrasensory apart from foresight. Plus, if she was dying, Wilbur would know. He’d been paying a lot of attention to that little girl.

What could he say? She was his little shadow, the kid that trailed him through the house like a lost duckling, always staying several paces away and never engaging in conversation unless he started it first. He knew she was afraid, and yet she was so, so bright . Like sunshine had taken a human form in this little girl, and Wilbur didn’t quite know how to handle it.

It was a little too familiar in a way that made Wilbur’s chest ache. It dusted off the cobwebs coating his heart, revealing a little crack of that loving joy that he’d shielded from himself after Tilin.

Wilbur opened his mouth to ask another question, hands still perched curiously on the journal’s cover, when a sound from upstairs stopped him. And, in turn, prickled his spine with fear.

A thump. Soft, barely audible, and Wilbur smiled as if nothing had happened. His grip tightened, knuckles turning white, and he swallowed, keeping his eyes fixated forwards. To his right, his father shifted.

Still, Bad had the enhanced hearing of a demon hybrid—unfortunately—and his eyes narrowed. “Did you hear that?”

Now, Wilbur wasn’t stupid, and neither was Bad. He could’ve pretended away that noise all he wanted, but wouldn’t that have made things worse?

“Windy day,” he merely responded with a shrug. “Sometimes things hit the roof.”

“You can hear that from all the way down here?” Bad’s tone was full of doubt. Fuck. That wasn’t good.

Through all their years of friendship and theorizing, Cellbit had trained Bad well; now, he was attuned to every little noise, ready to question just about anything even slightly out of the ordinary. It was usually a good thing. Right now, it certainly was not.

And then another thump upstairs followed, and Wilbur internally swore to himself.

They really were screwed. He saw it in the glow in Bad’s eyes, the way they dimmed in thought, and his gaze was fixated upstairs, shoulders drawn tight with apprehension.

“Wilbur, I think there’s someone in your house.”

Phil and Wilbur shared a look. Wilbur was quick to follow with, “Those little sounds happen all the time, Bad. Really nothing to worry about.”

But Bad was already on his feet, curious as always, making for Wilbur’s staircase. And Wilbur’s heart started racing, because shit , he couldn’t let Bad find out about what was going on. He thought about when he first met the kids, huddled up in fear in the abandoned house, a clump of white-haired ghosts with wide, terrified eyes. And then Chayanne had thrown a knife at his head, and he knew immediately that they didn’t want to be discovered. They didn’t know how to trust yet, and frankly, none of them were ready for trust.

They still weren’t. And this test, letting Bad into Wilbur’s house while the kids were there, was already stretching their boundaries. Which meant that, if Wilbur fucked this up—if Bad found out about the kids—it would cause irreparable damage to the thin trust he’d managed to build with them.

Wilbur was on his feet in merely a second, trailing after Bad with a racing heart. “Bad, Bad, Bad, it’s fine.”

“That sound was coming from upstairs, Wilbur,” Bad argued, voice laced with a bit of worry, “That is not fine . What if you have, like, an infected hiding up there?”

“I just redid Wilbur’s fence, Bad, nobody’s getting in,” Phil tried from where he was still sitting at the table, trying and failing to look unbothered. Really, Wilbur thought the anxious twitch of his father’s wing was purely indicative of his concern.

Wilbur slid a little on the hardwood floor as he stumbled to catch up to Bad, who had already begun climbing up the stairs, eyes tracking the top floor for movement.

The hatch was cracked open just a bit—enough that it wouldn’t have been noticeable. Because of course they’d tried to listen in.

As soon as Bad’s head peaked over the top of the stairs, the hatch was shutting with a thin puff of air, and Bad’s eyes snapped up to it.

“Bad, wait,” Wilbur said, throat tight and dread chugging slowly through his veins. But Bad, apparently, wasn’t keen on listening, too hyper focused on the hatch in front of them to pick up on Wilbur’s panic. He trailed Bad up the stairs, trying desperately to catch up.

Bad got there faster.

And then Wilbur blinked, and they were standing together on the landing underneath the attic. The hatch was unassuming, just a little square panel set into a white ceiling, and yet it contained five people who were likely the most important scientific discoveries since the start of the virus.

And then, to Wilbur’s horror, Bad reached upwards, talons curling themselves around the hatch. Ready to pull down at any second, revealing the very existence of the children Wilbur wanted to hide. And, effectively, making him lose all their trust in one go.

Before he could pull down, however, the flap opened itself, swinging down without hesitation. Bad had only a moment to duck out of the way before a tall, thin body was dropping down out of the hatch, landing near-silently on the ground.

Dapper leaned up on his toes to slam the hatch shut after her, blocking any of the other kids from sight.

“Dapper,” Wilbur breathed, keeping his voice low, “What the hell are you doing?”

If there was one thing he didn’t expect, it was that one of the kids would intentionally reveal themselves, especially when they’d spent so long trying to conceal their identities.

But Bad’s eyes widened and he stopped in his tracks, body going still with surprise. Wilbur imagined he was probably experiencing all the mixed emotions Wilbur had experienced upon seeing Tallulah for the first time: shock, at first, then an adamant sort of denial—an overwhelming tumble of confusion, and then, at the end, maybe even a sliver of hope?

This town had been conditioned to accept that all its children had died. It was an interminable grieving process, and even for those who’d never had kids, it was something they could never quite accept. A mourning that brought together the community as much as it ripped their community apart.

The following silence must have only lasted a minute, although it felt like forever. Bad stared at Dapper, all sorts of emotions flurrying across his expression, and Dapper stared back, eyes touched with a little bit of fear. As if only realizing now the consequences of their impulsivity.

“Hello,” Dapper signed, fingers moving fast and with a surprising amount of steadiness.

And Bad’s head tilted to the side, throat bobbing, confused. He signed the word back, albeit hesitantly.

And then Dapper’s eyes flicked over to Wilbur, giving him a look, and Wilbur understood, oh . Dapper intentionally revealed themself to protect the others. And, judging by the way Bad’s eyes had focused on Dapper, whitish glow flickering in surprise, it was working. The presence of a physical child in front of Bad was enough to distract him enough from the potential of anything else that could’ve been in the attic.

“Wilbur,” Bad started calmly, face shadowed by his hood, “Why do you have a teenager hiding in your attic?”

Wilbur breathed out an exhale of disappointment. Shit. 

Chayanne was going to kill him.

**

If a picture is worth a thousand words, he wonders, what words have gone unsaid? He etches this all into his brain like the pages of a leather-bound journal, fading and precious and terrifying. At the end of the day, it’s all the same.

Chapter Text

Dapper: Uninjured. Location: the attic.

Pomme: Sprained wrist. Healing well. Location: the attic.

Tallulah: Deep gash in leg. Bandaged, but poorly. Exact state of injury unknown; she is unwilling to let anyone see. Cause of moderate pain and potential heavy infection risk—ask again later. Location: the attic.

Richarlyson: Relatively uninjured but bored as hell. Location: the attic.

Phil: Uninjured. Location: downstairs.

Wilbur: Annoying. Location: downstairs.

Potential threats: Bad, a man Wilbur (number one headache) willingly let into the house.

He hated this. He hated it so fucking much.

**

Wilbur’s attic, unlike the rest of his house, was cold and cramped and dusty. Not that Chayanne wasn’t used to dirt after spending two weeks at the abandoned house, but he still wrinkled up his nose at the amount of dust clogging the air. He sat against the one round window sitting against the far wall, letting pale grey light filter onto the floorboards. His wings pressed themselves to the icy glass. The wind screamed outside, but it was high and thin and barely perceptible through the closed windows.

He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift off for a while, but he couldn’t. Not when the rest of his family was at risk.

Instead, he turned around his switchblade in his fingers, subconsciously flipping the blade out and in and out and in. The knife produced a sound like a tiny shing . His gaze was unfocused, hovering at a vague spot on the walls, and he let the feel of the blade in his fingers calm him down. In the past week, it had become almost like a stim toy, something to distract him and keep him occupied, even if it perhaps wasn’t the safest option. Plus, it made Wilbur shudder in fear. Good. 

At the moment, they were safe. Tallulah and Richarlyson had drawn a complicated and nonsensical grid into the dust, and were playing the most elaborate game of tic-tac-toe he’d ever seen. Seriously, they’d been at it for twenty minutes now. Instead of an X, Tallulah drew the tiniest little flower into the grid to claim a spot, and Richarlyson doodled a cow face instead of an O. But God, their expressions were so serious. It was like they were playing competitive chess or something.

Meanwhile, Pomme and Dapper sat a foot away from the hatch, arguing silently with each other. The good thing about sign language was that it didn’t produce any sounds beyond the rustling of clothing, so they could argue as loud as they wanted and they still weren’t at risk of being caught.

Blah blah blah. Something about how Pomme was going to get herself possessed by an old French soldier and Dapper would regret it, and Dapper countered that they would, in fact, love to see that. Chayanne had lost track of the argument a long time ago.

Eventually, Pomme pointedly scooted away from Dapper, pressing her back against a wooden wall—and then flinching away once she realized how cold it really was.

Dapper’s shoulders hunched forward, and he zoned out in Chayanne’s direction. “I’m so bored. I’m going to mix together Pomme’s face paint just to feel something.”

Pomme’s glare burned into Dapper’s side, but Dapper was just about the only one of their siblings who could handle it. “Don’t you fucking dare, Dapper.”

Dapper furrowed her eyebrows. “Hey, don’t say that word. You’re literally twelve.”

Chayanne blew out a sigh, shaking his head. The switchblade turned around absentmindedly in his fingers, but he put it down to sign. “Why are you like this?”

Dapper grinned. “It’s just part of my charm.”

Pomme snorted—almost a laugh, but quieter than that, and her lips turned up in amusement. She shook her head, looking away from Dapper.

Dapper raised an eyebrow. “Something you want to say?”

And Chayanne rolled his eyes—because really, it was so childish. Fighting for absolutely no reason, and if he could read his sibling’s body language at all, Dapper had taken on something slightly defensive.

Chayanne’s throat grew tight. He wondered if he should tell them to cut it out.

Pomme shrugged. “Bold of you to think you have any sort of charm.”

Dapper leaned over then, placing a hand down to steady herself as he reached over to Pomme and slapped her gently on the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to bug the girl.

Chayanne bristled at an unexpected thumping noise, senses sharpening immediately. By some unfortunate fate, the hand supporting Dapper had landed directly on the hatch. Which made a jostling movement, which created the soft thudding noise.

The room went silent. Stiflingly so, and Richarlyson and Tallulah looked up in unison, eyes zoned on the spot where the hatch had emitted the sound.

Chayanne’s breath caught in his lungs. The thump was quiet enough that it might not have been audible from the first floor, but it sent his heart beating in his throat anyway.

“Dapper,” he signed, eyes wide, “Get off the hatch, and be very careful .”

And Dapper was. Their movements were slow, and Pomme immediately moved forward to stabilize her, their argument forgotten almost instantly. Still, the second the pressure had been lifted from the hatch, it popped back into its previous place, making a second noise, and Chayanne cringed.

Fuck. Shit. He hated everything.

The room was eerily still, as if his siblings had turned into statues. They all watched Chayanne, ready for an order, to tell them what to do.

And then Chayanne moved, and the rest of them scrambled to follow. He lay on his stomach, straining his ear towards the hatch—careful not to move it—and listened for any noises on the floor below.

Before, Chayanne had been able to make out the softest conversation, muffled between floors, but now, it was completely silent.

Fuck. His stomach churned with nausea. Distantly, he registered Tallulah by his side, reaching out for his hand, and he tucked the little girl’s fingers into his own subconsciously. All five of them were hovering around the sides of the hatch, crowded close to each other so they all had equal opportunity to listen in.

Nothing. They strained to hear even a single word from the ground floor, but…nothing.

He barely even registered Richarlyson’s little fingers slipping under the hatch and lifting it—just a little, just enough that they could see through the tiniest crack.

And then the voices started again, slightly more tense than the last time—although perhaps that was just Chayanne’s imagination—and then something else. Rhythmic little scuffles—Chayanne realized with a pang of anxiety that they were footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs, and Wilbur’s voice followed. “Bad, wait.”

Chayanne’s heart leapt to his throat. From what it sounded like, both of them were coming up the stairs now, and the moment a black cloak came into view, Chayanne grabbed Richarlyson’s hand and let the hatch slip back into place.

Too late.

Tallulah looked pale, and her fingers tightened around Chayanne’s hand. She looked terrified, and with her free hand, she signed, “What do we do?”

Chayanne looked around at the others, raising an eyebrow. Something low and anxious turned his shoulders down, touching his cheeks with a flush, but he swallowed down his emotions. Little good they’d do him now.

The rest of his family stared back at him, as if he was supposed to know what to do.

“I don’t know.” Chayanne glowered, and tilted his chin up at Dapper. “You made this mess, Dapper. You fix it.”

A pause—one that was filled with tension, in which Dapper realized that Chayanne was entirely serious.

“You really want that?” Dapper asked, raising an eyebrow, and Chayanne thought, oh. He didn’t like that look on their face.

And then the hatch beneath them jostled, and out of instinct, Dapper reacted. Before Chayanne could stop them, they were slipping through the hatch, slamming it closed again behind her.

Oh, Chayanne wanted to strangle him.

Chayanne waited with regret sitting hot and impatient on his shoulders until finally, he heard the stranger’s voice speak up. “Wilbur, why do you have a teenager hiding in your attic?”

**

So they waited. With baited breath, through a stuffy silence that made the attic feel fake, Chayanne listened to their conversation. Listened to Phil’s footsteps thundering up the stairs after them, listened to Wilbur hurriedly and clumsily explain that yes, he was hiding a kid—one singular kid—in his house.

That was the one thing that brought Chayanne any sort of comfort. That, despite Dapper moving impulsively and stupidly, she’d protected the others from being revealed.

“You’re part demon hybrid, aren’t you?” The stranger down below said, curious, and Chayanne hated it. After a pause, during which Dapper was probably signing a response, Bad said, “You don’t know? A little bit?” He hummed. “You should be wearing more layers. Demon hybrids can develop health problems if exposed to cold temperatures for too long.” Well, that explained the massive fucking cloak Bad was wearing.

Another pause, and then Bad spoke anew, “I don’t…I don’t get it.”

This time, it was Wilbur who continued. “They’re saying they’re not cold.”

“Wait.” Bad’s voice turned cold, more cautious. Something tinged with accusation. “Wilbur, you understood that? You know the Federation’s language?”

Wilbur spluttered. “Well—I mean, I know a few words. I wouldn’t say I know the language, but—”

“So you were lying, then? You don’t actually want Cellbit’s journal to help him? You just wanted it for your own purposes?”

Phil’s voice spoke up placatingly, as if trying to calm Bad down. “We didn’t want to lie, Bad. It’s just—you have to think about our position, mate. It’s not like we could exactly tell you we were hiding a kid.”

“Where did you even find her? I thought all the kids died!”

“They did,” Wilbur answered, a little hesitantly, as if he didn’t know the answer himself. God, Chayanne hoped he didn’t. “Almost all of them, anyway.” Thankfully, he didn’t answer Bad’s first question.

Chayanne knew Wilbur wasn’t an idiot—both he and Phil noticed the kids’ behaviour and white wings immediately and marked them down as Federation experiments.

They knew Cucurucho, too—not as intimately as any of the kids, but they could still mark the bear’s dirty fingerprints all over the children. There was no hiding from their past, not when they were still stuck in it. Thankfully, Wilbur had the smarts not to reveal that to Bad.

Chayanne’s eyes flicked up to the kids around him: Tallulah, who was gripping Chayanne in one hand and Richarlyson in the other, as if it might shake the situation away, and Pomme, whose face was white with fear.

Chayanne heard a familiar rustle of feathers, and he knew Phil’s wings must have ruffled. “Bad, why don’t you come downstairs? You too, Dapper. We can all have a nice talk and figure this out.”

Chayanne rolled his eyes. Right. Like that was going to happen.

Apparently, however, the gods must have been against him, because he heard Bad’s words of approval, and, after a moment of hesitation, listened to four pairs of footsteps descend the stairs again. He thought about Dapper being all alone with three adults, two who he could barely trust and one who was definitely untrustworthy.

He gripped Tallulah’s hand a bit tighter, and she squeezed back. He wondered if she could feel his fear.

**

So Chayanne listened. He waited with red hot rage burning in his system, low and flickering, but the muted voices coming from the ground floor were too far away to distinguish any of their conversation. It wasn’t until they’d wrapped things up, and Wilbur apparently led Bad to the front door, that he could make out any words.

“Thanks for coming, Bad,” Wilbur said, but he still sounded a little shaken up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the truth in the first place.”

“Well, thanks for trusting me eventually,” Bad responded, and Chayanne rolled his eyes. “And, uh, if you ever need help with taking care of Dapper, I do know a lot about demon hybrids. Including all their care needs.”

No. No fucking way. He listened keenly, expecting to hear Wilbur shut down the offer. Because obviously, Bad couldn’t take care of Dapper. Letting him back in the house would mean risking Dapper’s safety and the reveal of every other kid here. It would be stupid to even consider inviting him back.

And Wilbur’s voice came out strained, sure, but his words made Chayanne’s heart drop. “I’ll think about it, Bad. Thanks again.”

Oh, Chayanne could vomit.

He didn’t care if this was Wilbur’s house; it wasn’t Wilbur’s place to decide whether Bad could be trusted. It wasn’t Wilbur’s place to decide whether Bad would ever come over again, or whether he was capable of taking care of one of the kids, or even keeping them a secret, and it wasn’t Wilbur’s place to say he’ll think about it .

All of that was Dapper’s decision. Not Wilbur’s.

And so they parted with Bad, and not more than two minutes later, Chayanne heard Wilbur ascend the stairs again. He opened the hatch with an apologetic smile, letting yellow light pour into the little, cramped space. The ladder slid into place, allowing him to poke his head up into the attic. “Sorry about that, guys. We can get you all down now.”

Chayanne barely registered his words. He sat back, arms folded uncomfortably over his middle, and watched as Wilbur helped down all the other kids first. Pomme politely declined the offer of help, although Richarlyson accepted it without thinking, and Tallulah stared at his hand like it was the most magical thing in the world.

Because, apparently, they were comfortable with Wilbur touching them. When he could’ve lashed out at any moment. When he could’ve done something stupid again, and Chayanne wouldn’t have time to save them.

Chayanne’s cheeks were hot, flushed with anger. Wilbur extended his hand up to Chayanne from the bottom rung of the ladder, offering to help him down. Something in his gaze was already apologetic, and Chayanne hated it.

He avoided Wilbur’s hand, even going out of his way to swing out underneath it, and dropped down on his own. His shoes landed on the floorboards with a gentle slap.

“Wh—Chayanne,” Wilbur started, voice soft, but Chayanne wasn’t ready to listen. He brushed past the older man without so much as a glance, careful to bump into him as roughly as possible when he passed. Distantly, he was aware that this was the first time he’d actually touched either of the adults, and somehow that felt fitting—that his first physical contact with Wilbur involved shoving him out of the way.

“Chayanne, can we please talk about this?”

Chayanne whirled around, and Wilbur flinched.

“You were supposed to keep us safe,” Chayanne signed, and he didn’t even care that he was signing at a pace too fast for Wilbur. “And you invited a stranger into the house.”

Wilbur looked lost, brows furrowing, but he seemed to catch the intention behind the words. “Look, Chayanne, I’m sorry. I didn’t want Bad to find out, either.”

Chayanne smiled bitterly. This is why he couldn’t fucking trust adults. Because they always went after their own goals regardless of what the kids wanted, and they always fucked it up and hurt someone in the process. And yeah, sure, maybe it had been Dapper who’d revealed them in the first place, but this never would’ve happened if Wilbur hadn’t gotten so damn curious about a stupid journal.

But Wilbur wouldn’t understand all that, so instead Chayanne flipped the man off, face stony and cold. Because at least Wilbur would get that.

He didn’t let Wilbur get another word in edgewise. His face burned as he turned away, slipping down the stairs in a hurried pattern of two at a time. The other kids were watching him, eyes alight with concern, and he knew it—felt their gazes settle on him with a pang of guilt.

He was supposed to protect them. That was his only job—the only thing he was good at—and he’d failed.

He gripped the bannister harder, knuckles turning white.

Tallulah waited for him in the living room, reaching out for him, but he moved past her quickly. His throat was choked, brain spinning and fuzzy, repeating the moment Dapper dropped from the attic again and again and again. It wasn’t until he was banging open the back door and he met a cold shock of wind that he stirred back to reality.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to hide. He wanted to take the kids and run, because this place wasn’t safe anymore. Bad could’ve left and told half the island about them by now, and then it was only a short while until the Federation found out.

And then the kids would be taken back, and they would be underfed and experimented on again, and they would never get to talk to each other again. And they’d take Chayanne away to steal his blood and weaken him and then force him to fight for his life, and then they’d stick that funny stuff in his head that made him do things he’d never do, and he’d have to hide it from all the others, and he was so sick of hiding.

All because Wilbur let a fucking stranger into the house.

A jagged wooden plank sat atop the fence, reading BEWARE OF CHAYANNE.

Yeah right. He couldn’t protect a single one of his siblings if his life depended on it. He was fucking useless, not something to beware .

He sat down on the top step, shoving his face in his hands to stop his cheeks from burning. He was embarrassed, he was angry, he was—he was not scared, just…he didn’t even know.

Wrapped up in his anxiety, he didn’t hear the door creaking open behind him, or the soft footsteps that followed. It wasn’t until a calloused, weathered hand landed on his shoulder that he knew someone was behind him, and his heart immediately launched to his throat.

The touch burned and his vision blurred. He leapt to his feet before he really knew what he was doing, because there was someone touching him, someone who definitely wasn’t one of the other kids, and he hated it. Anxiety touched every fibre of his being and brain, driving his elbow into the man’s chest before he realized what he was doing. He threw out his fist, wild and panicked, desperately trying to attack whoever had found him there. An arm came out at him, trying to grab him, and he ducked underneath it rapidly.

And then when he tried to punch the man again, firm hands gripped at his wrist. The man flipped Chayanne around so he was facing the yard and grabbed him with both hands, pinning his hands in an X against his chest to prevent him from lashing out.

Damn, he really was useless. He thrashed in the arms that had disabled him from fighting, but whoever it was had a firm grip on him. Clearly, they knew what they were doing.

His breath came fast and ragged, body so alive with adrenaline that it hurt. He wanted to run, he wanted to fight, he wanted to surrender, he wanted to crumple into a ball and cry.

But there was a reassuring voice coming from behind him, and Chayanne faintly heard gentle shushing noises above his own panicked breathing. “It’s alright, Chayanne. I’m not going to hurt you. Just calm down, mate.”

Yeah right. He wasn’t going to fucking calm down, not when someone had him in a position where he couldn’t defend himself. His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, trying and failing to take deep breaths.

A sigh sounded from the man behind him, and Chayanne recognized through his panicked daze that it was Phil. “Well, whoever taught you how to fight clearly didn’t teach you emotional regulation.”

Chayanne didn’t know what that was, but he didn’t care. His arms were pinned to his chest, body pressed against Phil’s, and he was acutely aware of how easily the man had disarmed him.

Useless , his mind sang again, all too eager to throw the word around.

And Phil was touching him. Phil, an adult, was touching him, and he wasn’t letting Chayanne move, he wasn’t letting Chayanne fight back, and he could’ve done anything to hurt Chayanne if he wanted.

He wrestled harder for freedom, charged with a sort of terrified adrenaline.

“Chayanne,” Phil said, voice soft but stern, leaving no room for argument. “Chayanne, calm down, mate. It’s just me.”

That was the problem. It was Phil, someone who was clearly trained both in hand-to-hand combat and with melee weapons, someone who was bigger and stronger than Chayanne and who, unlike Chayanne, hadn’t been in a state of borderline starvation a week ago. Someone who, at the present moment, had a lot of reasons to be angry at Chayanne.

Nothing good came from adults who were angry. Especially not when they were touching him.

Why was he here? Why had Phil followed him out? Was he mad about Chayanne shoving Wilbur?

Oh, fuck, he was definitely mad about Chayanne shoving Wilbur, wasn’t he?

Chayanne struggled, kicking out in front of him and reaching down to bite Phil’s arm. He was breathing fast, panicking, chest sore and heart aching from how fast it was beating. He wondered if Phil could feel it hammering like a hummingbird against the man’s wrists, a clear indication of the boy’s terror, and thought, yeah. He probably could.

“Chayanne, you’re freaking out, mate. You’ve got to breathe.” Phil merely adjusted his grip, arms warm around Chayanne. It was almost like a forceful hug, tight as if Phil wanted to restrain him.

Chayanne hadn’t been hugged in seven years. And he wasn’t sure he wanted it now, even if it wasn’t a real hug.

He kept flailing. His eyes flew around the yard—he could always climb the tree or try to hop the fence and run, but…Phil could fly. No fucking way he could outrun an avian. Even if Chayanne’s wings weren’t trapped under his hoodie, they were small, much too underdeveloped and atrophied to ever be of any use.

“Okay, plan B,” Phil muttered, and for a second, Chayanne was released. Phil kept one hand clamped around Chayanne’s wrists to prevent the boy from attacking him, and turned Chayanne around with his other hand. Chayanne didn’t have a moment to react before they were face to face, and Phil’s hands came up to cup his cheeks.

His eyes were serious and blue, and he talked to Chayanne in a stern voice. “Chayanne, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He said it matter-of-factly, like there was no proper reason to doubt him. Like Chayanne really was safe, even if he wasn’t.

And—well, for a moment, Chayanne was stunned. Because warm, calloused hands were cupping his face, but the touch was so light and unfamiliar that he almost melted. It was like his brain instantaneously rewired itself in response to a single touch, and it was pathetic, and it made him weak, but it felt so nice.

An adult was touching him, but not with the intention to hurt.

God, he was a mess. His mind was still clouded with fear, and he distantly registered the way his eyes stung, but his heart slowed a little. The urge to fight drained from his shoulders, overtaken by an uncertain sort of acceptance.

“There you go, mate,” Phil said, and chuckled. “Welcome back to the real world.”

Chayanne raised a free hand to sign, but—his fingertips were quivering softly, and he clenched his fists at his sides instead, swallowing, distracting himself with the warmth on either side of his face.

But Phil must have seen, because his expression softened, touched with something almost concerned—not angry, concerned —and Chayanne wanted to shrink away from it. “Chayanne, you’re shaking.” And he was, he was a shivering disaster, but he didn’t want Phil to point it out.

Chayanne was the protector. He wasn’t supposed to be protected . People weren’t supposed to care about him, and they definitely weren’t supposed to worry about him.

It was just the way the world worked. Maybe it wasn’t the nicest deal for Chayanne, but it was the way he’d lived for years now. The only way he knew how to live.

“It’s okay to be scared, mate,” Phil said. Which was pretty funny, considering the fact that Phil himself was the thing scaring Chayanne. He must’ve thought Chayanne was still freaked out about Bad.

Somehow, he gathered the stability to form a response. “I’m not scared.”

It was a lie, and a blatant one at that.

Phil sighed, eyes scanning Chayanne’s face. “Nothing wrong with fear. It’s a normal response.” A pause. “I’d be scared, too, if I was in your situation.”

Chayanne narrowed his eyes. Was Phil trying to…comfort him? Chayanne wracked his brain, searching for a reason for Phil’s strange behaviour. If he was being this nice to Chayanne, it meant that he wanted something out of him, and that couldn’t lead anywhere good.

Whatever it was, he’d already messed up. God, it only took a single touch for Chayanne to go boneless, and wasn’t that the most pathetic part about all of this? He wasn’t supposed to let the adults touch him, he wasn’t supposed to give in to them, and yet here he was, letting Phil cup Chayanne’s face and validate his emotions like Phil actually gave a shit.

Chayanne’s heart began racing again, and he snapped back to the present. Reacting out of pure instinct, he plucked Phil’s hands off his face and shoved the man away, an embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks. He turned away so Phil wouldn’t see, folding his arms protectively over his middle, and began walking away.

“Chayanne,” Phil said, sounding startled. Then, when he spoke again, it took on something more commanding. “ Chayanne , look at me.”

And despite every bone in his body wanting to leave, he froze in place, then turned hesitantly around to face Phil. His face remained impassive, free of the fear chugging like ice through his veins. Maybe the nervous band of tension in his shoulders gave it away anyway.

“What was that for?” Phil asked, a knot of confusion etched into his brows.

Chayanne shifted, avoiding Phil’s gaze. He didn’t feel guilty. He didn’t. “I never said you could touch me. I didn’t want you to touch me.”

And he didn’t want to look at Phil, either, but when he finally met the silent man’s gaze, his shoulders drooped. There was something infinitely sad there, almost apologetic, and it sent a wave of nausea through Chayanne.

“I’m sorry, mate, I—I should’ve asked. I didn’t even think about whether or not that would be okay.” He swallowed. “That was really stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

Chayanne folded his arms tighter over himself. Good. Phil should be sorry.

It didn’t mean he was any more comfortable with the apology. Those sorts of statements were foreign and distasteful to Chayanne, ones that had been pure fiction to him for most of what he could recall. Not once in his life could he remember someone apologizing so genuinely to him—although the Federation had scrambled up his memories enough that perhaps he’d just forgotten.

Phil shuffled in the awkward silence, and his eyes flicked over to the stairs. “Can—is it alright if we talk about this, instead? I promise I won’t try to touch or hurt you. I just want to talk.”

People never wanted to just talk . But he saw the way Phil sat at the very edge of the bottom step, nearly pressing himself against the railing to put as much distance between them as possible. Chayanne couldn’t read any sort of indication in his body language that he was going to hurt Chayanne.

So, against his better judgement, he sat with the man on the bottom step—albeit far away from him—and kept his gaze out on the yard so he didn’t have to focus on the worry in Phil’s eyes.

“Wil told me about what happened up there,” Phil started, voice cautious. “That there were a lot of emotions going on, and that you might have shoved him. Do you want to talk about that?”

Chayanne shook his head. “He’s stupid.”

A sigh. “No, he’s not. You’re just mad.”

“He invited Bad over even though he knew it was dangerous, and now we’re at risk because of it.” And then he looked over at Phil, and nearly flinched.

Phil was looking at him with this expression of genuine concern, and it was open and honest and genuine and warm and not at all like the expressions to which Chayanne had grown accustomed. “Look, mate, if you’re going to be mad at Wil, get mad at me, too. I went along with the decision.”

But I don’t want to be mad at you , something subconscious in his brain supplied, and he pushed it away. Part of himself recognized Phil as different from Wilbur—he was equally defensive and understood Chayanne’s need to be safe. He treated the kids with Wilbur’s kindness, but he was more proactive. Though he didn’t trust Phil, Chayanne thought he was less likely to mess up and put them in danger.

So if Phil had made that mistake, too, then was he really worth even the flickering sliver of trust Chayanne had bestowed upon him? Was it unfair that some childish part of himself still wanted to forgive Phil even though he was still furious at Wilbur?

Perhaps he wasn’t even that mad at Wilbur at all, he thought. But he was angry, and Wilbur was there, and it was easy. At least, easier than actually addressing that anger.

Phil hesitated, jaw working itself. “I do want to talk about your…reaction, mate.” And Chayanne raised his hands to argue, but before he could get a word in edgewise, Phil continued, “It’s alright, Chayanne, I’m not mad at you. But pushing Wil like that and storming out of the house? Attacking me? Those aren’t appropriate responses, and it’s not okay.”

“I was freaking out,” Chayanne argued. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

And God, Phil looked like the dictionary definition of a disappointed dad. “I get that, Chayanne. And feeling that way is understandable. But that still doesn’t make your actions okay. It’s not alright to hurt or scare someone because you’re hurt or scared.”

“I,” he started, but the words were like glue on his fingers, shutting down his motions. I’m sorry , he wanted to say. He didn’t want to lash out; he wasn’t supposed to hurt or scare people, he was supposed to defend them—but somehow, he couldn’t quite force out the words. Instead, he said, “I get really mad sometimes. I don’t mean to, and I feel bad when it happens, but I can never stop it until it’s too late.”

Phil shook his head. “It’s a natural response to fear, mate. Usually, any good parent would teach you other coping mechanisms as you get older, but…I mean, I imagine you haven’t received any sort of parenting in a long time. It makes sense why you’re still surviving off of old methods, alongside whatever fear responses you developed at the Federation.”

“I just want to keep them safe,” Chayanne insisted. Somehow, he had to convince Phil that he hadn’t meant to react like he had—because he wasn’t a kid, and he didn’t want to behave like one. “I don’t like it when I can’t protect them. It makes me feel like…like I’m not…good.” He struggled through the words, feeling embarrassed, and it brought a knot of tension into his throat.

“You’re not incapable, Chayanne. You’re fourteen. There’s a difference.”

Chayanne tilted up his chin in defiance, because he didn’t quite want to focus on the warmth in Phil’s voice. “Almost fifteen.”

“Sure, mate. Fifteen.” Phil smiled, amused. Then his hands brushed together in the cold, and his inky feathers shone with a white glare under the clouds lurking overhead, brushed by a gentle wind. “So, you have some fighting experience, huh?”

Chayanne laughed, but it was bitter. Unbidden, he was met with the memory of cold hands gripping his skin, leaving bruised fingerprints for days afterwards. He remembered climbing into bed, limbs shaking and sore. Remembered being shoved into the cold, hard ground of the Federation courtyard and shoving someone off of him with all his might because otherwise they might just kill him.

But he couldn’t exactly say that, so instead, he replied, “You could say that.”

Phil’s eyes cast downward towards the ground. Apparently, he seemed to pick up on the underlying tension. “I’m sorry, mate.” Chayanne kind of hated how easily Phil could always read him. “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not bad. Not at all. You let your anger make you sloppy, but both your instincts and reflexes are sharp.” He paused, rubbing his hands together where his calluses made a faint scratching noise against each other. “That’s the most important part—you’re already good at the kind of stuff you can’t really teach.”

Chayanne wrinkled up his nose. “Aren’t your emotions supposed to help you when you’re fighting?” After all, it was his sense of life-and-death and self-preservation that had saved him back at the Federation. He moved like his muscles were charged with fear itself, because they usually were.

Phil smiled sadly. “No, mate. Whoever taught you that was very, very wrong.”

Chayanne frowned. He’d taught himself that. He didn’t like to be wrong. “So how are you supposed to fight, then?”

Phil squinted in thought, eyes turned out towards the tree. He went silent for a moment, and Chayanne realized, oh. Maybe he didn’t want to share that with Chayanne—maybe he didn’t trust Chayanne, either.

At least he could understand that.

Chayanne followed his gaze to the tree in Wilbur’s yard, and they watched together as its branches whipped against each other in the wind.

They were sheltered here, blocked by the railings on either side of them as the wind stirred up the world around them.

Almost like they were safe here, or at least close to it.

Phil cleared his throat, adjusting his position so he was facing Chayanne. “Tell you what. Next time you feel angry like this, you come and tell me, and we’ll talk it through. And in exchange, I can teach you how to fight, the way I learned. Weapons or no weapons, whatever you want.” He frowned. “But we need to make sure you’re coping with your emotions in a healthy way, alright?”

Chayanne thought about it. First of all, assuming that Phil was telling the truth—and maybe he wasn’t, which was still something to take into consideration—then the deal wasn’t all that bad. If he knew how to fight, he had a better chance at keeping himself and his siblings safe. There was no telling when he’d need to use those skills.

On the other hand, that was opening up a lot of potential for Phil to hurt him. Maybe that was his plan all along. It also meant Phil would learn his fighting style, and he’d better be able to disarm Chayanne or predict his moves.

But Chayanne might also learn Phil’s fighting style. Which was perhaps worth the risk.

There was something else nagging at Chayanne. “Why do you want to help me? You get nothing out of it.”

And that—well, it made Phil falter, eyes touched with an immeasurable sort of…regret? Was that it? Whatever it was, it made Chayanne sink back into the railing. He didn’t like that look on Phil.

“Because I care about you, Chayanne,” Phil said, and his voice was so honest and kind that Chayanne wanted it to be real. He wanted Phil to mean it, and he wanted someone to care about him more than anything in the world. “Whether you believe it or not, I do.”

Chayanne didn’t believe it, but a lingering part of him wanted to think it was true. That someone—an adult, no less—was capable of caring. That he was worthy of their appreciation, that he’d done anything to deserve that. That for a minute, maybe he could be more than just a purpose, and he could be more than just scared.

It was a nice thought, anyway.

A silence fell over the two, and Chayanne scooted away another inch, feeling uncomfortable. He looked out at the tree in the yard, vulnerable in the wind like a strange metaphor. Like it couldn’t find a way to settle down, to stay in place, to find any sort of comfort in this unending wind. Like the world never slowed down for the people who never stopped running.

It was a little too familiar to bear.

Chapter Text

While a storm lashes against the windows, the men inside the cottage appear to be warm and happy. They are younger than she remembers them being, just barely in the beginning of adulthood, and their expressions are touched with a sort of youthful joy she doesn’t recognize.

It glimmers.

They’re dancing, hands clasped in shaking hands where warmth meets skin and softness, and they’re happy. They’re so happy that it hurts. Music curls around the kitchen like sweetened smoke, but it’s half-forgotten for each other. The song echoes, haunting, although they don’t seem to realize—she thinks that it, like the bond shared between the men, does not actually exist. Not anymore, at least.

And the taller man backs into the kitchen counter unexpectedly, taking the smaller man with him, and they stumble to find balance, giggles curling off their lips like lonely echoes in the air. The sound reverberates throughout the room, and she thinks it’s not even real, but it’s pretty.

A little dragon watches from the doorway. The man on the edge of society leans his forearms against the kitchen counter, looking at the space where he once danced with a man long gone. Years later, the music is a remnant of the past, though their laughter still echoes tauntingly on the air, and they are both little more than ghosts.

She thinks he is immeasurably lonely.

**

Tallulah didn’t know when Wilbur would give up the act. She’d been staying at his house for two full weeks now, and yet he never got mad. He remained patient and kind even when it would make sense for him to be otherwise. When Chayanne had pushed him and stormed off, Wilbur simply sat down with him and had a calm talk about it. With Phil’s help, he’d even gotten Chayanne to apologize.

Which meant Wilbur was definitely hiding some sort of magic, because Chayanne didn’t apologize. It practically wasn’t in his vocabulary.

Wilbur never wanted to hurt her, and he liked it when she trailed him around. After the day in the attic, where Wilbur had helped Tallulah down the ladder—their first physical contact—they’d worked their way up to little touches. At the moment, it was the most she could handle without being reminded of the Federation—small, affectionate, light touches, ones that were brief and under her control. He always asked, and always did it out of fondness, never out of anger or contempt. By the end of the second week, she let him ruffle her hair as he passed by, and several days later, he even squeezed her shoulder.

It was nice.

He continued learning the Federation’s language, and with the help of Cellbit’s journal, it went fast. Wilbur was a quick learner, and it helped that it was one of the only ways of communicating with the kids.

He was kind , and it was strange, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She liked the warmth that spread through her body when he smiled, and the way her name curled around his tongue. Not spoken with spite or distaste, but respect.

Respect. She was respected. That in itself was a shock.

He’d always called her “sweetheart” on occasion, and often “my little shadow”, but as the weeks passed, he started adding on other names, too. They came casually, slipping off his lips as if it was natural— honey , sometimes, or even darling . Tallulah wondered if they were the nicknames he’d once used for a very different child, if that was why the names came so instinctively to him.

That part left a sour taste in her mouth. Even if subconsciously, she didn’t want to be mistaken for someone else.

If she ignored it, which was the easiest thing to do, the nicknames left her feeling…loved? Was that the word for the pleasant fondness that bubbled on her skin?

She wasn’t quite sure. She knew his kindness would only last so long. Eventually, she’d mess up, and he’d realize she wasn’t the perfect child he seemed to think of her, and then this temporary era of peace would come to a quick end. She’d lived that story a thousand times, and though Wilbur was nice, he was still only human. Humans were born of emotions that seemed almost cyclical, and if her experiences were correct, then anger was certainly part of that cycle.

She wasn’t sure when she’d decided she’d had enough. She feared the moment he snapped, but the longer she walked on eggshells, the more that fear turned to exhaustion. She still didn’t know his boundaries, and it scared her.

If she was going to mess up, she’d rather it be intentional than accidental. She’d rather be prepared.

It started off small. Tallulah asked for things when she wanted them, rather than just waiting for him to offer them. When she was hungry, she asked for food; when she was bored, she asked if she could head out to the backyard; once, she’d even asked if he could play his guitar for her.

He’d obliged. Happily, she might add.

It made her nervous. What was he waiting for? Was he really that patient?

Once, she’d asked if she could go upstairs. Because she knew he’d say no, and she knew it was somewhat of a touchy subject, and she hid the way her hands trembled and her eyes stung.

But Wilbur didn’t get mad, and he didn’t threaten her, and he didn’t come too close or try to touch her.

“Some other time,” he said, and looked back down at Cellbit’s journal between his hands. That was that.

It was time to pivot.

For the most part, Wilbur liked his house to be clean. While she’d always folded her blankets each night and tucked them out of the way, clearing a path through the living room, she started leaving them out. Just to see what Wilbur would do.

In the end, it resulted in nothing. Richarlyson and Chayanne had never cleaned up after themselves, so Wilbur didn’t even notice.

She left her breakfast dish out on the table, but Wilbur simply assumed she’d forgotten, and reminded her politely to clean it up the next time. She left through the back door without warning him, and he’d simply herded her back inside—almost seeming worried . Then, she’d left through the front door. That time, Chayanne found her, and reminded her not to leave without someone to supervise her.

It had been almost three weeks now since arriving at Wilbur’s, and he still hadn’t given up the act. She was beginning to think maybe it wasn’t an act at all—that he really was just that kind—and that concept scared her almost more than the concept of him faking it. Because that meant she had nothing to fear, and that in itself was terrifying.

It was a rare sunny day when she’d finally reached a breaking point. The sky was still cold and uninviting, as was typical for this time of year, but the sun warmed the ground enough that the other children spent the entire day outside. Chayanne was training with Phil in the yard, as he tended to do around this time of day, and apart from Wilbur, the rest of the house was empty.

He was sitting at the dining table, Cellbit’s journal cracked open to his left and Wilbur’s own handwritten notes to his right. He’d been spending a lot of time with that thing, devoting much of his energy to memorizing as much as he could.

He didn’t even notice her entering, as quiet as she was.

So Tallulah slipped behind the kitchen counter and reached on her tiptoes up to the cabinets. Her heart was thrumming, but she ignored it. And she pulled out a glass and turned around to Wilbur and, with a shaking hand, watched him. His eyes remained glued to the journal.

She dropped the glass, eyes pinned on Wilbur as it shattered on the floor. Her eyes pricked with fearful tears, and she understood without a doubt that, if anything, this would break the facade Wilbur had been so masterfully keeping up for the past month.

The resulting clatter sent nervous shivers cutting up her spine, like each shard was a reflection of her own actions breaking the unfamiliar peace she’d earned in this house. Because she was ruining something beautiful, but at least it was on her own terms. At least she wouldn’t get scared if she broke it herself.

It broke into three large pieces of glass that lay limp by her socks, dead to the world. The rest shattered into tiny pieces, flying across the hardwood upon impact. She felt something small pierce her ankle, but it was nothing in comparison to the ache in her chest, the rapidfire hammering of her heart against her ribs. It hurt, and when Wilbur’s head snapped up, it hurt, and when his eyes fixated on the bits of broken glass on the floor, it hurt.

She didn’t even notice she was crying until she felt heat, wet and shimmering, slip down her cheeks, rolling off the tip of her chin and disappearing into the collar of her sweater.

This was the moment when it all broke, wasn’t it? Regret pooled in her system. She was impulsive, and this was stupid, and because of it, she would suffer. Perhaps her siblings, too.

But Wilbur didn’t seem mad. She’d broken a glass , and yet as he made his way over to Tallulah, he only seemed focused on her, face broken and worried and eyes running over Tallulah, searching for injuries.

“Are you okay, Tallulah?” He asked, crouching down in front of her so they were eye-level. “Did you hurt yourself?”

It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t yelling. His steps were soft. He was worried. He cared , but not in the way she had expected.

“I broke one of your water glasses,” she signed, ensuring he processed what had actually happened. He had to be angry. He had to, because if he wasn’t, then Tallulah’s definition of an adult was very, very askew. Adults were the people who worked at the Federation. Adults were the people Chayanne said not to trust. Adults were quick to anger and held permanent grudges.

Wilbur was an adult. And though he should’ve screamed at her, he merely furrowed his eyebrows at Tallulah, and said, “Are you sure you’re alright, darling? The glass didn’t get you at all?”

Her hands were clasped together to stop them from shaking, although she thought Wilbur had already noticed. She was crumbling, her heart slamming an anxious rhythm in her chest and her eyes so clouded over with tears that Wilbur turned into a blur in front of her.

When he reached out for her, she flinched. It was only for fear of the shards that she didn’t back up, but her shoulders hunched in on themselves, and Wilbur hummed sadly.

“Oh, Tallulah, I’m sorry,” he said, hands falling to his knees. They were relaxed hands, fingertips calloused from guitar but otherwise soft. They were hands that had never hurt—she wasn’t sure why she’d assumed otherwise. “That must have scared you, huh?”

She found she couldn’t quite process the words. Instead, she asked, “Why won’t you get mad at me?”

It was funny how a simple sentence could turn a room quiet. Immediately, she regretted it, the space she’d caused by asking him the question that had been burning under her skin for a week now.

Wilbur frowned, as if surprised by the question. “Tallulah, what do you mean? Why would I get mad at you?”

She sniffled, wiping the back of her palms against her cheeks, and they came away wet and warm. “I broke a glass.” And added quickly, “I’m sorry.”

Wilbur smiled softly, although it was a concerned sort of smile. “I can replace a glass, Tallulah. I’m more worried about you.”

“But why?”

His eyes never rested, she noticed. They were always on the move, always looking for signs of physical or emotional harm, always looking for a way to fix it. “Let’s put it this way, Tallulah. As the person taking care of you, it’s my job to make sure you feel safe. If I hurt or scare you, I’m failing at my job. Not that I would ever want to hurt or scare you, anyway, and if I ever did, I would be a very, very different person.” He sighed, but it was a fond sort of sigh. “I care about you, Tallulah.”

Of course, he could be lying, although Tallulah thought he wasn’t much for grand lies.

“And also, you haven’t done anything to deserve my anger.” His eyes were soft, thoughtful, and he continued on like he could’ve talked about it forever. “Tallulah, I haven’t known you for very long, and I don’t know much about what happened to you. But I have a feeling that you haven’t done anything to deserve your past.”

And that—well, it took her off guard, really; she’d lived her life being told that even the simplest things were worthy of punishment. Talking back, or talking out of hand, or talking to another child, or talking at all. Asking for help or expressing pain. Even emoting had its price.

Tallulah had built her identity around silence, because it was the thing that had kept her safe. She learned how to blend her white wings into the white walls, how to stay in the background, because standing out was an invitation for punishment. The rules at Wilbur’s house were much, much different than at the Federation, but were they really polar opposites?

The Federation had been harsh. Cruel, even. That was simply a given.

But undeserved was a different thing. That meant her treatment was unfair, and if Wilbur thought that was the case, was he against punishment? At least, the sort of punishment common at the Federation?

Did it mean she didn’t have to worry about him?

Tallulah’s head spun. She didn’t know what to do—whether to adopt Wilbur’s unrelenting trust or Chayanne’s unrelenting dis trust. They lived in two alternate realities; Tallulah lived in between.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Wilbur,” she said, because it was all she could say. And she meant it—meant it so much that it hurt, because he was teaching her every single day that she was wrong, and somehow, it was a good thing.

And he smiled, and he said, “You’re a good kid, Tallulah.”

She wished with all her heart that it was true.

**

Three weeks into their stay at Wilbur’s, Tallulah woke to a sharp throbbing in her head. Her vision swirled with spots of black, and she groaned, stretching out limbs that felt like lead. When she eventually raised herself to her elbows, she realized she was alone—for the first time, she was the last of the children to wake. Through the window, the sun painted a narrow white circle of ghostly light into the clouds, and she squinted against it, blood roaring like a rhythmic thump in her ears.

Everything hurt. Her mouth was dry and her throat was sore and her limbs were impossibly heavy, but those were nothing in comparison to the searing heat in her leg. Her skin was damp and the cottage was shockingly cold even while wrapped up in a blanket. She flinched upon hearing a squeal from the yard that was undeniably Richarlyson’s, and it was followed by Dapper’s bright, happy laughter.

Huh. It was unusual that she would wake up late.

Blearily, she stumbled to one knee, using her hands to push her up to her feet. That was, until the pain in her leg whined in protest, and she bit down on her tongue to stop from making any noise. It was against her own wishes when she dropped to the floor again. Curling into a ball on her side, softly shaking, body crumpling in on itself in an effort to save herself from the pain.

Something was wrong, she thought. Something was very, very wrong.

She shivered in the bizarre and unflinching cold of the cottage until eventually, she drifted back off to sleep.

It would be alright, she promised herself. Everything would work itself out, because it had to.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t know what to do.

**

The next time she woke, some hours later, the sun split the sky in half, indicating that it was just past noon. Her head still blared and she still shivered in the cold and her leg still pulsed with pain, but at least this time when she tried to stand, it was bearable. The extra sleep had ebbed away some of the lingering discomfort, enough that if she tried hard enough, she could disguise it.

It was becoming harder and harder to convince herself this was part of the healing process.

But she could still walk, which was the important thing. There had been many times in the Federation where punishments had led one of the children to need support with basic tasks, so Tallulah figured that as long as she could still use all her limbs, she was alright.

Mostly.

She might’ve snuck over to Dapper’s backpack to change her gauze bandages, but that was just taking care of herself. She knew she was supposed to redress wounds, just not how frequently. Once every couple of weeks was probably fine.

Loud giggles and shouts from the backyard told her the others were still out there. She made a move to join them, but stopped upon picking up other voices. They were hushed, soft, low, coming from the front porch, where the door was cracked open.

Without thinking twice, she followed the sound of the voices and, as she often did, watched from the doorway.

Phil and Wilbur sat beside each other on the porch, on two little cushioned chairs. Several weeks ago, Wilbur had once sat there and played his guitar in the rain, and Tallulah had watched, the epitome of curiosity. Now, the sky was a brazen expanse of grey, unforgiving and bold, but at least it was dry. The period of rain that had occupied their first week was over, and now they were sitting in a strange limbo, an in-between.

Phil had his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Wilbur with something Tallulah had come to realize was concern.

She frowned. Whatever they were discussing, it couldn’t have been good. She tucked herself into the crack of the doorway—just out of sight, but close enough that she could watch in silence.

“I’m going to run out of food soon,” Wilbur was muttering, one hand wiping exhaustedly down his face. His eyes were pinned on the floorboards, as if deep in thought, and his glasses were slightly askew on his nose. If he noticed, he didn’t bother to fix them. “I know the next shipment to the island is coming soon, but I don’t think I can wait until then. I have to feed them, Phil.”

Phil gritted his teeth, jaw working. He didn’t seem to like the words coming out of his son’s mouth, and Tallulah didn’t, either. “I don’t know what to say, mate. I can bring over some stuff from my garden.”

“You know what I mean, Phil.” Wilbur sighed. He seemed tired, and it was worrying. “I don’t…I mean, I want to do this for them, I need to do this for them, but I don’t think I can. There are just too many of them.”

“There are other solutions, Wil,” Phil started, and Wilbur scoffed. “No, really, I mean it. If you need help, I can take a few of the kids. Or they can all spend half the time at my house, if that works. I have a feeling Chayanne would come with me.” Wilbur started to shift uncomfortably, and Phil’s gaze softened. “Hey, Dapper seemed to like Bad. Maybe we could sort out some days where Bad could take care of him.”

Tallulah felt an uncomfortable knot tighten in her stomach, and her fingertips clenched around the hem of her sweater. She did not like the sound of splitting up. Her family was the only thing that had kept her alive throughout the hell they’d experienced, what with the Federation and the forest and her injuries and the abandoned house and now even Wilbur’s place.

She couldn’t imagine a world in which they weren’t by her side.

Wilbur seemed to agree. “I really don’t think any of them would take well to that, Phil. They’re quite attached to each other.” He reached down for something sitting on the floor beside him, and returned clutching a half-empty cup of coffee. It was his lifeblood these days, it seemed.

Phil nodded grimly. “Too attached. I’m worried it’s touching on codependency. And if that’s the case, we’ll really have a hard time separating them. At some point, they have to learn how to exist without each other, and I just don’t think they’re there yet.”

Tallulah furrowed her eyebrows. She wasn’t sure what “codependency” meant, but she knew she loved her siblings, and that was enough for her.

And Wilbur looked up, meeting Phil’s gaze, and Tallulah finally saw his face in full detail. His exhaustion was past the simple tiredness she was used to seeing—his eyes were slightly sunken beneath puffed, dark eyebags and his skin inordinately pale. His hands shook a little, barely perceptible, but enough that his coffee mug shivered in his grasp when he brought it to his lips.

But there was something else about Wilbur. A sort of misery clung to him, sure—that was clear enough in his constant lack of sleep and the lingering ache that seemed to follow him around, weighing down his shoulders and turning every smile a little sad. But his face rarely looked so empty, so far away, gaze turned cold as if he was somewhere very different.

Phil must have noticed, too, because his eyes flickered over his son, turning hard. “You alright, Wil? Something on your mind?”

Wilbur shrugged, although it was half-hearted. “Just worried about the kids.”

Phil pursed his lips. “Sure.” He shifted his weight, arms readjusting themselves. “Listen, mate, I know you might not want to talk about this, but it’s alright to be upset. Don’t think I forgot what’s coming up.”

An empty breeze rustled the grass beyond the porch, shaking the trees with a sound like gentle shushing. Under the shivering grey up above, the world was painted in grey hues, making Wilbur’s face appear lifeless and pale. He raised an eyebrow—almost like a warning, but without the energy for it.

“It’s already passed, actually.” His coffee cup was still cradled by his face, and Tallulah wondered if he was trying to hide in it. “Fuck. Ten years, Phil. I thought he didn’t affect me anymore, but…I don’t know. Something about having kids in the house again is bringing up the memories, I guess. Just reminds me of how it used to be.”

“Do you miss it?” Phil asked, gaze steady. It wasn’t a forceful question, just a simple invitation to talk. His hands were clasped in his lap, but loosely—he was opening a space of empathy. Tallulah tried desperately to understand what they were discussing now, but the words evaded her. Somehow, she thought the conversation had moved beyond her siblings. 

Wilbur certainly had that distant look in his eye—like he was far away, pitched into the past. “In some ways, yeah. But then I think about what he did, and I remember he’s not the same person anymore, and…I mean, that in itself hurts more than the loss.” His voice went quiet. “Part of me thinks I would’ve done better with all this if he was still here, and that feels—well, it’s just fucking awful. That I’m still not capable of taking care of someone without him around.”

“Hey. Wil.” Phil shifted, turning to fully face his son. “Don’t say that. You’re doing the best you can.”

“They barely even get to go outside, Phil. I know I can’t give them what they deserve, and it hurts.”

“It’s different now, Wil. You can’t really take them outside, not when there’s a whole world of Federation workers and infecteds out there. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Wilbur sighed, letting the conversation drop. He settled his coffee cup onto the ground and shoved his face into his hands, letting his elbows rest on his knees. The air was permeated with something nervous, something helpless.

Tallulah had never seen him look so small.

And then the strangest thing happened, in which Phil straightened and held out his arms, and Wilbur didn’t hesitate for a second before he leaned over, pressing himself into his father’s body. They wrapped their arms around each other, squeezing tight for a moment. A moment passed, and Tallulah watched in awe as Wilbur’s shoulders loosened and he sank into his father’s warmth. Like the tension had been sucked straight out of him.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” he whispered, and despite their little bickering arguments, Tallulah realized that Wilbur was a son . Wilbur was a son, and he had a father, and it looked so beautiful that she kind of ached for it. “I love you.”

Phil chuckled, one hand reaching up to brush back his son’s curls. “Love you too, Wil. You’re doing a good job, mate.”

Tallulah was stunned. That simple touch was enough to make Wilbur soften his hard edges, and it was strange. She knew some particular hybrids found comfort in specific touches and soothing techniques—dragons found comfort and safety in constant warmth, particularly while sleeping—and for a moment, she wondered if that sort of hold was a hybrid-specific form of comfort. But it couldn’t have been, because Wilbur wasn’t a hybrid.

It was weird.

She watched as Phil pulled away, smiling warmly. “I’m going to go check on the kids, alright? You should go wake up Tallulah.”

Wilbur didn’t meet his father’s eyes. He scratched at his chin. “Yeah, I guess I should. She’s been asleep for a long time.”

Phil stood to his full height, reaching his arms above his head and stretching. His wings spread out in response, and Wilbur ducked underneath one of them as they flattened out on either side of the man.

Tallulah’s eyes widened, jolting back in surprise. She knew Phil’s wings were impressive, but she hadn’t realized his wingspan was so…endless. That the inky black, dark and cold like sampled nighttime, could take up nearly the entire porch without difficulty.

Wilbur rolled his eyes, but his face remained amused. “Yeah, alright, Phil. I know I’m human already, you don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m just stretching, mate, calm down,” Phil said, glaring at his son, and then his wings folded neatly behind his back again, signalling the end to their conversation. “Let me know how she’s doing, okay? It’s not like her to sleep that long.”

Wilbur nodded in absence of verbal confirmation.

And Tallulah understood, ah. It was most certainly time to leave. Because, as she snapped slowly back to reality, she realized that listening in on such a personal conversation was perhaps not one of her greatest ideas. In fact, she worried it was very, very bad.

When Phil turned, making eye contact with her through the crack in the door, Tallulah flinched.

On another day, if she was healthier, she would’ve backed away, slipped off to the living room and pretended to be asleep before they’d noticed. But she doubted she’d be able to get away in time with a leg as faulty as hers, so for a long moment, she stood there in silence, eyes blinking in fear up at Phil.

“Hello, Tallulah,” Phil started, although he seemed unsure of himself. He glanced wearily at Wilbur, whose eyes had fallen on her small, shivering frame. “Did you hear much of that?”

She shook her head adamantly. Something in her throat wrapped itself into a tight, squeezing knot, anxious and heavy, and she knew that if the two men would get angry about anything, it was this. It was Tallulah listening into what was probably an extremely private conversation. Certainly something Wilbur wouldn’t have wanted her to hear.

She took a step back, hands wrapped around her middle as if trying to protect herself, eyes flicking between the two adults in fear.

Phil pushed the door open wider, furrowing his eyebrows at her.

The kids were in the backyard. Chayanne was in the backyard, far away, where he wouldn’t be able to hear them. And, of course, she didn’t think anything particularly bad would happen, if what Wilbur had said beforehand was true, but she hadn’t messed up like this yet. She hadn’t eavesdropped so plainly and openly.

She couldn’t even run away. That was the part that stung, because even taking a step back pulsed, raw and hot, and she had to control each part of her face and leg to keep them still so the adults wouldn’t expect she was in pain. It was a difficult sort of game she was playing, and if she hadn’t been a player for so long, she might have given up by now.

Wilbur softened. He always seemed to know what she was thinking, and now was no exception. That easy sort of smile came back onto his face, and somehow, he seemed whole again, happy and bright.

Like he was eager to hide his pain. She understood completely.

“Oh, Tallulah, it’s alright, honey. We’re not mad at you.” He beckoned her onto the porch with one hand, and when he spoke again, it was to Phil. “I can take it from here, Dad, it’s fine. You go check on the kids.”

Tallulah looked between the men again—once, twice, ensuring they were telling the truth and she wasn’t about to fall into any stupid trap. Phil’s face was set into an unreadable sort of expression, but at least he didn’t look upset. He said a quick, “Good luck, mate,” to his son, before brushing past Tallulah through the front door. She parted to let him through, and shuffled past the doorway onto the front deck.

Immediately, the air turned biting like a shock, and she shivered. If she thought it was cold inside, it was freezing out here, where the sun poked thin and gleaming through the clouds but a dry, icy chill hung in the air. Constant, inescapable.

Wilbur didn’t seem to notice it. She curled closer into her sweater, trying to will it away.

“You can come closer, Tallulah, it’s alright,” he said, and scooted his chair back a bit, gesturing to the seat where Phil had just been. “Come sit.”

Tallulah didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. She still didn’t know if she trusted his words, that he was really alright with her eavesdropping on them, so she thought it best to listen. Once seated, sinking into the cushion, she signed something quickly. “I’m sorry I was listening in. I promise I didn’t hear much.”

It was a lie. Not that she wanted Wilbur to know, but she had heard more than she would’ve liked. It was too late now.

He shook his head. “Just let us know you’re there next time, okay? It’s not nice to eavesdrop on people. They could say things they don’t want you to hear.”

She wondered if that was code. One of those passive aggressive adult things where they hid a threat or warning in a friendly tone. She didn’t like when adults did that.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, avoiding his gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

But Wilbur didn’t seem mad. Unless he was really that good at disguising his emotions, the gentleness embedded in his posture and gaze was devoid of any sort of anger. Really, it was vastly different from how he’d seemed with Phil, where his eyes were dead and his shoulders curled in on themselves, like he’d shut himself off from the world completely. Like he was only half a person, drowning in sleep deprivation and the memories she felt clinging to the edge of his consciousness.

His emotions were almost tangible, too. Like a thin energy reverberating through the air, overflowing. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she’d known that she’d woken up twice in the past week to dreams that she was almost certain were his. Full of a winged schoolteacher who was once kind and was now little more than a memory. She wasn’t sure why they were coming up now, or why he suddenly seemed so empty.

Ten years , he’d told Phil. Just reminds me of how it used to be.

It was curious. She didn’t really want to see it—they were clearly very private memories, and he deserved his privacy—but it wasn’t like she had a choice. They came without any sort of warning.

She thought about how Phil had wrapped his arms around his son, the way Wilbur had seemed to melt. The way his shoulders softened and his fingers uncurled themselves, how Wilbur had buried his face into Phil’s shoulder and then his face and voice turned soft. Like a distraction, but more. Charged with love and respect and support.

It was nice, she thought.

“What was that thing?” She asked before she could stop herself. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she wondered if it was too personal a question. “The thing Phil did to you?”

Apparently, he hadn’t expected her to start signing again. He furrowed his eyebrows, a confused smile creeping up his face. “Tallulah, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She brought up her arms as a sort of demonstration, wrapping them around herself like Phil had done to Wilbur. They were cold, but then again, she’d been cold all day.

She watched as his face fell. “Tallulah, are you talking about a hug?”

The embarrassed flush spread, and she shook her head, wondering if she’d done something wrong. Of course, she’d heard of the word before—she hugged her knees when she was bored, and she hugged her body when she was cold. Her siblings liked to pull her close while she slept—again, dragons liked to be warm—but that was different. All of that was subconscious.

She hadn’t seen a hug like that—a conscious decision for a certain purpose or effect, a display of love through physical touch. “I’m sorry.”

He huffed out a little exhale of amusement. “No, no, Tallulah, it’s alright not to know. Would you like one?”

Yes. Yes, she very much would—but she thought of how long it had taken her to get comfortable with even the smallest touches. She’d lived with Wilbur for three full weeks, if her math was correct, although she’d almost lost count. And still, despite all their time together, the thought of feeling trapped in someone’s grasp filled her with fear. Would it feel like being restrained? Like back at the Federation when she got too close to the other kids and one of the guards would grab her and pull her away?

Probably not. It was different, right? If Wilbur’s reaction to Phil’s hug meant anything, then it was certainly different.

So, hesitantly, she nodded. She wanted to trust Wilbur, even if she wasn’t fully there yet.

Baby steps.

He smiled. “Alright. I’m going to touch you, okay?” Eyes casting over her face, giving her another moment to back out in case she wanted. “If you get uncomfortable at any time, you just tap my shoulder, and I’ll let you go right away.”

She nodded again. She wasn’t really sure what to expect, whether it would affect her as much as it had affected Wilbur, but she certainly didn’t anticipate the sense of security that enveloped her the moment Wilbur pulled her close. She was out in the open, and then she wasn’t—she was tightened in someone’s hold, and she was being held, and for a brief moment, she was safe.

Wilbur’s arms wrapped around her—gentle, patient—and at first, she wasn’t sure what to do. She stood completely still, brain short-circuiting in response to the touch.

Until, subconsciously, she melted.

Oh. She understood now. Though the world was decidedly freezing today, Wilbur was warm, and she sank further into his grasp. He tightened his hold on her, tucking her head beneath his chin and humming softly in thought. His hand brushed the space between her wings, and though they were trapped beneath her sweater—well, Wilbur’s sweater, which she had decided was hers—the little wings fluttered subconsciously, a subtle expression of joy.

She’d taught herself long ago how to stop her wings from moving at the Federation, how to hide the way they bristled in accordance with her emotions, but she thought that it was alright this time. If his little affectionate chuckle meant anything, he found it endearing, too.

She liked hugs. She really, really liked hugs.

It wasn’t until the tips of his fingers brushed over the back of her neck that he paused. The air turned taut, like it was pulled thin and wrapped into brittle twine.

He pulled away, holding Tallulah at enough of a distance that he could look at her properly. His eyebrows were knitted together, jaw set, and Tallulah wanted to flinch away. She didn’t like the concern written into his features.

She didn’t want him to find out.

“Are you okay?” Through the rounded lens of his glasses, worried eyes flicked up and down her face. “Your skin is very hot.” The back of his palm lifted to her face, and she flinched backwards. It was an unfamiliar movement, and when she jolted backwards, he softened. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to check your temperature.”

“Dragon hybrids run at a higher temperature than humans,” she clarified quickly, hands fluttering anxiously through the signs. And while it was true, it perhaps wasn’t the reason for her current temperature, which was definitely not normal. But he didn’t need to know that.

“I know, Tallulah, but this feels unnatural.” His hand came up again, but she shifted backwards, away from him. Whatever happened, she did not want him to find out she was sick, which was becoming more and more likely by the second. Because if what he told Phil was true, if his resources and time were already strained, she didn’t want to become an extra burden he’d have to shoulder. She didn’t want to be the reason her siblings had to split up.

“It happens in the cold,” she lied quickly. “Dragons like to be warm, so it’s a natural response to overcompensate when we get cold.” It was a fast and convenient lie, and Wilbur narrowed his eyes in suspicion, as if trying to get a read on whether or not she was telling the truth.

She was not.

But Wilbur, as fate would have it, had a blissfully incomplete understanding of hybrids. In this case, it worked excellently for Tallulah.

Eventually, he sighed, giving her one last look. “Alright, Miss Tallulah. I don’t know all the dragon stuff yet, so I’ll hold you to that. But let’s keep an eye on your temperature, yeah? You tell me if you start to feel weird.”

She nodded politely, hands folding themselves into the hem of her sweater. It was a lie, of course, but she’d pretend to tell the truth anyway.

Part of her knew that, if she really was sick, she’d be causing Wilbur more problems than he’d likely be able to handle. Back at the Federation, at least they were able to treat wounds and illnesses, keep the kids healthy—or healthy enough to continue the experimentation.

She still didn’t know much about town, but considering what little was left, she imagined the healthcare was insufficient. Which meant the best thing for her to do was to keep silent and hope for the best. She’d made it this far, right?

Wilbur smiled, but it was touched with worry. “I’m going to go see what Abuelito’s up to, alright? You get something to eat.”

She wouldn’t, she decided, not if he really was running low on food, but something else in his words stopped her. She fingerspelled out the name in confusion. “Abuelito?”

Wilbur froze, stunned by himself, and his mouth opened and closed. “I—sorry, force of habit. God, I don’t know why I said that.” Something pink flushed across his cheeks. “ Phil . I’m going to look for Phil.” He stood before she could figure out the implications of him defaulting to that name— Abuelito —and left. She thought she saw his face reddening as he slipped through the front door, disappearing into the house, but didn’t comment on it.

He was a funny man, Wilbur. A very, very strange man.

**

The evening is quiet and the house is cold, and a man with little yellow wings stands in the front hall, pulling a dark grey beanie over his hair and wrapping his husband’s scarf around his neck.

Wil? He calls, and his voice is distant and warped with time. I’m heading out.

She watches from directly behind the man. She’s never been so close, and yet the man does not see her. Nor does his husband, a taller man who slips down the stairs at a familiar pattern of two at a time, whose eyebrows furrow upon seeing the avian dressed up in a winter coat, yellow wings poking out of the slits in the back. Is something wrong?

Parent teacher conferences, Wil , the first man says, quirking an eyebrow as if it’s obvious. We talked about this.

The taller man breathes a sigh of relief. Sorry. I forgot that was tonight.

You’re good to take care of Tilín?

He makes his way to the bottom stair and crosses to the avian in only a few steps. His hands fiddle with the scarf around his husband’s neck, adjusting it so it covers all the bits of skin revealed to the cold. Oh, no, I fully intend on coming with you. How will I know if my child’s doing well in their classes if I don’t have a discussion with their teacher?

The avian levels him with a warning glare, but it’s soft. Don’t you even start. I don’t want you distracting me.

The taller man hums, eyes glittering with mirth. Maybe I’ll just miss you instead .

The avian scoffs, but his wings fluff up a little. You’re so goddamn clingy.

And you’re blushing.

Oh my God, stop being stupid , the man insists, rolling his eyes. I’m leaving now. Before his husband can protest, the avian’s twisting the door open, letting in a cold streak of wind through the house.

The taller man watches him leave, something undoubtedly fond in his eyes. He does not go after him, and she wonders if, looking back on it, he would’ve.

The man on the edge of society sits on the bottom stair, eyes pinned on the front hall closet.

Once, it held a grey beanie and a child’s red coat. The little dragon supposes those, just like the avian, are gone now.

That man, as it seems, has a bad habit of leaving.

Chapter Text

Tallulah: Deep gash in leg. Cause of severe pain and heavy infection risk. She still won’t let me see, and I’m getting worried. Location: Wilbur’s house.

Everyone else: Fine.

Potential threats: Wilbur, who is too fond of Tallulah, and Phil, who is too fond of me. Me, because I am letting my guard down, even if I don’t like it.

By the time Chayanne realized he was getting attached, it was already too late.

**

Chayanne turned fifteen the day before a storm. It hadn’t yet broken; rather, the clouds contained the shaking thunder within a cage of churning grey, as if turning itself into a physical dam. His birthday fell during that strange time of year where it was sort of autumn and sort of winter, like the weather couldn’t quite decide, and as Chayanne sat high in the branches of Wilbur’s tree and looked up into the scrambled clouds, he thought he could taste electricity on the air.

A storm was perhaps one of the most tangible intangible things in existence.

His hoodie sat bunched up into a ball between his fingers. It was too cold out not to be wearing a coat, but his hoodie didn’t have slits for his wings, and his T-shirt did. There, cradled by the branches of the tree, he let his wings stretch out behind him for the first time in days, closing his eyes so he could feel the cold stinging his scales.

Birthdays were an odd time at the Federation. They weren’t necessarily celebrated, but they were the only time each year during which the children were allowed to speak to each other, and they were given the day off from experiments. He remembered flashes of birthdays before the Federation; they were times of joy as much as they were times of stress. Which was exactly why he did not tell Wilbur or Phil about his birthday, because they’d probably try to celebrate it, and the other kids stayed quiet out of respect.

He didn’t particularly feel like being celebrated. The only good thing about a birthday was the fact that he was another year older, which meant he was less likely to be underestimated.

Phil found him in the midmorning, and stopped at the bottom of the tree, craning his neck up to Chayanne with a smile. “Hey, mate.” He propped a hand flat against his forehead to shield his eyes from the clouds, because even if they blocked the sun, it was still unfairly bright. “Happy birthday.”

Chayanne raised an eyebrow. Wilbur’s tree was relatively short, about six and a half feet tall before the trunk split out into limbs, so Chayanne sat in a dip between limbs and stabilized himself with one hand on either side of him. He was careful in lifting his hands to sign that he wouldn’t fall.

Not like his wings would catch him.

“Did the littles tell you?” He asked, because Pomme and Dapper knew not to spill but Tallulah and Richas could’ve slipped up. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure how Phil would’ve known.

“Sure.” Phil looked amused. “Look, Chayanne, I can guess by your mood that you’re not up for anything big, but it would be a shame to let your birthday go to waste.”

Chayanne shrugged. “We could train again, if you want.” Really, a part of him was warmed that Phil didn’t try to engage him in anything particularly special, that he understood Chayanne’s hesitancy to celebrate. Not that he would admit that to Phil—the man had already gotten too close to Chayanne for comfort.

Phil narrowed his eyes in thought, as if considering it. “I mean, it’s not really what I want, mate. It’s what you want.”

Chayanne thought about that. He’d spent every single day in the same monotonous haze of Wilbur’s house. There was only so much four rooms and a backyard could do to entertain Chayanne, and his training sessions with Phil had only somewhat helped with Chayanne’s endless nervous energy.

So, if only to test Phil, he said, “I want to go outside.”

And he was already outside, but if Phil’s flurry of expressions meant anything, he’d understood Chayanne. He wanted to go into town, or into the woods, or somewhere beyond this house, which was becoming a euphemistic word for a cage.

If Phil didn’t like the idea, he hid it underneath a smile. “Sure, Chayanne.” He stretched up his hand to the boy, rough and scarred and worn by battle but soft like it had never known war. “Let’s go outside.”

**

Twenty minutes later, Chayanne walked beside and slightly behind Phil, hoodie pulled up over his head to hide his wings and hair and a mask over his face to obscure his identity. It helped that most people who walked around town wore masks, because at least it wasn’t suspicious. He was tall enough now that he could pass as a fully grown adult. That is, if you could ignore that he was still noticeably underweight after seven years of being underfed at the Federation and two weeks of borderline starvation after they escaped.

It was fine. Chayanne was feeling stronger every day—that was all that mattered.

Keeping true to his word, Phil didn’t try to make the occasion embarrassingly special. He’d said he needed to head to town for a supply run this week anyway, so he may as well go now and let Chayanne tag along. For the first time in weeks, Chayanne was reunited with his bat, which hung out of the main pocket of his backpack, and two knives were hidden on his person—not including his switchblade, which was clutched directly in his fingers.

It shouldn’t have comforted him, but it did. As awful as it sounded, weapons were safety to Chayanne.

Phil’s sword, which had once terrified Chayanne, now rested in a sheath at the man’s hip, and a handgun sat on the other side. A mask covered Phil’s face, as well, but it wasn’t like he could hide with two massive black wings. Maybe it was less for the sake of preserving his identity and more for protection from the virus.

Chayanne wasn’t sure what he’d expected from the little town. It had been nearly a month since he’d last stepped foot off of Wilbur’s property, and as they got closer to town and the unfamiliar buildings pressed up high and close to him, as if surrounding him on all sides, he felt his throat close up.

He’d called them unfamiliar, but in some ways, that couldn’t be further from the truth. This dilapidated little shopping district was like an eerie shell of a memory pressed deep into the recesses of his mind. The Federation had tried their best to gaslight Chayanne’s memories out of him, but despite their efforts, he recognized the cracked red brick sprouting moss beneath his shoes as home. Or, at least, what was once home, back when home was a place and not a group of white-winged children. He remembered these bricks being whole, remembered these faded terracotta buildings once standing tall, vibrant, where now they sagged. Most windows were broken, and others were boarded up, and the whole street carried with it an aura of emptiness.

It was a ghost town in both the figurative and literal senses, he supposed.

At some point, they passed that mural again, the one that had chilled him to the bone when he’d last ventured through town all those weeks ago. Our lost heroes , it read, beneath a faded painting of a group of children. He didn’t recognize any of them, not really, but knew with a pang in his chest that he should’ve. Beyond the one on the right, the blond child wearing a duck-themed pool floatie around his waist and a skull mask on his face—beyond Chayanne himself—the others were a mystery.

Chayanne paused, staring his childhood self in the face and feeling sick.

They all looked so happy there. Him and the little girl with the glasses and brown braids to his left, and the boy with the overalls in the middle, and the littler one with the moustache-themed bandana covering his face. Once upon a time, they’d all been residents of this town, and they’d been children, and they’d been loved.

Chayanne might have survived, but that happy child in the mural was as dead as the rest of them. At least, he would never come back, and in that sense, there wasn’t much difference.

He was the kid who lived. That had to mean something, right?

Beside him, Phil had gone still, eyes tracing up and down the portrait and mouth pulled into a thin, pensive line. Chayanne nudged the man to get his attention.

“Do you know any of them?” He asked. He only realized afterwards that it could’ve been an invasive question.

But Phil merely smiled, although it was sad. “Every single one.”

Chayanne tried not to think about that one too hard. The fact that someone left in town—multiple people, even—could’ve known Chayanne was unsettling. He didn’t remember any of them. Not that he would, not after what the Federation did.

Phil had been part of Chayanne’s past, then—and if that was the case, probably Wilbur, too. It came like a start, a sickening revelation. They could’ve been his parents’ friends, or his friends’ parents. They could have hosted Chayanne at playdates or sleepovers, and they could’ve been parent volunteers on field trips. They could have been helplessly intertwined with Chayanne’s life, and he wouldn’t even know.

But Phil and Wilbur didn’t recognize Chayanne now, not unless Chayanne was very mistaken. If Phil knew who Chayanne was, wouldn’t he have said something?

Chayanne shut down the thought as soon as it came. The Federation had certainly changed him; it wasn’t surprising that he’d be unrecognizable when juxtaposed with his childhood self.

One hand subconsciously fiddled with the bandages resting around his throat. They were a cruel sort of reminder.

Those bandages were starting to get loose, he realized. He’d need to replace them soon.

Phil moved on. Chayanne trailed after him half in a daze.

The streets were eerily empty. Only down one road did they come across anyone—a lone infected diving through an old pile of wooden crates stacked up against an abandoned convenience store, body weak and rotting from the inside out. Hair hung low in stringy patches from their head, and their skin was grey and crawling with mould and moss. When they turned to the side, Chayanne saw a gaping hole carved right into their torso through which he could see the crates on the other side of their body. A lone organ, shrivelled and half-eaten, hung in the empty hole, pulsing slowly.

He tried not to gag. The only thing that really helped was remembering that this was once a townsperson, someone who was kind and had a family and, oh, maybe that didn’t help as much as he thought. His chest ached.

Phil bristled beside him, but kept walking. Under his breath, he muttered, “Keep your head forward. If you don’t acknowledge them, they usually won’t bother you.”

Chayanne staggered along behind the man and tried not to look at the infected across the street. His hands fluttered through his childhood sign quickly. “Do you ever recognize them?” He kept his hands low, unwilling to put his sign language on full display. There were only so many people in town who spoke sign language at all, and in case the Federation somehow was spying on them, he wanted to eliminate any risks of being noticed.

“Sometimes. Not as much anymore.” Phil swallowed. “I try not to think about it.”

They continued walking in silence. Chayanne tried not to let his mind spin.

He wasn’t sure what to expect of the grocery store. Perhaps something like the rest of these buildings: rundown and old. He didn’t imagine many people actually worked there; in fact, he was surprised there was a running grocery store left in town at all.

He certainly didn’t expect to turn a corner and see a building massive enough to have its own parking lot. Its windows, like the other places, were boarded up, and dripping black spray paint on the side of the building read the end is here ; otherwise, the grocery store could’ve been dragged and dropped from the past. Standing tall, architecturally sound, lights igniting the street below. Like a safe haven. Like someone had been taking care of it.

Chayanne’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Phil chuckled. “It’s one of the few buildings funded by the Federation. There’s this cargo boat that comes to the island every few weeks with a bunch of supplies and food and shit, and the Federation workers restock the stores. It’s all free nowadays, because nobody actually works anymore.”

Huh. So, the Federation actually gave a shit about the survivors. Who would’ve thought.

The grocery store was empty when they pushed their way through the heavy front doors. Air conditioning shivered down Chayanne’s back the moment he entered, almost like a cool puff of air, and he jumped in surprise, causing Phil to laugh softly. He’d forgotten air conditioning even existed.

About ten cash registers stood empty and abandoned in front of them; Chayanne imagined they hadn’t been occupied in years. Beyond that, an endless line of long aisles stretched out before them, ignited by flickering fluorescent panels hanging low on wires from the ceiling. Which was a bit of a hazard, Chayanne thought, but perhaps he was just paranoid. A line of fridges on the back wall cast a white glow on the floor down each aisle.

It was creepy.

When Phil spoke, his voice was low. “Keep behind me, Chayanne. Don’t turn down any aisle until I tell you it’s safe. There might be other people here.”

Chayanne listened. He wasn’t used to listening.

Attached , his brain sang, and he politely told it to shut up. He didn’t want to be an obedient dog.

Considering it was a grocery store, their mission was hilariously intense. Chayanne stuck close behind Phil, one hand always gripping his switchblade. Just in case. Phil was a predictable mixture of stress and practiced ease, shoulders kept in a straight, casual line, but carried by a barely noticeable tension that indicated his urgency. He ordered Chayanne to stay in the shadows between each aisle before he noted them as safe.

“Come on, Chayanne,” he whispered, and Chayanne darted around the corner. It was a produce aisle, and Phil indicated through sign language what they needed to get. They shoved everything, including a concerning amount of potatoes, into Chayanne’s backpack.

It was kind of fun. He hadn’t expected that from grocery shopping, but there was something about the post-apocalyptic thrill that got to Chayanne.

Maybe Wilbur’s house was just that boring.

It wasn’t until they got to the dairy aisle that Phil stopped. Chayanne was tucked around the corner, keeping an eye out for the man, and stiffened when he heard Phil suck in a breath of surprise.

Phil slipped back around the corner, eyes wide, and pressed a finger to his lips to silence Chayanne.

Chayanne rolled his eyes. As if he would say anything. He didn’t even have a human tongue.

“Phil?” A voice came—feminine but relatively low, almost gritty, touched with something wary. “Is that you?” The woman had an accent, he thought, but he couldn’t place where it was from.

Phil was pressed against the wall of the aisle to Chayanne’s right, one hand over Chayanne protectively, and for a moment, all Chayanne could focus on was the feeling of someone touching him. It was like a beacon of electricity channelled into that one arm, and Chayanne simultaneously wanted to reach out to it and jump away from it. He flinched like he’d been stung, but Phil didn’t seem to notice in his urgency.

Phil sighed. His head hung low in disappointment, eyes squeezing together, and Chayanne understood with a twisting in his gut that they weren’t getting out of this one.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Phil called, surprising Chayanne. He watched as the older man’s body straightened, easing itself of any tense knots that could have revealed his anxiety, and turned the corner. Out of sight of Chayanne. Phil continued, “Hey, Baghera.”

With a startled blink, Chayanne realized how much trust Phil was putting in him by leaving him out of sight. Chayanne could’ve bolted and freed himself of this whole mess at any given moment, and Phil wouldn’t have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

Perhaps he just assumed Chayanne wouldn’t have the nerve to leave behind his siblings. Which was totally correct, even if Chayanne was hesitant to admit it.

His eyes locked on the heavy metal doors beyond the registers. He could just run. He could run .

He looked down at his sneakers, which remained rooted to the floor.

They weren’t going anywhere.

It made him feel sick. However, fortunately, he didn’t have much time to ruminate on the reasons behind his reluctance, because the woman’s—Baghera’s—voice began again, startling Chayanne out of his thoughts. “You’re not usually out in town this late in the morning, Phil.” Something in her tone was suspicious, which was definitely not good.

“Oh, I know. Meant to go earlier, but I got distracted. It was urgent enough that I couldn’t leave it until tomorrow.” He sounded surprisingly casual. “You know how it is.”

Chayanne noted how odd it was that Baghera seemed to know Phil’s schedule—or, at least, she knew that he did his supply runs in the early mornings. He supposed that when the town’s population was so heartbreakingly small, it wasn’t odd. Especially after Cellbit’s disappearance, it would help for the townspeople to know where everyone should be at any given moment.

Chayanne flicked his eyes back towards the front of the grocery store. There, a boarded-up but intact window lit up by the fluorescent lights of the store reflected the aisles back at him. He just barely made out Phil’s reflection, a silhouette with floor-length black wings, and a second figure slightly behind him—a blonde woman dressed in a yellow bomber jacket, someone with small, yellow wings that seemed to flutter when she spoke. She was bright where the store was bleak, and in a post-apocalyptic world where everything was touched with grey, it was almost refreshing to see someone composed of such vibrant colours.

Phil cleared his throat. “Listen, Baghera, I’d love to chat, but Wil needs me back at—”

“Wait, Phil,” Baghera interrupted, something nervous entering her tone. “I just—I usually wouldn’t ask, because I know he makes you uncomfortable, but, um, my brother says you’ve been avoiding him. He wanted me to ask why.”

A beat of silence. From the aisle over, Chayanne shifted uncomfortably, noting the tension in the air, and then he heard Phil sigh again. “God, not this.”

“He’s been asking about you, Phil. I tell him I don’t know, but he still asks.”

“We don’t associate with Quackity anymore, Baghera. You know that.” His tone turned rigid, and Chayanne wondered about that first word. We. 

Baghera sounded confused. Almost offended, Chayanne thought. Her wings fluttered, disgruntled, and a gentle flapping noise accompanied them. “I’m not—Phil, I’m not talking about Quackity. You really think I’d bring him up around you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, no, my other brother.”

Another pause. “Oh.” Chayanne watched in the window reflection as Phil dragged a hand down his face, and then his nails came to rest on either side of his nose where he pinched the bridge. “Well, that’s an entirely different type of discomfort. Thanks, Baghera.”

“Wh—don’t blame me!” The woman crossed her arms over her chest, clearly as uncomfortable as Phil. “He’s my brother . I don’t like being his messenger for this sort of stuff, but he’s being annoying about it. You’re not talking to him anymore, and it’s scaring him.”

“I’m scaring him? He’s scaring me!”

“Keep your voice down, Phil.” Baghera’s tone turned cold, and she glanced behind her, as if ensuring they were alone. They weren’t, considering Chayanne was watching them from the next aisle over, but she didn’t need to know that. “It was just a question. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Sorry.” Phil shuffled in his spot, and then his voice lowered once more. “Honestly, if you see your brother, don’t tell him I was here. I don’t want him to start looking for me again.”

She snorted. “I understand. Forever is an acquired taste.”

“Please don’t use ‘Forever’ and ‘taste’ in the same sentence.”

Chayanne covered his mouth with one hand to stop from laughing. He had a very distinct feeling that he was not supposed to be hearing this information.

Baghera laughed, too, clearly amused by Phil. In that moment, her posture in the window relaxed, as if comforted by the moment of relief. It was only a brief moment, but Chayanne thought it made her look infinitely more human.

She cocked her head. “How have you been doing lately? You’ve been so absent from everything in town.” Her tone was lighter, now, but as she spoke again, it took on something more weighted. Not suspicious like before, just…heavy. “Are you going to be joining our next search party for Cellbit?”

Phil went silent. He shifted, as if looking for a response that wouldn’t make him seem awful, but came up short. It was almost too telling, and Chayanne cringed at how obvious it was. Finally, Phil managed, “I’ll see, Baghera. I’ve been really busy lately.”

“With what?”

Another long pause—too long, Chayanne thought—until Phil eventually found a way to respond. “It’s, uh. It’s not something you need to worry about. Just…Wil’s needed some help.”

Chayanne watched as the woman bristled, wings snapping closed behind her back. It was full of suspicion, and Chayanne hated it. Baghera’s shoulders stiffened, head tilting down like she was trying to look for any breaks in Phil’s expression, something to prove he was lying, before Baghera finally surrendered, sighing. “Well, I hope nothing too bad’s going on. Let me know if either of you need anything.” She shifted her weight onto her other hip. “You know we’re all here for you, Phil. The community needs to stick together; there aren’t many of us left.”

Chayanne wondered about that. Since they’d arrived at Wilbur’s house, Wilbur and Phil had been almost entirely isolated from their community. Chayanne had just assumed that the apocalypse had ripped the town apart, but he wondered if it was actually the complete opposite. If the virus had brought the survivors closer together, then it would certainly be suspicious that Wilbur and Phil had suddenly dipped.

It made sense for Baghera to act like that, he thought. Even if it set off Chayanne’s nerves.

But Phil had protected the secret of the kids’ existence, which was the most important thing.

“Well, this was nice, Phil, but I’ve got to run,” Baghera said, splitting the silence in two. “I’ve got two very lonely and very annoying brothers at home.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Phil agreed, starting to back away from the aisle. “Take care of yourself out there, Baghera.”

“You too, Phil.” The woman remained eerily rooted in place, wings curled slightly around her shoulders. It was strange how expressive they were, like the appendages were not only an extension of the physical but the emotional. “And Phil?”

Phil stopped in place only inches from where Chayanne was hiding around the corner. The older man’s face was half illuminated by the flickering white lights of the aisle and half thrown into shadow, and it was a little scary.

“I hope you get that thing with Wilbur sorted out soon.” Baghera’s voice was a little warm and a little cold. Chayanne couldn’t quite figure out the balance there, which side to trust. “We need you around here.”

“Sure.” Phil’s voice was hollow. He didn’t even blink.

The moment Phil was around the corner, he locked eyes with Chayanne, and then nodded towards the exit.

They’d come back for the rest another day.

**

If there was one thing Chayanne was expecting to see on his way home, it certainly wasn’t a Federation van. He knew it from first glance: recognized that nobody else in town would be driving something so clean and irritatingly white—really, nobody else in town probably drove any vehicle at all.

They’d been walking for ten minutes when they spotted it, parked and pressed up against a lonely curb with a number of rusty and dented cars that likely hadn’t been touched in years. It was like a ghost in the middle of the wreckage. He felt the moment when Phil noticed the van rather than saw it; his shoulders straightened and his gaze turned sharp.

“Chayanne, get behind me,” he ordered. It wasn’t a request.

And Chayanne didn’t need to be protected, but he understood Phil’s urgency. He understood the bigger part of it; that if Chayanne got spotted with Phil, if they figured out Phil and Wilbur were hiding the kids, Chayanne wasn’t just putting himself in danger, but all his siblings, too.

So Chayanne ducked behind Phil, letting the man block him from view, and focused on his hammering heartbeat. His hands were shaking, and he felt himself reach for his knife subconsciously. That would protect him. That would keep him safe.

He hoped.

“That’s the fourth time I’ve seen them in the past two weeks, and I don’t get out often,” Phil commented lowly. “They shouldn’t be in town this frequently.”

Fuck , Chayanne thought. The Federation was looking for them. Oh, the Federation was definitely looking for them. And they knew—or, at least, they suspected —that the kids were in town, which probably meant the Federation knew they were being hidden by the townspeople, which meant it was only a matter of time before the workers went around knocking on Wilbur’s doorstep.

Chayanne’s mind turned fuzzy and his throat closed up, and he thought through the haze that it was strange. Why should he be so suddenly panicked at the sight of a Federation van? He was stronger than that. He had to be stronger than that, because he couldn’t afford to be weak. He couldn’t afford to break down at the sight of something so white, and he couldn’t afford to hide behind Phil like a scared child.

A black wing bristled in front of him, drawing his attention back to the present, and he heard Phil’s voice come softly from in front of him. “Breathe, Chayanne. I won’t let them do anything to you.”

A mechanical hum. Down the street, the Federation vehicle roared to life, and the headlights flickered yellow against the red brick street. Chayanne’s eyes began to sting. 

Phil’s wings fluttered a little wider—ensuring Chayanne was kept safely blocked from view without raising too much suspicion. Phil waved at the van with one hand, though it looked strained.

There was something strange about these streets, Chayanne had noticed. The tiniest sounds were amplified by the buildings on either side, and each little noise seemed to bounce off the walls.

Which was why, when Chayanne heard footfalls from somewhere behind him, he flinched, whipping around to come face-to-face with a white-masked, faceless Federation worker.

They seemed to freeze at the same time he did, as if they hadn’t expected anyone to be there. Still, the worker lifted one hand in a lazy but polite sort of wave, one a stranger might give to another stranger.

No recognition in that wave.

So, they didn’t know it was Chayanne. Not yet. Still, Chayanne reached blindly for Phil, alerting him to the worker on the other side, and when Phil turned around and spotted them, he stiffened. Chayanne heard him curse under his breath.

They were surrounded. A worker in front and a worker behind, and though it didn’t seem like they’d recognized Chayanne yet, what with his most identifiable features hidden, it would only take a glimpse of Chayanne’s neck bandages to give him away.

He grabbed onto Phil’s wrist, reminding himself that he wasn’t alone. He didn’t know what else to do, because, shit , there was no getting out of this one. The Federation worker in front waved to Phil, but stopped, apparently noticing the tension and fear written into every inch of Chayanne’s body. That white, faceless mask tilted to the side, something unearthly and inhuman about it, and Chayanne wanted to cry.

It was temporary, but the fear lingered.

A flash of movement was the only precursor to the inky feathers that wrapped swiftly around Chayanne, deadly but soft when they shielded him from view. Phil’s wings were long and their span was wide, and when they draped around Chayanne, he felt the world go dark.

For a moment, there was black. Void.

And then there was Phil, two pale blue eyes staring at him out of the darkness. “I’m going to get us out of here, alright, mate?”

Chayanne didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t enough space in these wings to sign, so he stared at Phil, heart thrumming fast in his chest and eyes wide and terrified.

“I know, mate, I know you’re scared,” Phil soothed, sympathetic, and Chayanne didn’t notice himself begin to tremble quietly. “I’ll have to touch you. But it’ll just be a couple minutes of discomfort and then it will be over. I promise.”

Chayanne felt rooted in place. He didn’t know whether or not he trusted Phil. But the alternative right now was the Federation, and he definitely didn’t trust the Federation, so he nodded his head.

He’d picked his poison, and now he had to hope it wouldn’t kill him.

“Thank you, Chayanne,” Phil whispered. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m so, so sorry.” And he heard footsteps from across the street, and an engine revved, and Phil launched into action.

His wings opened with a snap, sending a gust of cold air blowing over Chayanne’s head, stirring up his hair through the hoodie. Grey clouds streaked with white billowed menacingly over their heads. He felt arms close around him, and squeezed his eyes shut, more than a little terrified. On his part, expecting the worst, he threw his arms around Phil, squeezing the man’s ribs as tightly as possible, and hid himself from view.

Phil took to the skies. It came with a lurch of Chayanne’s stomach, a drop of gravity as the ground disappeared beneath his feet, and Chayanne realized, holy shit, he was in the air.

He didn’t dare open his eyes. Not as the sound of the Federation van dulled in his ears, fading out to the powerful flaps of Phil’s wings. The man held him tightly, but Chayanne kept imagining himself slipping out of Phil’s grasp, hurtling towards certain death. He cracked his eyes open just for a moment, exposing them to a freezing rush of wind, and caught a glimpse of the town flying by below, a hurtling wasteland of faded brick and rubble. They were only about fifty metres off the ground, but it was high enough that Chayanne pressed his eyes shut once more, heart leaping to his throat.

“I’m sorry, Chayanne,” Phil muttered, though his voice was half drowned out by the wind. “I know you don’t like it. I promise it’ll be over soon.”

Chayanne held on tighter. Wind rushed by his ears—it was impossibly cold up here.

Phil stayed true to his word. It was a minute and a half of discomfort, maybe two, and then Chayanne felt himself lowered slowly. It wasn’t until his shoes touched down on solid ground and his mind stopped spinning that he felt himself breathe.

Phil chuckled. “You can let go, mate. You’re safe now.”

Chayanne opened his eyes, pushing away from the avian.

They were on a rooftop, he realized. The world was still spinning a little, or maybe Chayanne was just panicked, but as he squinted out over the grey haze, he realized they were standing atop one of the tallest remaining buildings in town.

It was four stories high, and the roof was composed of concrete on which had been stationed two old solar panels and a door that seemingly led into the building down below. They were high enough up that if they stayed away from the edge, it would have been impossible to be spotted.

For now, they were safe.

Chayanne was stumbling away from the man, skin stinging where he’d been touched. It felt like insects. Insects all over his body, crawling and clinging to his skin.

He hated it, but not as much as last time.

He missed the time when he didn’t hate it.

Phil was backing away, too. “I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t want to do that, but we had to get you out of there.”

He understood. Chayanne certainly wasn’t mad at Phil; he knew it was the safest and quickest way to get him out of that situation. He just wished it didn’t remind him of being attacked every time an adult got close. It didn’t feel like that with the other kids.

But something stopped him from actually saying that to Phil, so he remained silent, arms going over his middle nervously. He was still shaken up from seeing the van, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to silence the noise making TV static out of his brain.

He dropped his backpack onto the ground and wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold up here. Too cold for a dragon hybrid, that was for sure.

Phil’s eyes were running over Chayanne with a touch of concern, looking for injuries. They eventually settled on Chayanne’s neck, and his brow furrowed. “Your bandages came loose during flight. You might want to take a look at that when we get back.”

Chayanne’s eyes widened. His hand flew to his neck, fingers closing over the stiff white gauze there. He’d barely changed it since coming to Wilbur’s house, afraid of someone walking in while his neck was exposed, and as he fumbled with the bandages, he realized how brittle they’d become. They were unwilling to work with him, and the more he struggled with them, the looser they became.

Shit. Shit , this was not good. White gauze pooled around his fingers, and as his heart rate picked up in his heightened state of anxiety, he simply opted to hold both hands over his neck.

They couldn’t know about it. Not yet.

“Wh—Chayanne, mate, calm down,” Phil said, voice going soft. “It’s alright. I can help you change them if you want.”

No. Absolutely not. Phil was probably the worst person to see what was underneath, because he’d freak out and assume the worst and then Chayanne was doomed.

But Phil was also smart, and Phil tended to expect the worst possible outcome to be real—which, in this case, was true. Which was probably why Phil’s eyes narrowed at the hands covering Chayanne’s neck, and he spoke his next words very, very carefully.

“That’s not an injury at all, is it, Chayanne?” Phil asked, eyes searching for a crack in Chayanne’s fingers, something that would expose a flash of the device underneath.

Chayanne turned away from the man, making a move towards the doorway that led inside. His hands were still pressed to the space where the gauze had once been, covering any evidence of the metal in his neck. Phil’s words washed over him, but his mind was a flurry of static, frenetic and panicked, and he couldn’t process whatever Phil was trying to say.

“Chayanne, don’t walk away from me, mate.” His voice was simply tired at first, perhaps laced with anxiety, and Chayanne didn’t break in his path towards the door. One hand left his neck and slipped around the doorknob, jostling the handle, but it was locked.

Fuck. He was trapped.

Phil’s voice came again, but this time, it turned ice cold. “Chayanne, turn around right now. I’m not asking again.” His voice left no room for argument, full of something unfamiliar, and Chayanne knew with a jolt that Phil wouldn’t let this one go.

Chayanne turned around, hands clasped over his neck where cold metal bit into his skin, and met Phil’s eyes.

“Show me what’s under your hands,” Phil said. And Chayanne’s eyes pricked, because he knew that tone, and he knew Phil was suspicious of him. Which was totally justified—if their positions were swapped, Chayanne wouldn’t have trusted him, either—but he’d been hoping this time wouldn’t come quite so quickly.

He was naively hoping he’d be able to skate by without anyone ever realizing. Ever asking.

Ever finding out.

“Please, Chayanne,” Phil repeated, and his voice almost turned soft there, breaking from the firmness it had taken on moments ago.

A moment of pause. Wind whistled through the gaping, open silence, as if mocking them. Chayanne considered bolting, but where could he have gone?

He was out of options.

So, hesitantly, Chayanne dropped his hands, and for the first time in weeks, felt the wind on his neck.

And Phil stared. And he stared, and he sighed, and Chayanne wanted to run and hide. Phil didn’t quite seem to know what to say—something unreadable crossed his features, brows furrowed and wings folded behind his back. Chayanne was reminded then of how vulnerable he was, how easy it would be for Phil to attack or kill him on the spot.

The others would never even know what had happened to him.

Phil didn’t seem to want to kill him, but his eyes were cold and his voice was flat and emotionless when he spoke. “Are you going to tell me why you have Cucurucho’s voice box sewn into your throat?”

There was no “mate” attached to it. No “Chayanne”. In that moment, the fondness with which Phil had been addressing Chayanne for weeks was gone.

“I’m not Cucurucho,” Chayanne blurted out, hands stumbling quickly through his childhood sign language and clumsily fingerspelling the name.

“I mean, I assumed that, but I’ve never seen his face,” Phil started. “The only fucking thing I know about him is that he has a creepy voice box stitched into his throat, and so do you.”

Chayanne was screwed. There was no way he could’ve escaped, not even if his wings worked.

“I’ve only had it for a month and a half,” Chayanne insisted. “It was the last punishment they gave me before I escaped.”

Phil sighed dejectedly. Eyes running over Chayanne with a mix of bitter distrust and disappointment, like he couldn’t quite decide what to believe.

Chayanne stared at the distance between them. Moments ago, Phil had looked at Chayanne with warmth, like there was trust there. Phil, like Chayanne, was someone who didn’t trust easily, but he’d opened up a space for Chayanne in his life, and that was reflected in his gaze.

It was gone now, replaced with something distant and unfamiliar. Chayanne trembled quietly—it was the wind, he insisted. It blew cold and blustery up here, where they were close to the clouds and the buildings below couldn’t block out the whipping gusts.

“God, I can’t do this. You look like a kicked puppy.” Phil shook his head, pressing his palms to his eyes in exasperation. “You know what? Sit down, Chayanne. We’re going to have a proper talk about this, and then I’m going to decide what to do about this.”

A beat. Chayanne softened, surprised. “You’re not angry?” It didn’t make sense.

Phil raised an eyebrow. “Mate, you’re fifteen. Cucurucho’s been around a lot longer than that. Plus, I’ve seen the way you act around your siblings, and I frankly don’t think you’d ever want to put any of them in harm’s way.” His wings shuffled behind him, and he sat cross-legged on the edge of the concrete roof, gesturing in front of him for Chayanne to do the same. “Which means that something else is going on here, and I want to know what.”

For a moment, Chayanne remained rooted in place, before he stepped forwards and followed Phil, taking a seat beside him. Again, feeling a little like an obedient dog, but he’d rather not anger Phil right now, not when he was already risking so much by showing Phil the voicebox.

“Tell me about it.” Phil’s voice wasn’t patient, but it was calm. Allowing space for Chayanne to talk, even if the trust he’d previously saved for Chayanne was gone.

He wondered whether it was a trap. He forced his hands to still before speaking—it took much longer than expected. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

Phil hummed, shifting in spot. “Let’s start with this. Is this part of the experiments? Were they going to do this to the others?”

Chayanne shook his head. “Only me. The others are too young.” His legs dangled over the edge, sneakers bumping up against the chipped brick.

“Dapper’s not even a year younger than you,” he countered.

Chayanne moved to the left uncomfortably, putting another few inches of distance between him and Phil. Trying to make it as subtle a movement as possible. Just in case things went south. “They have different plans for me.” Which wasn’t exactly true. The plans for all five children were the same; the Federation simply wanted more from Chayanne.

A myriad of words was left unspoken between them: one, the dragon blood conversation; two, the virus conversation; three, the torture conversation. Chayanne thought Phil knew about number two, but the others were left secret.

He was tired of keeping secrets, but he did what he had to do.

Phil tipped up his chin. “And what are their plans for you?”

And this was where Chayanne froze. More than anything, he wished for the wind to pick up again, to swallow Phil’s words enough that Chayanne could’ve pretended he hadn’t heard. For the storm to finally break, so he would be saved. Pity this was the one moment the wind had gone still.

He’d told Phil about the Federation training him to be a guard in preparation of Chayanne ageing out of experiments. It was relevant enough to their personal training sessions that he’d given Phil the backstory in bits and pieces; now, Phil knew about as much as the kids knew, which was not very much at all. Enough for Phil to know Chayanne didn’t want to talk about it.

Not enough to know the whole thing was a lie.

“It’s alright, Chayanne,” Phil said, and there was that little slip of warmth from before, and it stung. “Take your time.”

Which was bullshit, because Chayanne could’ve taken all the time in the world and he still wouldn’t be able to talk about it freely.

“They don’t want me to be their next guard, Phil.” He stared down at his lap, at his hands slowly forming the words in a sign language that had now grown stilted. “They want me to be the next Cucurucho.” And, with weaker movements, he added, “Please don’t tell the others. I don’t want them to find out.”

Phil was silent for a long time. He didn’t exactly look surprised, but his mouth was pinched into a firm, thin line, and his eyes were steely and faraway. Chayanne felt judged, evaluated, thrown under a microscope. The weight of Phil’s gaze on the voice box was heavy like water, and Chayanne rewrapped the bandages around his neck—this time methodically, with thought to where the gauze settled easiest. It was loose, but it would do.

He ignored the way hot tears slipped down his cheeks. He palmed them away from his face, hiding his burning embarrassment from view. Curling up into a ball, he pushed himself further away from the edge and tucked his face into his knees, feeling tinier than ever.

And then he looked up, and Phil was still staring at him with that unreadable expression.

“Fucking say something,” Chayanne signed, anger curling bitter in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like the silence. It was judgmental.

Phil opened his mouth and closed it, and Chayanne finally recognized a flicker of emotion there. “I guess I’m just confused, Chayanne. Of course you’d never agree to that, right? No way in hell would you ever willingly become Cucurucho.”

But Chayanne was shaking his head, because Phil didn’t understand, and now Chayanne had to lay down every fucking secret on the table just to protect himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does, mate.”

Chayanne’s cheeks burned. “No, no, it’s—,” he started, but stopped, gritting his teeth. “Here’s why I don’t fucking matter in this situation. Because the Federation is leading two projects: the main one is a cure they’re developing for the virus, right? That’s where we’re all involved.”

“Right,” Phil said, although he looked completely and utterly lost. Chayanne doubted that Phil actually knew that at all, but the man didn’t stop him to ask about it, anyway.

“But they have a side project, and I’m not allowed to tell anyone, and that’s where I’m involved. Because they developed this special gas, and they stick it in oxygen masks—they’re working right now on versions that can fit inside Federation worker masks, but I don’t know why—and when they put it on your face, you like…you lose your entire identity. You forget everything important to you, and you have this earpiece in your ear, and there’s nothing you can do but listen to it . I don’t know what it does, but it takes away your free will, and your own conscious thoughts, and it makes you dizzy and compliant, and it sucks.” He paused, shaking. “That’s why I’m going to become Cucurucho, and that’s why I don’t fucking matter.”

Phil swallowed. His gaze had sharpened into a merciless glare, but Chayanne had a feeling it wasn’t directed towards him. “And they used this on you?”

Chayanne nodded. “Only once. I was out of it for only a couple hours, but it was so effective I don’t even remember what happened. I just knew that I did everything they said and I didn’t question it.” Something about it felt like a child tattling to his dad about a bully in the schoolyard, except the stakes in this situation were infinitely higher. The comparison was strange, settled weirdly on Chayanne’s shoulders, but he noted the similarities in the way Phil’s eyes went cold and dead and angry, like he was going to do something about it. Like he planned on fixing it, even though there was nothing Phil could do about it now.

In the silence, while Phil contemplated his next words, Chayanne felt the severity of his own situation crash upon him. Because the Federation was looking for him—at least, that’s what it looked like, right? Which meant that they could’ve stumbled upon Wilbur’s house and the kids at any given moment.

He felt himself turn soft and his soul flicker, hollow, as the angry flame in him dimmed, giving way to a gnawing, ravenous anxiety. He looked up at Phil again, frightened grey eyes meeting furious blue.

Phil had to protect them. He had to, because Chayanne wasn’t sure this was within his own abilities anymore. This was the point where he had to take the olive branch of peace extended towards him by the only two adults who hadn’t hurt him, by the only two adults who were trying to gain his trust.

He had to ask for help when he couldn’t do it himself.

“You can’t let them take us away again, Phil.” Chayanne knew it sounded like pleading, and he knew it sounded childlike and weak, but his heart ached and hot tears were slipping down his cheeks and for once, he just wanted to be protected. He wanted to be saved. “I don’t want to hurt my family.”

Because that was the reality, wasn’t it? If they were captured again, they’d force Chayanne to undergo the second part of the Cucurucho surgery, which was the brain bit, the implant that connected his thoughts to the voice box so that it was actually functional, and then Chayanne was screwed. Then they’d make him wear a white mascot head and breathe through an oxygen mask that forced him to do their bidding, and he’d spend his days administering punishments and running inhumane experiments on his own siblings.

And the worst part is that he wouldn’t even know. Neither would his siblings, which terrified him almost more than the rest of it. He imagined Tallulah returning to her cell, fresh wounds painting her body like a mural. Wishing Chayanne was there to comfort her without even knowing he was the one to order the punishment.

That couldn’t happen. That couldn’t happen. Phil needed to understand that Chayanne’s future with the Federation was his worst fear realized, and that at the moment, Phil and Wilbur were the only ones who could save him. Especially if the Federation was looking for him.

Phil looked like he wanted nothing more than to reach out and hug Chayanne, who sat there shaking like a leaf with wet tears staining the knees of his jeans.

But he didn’t. Phil didn’t reach out, and the world around them was cold, and Chayanne was weak and terrified.

“I made a promise a long time ago to someone very special,” Phil started, patient and soft, and Chayanne heard a quiver in his voice that he didn’t like, not one bit. “I told him that I would never let anything bad happen to him, and that I’d keep him safe. And you know what, Chayanne? I broke that promise.” He wasn’t looking at Chayanne; instead, his eyes lingered on the place where Chayanne’s voicebox sat untouched beneath his bandages. “I hope you don’t mind me extending the offer to you now that I have a second chance.”

“What do you mean?” Chayanne asked.

“I mean that I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you,” Phil said, choked. “Your siblings, too. Nothing bad will happen to any of you.” It wasn’t just a promise. It was something more. Chayanne tried to let it comfort him.

He didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing. The words thank you curled on his hands, falling limp. He wanted so badly to speak them, and yet the words were caught between his fingers, sticky and weighted.

Phil was looking up at the sky, at the tumble of grey clouds above, and used one hand to shield his eyes from the sun. His wings were extended behind him, catching the wind.

“Chayanne,” he started carefully, as if unsure of his words even as they were spilling out of his mouth, “what do you remember of your life before the virus?”

The question took him by surprise. It was unexpected, really, out of place, and Chayanne had to wonder what part of their previous conversation had led Phil down that line of thought.

Chayanne fumbled with his response. His remaining memories from before the Federation were limited at best, and it showed in his hesitation. “Not much. I lived on a hill. We had a lot of avocado trees in the backyard, and my dad built a treehouse on one of them.” At least his words came easier to him now. His eyebrows furrowed as he dug around in his hazy blur of memories for the remaining fragments of his childhood. “I used to sit up there a lot. I think I had a lot of temper tantrums when I was a kid, so I went there to calm down.”

“You said you had a dad?” Phil was watching him oddly.

“Yeah.” He thought about the man; someone tall with a blurred face and form, an unnamed person who was little more than a memory. “I don’t remember much about him, but…he was nice. He was the only one who really gave me a chance back then.” A pause. “I think I had older siblings, too, or…maybe they were uncles. I don’t know. There were other people at some point, though.”

“Why don’t you remember?”

Chayanne hugged his knees.

A little white room. A man in a white suit with a white mascot head. Cucurucho was younger, then, and even without knowing his identity, Chayanne could tell his age by the loose edges of his posture. The bear leaned his hands against a little white table and stared at Chayanne through beady black mascot eyes. Chayanne had been younger, too, a little blonde boy with scaly black wings and big green eyes who, for the first time in his life, felt unsafe.

Three faceless Federation workers had stood around the white room, attending to a machine in the background that Chayanne couldn’t see from where he’d been tied to his chair. One worker attached a bunch of sticky wires to eight-year-old Chayanne’s skin as Cucurucho slid a photograph of a man in front of Chayanne and wrote beside it, Who is this?

Chayanne had struggled through his ties to answer, “My father.”

Cucurucho leaned over the desk to sign something in an unfamiliar, rigid sign language to the workers. Chayanne would later learn, as he was taught the strange language, that Cucurucho had said, “Let it begin.”

Chayanne wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was a white-haired fifteen-year-old with atrophied white wings and washed-out grey eyes and burns mottling half his face, and he was sitting on the edge of a roof, discussing his past with a man he barely knew.

“The Federation,” Chayanne finally answered. He’d trailed off for a minute, lost in the memory, and it wasn’t until he saw Phil’s concerned gaze that he’d snapped back into the present. “They did this…thing. Showed me a bunch of photos of men who looked really similar to my dad. They asked me which one was him and electrocuted me if I got it right. Every time I got electrocuted, I got more and more dazed, and eventually I couldn’t tell which one was actually my dad anymore. At one point, they were photos of people who looked completely different and I still couldn’t—,” he said, but stopped himself. His hands shook gently. “Anyway, they’re good at making you forget things.”

Phil hummed. His eyes flicked forwards, straight ahead, but Chayanne had a feeling he was far, far away. “I’m going to kill that white bear motherfucker.”

Chayanne laughed, but it was bitter. “Get in line.”

“No, no, no, Chayanne, you listen to me,” Phil said, levelling a careful eye at Chayanne. “If I have any say in it, you are never going to see Cucurucho ever again. Alright? You don’t have to worry about that son of a bitch anymore.”

Something in his tone scared Chayanne. Not because Phil was angry or intimidating, but because he cared . He’d only known Chayanne for a month, and yet he’d threatened to kill Cucurucho over him. Regardless if he meant it or not, it was terrifying.

It was almost like Phil cared about Chayanne. About Chayanne , of all people. Not someone kind like Tallulah, or witty like Dapper, or playful like Richarlyson, or creative like Pomme. They were all good people, and Chayanne wasn’t good . He was Chayanne.

Angry Chayanne, Chayanne who couldn’t control his temper, Chayanne who had enough trust issues to last a lifetime, Chayanne whose face was half burnt and who had a replica of his abuser’s voice box sewn into his neck. Chayanne whose wings didn’t work. Chayanne who pretended to be strong to hide the fact that he was weak.

He didn’t see why Phil would ever care about someone like Chayanne, not when there were four other lovely children at home who were much smarter and more loving and so much more worthy of love than he could ever hope to be. Chayanne was a protector and a purpose, someone who faded into the background in order to let his siblings take the spotlight. Who would burn his skin to keep them safe from the flames.

Unbidden, his mind flitted back to the mural. Every single one , Phil had said. He knew every single one of those dead children.

He glanced back at Phil, gaze sharp.

It sure was strange.

If Phil had noticed Chayanne spiralling, he didn’t comment on it. Rather, he stretched, letting his wings flare out behind him. For a moment, they blocked out the sun glowing white through the clouds, replacing the brightness with feathers so dark they resembled pure void. There, where his wings blocked out the light, Chayanne was cast into a comfortable, dark shadow. It was the absence of white. Of the Federation.

Then the moment was over, and Phil’s wings snapped behind his back again, and Chayanne blinked in the flood of sudden light. “Well, mate, I’m sorry this wasn’t the birthday you really wanted,” Phil said, staring discontentedly out at the bleak mess of town. “Although I know you didn’t want much.”

Chayanne shook his head adamantly. “I got to spend time away from Wilbur. That’s a gift to last a lifetime.”

Phil’s laughter peaked, high and jovial, and he was staring at Chayanne with eyes crinkled warmly in the corners. It was fatherly, fond. “Don’t you dare say that in front of Wil. He’s sensitive.”

It was true.

Chayanne smiled softly, gazing down at his hands folded in his lap. Perhaps it was because Phil’s gentle praise, his encouragement and laughter, made Chayanne feel warm. Loved, even though he definitely shouldn’t have felt loved around Phil.

He knew about Chayanne’s voice box, and yet he didn’t reject him. Didn’t throw Chayanne out to fend for himself or hand him over to the Federation. He’d shown Chayanne patience and gentleness where no adult ever had, like a father would for a son, and the comparison made him ache.

He wasn’t supposed to want things for himself. He wasn’t supposed to want to be loved or comforted or parented, and it was foolish for him to wish for those things.

Attached . He couldn’t escape the constant chant in his brain.

They were thoughts he shouldn’t have had, but they came anyway.

Chayanne drew his knees into his chest, turning his head away from Phil. From up here, they could see all of town from a distance: the endless line of cars now broken down and torn apart for parts; the buildings that had survived the apocalypse and the ruins of those that hadn’t; a distant yellow dot moving down the street that Chayanne thought might have been Baghera; and, far in the distance, two white Federation vans driving down the street in the opposite direction.

“You’re nice to me,” Chayanne said, hands barely making it through the movements. He wasn’t good with stuff like this. Didn’t know how to be soft and kind like Tallulah. “Thank you.”

He was especially bad at that. Expressing gratitude, because it meant that he’d submitted to something, accepted help, and that was going against all the fundamental beliefs he’d carved out for himself.

It felt nice, though. To accept kindness.

Phil’s eyes were wet like he was going to cry, and Chayanne immediately felt uncomfortable again. He drew himself into a tighter ball and avoided Phil’s gaze as the man said, “You’re a good kid, Chayanne.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. In Chayanne’s mind, he was neither good nor a kid, but apparently Phil saw him that way. Still, he wasn’t about to correct him.

A boy sat on the tallest rooftop in town side-by-side with a man who used to be an enemy. Wind whistled past his ears, smelling of seasalt and timid electricity, and up above, the clouds churned a wintry grey.

There was a storm coming, he thought. At least this time, he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

A man sits on a stool in a yellow-walled room, playing the guitar for a little child shivering in bed. A mask covers his face—he does not sing. The child appears to be asleep, head lolled to the side and eyelids drooped shut, but softly, they startle to wakefulness. It’s barely noticeable, only by a shift of their chin and a tightening of their fingers against their duvet as their little eyes crack open.

They can’t be older than six—although perhaps their frame is just that small. The man is somewhere in his early twenties, too young to be a parent of a child that age, and his youth reflects in his eyes. Hurt, but newly, like pain is still a fresh concept.

He does not notice them wake, and in a moment of pure stillness, like a frozen picture, the child watches their father play. Their skin is sallow and pale, and from the collar of their shirt, a patch of mould has claimed their throat in thick, uneven curves. White-green moss chases it like a curse, as though the earth itself is retrieving the child while they’re still alive. What looks like eyelashes are actually thin, reedy polytrichales winding around the child’s eyelids.

The virus. It makes people very, very sick.

When they crack open their mouth, a tendril of moss curves around their tongue.

Papa , they speak, and their voice is so soft and grated with illness that they wince. I’m so cold.

The man pauses, fingers going limp where they had been fingerpicking the strings. He sets the guitar by their bedside and cups the child’s face with both hands, brushing a stray lock of black hair out of their eyes. I know, darling. You’re so, so cold. His eyes crinkle up in a smile, although it does nothing to diminish the grieving there. Like he’d lost, and even with such light cupped between his fingers, he is still losing.

Can I have another blanket?

He shakes his head, albeit hesitantly. You have a fever, honey. You’re going to overheat.

The child makes a weak sound of discontent. Their eyes are drooping, skin glistening with sweat and body going still. Their breaths are shallow and fast, coming out like thin, ragged pants.

Try to keep your eyes open, okay, baby? The man whispers, voice breaking. Can you do that for me, Tilín? A tear drips unbidden down his cheek, and his breath hitches in his throat, but the child is so delirious that they do not seem to notice.

Papa, am I dying?

He goes painfully silent. Brown eyes fluttering over the child’s small frame, thumbs smoothing ever so gently over their cheeks.

A droplet of water lands on the child’s face. The man is crying.

He bends down towards the child, pressing their foreheads together. Only then, when Tilín’s little eyes slip close, too exhausted to keep them open, does the man begin to sob.

A little dragon turns over, sweaty and sick under her blankets. A pair of tiny, cold hands are cupping her face, as if reliving an old memory.

She tries to catch the child, but when she opens her eyes, they’re already gone.

**

A storm hit that morning. Tallulah felt it rumble like an undercurrent beneath the house—it was a living thing. For a moment, she was suspended in the thunder, wrapped in cold wind, and the world hadn’t come into focus yet.

Someone was touching her. Little hands pushed gently at her shoulder, and when she blinked her eyes open, she saw a blurry form signing something she couldn’t read above her. They bent closer, and she flinched in surprise. When she narrowed her eyes, straining to make out what was happening, she finally registered Richarlyson in front of her. He continued to sign to her, movements indicating something like worry, but she pushed away his hands. Even trying to process his words through her lethargy caused her head to spin.

She moved to sit up, but her limbs were weak and her head pounded sharply. Her skin was beaded thinly with sweat, and though she was surrounded by blankets, she shivered.

Perhaps she could just lie down for now. Perhaps that was better.

As if noticing something, Richarlyson left her vision, perhaps leaving her to her own peace. She curled up onto her side and listened to the sound of his little footsteps pattering into the next room over.

The peace was only momentary. Her eyes slipped shut, but flickered back open when she heard a voice approaching the living room.

“Okay, okay, Richarlyson, I’m coming,” came Wilbur’s voice, dull and slipping past her ears without her proper acknowledgement, and she turned her head to see the little child dragging Wilbur into the living room. Both were backlit by the lights of the kitchen, but even so, Tallulah could make out the urgency in little Richas’ body. “What’s got you so upset?”

Her eyes fluttered shut and opened again softly—they were heavy, as if the lids were composed of metal. She attempted to sit up, sliding her elbows underneath her in the hopes it would support the weight of her head. She didn’t want to be a burden on Wilbur, didn’t want him to see there was something wrong, but her arms were weak enough that they shook when she raised herself up, and she made a sound of protest.

She felt their eyes snap to her rather than saw it. Tallulah attempted to follow the two with her gaze, and even still, it was a shock to her when a body kneeled by her side. She flinched in surprise.

A shushing above her. “Hey, hey, it’s alright, Tallulah, it’s just me. Just Wilbur.” She made out Wilbur placing his hand on Richas’s shoulder, eyes deadened in seriousness. “Richarlyson, go get Phil and Chayanne. Fast, please.”

And Richarlyson was generally allergic to taking things seriously, but he must have understood the severity of the situation, because the little boy merely nodded, bouncy white curls bobbing with the motion. He disappeared from Tallulah’s line of vision, little footfalls receding on the floorboards until the only sound in the room came from Tallulah’s ragged breathing.

Wilbur was gazing down at her, concern etched into each nook and cranny of his face. He placed the back of his palm on Tallulah’s forehead, touch light, and his shoulders deflated slightly. “Shit. Oh, that’s not good.”

She wanted to ask what was wrong, but the world felt as though it was composed of slush and her arms were heavy and loose.

Wilbur looked up like he was waiting for someone. Froze, as if unsure what he was supposed to be doing. She watched his eyes go distant and his breath speed up in his chest, and he wiped his hands on his pants. Losing himself piece by piece in his silent panic.

When he looked back down, his eyes were set with something unreadable. “I’m going to move you to the couch, alright, Tallulah? We’ll take you somewhere softer than the floor.”

There wasn’t much she could do to argue against it—not that she would—so instead, she nodded. The words slipped like water through her ears, and by the time she’d processed what he’d actually said, there was already an arm slipping under her knees and a warm hand cradling the back of her head. Reality tumbled around her, a blur of light and colour, as she was lifted into the air.

She blinked up at Wilbur. He avoided making eye contact.

By the time he’d moved her to the living room couch and she felt its cold cushions accept her weight, the back door creaked open, and several sets of footsteps followed.

Chayanne didn’t even bother to take off his boots. Tallulah didn’t lift her head, but she could tell by his gait, fast and silent and slightly uneven, that that pair of muddied boots belonged to him.

A breath of silence. Tallulah felt watched—not judged, but she still wanted to shrink into the cushions and out of sight. She wasn’t fully aware of everything that was happening, not in her delirium, but she was conscious enough to know that by the time Phil had made it into the room, everyone was aware that something was wrong.

Looks like there would be no more hiding.

“What’s wrong, Wil?” She heard Phil say, and saw the bottoms of his black wings brush against the floor. A lone black feather rested on the carpet there, glimmering like oil underneath the living room lights.

“She’s burning up, Dad.” Wilbur sounded panicked. “It’s bad, too. I don’t even think she knows what’s going on.” She forced herself to look up, then, to try to make out what was happening, and caught Wilbur running two stressed hands through his hair. “Fuck, this is my fault. I knew something was wrong, I knew —but, but she said it was normal, and I believed her, and I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey, hey, Wil,” Phil started, raising his hands towards his son to calm him. “Don’t do that to yourself, mate. It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“Panicking isn’t going to help, Wil. I know you’re not trying to cause more problems, but if we want to help her, we’ve got to think about this rationally.” Phil smiled at him gently, but not without a certain amount of strain. “Do you know what caused this? You don’t think she was exposed to any sort of virus?”

Tallulah looked back and forth between Wilbur and Phil, her head pounding with a shrill thump every time her eyes bounced between the two men. She tried desperately to process the words that were coming at her, but it felt as though she was trying to make sense of a garbled foreign language. Whatever it was, she understood their expressions, and that was enough for her to understand that whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.

She watched as Richas, in a sort of wide-eyed daze, walked himself to the far corner of the room. His back pressed up against the wall, and then he slid down it, eyes never leaving Tallulah.

He looked scared, and she didn’t like it.

Wilbur opened and closed his mouth, looking lost. “I don’t—I mean, it can’t be the virus, right? And she hasn’t had any sort of outside exposure in a month, so I doubt it’s…Chayanne, what are you doing?”

Chayanne had stopped listening halfway through Wilbur’s panicked rambling, and had instead dropped down to a crouch beside Tallulah. She noted the eyebags that stained dark blotches beneath his eyes, something that had developed more in the past week, and wondered if she had anything to do with his stress.

His eyes flicked up to her, and she tried for a closed-lipped smile.

It must have come off as tired as it felt.

Still, her brother had long forgotten Wilbur and Phil behind him, and was now focused on his own program. Chayanne moved to touch the bandages around her leg, fingers gently tugging the white gauze loose, and she understood with a jolt what he was trying to do.

Startled, she tried to back away from him. It didn’t really work—instead, her arms gave out underneath her, aching and unbalanced, and her breath turned ragged much quicker than she’d expected, like her lungs had suddenly been drained of air.

The sound of Tallulah’s voice had Wilbur jumping into action. “Hey, Tallulah, it’s alright. He’s not trying to hurt you, okay? That’s just Chayanne.”

I know , she wanted to say. She knew it was Chayanne, and she knew he was only trying to help.

That was exactly why she was trying to move away.

And she wasn’t sure how he got there, but Wilbur was by her side in an instant, fingers running shakily through her hair. It was an anxious movement, but the touch was infused with warmth. For a moment, she tried to focus on that sensation, letting the rest of the world fade out as she listened to the rapid rhythm of her heart pulsing in her chest. Her shoulders softened.

“Stay there, Wil,” Phil instructed, though she barely heard it. “It’s calming her down.”

Wilbur glanced back up, meeting Phil’s eyes, and said something else to him—she lost that bit entirely.

The pair of hands returned to her bandages, startling her again. She shifted backwards, but then Wilbur was there, smiling at her and shushing her softly. “It’s alright, Tallulah. Just focus on me, okay, darling? Everything’s going to be okay.” And she might have believed that last part, but she was almost convinced that Wilbur didn’t believe it himself.

Lying through his teeth just to keep her happy.

She was not, in fact, happy. She was in pain and she was cold and she wasn’t an idiot; she knew it was worse than Wilbur was making it out to be. Her mouth was dry and her head spun and as much as she wanted to fall back asleep, she forced herself to stay awake.

The hands unwrapping her bandages stilled. A moment of pause followed, during which Wilbur’s soothing hand motions stopped, freezing in time, and she felt watched from all sides. She knew without even looking that they’d found the infected wound, and that any hope of hiding it was gone.

Phil hummed lowly from somewhere in the room. “That would certainly do it.”

“Why—,” Wilbur started, and paused, looking for the right words. His throat bobbed. “Why does it look like—it shouldn’t be that colour, right?”

With a little effort, Tallulah managed to lift herself enough to see Chayanne crouched by her side and Phil standing over him, face drawn into a tight, thoughtful expression. “It’s not too uncommon for infections,” the older man corrected. “Doesn’t mean anything good, though. Could be sepsis. Hopefully not worse than that.”

Chayanne’s eyes widened with alarm. He threw his gaze up at Phil, his hands moving quickly. “ Worse than sepsis? Isn’t sepsis bad enough already?” The words flew off his hands easily, and though it took her brain a moment to process, she seemed to understand the Federation sign a lot faster than she did English. It made sense—Federation sign was the language she grew up speaking.

“I don’t know, Chayanne, I’m not an expert on sepsis,” Phil said, raising his arms in defence.

Tallulah frowned. She turned the word over in her mind. Sepsis. It was unfamiliar to her.

Even so, Chayanne seemed to understand perfectly what Phil was talking about. She didn’t like that he knew what was happening to her when she didn’t. She felt horribly left out of the conversation, like they’d already abandoned her for her own sickness.

A full-body chill ran up her spine, leaving her shuddering in the absence of warmth. More than anything, she wished to have her blanket again, so she could curl up tight in it and be warm. It was much too cold in here, even if her clammy skin protested otherwise.

She tugged lightly on Wilbur’s sleeve to get his attention. Her grip was weak, but even the light sensation had the jumpy man’s eyes flicking over to her. He smiled, but it came off as worried.

“Wilbur,” she signed, hands moving sluggishly through the words, “I’m so cold.”

And she wasn’t sure why, but the words made Wilbur freeze. His eyes hovered over her face for a moment, looking without properly seeing, and she wondered whether he was seeing her at all. Why it made his gaze soften with old, stinging hurt.

“I know,” he muttered. A sad sort of smile crossed his expression—it was faded. “I’m sorry, Tallulah. You must be very, very cold.”

She moved again, preparing to ask about her blanket left forgotten on the floor, but stopped herself. An image of yellow walls and a child with moss curled around their tongue froze her in place, eyes wide and fearful. She was sure that the memory was not her own, and that only scared her more.

And then she remembered Wilbur, and saw the look hidden behind his glasses, and decided very wisely that she was going to keep quiet. He’d left a lot of his memories unprocessed, it seemed, and she knew she was already on the brink of reminding him of something very, very bad. Perhaps it was already too late.

Chayanne moved to stand. In times like this, he was always more suited to actions than words, and it showed in the way he made a direct line for the door, mind already churning its way through a half-baked plan. “I’m going to get Dapper.” Because Dapper was the one in the group that dealt with injuries; their backpack was the one that contained all the bandages and the first aid kit, and they were the one who’d gone through a phase of reading medical books at the Federation. If anybody could sort this out, it would be Dapper.

But Phil merely shook his head. “Chayanne—Chayanne, slow down. Dapper won’t be able to do anything without antibiotics, mate. None of us can.”

Tallulah tracked her brother with silent eyes, watched as he paused at the edge of the doorframe, back straight and rigid. Fingers curling into his palm as if he could curl all the tension in his body into a tight ball. As if the anxiety coursing through his body was about to make him split.

Chayanne turned to face Phil, face impassive except for the scowl in his eyes. “There has to be something we can do. What, the Federation gave you a whole grocery store but they can’t even give you life-saving antibiotics?”

“Even if we had access to anything like that, we’d probably have to inject it into her,” Wilbur stated, tone intentionally even, like he was trying to contain his own stress. “And I don’t think any of us are qualified to do that.” His gaze flipped to Phil, and his hand returned to Tallulah’s hair, absentmindedly stroking through the curls there. Tallulah thought the man was using it to calm himself down, too. “Dad, we need to—”

“No,” Phil answered. “We’re not going there, Wil.”

Wilbur furrowed his brows. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you were going to say, mate, and I don’t think any of the kids would let us.” Phil sighed, something troubled crossing his features. “It’s not safe enough.”

Wilbur shook his head in disbelief. Tallulah turned to watch him—saw the man open and close his mouth, as if looking for the right words. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to let it go, but then she saw the twinkle in his eyes, the one she’d come to know meant he’d made his choice.

Eventually, very carefully, he settled on, “Fuck safety, Dad.”

“Wil,” Phil warned.

“No, seriously. Safety doesn’t mean anything when one of the only kids left on the island is dying.”

Tallulah widened her eyes, looking at Chayanne for confirmation. Faintly, she felt her hand curl into a limp fist around the fabric of her sweater. Her throat turned tight, and despite the exhaustion tugging at the edges of her eyelids, Wilbur’s words skyrocketed her into wakefulness.

Chayanne stiffened, eyes deadening towards Wilbur. Clearly, something the man had said had struck a nerve. “She’s not dying. We can fix this.”

Wilbur smiled, but it was forced. “Actually, Chayanne, we don’t know if she’s dying or not. But considering that none of us are medical experts, it’s safer to assume that she is dying, because we’re only putting her in more harm if we pretend everything’s fine and go about our lives.”

“I didn’t say that. Of course everything’s not fine,” Chayanne argued, and Tallulah shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t want them to fight. She wasn’t used to tension rising up like this between the group, and she knew that she couldn’t do anything to stop it, not right now. She watched Chayanne turn to Phil, cold now. “What was Wilbur going to suggest?”

“I don’t think we should talk about this right now, Chayanne. Let’s all just take a breather, okay?”

“Tell me,” Chayanne insisted. “Tell me what he was going to say.”

Phil inhaled sharply, eyes moving to glare at Wilbur. The older man looked somewhat stuck, what with all the attention on the room narrowed in on him. Slowly, Phil blew out his breath in a long sigh. “We’ll wait until the end of the day. If nothing’s happened by then, we’ll discuss other options, alright?” And Wilbur opened his mouth to argue, but Phil silenced him with a sharp stare. “No, Wil. That’s final.”

Wilbur simmered, eyes sharp in a way that was unrecognizable to Tallulah. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but kept quiet. The hand that wasn’t carding through Tallulah’s hair had clenched itself into a fist where it rested on his knee.

At the other end of the couch, Chayanne looked as though he was silently containing his anger. He looked between Wilbur and Phil grimly, and shook his head.

Tallulah’s brother stood up and left without another word, leaving the rest of the room in a heavy silence.

Tallulah didn’t like this development. She didn’t like it at all.

**

Two hours later, she found herself forcing herself to keep her eyes open. Though her body begged for sleep, she made herself stay awake, afraid of what would happen the moment she closed her eyes. The one time she had drifted into a sort of half-sleep, she found herself drowning in a sea of red ribbons, and it wasn’t until she jolted awake again that she stopped feeling like she was suffocating.

It wasn’t pleasant.

When she awoke, Pomme was pressing a cold, wet towel to her forehead, gently wiping off the sweat with delicate, thorough movements. She was bent over Tallulah, and smiled softly when she caught Tallulah watching her. Though Pomme didn’t speak a word, the concern flickering under her composure was clear.

She left shortly after, although the cold towel remained laid over Tallulah’s forehead, and though Tallulah was already shivering, she knew removing the towel would only make things worse.

The rest of the house was in and out of the room in a constant stream of activity. Everyone was restless, and nobody knew what to do about it.

Wilbur, for his part, hadn’t left her side. Shortly after Chayanne and Phil left the room, Wilbur pulled up a stool beside the couch and began strumming his guitar. Tallulah thought it was as good of a distraction for him as it was for her. Now, however, he’d set his guitar to the side, and was leaning his elbows on his knees and hiding his face in his hands.

He looked defeated. She was glad she couldn’t see his expression.

Richas sat by her side, back curled up against the couch with a notepad cradled in his lap. The gentle sound of a pencil scratching on paper was enough to let her know he was doodling to distract himself. Tallulah knew what he was remembering—she couldn’t help but do the same. She thought about five-year-old Richarlyson lying on the forest floor after the first and only successful Federation escape, only to return shortly after, shivering from an infected wound on a leg that was soon to be amputated.

She knew Richas thought the same would happen to Tallulah. Frankly, he might not have been far off.

It wasn’t long before Richas’s hand drooped where it had been holding its pencil, and he curled into a ball, pressing his face into his knees. A long moment passed, during which her little brother looked impossibly small.

He breathed in, out, and then his shoulders began to shake silently. He was far too young to hold in tears in such a way, but then again, all the children had matured much too fast.

Tallulah shifted on the couch, and she squeezed Richas’s shoulder in the hopes it would bring him some sort of comfort. In response, his sobs became softly audible, and she thought she’d only made things worse.

Wilbur looked up from where he was holding his head in his hands, apparently shocked to hear Richas’s voice. When he saw the child crying by Tallulah’s side, his gaze softened. “Aw, Richas,” he said, almost breathless, “we’ll figure it out, alright?”

It wasn’t the same as it’ll be okay , but Tallulah knew what he meant.

When Richas eventually lifted his head, he tucked the lower half of his face behind his knees, letting his red eyes cast a helpless gaze over the floor. They were half-obscured by his curls, and even so, she’d never seen quite such an expression in a seven year old’s eyes.

Like hope was futile.

Richarlyson signed words that were strange on the hands of someone so young. “I don’t want history to repeat itself.”

Tallulah understood; she didn’t want to lose her leg. They didn’t have any sort of access to prosthetics like the Federation did.

The elephant in the room manifested itself in a young boy’s prosthetic leg and the rapidly increasing probability of a second.

Wilbur’s eyes flicked down to the span of rusted metal between Richas’s shorts and his socks—perhaps less subtle than Wilbur thought he was being—and then he sighed. When he responded, it was deadly serious. “History rarely repeats itself in ways people like.”

Briefly, Tallulah’s mind flitted back to a yellow-walled room and a young father sitting by his sick child’s bedside. She wondered if he was truly talking to Richarlyson, or if he was somewhere far in the past, speaking to a version of himself that no longer existed.

Bile rose in her throat. She didn’t like to think that she’d brought up Wilbur’s bad memories again, not when he’d clearly spent so much time repressing them. Perhaps that was why those were the ones that came easiest to Tallulah; they were bursting at the seams of Wilbur’s mind, begging to be let out.

With the rising nausea, she realized she could taste her own sickness. It was an odd sensation, something that rested uncomfortably on her tongue, and she immediately wished she could stop thinking about it.

Sickness was foreign to her. At least, in this way, it was.

It wasn’t unusual for her to fall ill. Though exposure to viruses at the Federation was rare, as sterilized and clean as it was, there were still times where she became sick. If the illness was significant enough, her schedule regarding the experiments would be reduced. In that case, she’d spend all her time alone, curled up in a small white bed, waiting for the sounds of footsteps to pass by as her only entertainment. Otherwise, she had her daydreams to keep her company. Back then, she could control them—the ones with complicated plotlines, the ones that made her feel loved when nobody else would. They were the ones she liked, in the time before her daydreams became erratic and terrifying and filled with things that had yet to come true.

This time, her sickness was different. She was more ill than she’d ever been, so much so that she could barely remember where she was. At times, when someone pressed the back of their palm to her forehead or offered her water, she knew someone was taking care of her. Most of the time, she couldn’t tell who it was, but at least she knew she was loved.

She was sick, but for once in her life, she wasn’t alone.

**

When she wakes, it is to blinding white. The sort of white that raised her, a curse and a warning all the same. She holds up a hand against it, lets her eyes adjust to it.

A little white room. One all too familiar to her, small and cramped with an unnecessarily tall ceiling. It’s bare except for a single bed pressed up against the wall and a washed-out man sitting in a ball in the corner, staring at the door that will never open. He rolls a new ballpoint pen between his fingers, surrounded on all sides by a madman’s writing scrawled out on the walls. It’s in large print, messy print, and complete with multiple hasty diagrams and sketches.

The dragon squints to make out any of the words, and sucks in a breath when she notices that all the writing seems to centre around five small outlines of people in various different sizes. Children, she realizes, all labelled with a letter and a number each. There’s a C by number One—beneath number Four is the letter V. She wonders about that.

The man’s thumb twitches idly. Once, twice. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Cellbit, she knows. The man who saved her all those moons ago. The one she and the others left to rot. Which, quite literally, he is doing—a bruised arm paws at the collar of his shirt, blunt fingernails scratching at a patch of white-green that grows hungrily there, consuming his skin piece by piece.

He is sick. The virus is slowly claiming another victim, although how he’s stayed alive this long she doesn’t know.

If anything, the man looks sad. It’s one of the few human things about him, what with virus and a myriad of bruises mottling his skin. It is easy to weaken the body, but the spirit does not go down without a fight.

The man doesn’t seem to see her, as lost as he is in his trance. She moves to shuffle over to the wall, and realizes with a jolt that she can walk —she is not in pain like she was before. She is not struggling like she was before.

She leans in close to the five outlines of children scribbled onto the wall, runs her fingers over number Four thoughtfully. Branches and bubbles filled to the brim with writing extend from each child. Half of the man’s theories are scribbled out and replaced with others.

That’s what they are, aren’t they? Theories.

Most of the writing extends from number One—or, as the letter identifies him, C. She squints to make out the writing, but the harder she tries to focus on it, the more the letters squiggle in front of her eyes, warping and bending in on themselves and blurring in front of her eyes.

Like she’s in a dream.

She furrows her brows. The words dragon blood and experimentation pop out at her, although that’s certainly no surprise. She’d gone through years of that stuff. Further up, she’s able to decipher second virus . It’s connected by a branch to 105°.

Well. That’s not good. That’s not good at all. She looks back to the man, who’s crumpled up in a heap against the wall. He’s breathing shallowly, face flushed and sweaty.

All the writing leads up to a word written in large letters at the very top. CURE , it says in all capital letters, and it’s horrifyingly triumphant.

She does not like what’s going on here, nor that this man is writing so much information about her and her siblings plainly on the wall. Like he considers them nothing more than pieces in whatever mystery he’s trying to solve.

She’s starting to think that maybe she doesn’t like Cellbit so much.

I know you’re there, by the way, he says, and his voice is such a shock in the room that the dragon nearly jumps in surprise. When her eyes find him again, he is staring directly at her. I guess that means you’re dying too, huh?

She isn’t sure what to say. She stands frozen in place, wishing she could melt into the wall.

You’ll be fine, don’t worry , he says dismissively, waving his hand as if to prove a point. You would’ve seen it in advance if you were actually going to die. His eyes appear glazed over, as if he’s still stuck in a Federation-induced daze. She’s all too familiar with the feeling. Me, on the other hand… , he starts, and then trails off. His lips curl into a grim sort of smile, one that sends uncomfortable shivers down her spine. I guess we’ll have to see.

I’m sorry , she signs, because she’s not sure what else she’s supposed to say. She doesn’t even know whether the man will understand her, but then his eyes lift slightly, his smile turning just a touch more authentic.

Did you go down to town like I told you? You talked to the people there?

The dragon nods politely. She doesn’t want to tell him the full truth, that she and all her siblings are still hidden away from society like a secret.

Good. The man only nods, humming to himself. There’s a man there, alright? He’s a spider hybrid, got all these spider appendages. You’ll know it’s him because he’s the only spider hybrid left in town. If you see him, tell him I’m alive, okay? I know he’s getting worried.

She thinks back to a man she saw in her daydreams once, hazy and only half real. A spider hybrid, one pasting his husband’s face on a missing poster, sheltering it from the rain. She doesn’t know if it is real, at least not yet, but everything she sees these days seems to be rooted in truth.

He’s looking for you , she signs, keeping the words clear and slow so he’s able to understand better.

His expression turns almost apologetic. I know. You can tell him it won’t be much longer. I intend on coming home very, very soon.

The dragon wants to ask about that, but the words stick to her hands. She doesn’t think that this man, especially in his current state, would be able to make any sort of escape attempt. Frankly, she doesn’t know how he even thinks he has a chance, especially in this condition.

The lights are a little too bright. What she leaves unsaid is the fact that she’d never plan on talking to Cellbit’s husband, not while she and her siblings were still hiding from the rest of the town. She wouldn’t risk the identity of her family like that.

She is lucky when she slips away, leaving the man again to his own devices and a little white room covered in his tireless scrawl. As the blinding white fades around her, she thinks there might be something odd about the little glint of metal tucked into the man’s ear.

“I’m scared,” the little dragon says, hands aching and body weak. She isn’t sure when the pain will go away. Reality distorts itself into a confusing blur in front of her eyes, and she fears it. “I don’t want to go back.”

The silence is filled only by warm, mellow guitar and a man’s distant humming. It’s musical, loving, familiar, but tinged with something sad.

He gives no verbal response. She wonders if he notices her signing at all. Perhaps he just doesn’t know what to say.

**

“Calm down, Tallulah,” the voice whispered. An old guitar played familiar melodies in her ear. She struggled, attempting to sit up through the fog in her head, but someone else’s hands pressed her shoulders softly into the couch. The voice continued, “I know. I know. Hush, darling, you’re alright.” Slender fingers carded through her hair, warm to the touch, and she wanted to melt into the sensation.

“It’s happening again,” she signed. Her hands moved sluggishly through the signs, devoid of the preciseness required for the language. She wasn’t even sure if it was understandable. “It’s like I can’t escape my own brain.” She didn’t mean for the words to come out, but everytime she closed her eyes, she saw an infected man shaking in the corner of a lonely Federation cell, and she hated it. Her skin was clammy and everything was cold and she wanted to be protected from her own subconscious.

The hand in her hair stilled, as if silently surprised. She felt tension fall upon the room, thick like a blanket and equally quiet. She’d seen this moment before, she thought, but somehow the words carried a different weight; it made the whole room forget time, frozen in the aftermath of the admission.

Eventually, the voice found itself again. “It will be over soon, Tallulah,” it promised. She wasn’t quite sure where it was coming from, but she’d grasp onto any semblance of comfort she could. “We’re going to fix this.”

She reached out a shaking hand, grabbing desperately for either of the people by her side.

She found nothing but empty air.

“I just want this nightmare to be over,” she pleaded, but the words fell limp on her hands.

**

As they expected, Tallulah did not improve. Really, she supposed she deserved it after keeping her infection a secret for so long. Perhaps she hadn’t known that it had gotten this bad, but she’d been reckless.

She knew even before escaping the Federation that an infection was bad news. It could mean sickness; in Richarlyson’s case, it meant an amputation; in worst cases, it meant death.

Tallulah began to fear that she might be lucky enough to experience all three.

Chayanne and Wilbur sat by her side nearly all day, whereas the others flitted in and out. It was all a bit of a blur to Tallulah; even when others visited, she was in such a confusing state of half-consciousness that she often forgot moments afterwards. She was offered food multiple times, but she could barely keep down the little sips of water she’d been able to take without vomiting.

Right now, food was a little out of the question, as much as it worried Wilbur.

Much of the day, Richarlyson pressed himself into a ball in the corner of the room, hands curled over his knees and eyes staring wide and blank at Tallulah. As if worried that she’d meet his prosthetic fate the moment he left the room.

Meanwhile, the whole ordeal seemed to shake Pomme into a strange silence. Dapper comforted Pomme in their own special way, coping through humour to make it appear as though he wasn’t actually as worried as he was. Pomme reciprocated—at least, as best she could. Meanwhile, Phil was a bit of a mess, apparently taking it upon himself to manage the emotions of every single person in the household.

There were a lot of emotions. None of them were nice ones.

Tallulah slipped in and out of sleep. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least she didn’t have to be conscious during all the pain. At some point, she woke and her hands flew to her throat, sure there was a child’s red ribbon tied tightly around her neck. Choking her.

There was not.

Chayanne flinched at her sudden movement, but her hands loosened, and she tried to let the sounds of Wilbur’s gentle guitar strumming soothe her fluttering heart.

On another day, she may have questioned the way Chayanne’s hand lingered around his own neck, fingers fidgeting with the bandages there as if remembering something. She’d seen Phil rewrapping the gauze the day before, but then noticed the red teartracks staining Chayanne’s face, and thought it best not to ask.

Speaking of Chayanne, she’d never seen him such a wreck. He refused to leave Tallulah’s side, not even when Phil tried to coax him out of the room with the promises of food and water. Perhaps if Phil was another person, he would’ve suggested that Chayanne rest, but the man seemed to know well enough by now that Chayanne was not the type for rest . Instead, Chayanne stayed vigilant beside Tallulah, hand intertwined with her own. And hers was small and clammy with sickness, and it shook most of the time, but he didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t like to see the redness in Chayanne’s eyes. She didn’t like to see him scared. It was like realizing his own nightmares were coming true, and though it was nobody’s fault but her own, she knew he was blaming himself, and she hated it. Tension had been high all day in the little room, and she wanted with all her soul to find some sort of clarity in the midst of this fever to tell Chayanne it would be okay.

Sometime in the early evening, Phil brought them dinner. The group of them—including Pomme and Dapper—sat on the living room floor, awkwardly sipping at bowls of soup. Chayanne offered food to Tallulah, but even the smell sent nausea turning through her stomach.

Wilbur watched with a nervous distaste. “We can’t keep doing this to her. She’s in pain.”

“I’m fine,” Tallulah wanted to say, but the words couldn’t quite make it past her brain. It was silly, anyway; in the state she was in, nobody would’ve believed her.

Chayanne narrowed his eyes. He’d been on edge all day, and it showed in the coldness of his movements when he signed a response to Wilbur. “What do you suggest we do? It’s not like we’re medical experts or anything.”

Wilbur shook his head, as if he hadn’t quite processed Chayanne’s words yet, stuck on his own agenda. He muttered, “We should’ve done something sooner. We wasted the entire fucking day seeing if something would change, and it’s only gotten worse, and now it’s like we’re just waiting for her to—”

“Wil,” Phil warned, eyes flicking up to his son in warning. He turned to the other three kids, who were pressed side by side, backs to the wall, watching nervously. “Dapper, why don’t you take Pomme and Richarlyson to the kitchen?”

Usually, Dapper might’ve returned the request with some sort of joke. Today, they only nodded grimly.

Tallulah forced herself to keep her eyes open. Her breath came ragged to her chest, and she inhaled as deeply as she could, forcing more air into her lungs. She watched dully as Dapper pulled Pomme to her feet. He tried the same with Richarlyson, but the smaller boy only went so far as the doorway. There, he clung onto the wall, shoving Dapper away when she tried to pull him out of the room. Finally, when Pomme tugged on Dapper’s hand, they relented, leaving Richas to watch with wide eyes from the doorway.

Phil set aside his food. Wilbur still sat on the stool he’d drawn to play guitar for Tallulah, and adjusted himself so he was facing both Chayanne and Phil.

“Go ahead, Wil,” Phil said with a nod. “Let’s talk this through.”

Tallulah forced her eyes to stay open. She’d slept through enough of the day that she shouldn’t have been tired anymore, but the temptation of sleep still lingered at the edge of her subconscious, leaving her foggy and confused. She strained to make out what Wilbur was saying.

“We need to do something,” Wilbur insisted. His arms were folded over his chest, and his knee bounced an anxious rhythm, foot resting against the leg of the stool. “Sitting and waiting is only making her worse. We said we’d wait until the end of the day, and it’s the end of the day.”

Chayanne shifted uncomfortably. Even through her fever, Tallulah understood; taking action always meant risk, and if they couldn’t handle Tallulah’s infection themselves, it probably meant someone else needed to get involved.

“Bad?” Chayanne suggested hopefully.

Phil shook his head. “He’d know no better than us.”

Chayanne looked to Phil, alarmed, and distantly, Tallulah felt her brother’s hand tighten around hers. He didn’t say anything to the man, but his expression communicated enough—it was a sort of silent plea. Tallulah knew that Chayanne was mentally analyzing the risks involved in all their other options. Tallulah’s mind spun when she did the same. She merely understood that on one hand, getting external help may mean risking the Federation discovering the kids, and on the other hand, refusing external help would certainly risk Tallulah getting sicker.

Tallulah’s vision was starting to get blurry, and her head thumped fiercely, but she didn’t want to fall asleep just yet. Not when she was finally awake this time. She rolled over onto her side, watching the discussion as attentively as she could.

“We can take her to Foolish,” Wilbur suggested, and he said it as though he’d been waiting a long time to let the words out. A pause followed, during which Tallulah watched Chayanne sign something through a blurry haze, and Wilbur continued, “He’s a healer on the other side of town.”

Phil snorted. “If you can even call him a healer.”

“He’s saved half the people still alive, Dad.”

Tallulah watched Chayanne intently. His eyebrows furrowed, critical gaze dashing between Phil and Wilbur.

Phil raised his hands in surrender. “Look, Wil, all I’m saying is that he’s sketchy, alright?”

To put it lightly, Chayanne did not take that well. Even in Tallulah’s feverish daze, she made out the way Chayanne’s energy turned the room cold, eyebrow raising and eyes deadening. His signs were slow and precise enough that Tallulah could decipher them. “Wait. You want to take her to a healer you don’t even trust?”

Phil froze up, as if he’d been caught. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else than in this conversation.

Meanwhile, Wilbur dragged a hand down his face. “We don’t really have a choice, Chayanne.” He set down his guitar so that he could lean forward, placing his elbows on his knees. Something about the movement closed off the circle of conversation, as if locking the three of them into the discussion.

Leaving Tallulah out of it. Which was bold, she thought, because it was her life they were discussing. Not like she could’ve contributed much to the conversation, considering she couldn’t even process half of it, but she thought it would’ve been something they would consider, anyway.

“We do have a choice,” Chayanne said. “And you’re choosing to risk all our identities to strangers.”

“I think that’s a risk you have to be willing to take,” Wilbur countered, and the annoyance was clear in his voice. “You’re not thinking rationally, Chayanne.”

“I’m thinking as rationally as I can,” Chayanne argued, and Tallulah shrunk in on herself. She didn’t like to watch them fight. Her mouth turned down in a frown when Chayanne glared at Phil. “You said Foolish is sketchy. Why?”

Phil opened and closed his mouth, surprised that Chayanne suddenly turned his attention to him. He shared a worried glance with Wilbur, searching for words. “Did I say that?”

Tallulah wracked her memory, but even that faded. She fought to catch onto the rest of the conversation, even as her body begged for sleep. The tick of the clock in the corner of the room was all too telling; she didn’t like that it felt like a reminder.

“You did,” Chayanne replied almost coldly. It wasn’t nearly as snippy as he’d been with Wilbur, but it still turned Phil nervous.

Phil glanced at Wilbur again, looking for help, but Wilbur only raised an eyebrow, as if resigning Phil to his fate. Finally, Phil sighed. “He’s really not that bad, Chayanne. He’s a good healer. It’s just that he’s kind of a neutral party.” He swallowed, and Tallulah thought it looked like he was actively digging his own grave.

Chayanne blinked, expression remaining carefully neutral. “What does that mean?” He signed very slowly. It was a little intimidating, Tallulah thought, even if it wasn’t directed at her.

“I mean, he’s a good guy, but he heals whoever will pay. He’s worked on both townspeople and Federation workers.” Phil looked as if he wanted to disappear into the walls, especially when he took note of the withering glare Chayanne was sending his way. “But—but he only works with the Federation because they give him access to medical equipment. And I’m sure he’d keep quiet with the right sort of payment.”

Chayanne breathed intentionally and thoughtfully. Considering that he was still holding Tallulah’s hand, he’d been only using the other hand to sign, but his fingers slipped free from Tallulah’s with a rush of cold air and he tucked his knees into his chest, leaning his back against the couch. All the while, his eyes didn’t leave Phil, and he saw the way the man tensed up.

Tallulah didn’t have to be fully aware to know that Phil had messed up. Even the suggestion of visiting an external healer sent Chayanne’s nerves on edge. Wilbur’s, too, if the way he shook his head and nervously pushed up his sleeves was any indication. He still sent a disappointed look Chayanne’s way, though Chayanne didn’t seem to notice in all his wariness.

“Chayanne?” Phil prompted. “What do you think, mate?”

Chayanne narrowed his eyes, as if it was ridiculous. “What, are you serious? You really want to bring Tallulah to someone who works with the Federation? You want to leave her in those hands?”

“Hey, Chayanne, have you thought about the other risks?” Wilbur asked, although it was more of a sarcastic question. He offered Chayanne an unfeeling smile. “That, you know, if we don’t get Tallulah help—and soon—we could be risking her life?”

“Shut up, Wilbur,” Chayanne seethed. Phil opened his mouth to protest, but before he could get a word in edgewise, Chayanne continued, “No, you know what? You don’t know half of what it’s like to deal with the Federation. You’ve lived a privileged life in a cottage for seven years, and now you deem it safe to risk Foolish ratting us out to the Federation for a little bit of cash.” The words flew fast off his hands, and Tallulah struggled to catch them. “Do you know what they do to us there? Do you know that revealing our location to them could also be putting Tallulah’s life at risk? Not only that, but all our lives?”

Wilbur seemed like he’d stopped listening long ago. He leaned forwards, tilting his head to the side. “You’re saying my life in the apocalypse was privileged, Chayanne? Is that what you’re telling me right now?”

The room went silent. Chayanne looked for a moment as if he wanted to back away, but instead steadied his expression and shrugged back at Wilbur, testing him. “Sure. Compared to what happened at the Federation, you were lucky.”

“Oh, I was lucky, alright.” Wilbur shook his head, looking as if he wanted to say more. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, but carried a sort of severity to it that made it impossible to ignore. Like it didn’t need to be loud to be important. “When I had to watch most of my friends die in the span of a few weeks, terrified I would be the next to go, I was lucky. When my entire town collapsed around me and I had to fight for every scrap of food, I was lucky. ” Wilbur laughed. “Meanwhile, where were you? Living in a safe facility, eating three meals a day and knowing you’d never have to worry about getting sick. Yeah, I sure was lucky, wasn’t I, Chayanne?”

“I wasn’t allowed to speak , Wilbur,” Chayanne argued. It was venomous. “I had all my rights stripped from me. I was tortured nearly every day.”

“That’s enough,” Phil warned.

Chayanne ignored him. “What do you think will happen when they find us, Wilbur? What do you think will happen to you? If you think you and Phil are getting out of that situation alive, you’re wrong.” Chayanne’s face turned red. He looked like he was about to explode. “Do not tell me to consider the other risks.”

“Would you rather your sister die?!” Wilbur snapped, eyes a sharp glare that was an unfamiliar look on him. He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and looked away from Chayanne.

She’d never heard Wilbur raise his voice. Perhaps it was just Chayanne’s words that had triggered that sort of response from him, but then she noticed the frenetic energy making Wilbur's body tense with anxiety, and the way his eyes crinkled, wet, and wondered if there was something else making him act that way.

Tallulah watched as Chayanne curled into himself. She understood what that body language meant on him—those fidgeting fingers and flickering eyes radiated distrust. The look he levelled at Wilbur made Tallulah shiver.

Die. It wasn’t that bad, right? It was just a fever.

She didn’t want to die.

“Wil,” Phil warned. “Not cool.”

Wilbur sighed, as if trying to rein in his emotions. “Listen, Chayanne, I know you’re trying to keep your siblings safe, but we have more at stake here. You can’t just—”

“Wilbur,” Phil interrupted, terrifyingly calm. He gestured to the door with his chin. “Why don’t you take a walk, mate? Come back when you’ve calmed down.”

Wilbur scoffed, incredulous. “I’m not a child.”

“No, but you’re acting like one.” Phil was unrelenting, tone even but not gentle. “And in the meantime, you’re scaring Chayanne.”

“I’m not scared,” Chayanne was quick to counter, but Tallulah was well-acquainted with his subtle mannerisms. And, apparently, so was Phil. Chayanne’s arms were crossed over himself, but she saw the way his nails bit down into his skin, like he was physically trying to tamp down his fear.

She reached out for him, and even without looking, Chayanne knew to reach back. His fingers were warm around her smaller hands, and she squeezed tight, letting him know she was there. His face was almost completely impassive, but softened a little when he felt her grip tighten in support.

Wilbur’s eyes flicked between them—Tallulah, face flushed where she lay sick on the couch, heaving each breath like it was a tremendous effort, and Chayanne, who crouched worriedly by her side. “I’m sorry, Chayanne. I lost my temper.” He looked as though he’d rather be saying anything else. “I’ll be back.”

He stood. Silent, but his words still lingered on the air. Tallulah knew without even looking that the entire room’s attention was on him—Phil, Chayanne, even terrified little Richarlyson, who watched from the doorway. Wilbur excused himself as he passed by, having enough respect to look remorseful when he noticed Richas’ expression. He squeezed the boy’s shoulder gently, and then he was gone.

Tallulah listened to the sound of Wilbur putting on his shoes and leaving through the front door. The steps of the porch creaked as he descended the stairs, and then he was gone.

As soon as he’d left, Chayanne’s shoulders dropped, and his face turned up in a scowl. “I hate him.”

Phil’s eyebrow turned up, but he wisely didn’t raise his voice. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Chayanne. I know you’re angry, but you might regret that later.” He ran both hands over his face, exasperated.

“He doesn’t get it.” Chayanne shook his head, almost amused, mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “I’ve spent every single day of the past seven years trying to keep my siblings alive, and the moment it concerns Wilbur, he thinks he knows better than me. I’d like to see him try to last a single week at the Federation.”

Tallulah squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. She wished she could do more.

Phil sighed, eyes flicking over Chayanne. After a moment, he took a seat on the ground in front of Chayanne, bringing them to eye-level. “Look, Chayanne, Wilbur didn’t mean what he said. Usually, he’s got more of a filter, but…,” he started, and then trailed off, resting his elbows on his knees and washing two tired hands over his face again, as if the motion would ease away his tension. “Let’s just say Wilbur doesn’t have the best history with death, alright? I mean, none of us do, not after the virus, but Wil’s got a lot of shit he still hasn’t processed, and he’s not in the best state of mind when something triggers those memories.”

Absently, Tallulah sank further into the couch cushions. She hated that she knew exactly what Phil was talking about, especially because nobody knew that she knew. Nobody except for, perhaps, the owner of the little cold hands she felt cupped around her face while she slept, the presence she felt more and more the weaker she became.

She didn’t want to think about it.

Thankfully, Phil didn’t seem to notice Tallulah’s reaction. “I’m not trying to defend him, because he wasn’t being very thoughtful towards you. I’ll go have a talk with him about it, too.” Phil seemed older, then, a certain sadness in his eyes. It struck Tallulah that he’d lost a grandchild, too, much too young. “But try not to be too hard on him. He’s really struggling right now.”

Chayanne didn’t say anything to that. Tallulah noticed the fingers of his left hand bunching the fabric of his hoodie into a ball out of frustration, but he kept it out of view of Phil. Instead, he signed, “Do you think he’s right? That we should go see your healer friend?”

Because Phil didn’t trust anyone without plenty of good reason. Because Chayanne didn’t trust Phil, but he trusted Phil’s judgment, and that meant something to the both of them.

“I do, mate,” Phil said, and then quieter, “And even if I didn’t, I think it’s worth the risk.”

Chayanne grit his jaw. He busied himself with fussing with Tallulah’s blanket, face turned away from Phil so he couldn’t see the anger burning red on Chayanne’s cheeks.

Tallulah stuck out a hand, touching his shoulder, and only then did he seem to calm down. Body loosening, eyes turning soft as he took in Tallulah.

“It’s okay, Chayanne,” she signed, forcing herself through the words, and she meant it. Because despite everything, she was the only one who could get Chayanne to listen, and if there was any time to get him to listen, it was now. “It’s okay to be scared.”

Phil’s eyes turned soft and fond and sad as he watched the two of them, glittering in the corners with something wet. It was as though he was recalling a distant memory; although, if he was, he kept it intentionally quiet in favour of the kids.

“I’ll just leave you two, alright?” He said, and didn’t wait for confirmation before he lifted himself off the ground and exited shortly, black wings drooping slightly behind him. Tallulah watched as he paced to the door and peered out the window, likely looking for Wilbur.

Meanwhile, Chayanne looked as if he was crumbling. Eyes wet, barely containing the tears that threatened to spill freely over his cheeks. He didn’t cry often, that was for sure, and it showed in the way his emotions seemed to hover on the brink of his very being, as though they’d consume him at any given moment.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. He merely watched her as she lay there sick, shivering with fever.

Eventually, he managed, “I don’t want you to go.”

And if she had the strength, she would have lifted herself up and pulled him into a hug right there. She felt useless, watching him palm away the tears in his own eyes—wanting so desperately to help him, but not knowing how.

So, instead, she replied, “I love you, Chayanne.” And though the Federation sign wasn’t as emotional or poetic as other sign languages, she tried to put as much of her love as she could into the words. She hoped it came across as warmth, as honesty, as something that would comfort her brother, if only a little bit.

She wanted him to know she meant it.

If anything, it only seemed to make him sadder. “I love you too, Tallulah.”

He didn’t say those words often. She wondered if that was part of the reason he said it—because he didn’t know how many more chances he’d get.

A little shuffle from across the room made Tallulah’s eyes flick over to the doorway. Slowly, on shaky limbs, Richarlyson stood from where his side had been pressed to the doorframe and made his way over to Chayanne. The small boy bent onto his knees and tugged Chayanne down so that he could draw his big brother into a hug, doing exactly what Tallulah wished she could do.

Richarlyson’s hand found Tallulah’s with little difficulty; the fingers that slid between her own were much smaller than the hand that had been there before, but squeezed her fingers with the same oozing love.

Because even when she couldn’t join in, they wanted to include her.

When Chayanne pulled away, he turned his attention back to Tallulah, brushing a stray curl away from her forehead. He smiled down at her, but it was an exhausted and mature smile, the smile of someone who’d grown up too fast out of necessity.

Outside, a thick, curling rumble of thunder shook the floor of Wilbur’s house, followed by a bright flash through the windows. It was faint, but it still made Tallulah curl a little tighter onto her side, the sudden bright light sending a wave of pain through her head.

There were too many things that had been left unsaid. It was reflected in the line of tension growing between Chayanne and Wilbur and the clear problems arising between them; the memories unprocessed between them both, the ones that clashed. The weight of Phil trying to balance them both while taking care of the rest of the kids, and Richarlyson crumbling in the meantime. Pomme and Dapper hiding in the kitchen because they weren’t sure what to do with their own feelings.

And, caught in the middle of it all, Tallulah. Who was so sick she probably wouldn’t remember all this after a minutes, especially now that her eyes began to droop and she finally began to give in to her exhaustion. Tallulah who knew she was the cause of all these problems. Who knew that she’d put them all through this pain and that she’d be putting her family members at risk. Tallulah who was selfish, even if she hadn’t known it beforehand.

“It’ll be alright, Llulah,” she caught Chayanne signing. He put on a brave face for her; it was a bad habit. “We’ll figure it out.”

She squeezed Richas’s hand a little tighter, hoping it would bring her some sort of comfort. Chayanne’s words washed around her head thickly, and she wanted desperately to grasp onto them, but the sign was fading in her head and becoming complicated and unrecognizable. The corners of her vision turned black, her breaths becoming more laboured and heavy, and she found the strength within herself to smile at Chayanne.

At the moment, it would have to do.

**

Across town, two survivors sit silently at their dining room table, quietly aching together. There’s a sort of injury that runs so deep it never heals; as the little dragon watches from afar, she thinks both of these men are still healing.

It’s quiet , the man on the right says. He’s taller, strong, a type of hybrid unfamiliar to the girl. Green eyes twinkle so brightly they may as well be gems; his skin is touched almost with a complexion like glittering gold, even in the low light. Something about it looks unearthly, as if the man is less than human. Or, perhaps more accurately, more than human. He speaks to fill the silence, as if it wounds him, and laughs almost nervously.

The other man hums, eyes dulled towards the table. Too quiet, mi amor. Too quiet. His appearance is somewhat more familiar, if not for the violet hair and eyes. A pair of white gloves lay forgotten on the mahogany surface of the table, but the man picks up one of the two and begins fiddling with it slowly. You know, I used to think this house was too small, but now I can’t help but think the opposite.

Distantly, the girl hears echoes of old, childlike laughter bouncing off the walls of this dark, massive house, and thinks perhaps it’s laughter from years past. The sort of laughter that makes a house a home, that makes the storm outside seem peaceful.

The golden man laughs nervously again, and the girl wonders if it’s a coping mechanism. Me too. I guess we’re lucky.

The violet-haired man smiles, and it’s a mature and saddened thing. We were.

We were , the first man agrees.

The girl does not know what it means, but she thinks she understands.

Luck has a tendency to run out. At least, it needs its time to recharge.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, cold and buzzing with energy, and flinches. Above her, another child watches her, eyes kind. They’re around the same age as the dragon’s older sister, she thinks, but a whole lot scruffier, messy black hair tangled where it’s been shoved beneath her red baseball cap and colourful band aids pressed to her knees, swimming in a red hoodie several sizes too large and faded jean shorts.

What are you doing here ? The older girl asks, tilting their head to the side.

The dragon does not know what to say in response. She’s frozen in place; usually, when she’s stuck inside her head like this, nobody sees her. That is, nobody but the child with the red ribbon.

And, apparently, this other child, the one with the red baseball cap. The dragon pulls her own red beanie further down her hair, uncomfortable. She does not think this other child will understand Federation sign language, and so she shrugs helplessly.

You’re not supposed to be here, are you? They wonder, eyes tracking mischievously over the girl. They’re eyes that scream of mirth, as though they’re excited, like they haven’t talked to anyone in a long, long time. At least, not yet.

The dragon shakes her head, a little afraid.

The older child hums, eyes narrowing, and the behaviour is almost reminiscent of the violet-haired man sitting at the table, whose conversation has become dull and distorted with her attention focused elsewhere, the table and its occupants little more than a blur.

Well, you better get back to wherever you came from, the child says, ruffling a hand through the dragon’s hair with something almost fond. You must have people waiting on you, huh?

The girl nods. She does. People who miss her, and people who cry for her, and people who are worried every time she slips away like this. Already, her vision is blurring at the edges as the borders of sleep close around this near-empty mansion.

The older child seems to realize. How she knows about all of this happening is a mystery to the dragon, but it’s nice not to be alone in it, at least.

Take care , they say, smiling sweetly. Nos vemos muy pronto.

It’s not as comforting as she intends it to be.

A little dragon wakes to something cold pressed to her brow. Her head thumps and she sticks out a hand to her right, and settles only when a warm hand grasps her fingers.

It’s a promise that everything will be okay. Even if it won’t.

Chapter Text

And every day, he is drowning.

**

Wilbur didn’t expect to spend his evening like this: hunched over on a stool in the living room, back aching with a dull, throbbing pain, eyes drifting endlessly over the little girl shivering on his couch. Chayanne was leaning against the doorframe to the living room, mouth set into a firm line and eyes pointedly avoiding Wilbur.

He was still mad.

Both of them wilfully ignored the presence looming in the far corner of the room. Bad looked out of place and more than a little uncomfortable, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders over himself. Phil had warned Bad when he’d arrived to stay distanced from the kids to avoid them feeling unsafe. Now, the three of them sat in the living room—Bad as far away from Tallulah as possible—as Wilbur and Phil awkwardly tried to convince Bad to trust them.

Wilbur watched as Chayanne made eye contact with Bad for about the hundredth time, then looked away quickly, avoiding Bad’s gaze. Since the moment Bad had entered the house, Chayanne had been on high alert.

Poor kid.

Wilbur had let himself tune out of the conversation at some point; Phil was better at this sort of thing, anyway. Now, Bad’s face was entirely still, the glow of white eyes dimming in disbelief. “You want me to babysit three children by myself.”

“Yes,” Wilbur answered, forcing himself to rejoin the conversation. Immediately, his mind began worrying about Tallulah again. One look behind him told him she was the same: sick, pale, and unconscious.

Bad leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Wilbur. “When we don’t even speak the same language.”

“Yes,” Wilbur repeated, although faltered this time. Perhaps it wasn’t the greatest plan, but then again, they didn’t have many options. “It won’t be for long, Bad. We plan to be back in a few hours.”

“Why can’t one of you be here?”

Phil sighed, fingers pinching each side of the bridge of his nose. “I offered to take Tallulah alone, but Wilbur refused to leave her side. Same thing with Chayanne.” The other unspoken solution, that Wilbur could take Tallulah alone, was out of the question. Even without Federation vans hunting down the kids, Wilbur couldn’t be trusted to keep both himself and Tallulah safe.

Which was rude, because Wilbur thought he was most certainly capable.

Bad watched Phil for a moment longer, as if trying to figure him out. Eventually, his eyes slid over to Tallulah, and he softened. “So, this is Tallulah?” The man straightened, gesturing towards her with his chin. It was always hard to read any sort of emotion in eyes as bright and full as Bad’s, like two glistening moons, but Wilbur was sure he saw something like worry flit over his expression.

Wilbur nodded, pushing a stray curl away from Tallulah’s face. “And you’ve met Dapper and Chayanne already.”

And it was true, too. From the second Bad had crossed the threshold of the front door, Chayanne had been waiting, bat gripped in hand. Always a safe distance away, often putting Wilbur or Phil between him to further ensure his safety, and keeping the other kids far away. Even now, while the three men were discussing by Tallulah’s side, Chayanne stood silently in the doorway, a terrifying presence. He turned over the bat in his hand, backlit by the lights of the front hall. Wilbur never thought a skinny fifteen-year-old could look so menacing.

“Chayanne, stop that,” Phil hissed, a gentle warning, and sighed when Chayanne’s grip tightened on the bat. “He’s a friend. Put that away.”

With a heated glare, Chayanne conceded, leaning the bat against the doorway. Still, Wilbur caught the glint of Chayanne’s knife poking out of his jeans pocket, and Wilbur had a feeling the kid was secretly armed to the nines.

Typical. 

Bad, on his part, swallowed uncertainly at the sight of Chayanne. “I take it I’m not welcome here.”

The silence that followed was all too telling. Wilbur and Phil exchanged a glance.

“That’s just Chayanne,” Phil insisted, waving his hand in dismissal as though it were something trivial. “He gets protective of his siblings, but he won’t actually try to hurt you.” He most certainly would, Wilbur thought—hell, Chayanne had swung the very same bat at Wilbur when they first met—although he didn’t speak that aloud. Phil continued, “It’s an adjustment period for all of us.”

“Uh huh.” Bad looked unsure. His eyes lingered Chayanne for a few moments longer, hands fidgeting in his lap and back pin-straight like he was eager to change the topic. “And what about the others?”

Phil glanced at Wilbur.

Wilbur raised an eyebrow back, testing him. They’d known each other for long enough now that their language was silent as much as it wasn’t.

Phil swallowed thickly, then turned his focus to Chayanne, voice softening in tone. “Mate, could you please grab your siblings for us?”

Chayanne flinched, apparently unprepared for the room’s attention to switch to him. The boy’s shoulders stiffened, as if trying to make himself look taller than he was, and his hand subconsciously stretched for the bat. He flexed the hand, clenched it again, pressed his hands together in a knot. 

“It’ll be alright, Chayanne,” Wilbur promised. “We’ll be right here.”

A muscle jumped in Chayanne’s jaw. His eyes were wide open, but he didn’t blink at Wilbur. Instead, he disappeared, but not without subconsciously brushing his fingers against his leg, likely reassuring himself the switchblade was still there.

When he returned, three other white-haired children followed—Pomme hesitantly peeking around Dapper, who stood cautiously in the doorway to Chayanne’s left—and Richarlyson, who bounced into the room with less care than he probably should have had.

The seven-year-old had no qualms in walking right up to Bad, massive eyes glistening with awe, and he craned his neck up so he could see Bad’s face. Wilbur thought it was hilarious to see an eight-foot-something demon hybrid and a three-foot-eight child standing side-by-side. Bad seemed to find it endearing, too, if the barely perceptible smile that appeared on his shadowy face meant anything.

“Hi,” Bad murmured, smiling, and Richarlyson beamed in response. It was the first time since Bad had arrived that Wilbur had seen the hybrid’s shoulders drop, forgetting his anxiety. Wilbur supposed the man probably didn’t get to see many children anymore.

“That’s Richarlyson,” Phil said, and then frowned sympathetically at Richarlyson. “Richas, back up a bit, alright? We don’t want to crowd Bad.” He nodded over to Pomme and Dapper, who stood together at the entrance to the room, equally uncertain. “The one with the face paint is Pomme. And you already know Dapper.”

With the attention of the demon hybrid on them, Pomme stepped back subconsciously, peeking around Dapper with wide grey eyes.

“Hi, Pomme.” Bad smiled politely, dipping his head slightly. “Nice to see you again, Dapper.”

Dapper, for his part, smiled back, although it was tinged with a bit of apprehension. Their eyes were wide, almost fearful, but marked with a sort of awe. Wilbur didn’t blame her; Dapper probably hadn’t met many other demon hybrids.

It was funny, really—virtually nothing could make Dapper shut up, and yet Bad didn’t even have to try. Wilbur imagined it wouldn’t be long before Dapper let loose on Bad, and then the man would share in the experience of the living hurricane that was Dapper. At least for now, they’d found a way to make the kid go quiet.

“And I’m looking after these three?” Bad asked almost hopefully, and Wilbur knew he was thinking nervously about the bat in Chayanne’s hands.

“Yes. Don’t worry.” Phil laughed. “Look, if everything goes to plan, we should be back within a few hours.”

Something went unspoken there, a hidden emphasis on if . If everything went to plan, they’d be back on time—which was already much later than any of them wanted. They’d be walking under a darkening sky in a town full of infecteds and Federation workers. If they got through them, then they’d have to get to Foolish, and if Foolish could help Tallulah and if he didn’t rat them out to the Federation, then they’d probably get home on time.

There were a whole lot of variables and a whole lot of things that could go wrong.

Wilbur didn’t want to think about it.

**

Autumn bled like an open wound. It was cold now, so terrifyingly cold that Wilbur was sure poor Tallulah would freeze where she slept in his arms. Each time an icy gust of wind swept past them, stirring up small hurricanes of leaves in its wake, Tallulah shifted in her sleep, curling in closer to Wilbur’s coat. Wilbur wished for all the world that he knew how to keep her warm.

At least the cold was probably better for the fever.

Wilbur craned his neck up to the sky and squinted into the darkening charcoal grey. A spot of black directly ahead and above them dipped low, flapping once, and used the wind to ascend until he was level with the forest. They’d agreed beforehand on their roles: Phil would fly overhead and scout out the route to ensure they wouldn’t have any unfortunate run-ins; Chayanne would stay with Wilbur and act as the physical defence; and Wilbur would carry Tallulah. Because, apparently, they didn’t trust Wilbur with anything else.

But Tallulah was safe. And she was about to get help. Those notions were just about the only ones keeping him from voicing his complaints.

Chayanne sulked in complete silence to Wilbur’s right. It was eerie how the kid could smother every footstep without an ounce of effort. If Wilbur closed his eyes, he could pretend he was completely alone—his steps ricocheted off the walls of the abandoned storefronts to either side of them, but Chayanne’s were effortlessly mute.

He turned to watch him as they walked, noticing with a little concern how tightly Chayanne gripped his bat. His knuckles were bone-white, fingers trembling just a little, and he carried his knife in the other hand—doing that thing again, tossing and catching it again and again and again. It freaked Wilbur out.

Chayanne refused to look at Wilbur. A while back, when Wilbur had tried to make light conversation, Chayanne had simply walked faster, leaving the man behind.

As Wilbur was starting to learn, Chayanne could hold a grudge.

“Um,” Wilbur started, and noticed immediately how the boy’s shoulders tensed up, jaw clamping his teeth shut. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to talk to me right now.”

In response, Chayanne finally looked up, and the glare burning in his eyes said enough. Wilbur was right: Chayanne definitely did not want to talk to Wilbur. Nor did it seem like he wanted Wilbur to talk to him . Unfortunately, the silence was starting to eat Wilbur alive, and that just wouldn’t do.

“I know. I know. Look, I—,” he started, and sighed. A narrow channel of wind blew past them, catching Wilbur by surprise, and he shivered. “I’m sorry. About what I said earlier. It was shitty of me, and I should’ve known better.” He paused. “I don’t know how much Phil told you, but emergencies like this take me back to places I don’t want to go, and I guess I lashed out at you because I was trying to deal with my own shit. Which isn’t an excuse, and it doesn’t make it okay. It’s just an explanation.”

Silence. Chayanne blinked, face completely blank. He flipped the knife in his hand once, twice.

Shit. He really didn’t like Wilbur at all, did he? Either that, or the kid was excellent at schooling his expressions into nothingness.

“And I shouldn’t have minimized your experience at the Federation, either.” Wilbur shook his head. Part of him thought he had to keep going, or else he’d come to a stop too soon. Apart from his voice, the only sounds to interrupt their awkward silence were the slaps of Wilbur’s footfalls and the hollow, scraping wind. “I mean, fuck, that’s…believe me when I say I’m going to regret saying that for a long time.” He was careful not to use Chayanne’s name—as Phil had cryptically told him, he never knew who could be listening in. “I don’t have to know what you’ve gone through to know that you never should’ve gone through it.”

Another thin trickle of wind, ice cold and narrow, swept over their heads, and Wilbur startled when Tallulah shifted in his arms. She groaned, voice shredded even in her sleep, and turned her face away from the wind.

Absent-mindedly, Wilbur adjusted his grip on the girl so he could pull her beanie further down her head to protect her ears from the cold.

When he looked back up, Chayanne was watching him carefully, eyes flicking between his face and Tallulah. Calculating, perhaps, or trying to figure out whether Wilbur was telling the truth. Secretly, Wilbur wished there was some sort of way that he could convince Chayanne.

He swallowed the rising, anxious lump in his throat. “But, uh, I don’t regret taking her to Foolish. Just so you know.”

With one swift motion, Chayanne flipped the switchblade so the blade was securely tucked into the hilt, making a quiet shing . He pocketed the knife and used the empty hand to sign. “You might. If things go South.”

Wilbur shrugged, teeth gritting, and ignored the way his cheeks warmed. He couldn’t start another argument with Chayanne, not when he was trying to apologize for the earlier one. “Maybe.” Clearly, Chayanne wasn’t ready to accept help from an outsider, and Wilbur had to appreciate the reasons why. Even if it hurt not to be on the same page. “Anyway, I’m sorry, Chayanne. It was childish of me to fight with you like that.”

A long pause. Wilbur thought Chayanne wasn’t going to respond, what with his glowering expression and skeptical glare. Eventually, the kid turned his gaze to the ground and lifted his hand again. “I didn’t want to fight either. I said some bad things to you that I shouldn’t have.” And Chayanne looked like he hated saying every word, but at least he meant it.

Wilbur wasn’t sure how to take it. He knew Chayanne struggled with apologies, and yet the words alone, as simple as they were, made Wilbur’s cheeks warm. Just a little. Honoured that, even when Chayanne was clearly still mad, he’d try to apologize to Wilbur.

“Thanks,” Wilbur muttered, clearing his throat. It sounded a little awkward. “That’s very grown up of you, Chayanne.”

Chayanne grimaced. “Please don’t make it weird.”

“Sorry.” Wilbur adjusted his grip on Tallulah, trying to ignore the numb tingling in his arms, and watched as Chayanne’s gaze darted up and down the street, peering into broken windows for signs of being watched. Alert as always, much more prepared for this life than Wilbur ever could be.

It was a hesitant sort of truce, but a truce nonetheless. Wilbur supposed he’d have to accept it for now.

**

Wilbur thought Foolish’s and Vegetta’s house had to have been designed by the most pretentious prick known to humankind. Which was hilarious, because Wilbur was almost certain it had been designed by Foolish himself, back in the pre-apocalypse days where Foolish could actually design his own house. The house screamed “rich asshole”, the sort that was wealthy enough to be ridiculously self-indulgent with their expenses, to live in a house that looked like it belonged to some aesthetically-aware vampire. Wilbur knew they’d spent most of the early apocalypse days simply defending their house from intruders so its integrity would remain unblemished, which said enough about Foolish and Vegetta. And then Foolish got bored and decided to start learning medicine with all his newfound free time, and the rest was history.

Immediately after calling Bad, Phil had called Vegetta to confirm his and Foolish’s house was empty and that they could help with a medical emergency. Now, Wilbur and Chayanne stood side-by-side on the front steps, Phil ahead of them on the porch, wings ever so slightly extended to block them from view. Just in case.

They waited an uncomfortably long time after Phil knocked. He knocked a second and third time, and Wilbur start to thought maybe something was wrong, that Foolish had changed his mind or decided to ring up the Federation for the fun of it after their little call.

“I swear to fuck, Foolish,” Wilbur heard Phil mutter under his breath.

But a rustling sounded behind the black door, and not a moment later, it swung open to reveal a very displeased Foolish in all his golden glory, skin glittering almost bronze in the low light and eyes shining an eerie green. A towel was wrapped neatly around his hair, and his clothes looked rumpled, as if they’d been hastily thrown on. He pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow at Phil. “I was in the shower, you know.” 

Phil stiffened. “I told you to be ready on time.”

Foolish dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “And would you look at that? You’re early!” When he spoke, a glint of razor-sharp teeth flashed in his mouth. Wilbur didn’t miss the way Chayanne’s eyes narrowed at the sight, and started to worry Chayanne’s trust in Wilbur and Phil was slipping a little more every second. “Now, remind me why you’re standing on my doorstep?”

Wilbur watched as Phil gritted his teeth, and his wings bristled behind him, subconsciously extending a little further. “Promise me there’s nobody else in your house.”

“We already told you on the phone, Phil—”

“Foolish, swear to me,” Phil interrupted. “I’m not joking around.”

A pause. Foolish sighed, perhaps a little melodramatically. The totem hybrid gestured to the grand foyer behind him, a black-walled monstrosity lit grandly with a chandelier so intricate it made Wilbur want to cry. “There is nobody but me and Vegetta in this house. Happy?”

Phil paused, shifting his weight. He craned his neck, as though trying to peek inside the house.

Wilbur rolled his eyes and, ignoring the wide-eyed look Chayanne gave him, started ascending the stairs after Phil. “God, Dad, put the wings down. We don’t have time for this.”

Phil flinched, surprised by the sound of Wilbur’s voice. The wings dropped, and he gave Wilbur a disappointed glare. “Goddamnit, Wil.”

Foolish jumped. “ Wilbur? The fuck are you doing here?”

Phil sighed, wiping a hand over his face. His wings pressed against his back, agitated, revealing Chayanne still frozen at the bottom of the stairs. “Subtle, Wilbur. Real subtle.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wilbur said, brain already focused solely on getting Tallulah up the steps and through the door. It was like he’d gone into tunnel vision, a quiet blanket smothering the panic in his mind into a dull murmur, and he barely remembered to acknowledge Foolish as he stepped up to the front door. It wasn’t until Foolish furrowed his eyebrows that Wilbur cleared his throat, half-smiling in a way that was entirely fake, and said, “Nice to see you, Foolish. Been awhile.” 

“Yeah,” Foolish agreed, though his tone had dropped significantly. His body went still, and Wilbur followed his eyeline to the sleeping child in his arms. A long moment paused, one filled only with Foolish’s long, unsteady breaths, something that was uncharacteristically quiet for the man.

Wilbur paused, unsure if he should continue. Then, considering Foolish hadn’t stopped him, he moved past the man into the foyer. It was as tall as it was wide, tiled flooring glistening under the lights of the chandelier, and parted into three different halls, as well as a wide staircase leading up to a second floor. Wilbur made a beeline for the hall directly in front of him.

It was as though Foolish snapped back into action, startling out of his trance. He ran after Wilbur, voice returning to his usual volume. Which was loud. Very loud. “Woah, woah, woah. Wilbur, what the fuck is that?” And then Wilbur turned, facing Foolish, and Foolish’s eyes widened. “Is that a fucking kid?!”

Wilbur winced at the volume. One look over Foolish’s shoulder told him Phil and Chayanne were following, which was a good sign. Earlier, Chayanne had looked like he’d wanted to turn tail and run the moment they’d approached the property. Now, he was glaring at Foolish like he wanted to burn a hole through the man’s head.

“Foolish, we don’t have much time,” Wilbur started, already uneasy. “She’s not doing well.”

“How are you not acknowledging this?” Foolish continued. Wilbur had never seen so much bewilderment on his face. “Wilbur, where did you get a fucking kid?!”

Wilbur rolled his eyes. “The discount rack of the fetus store.” He glared at Foolish, but stopped when he saw Chayanne giving Wilbur an anxiously pleading look. Hesitantly, Wilbur took a step back, putting more distance between Foolish and himself—or, rather, Foolish and Tallulah. “Look, Foolish, she’s got this really bad infection, and we think it’s killing her. We didn’t know where else to go.”

Foolish stepped forward, as if wanting to look closer at Tallulah, to make sure that she was real, but this time, Chayanne darted in front of him, putting a physical barrier between Foolish and his sister.

“Hey—,” Foolish started, glancing at Chayanne, but then did a double take. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed the kid standing on the stairs, and certainly didn’t expect him to have followed them into the house. “Oh my God.” He looked again at Wilbur, and back at Chayanne. Wilbur. Chayanne. A hilariously confused expression crossed his face, and Wilbur started to wonder if this much amazement was healthy for a single person to handle at once. “Oh my God, Wilbur, you have—”

“Kids, yes, we’ve established this,” Phil interrupted, sounding more than a little impatient. He clicked the door shut behind them, as if trying to end the conversation. “It happens.”

Foolish seemed as though he was barely listening to Phil. He cupped a hand around his mouth. “Vegetta!” Giving another glance to Wilbur, Foolish moved past him and down the main hall, past a long black corridor decorated on either side by dusty portraits. Wilbur took it as an invitation to follow, and beckoned for Chayanne to follow with his head. Phil took up the rear.

“¿Sí, mi amor?” A faint voice called distantly from within.

“They brought kids!” Foolish called. Wilbur followed him down the front hall, shoulders relaxing upon being hit by the comforting warmth of the mansion, and tried not to marvel at the high ceilings and polished floors. Eventually, the hall gave way to a kitchen, smaller and cozier than the rest of the house—the only room they’d passed so far that utilized colour.

There, a shorter man was leaning against the kitchen island, but raised his head when they entered, a confused look on his face. Vegetta appeared a little worse for wear, violet hair sticking up in places and bags hanging under his eyes, hands bare of their usual white gloves. Wilbur always remembered the man seeming perfectly made-up, never leaving the house without a readily-accessible smile and a graceful and generous sort of energy. Now, he was skinnier, smaller, sadder—faded.

Wild violet eyes tracked over the group. Wilbur watched Vegetta inhale sharply, chest rapidly expanding and deflating, when his gaze fell on Chayanne. It doubled when he noticed Tallulah lying in Wilbur’s arms, sleeping restlessly.

And, apparently, the bloodied bandages covering her leg.

“Oh,” Vegetta breathed, face falling. “Oh, she’s hurt.”

“Yes,” Phil said, more than a little upset by the looks of his wings. “That being said, can we please put her down somewhere?”

Foolish shot Phil a glare. When his gaze turned back to Tallulah, it softened, almost filled with an unfamiliar sympathy. “Why didn’t you bring her sooner?”

“Foolish,” Vegetta reprimanded, raising an eyebrow. “Be polite to our guests.” He then turned his attention to Phil and Wilbur, and smiled gently at Chayanne. “Of course. Please follow me.” He swept a hand behind him in invitation, beckoning the group into the room beyond.

The man took them into a space that seemed to be the remnants of what was once a living room. Now, a couch had been pressed up against the wall, and a large bay window overstuffed with throw pillows cast thin grey light onto the medical gurney that had replaced the coffee table. A metal cart on wheels sat just beyond it, full of things glinting ominously in the low light, and several glass bottles of things that made Wilbur grimace.

Not exactly the warmest setup.

On the other side of the gurney, facing the couch, a mahogany dresser held up a number of unlit candles and fake flowers surrounding an old, faded picture. Wilbur decided not to give it a look, throat already tight; he knew it would only make him feel worse. If the abandoned red cap placed to its left meant anything, then Wilbur already knew what he’d find there.

As he passed, Chayanne reached a hand out towards the cap, curious.

Vegetta cleared his throat. “Don’t touch that, please.” And, seeing the way Chayanne flinched back in surprise, softened. “It belongs to someone very special.”

Wilbur pushed past the two, noting how the room was more than a little cramped with the six of them squeezed into it. Carefully, he laid Tallulah down on the gurney. “Is there a pillow we can get for her head?”

Vegetta nodded once, lips pressed together. “Of course. I’ll be back.” With that, he disappeared once more.

Once upon a time, Phil and Wilbur had been closer to the two. They’d watched their little girl grow up, a pre-teen by the time the apocalypse had hit. Tilín and Chayanne had looked up to Leo at some point; Leo had even offered to babysit once they got their babysitting license.

Wilbur didn’t think he’d seen much of either of the men since the virus hit. He didn’t attend many of the community meetings anymore—not since discovering the Federation kids—and Foolish and Vegetta were much more reclused than they used to be. Clearly, they’d been busy with Foolish’s healing business, if the number of strange utensils littered around the room said anything.

They seemed more tired than Wilbur remembered. Stress lines were etched into Foolish’s forehead that he didn’t quite remember, and Vegetta’s mouth was turned down in a worried frown most of the time. He remembered them as quite a happy couple, friendly and polite despite their wild eccentricities. Now, they were quiet, made into a piece of the past like everything else in this town.

It was a little sad to watch.

By the time Vegetta returned with a pillow, Phil and Chayanne had already taken hesitant seats on either end of the long couch, perhaps to offer more space for Foolish to move around. Vegetta moved closer to Tallulah, but seeing how Chayanne tensed up immediately, Wilbur took the pillow himself and slid it carefully under Tallulah’s head. Best to ease everyone’s tension as much as possible.

She was awake now, but barely, breathing heavily. Wilbur wasn’t sure if she was aware of the two strangers in the room just yet.

Foolish stepped up to the gurney and leaned down, smiling widely at Tallulah. “Hey, little buddy. My name is Foolish, and I’m going to be helping you. Phil and Wilbur are here, too, okay?”

“And Chayanne,” Phil added, casting a glance over to the boy who curled in on himself on the couch.

“And Chayanne,” Foolish agreed, although stumbled for a moment when the once-familiar name rolled off his tongue. He made eye contact with Phil, furrowing his eyebrows as if to ensure he heard right, and opened his mouth to comment on it.

Before he could, Phil gave a silent nod, movement so slight it was barely perceptible.

In response, Foolish shut his mouth. In the corner, Wilbur watched as Vegetta’s eyes narrowed in thought, and followed his line of vision to Chayanne, who looked more than a little confused.

Foolish cleared his throat. “Anyway,” the man started, and moved to the metal tray, turning his back away from the group, “I’ve got a little something for you, Tallulah. I think it’ll take away some of that pain you must be experiencing.”

Wilbur thought there was very little chance Tallulah was processing Foolish’s words at all. She was still in and out of consciousness, half-lidded eyes barely following him. Still, Wilbur imagined Foolish was doing it half for himself—he’d never been good at handling silence.

He picked up something small from the cart; when he turned, it was a little clay pot filled with a strange metallic gold liquid. In his other hand, he carried a thin paintbrush.

Not exactly what Wilbur would have expected, but it made sense that Foolish’s healing methods were as strange as he was.

The man dipped the paintbrush inside the pot and swirled it a few times in silence, looking downright uncomfortable in it. In a moment, he brandished the paintbrush in the air. He stepped closer to Tallulah, and his other hand went to unfold Tallulah’s clenched fist.

Wilbur shot out his hand, stopping him. “Woah, woah, what is that?”

Foolish rolled his eyes, apparently unaware of the trickle of gold paint that was currently rolling in a bead down his wrist, blending in almost entirely with his complexion. “It’s to lessen her pain and keep her from dying while under operation.” With that, the totem hybrid bent down towards the table and picked up Tallulah’s hand in one swift motion. Gently, Foolish pried the girl’s fingers open, and, cradling the little hand in his own, he painted a rough totem shape into the palm of her hand. The symbol glowed once, briefly, before it dissolved completely, melting into her skin.

Wilbur shuddered. Freaky totem hybrid shit.

“How does that work?” Phil asked curiously, eyebrows furrowed.

Foolish shrugged. “No clue.” When he spoke, his voice was as blunt as always. “Anyway, how about we look at this infection?”

Wilbur nodded, somewhat shocked by Foolish’s glaring lack of subtlety, and startled to action. His mind felt sluggish as he moved to Tallulah’s leg to unwrap the gauze there. He smelled the infection rather than saw it; the smell alone was enough to throw him back to seven years ago, and he hated it. Wilbur swallowed down the memories and ignored the way his hands shook, feeling as though he was moving through water.

It was a deep gash. Deeper than Wilbur remembered, and ringed with purplish flesh. At first, that had been what confused Wilbur the most—infections weren’t supposed to be purple.

As it turned out, that was the problem.

He cursed himself again for not bringing her sooner. He’d known days ago that Tallulah felt feverish, and yet he believed her when she lied, and he was gullible and incompetent as he feared.

Foolish bent over the table with a furrowed brow, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose, which looked hilariously out of place.

Wilbur opened his mouth, holding back from placing a hand on Foolish’s shoulder. “Hang on, Foolish.” He turned back to Chayanne, who had his legs tucked into his chest on the couch, watching them warily. “Chayanne, Foolish is probably going to have to touch Tallulah now, okay? But we’ll be right here the entire time. You’re welcome to leave if it will make you uncomfortable to watch.”

Chayanne grit his teeth, eyes flicking between Wilbur and Foolish, but shook his head.

He wasn’t planning on leaving. Given his nerves, it was probably for the best.

Foolish didn’t take long to inspect Tallulah. The man pulled on medical gloves—only after having been reprimanded by Vegetta for not wearing them—and leaned down to poke and prod at the wound, producing a slight flinch from Chayanne but nothing more. The kid looked like he was physically restraining himself from intervening, face red with worry and jaw clenched, nails biting into the skin of his arms.

It seemed as though the totem magic had worked, at least. Tallulah shifted uncomfortably in response to Foolish’s touch, but at least she didn’t seem to be in too much pain. 

Wilbur hovered impatiently over the man, clenching his hands together. “What do you think?” He asked, perhaps sounding a bit more worried than he’d intended.

Foolish took a dangerously thoughtful breath. “It’s definitely sepsis. From what it looks like, the infection has started to spread into the bloodstream, which is what’s causing the black and purple colouring.” He ran his finger along the edge of the wound to demonstrate to Wilbur. “This colouring means the tissue here is starting to die. Which is not good.”

Wilbur exchanged a glance with Chayanne, who was wide-eyed and silent.

“But you can do something about it, right?” Wilbur asked, though he felt the hope drain from his face.

A long beat. Foolish examined the wound a moment longer, and only after that did he straighten. “I’m going to have to remove the dead tissue,” he explained, grimacing. Wilbur hated the remorse in Foolish’s eyes. “There’s not much, so it should be an easy operation, but it’s necessary.”

Wilbur’s heart dropped. “Operation ? Like, a surgery? Is that really necessary?” He glanced back at Chayanne, who was purely frozen in place.

“It’s not a simple infection, Wilbur.” Foolish’s voice was strained, as though he was holding back from snapping at the man. “You’ve let it fester long enough that antibiotics can’t save her anymore.”

Wilbur glared at Foolish, ignoring the heat that rose to his face. “I tried to bring her sooner. I wasn’t allowed.” And sure, maybe his words were a little targeted. After all, it was true—he’d been suggesting bringing her to Foolish all day , and they’d wasted that precious time. And he didn’t mean to look over at Chayanne, he didn’t, but if Chayanne had just listened—

In response, Chayanne’s eyes deadened. He reached into his pocket, drawing the switchblade, and flipped it out in a way that was both casual and menacing. It wasn’t really a threat—Wilbur trusted at this point that Chayanne wouldn’t try to hurt him—but it got his point across, anyway.

“ Boys ,” Phil reprimanded, sounding more than a little exhausted. “Do not start this again.”

And Wilbur wasn’t sure how he felt being scolded like a child, but he understood. Phil was still stuck in those old habits. He sighed, turning away from Chayanne, though tightened his fists into balls, releasing his restless energy that way.

Below Foolish, Tallulah stirred. Lightly, she reached out for Wilbur, clammy fingers closing around his wrist. Though her eyes were half-closed, they were filled with panic. For a moment, Wilbur zoned out, all his focus going to the terrified look in those massive eyes.

Oh, God. He couldn’t deal with this.

“It’ll be alright, Tallulah,” Wilbur reassured her, although he wasn’t quite certain of his own words. He stepped closer to the table, cupping her cheeks with both hands and offering her the most sincere smile he could muster. “Don’t worry about it, darling. You can sleep right through it and you won’t feel a thing.”

A discontented hum from behind him alerted him to Phil’s presence. The older man was shaking his head, arms folded uncomfortably over his chest. “Not a chance, Wil. We can’t risk any sort of anaesthetic when she’s like this. She won’t be strong enough to handle it.”

Foolish nodded grimly. “Phil’s right. It’s not worth the risk.”

Wilbur frowned. “Foolish, she’s already in enough pain. You’re really going to operate on her while she’s awake? Is that even safe?”

Foolish blinked at Wilbur, unimpressed. “Wilbur, I’m trying my best. It’s not safe, but it’s safer than putting her under, even if she might feel a little pain.” He rolled his shoulders back—Foolish was never that used to serious conversations. It seemed that much hadn’t changed since the apocalypse. “I’m hoping the totem charm will dull that as much as possible. I can put some numbing agent on the wound, as well.”

“Please do.”

Foolish nodded once, perhaps stiffly, and turned his attention to his husband, who was leaning against the cupboards against the back wall, watching in keen silence. “Vegetta, can you get me the numbing agent, please?”

Vegetta bowed his head in understanding and left without another word. Wilbur frowned—from what he remembered, Vegetta had always been a smiling, joyful man, eager to make conversation. Much different from this Vegetta, who was pale-faced and quiet and refused to even look at the child who lay on the table, instead averting his eyes to rest on his husband or one of the others in the room.

Wilbur understood it intimately. No matter how much time passed, sometimes it was still too hard. Foolish and Vegetta had had Leo for a much longer time than Wilbur had Tilín. Hell, if Leo was still alive today, she’d be almost twenty.

It was hard to come back from something like that.

Wilbur hadn’t really noticed himself staring in the direction of the entryway where Vegetta had exited, but a light pressure pushing up against his sleeve pulled him back to the present.

Chayanne had moved to his side, and was now leaning over the table, reaching for Tallulah. He adjusted the pillow under her head, and when Tallulah grabbed softly for his hand, he let her. The boy bent down, pressing their foreheads together. He watched as both kids subconsciously relaxed, put to ease by the contact, and for once, a small smile appeared on Chayanne’s face.

It was one of the few times Chayanne had allowed Wilbur to see him like this. Soft.

He supposed that saying a potential goodbye was more important than appearances at a time like this.

Phil stepped closer to Wilbur, putting a gentle hand on his son’s back. Wilbur heard his wings rustle, perhaps a little impatiently. “Foolish, how long are you planning on taking?”

Foolish’s eyes widened, apparently surprised by being addressed once more. “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping the surgery itself shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, but then I’ll need to give her some antibiotics. And then teach you idiots how to do it, so that you can continue to give her antibiotics over the next few days.” He straightened, putting his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed down at Tallulah. “But we should get started.”

Chayanne straightened, eyes drifting away regretfully from his sister. He looked at Wilbur, and Wilbur pretended not to see the wetness threatening to break from his eyes. Wilbur himself felt his throat choked up with worry, and found his father’s hand, squeezing it subconsciously.

Phil leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Wil, you do not have to stay and watch this if it’s going to be triggering. You should take care of yourself, mate.”

Wilbur shook his head. “I need to be here. It’s important to me.”

Phil gave him a warning look, but stayed silent. At least he knew when not to push it.

It was only a moment later that Vegetta re-entered, carrying with him a half-used tube of something —Wilbur assumed it was the numbing agent, although knowing Foolish, it could have been quite literally anything.

Foolish took the tube into his hands gingerly, clearing his throat and looking back down at the girl lying on his table. Wilbur pretended not to notice the flicker of worry that entered his gaze—it was an unfamiliar expression on Foolish.

Foolish leaned down towards Tallulah, painting on a smile, and squeezed her shoulder gently. “Good luck, little buddy.” And Wilbur was sure she couldn’t hear him, but she seemed to relax in response to the touch, anyway. When the totem hybrid stood to his full height, refixing his gaze on Wilbur, the smile wavered.

Wilbur crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?”

Foolish nodded, eyes crinkling. “Let’s begin.”

**

The surgery was a slow and painful process, but Wilbur refused to leave. Shortly after Foolish had begun, Vegetta and Phil moved to the kitchen to answer some of Vegetta’s questions about the kids—namely, where Wilbur had found them, and what it meant for the future of the town.

Wilbur sure hoped Phil was being as vague in his answers as possible. Something made him think the kids wouldn’t want that information public, particularly to a man whose husband frequently worked for the Federation.

Tallulah was awake. That was the part that freaked Wilbur out the most—that despite the fact that Tallulah’s leg was cut open, she was awake during it all. Sure, Foolish’s healing remedy and the numbing gel had done well enough to lessen the pain, but Wilbur noticed every time Tallulah’s face turned up in a pained grimace. It might not have been bad, but she was aware of the fact that she was being operated on—hell, if she looked down, she’d be able to see it.

That type of shit stuck with you.

Beyond that, Wilbur couldn’t help but notice that this was all so familiar. As much as he tried to convince himself this was different, he remembered what it felt like to look into the eyes of a sick child and wish that things were different. Back in the day when the virus was new, it spread through the kids like wildfire—children always spread disease fast. Wilbur, like many of the other naive parents in town, had desperately tried to save Tilín’s life. 

Only problem was that nobody knew how. Back then, they’d had doctors and clinics and surgeons, and yet nothing had worked. They couldn’t cut out the pieces of rotting skin or mould. Antibiotics did next to nothing. Even painkillers were useless.

Now, looking into Tallulah’s eyes, he was almost convinced he saw another child staring back.

He wasn’t quite sure he liked that. 

For now, he was sitting back on the couch facing the gurney. He was trying to stay present despite the buzz in his mind slowly occupying every conscious thought, bleeding like ink into water. Beside him, Chayanne didn’t seem to be doing much better: he was pale-faced, half sinking back into the cushions, arms wrapped around his knees and eyes wide and terrified. He looked as though he was somewhere far away, too.

Wilbur watched with a little discomfort as Foolish grabbed a slowly reddening cloth from the medical cart and dabbed at Tallulah’s wound so he could see better through the oozing blood.

“Are you sure I can’t help with anything, Foolish?” Wilbur asked, perhaps naively.

Foolish merely hummed in response. Wilbur assumed it meant he was too busy to respond.

Tallulah shuffled, making Foolish pause, a pair of medical tweezers caught in one hand. When she stilled again, he nodded, thinning his lips into a grim expression, and continued.

The girl jolted. Wilbur thought at first that it was because of the pain, but then he noticed the quickened rise and fall of her chest, and she reached out for him limply. Her gaze was turned towards the mahogany dresser, and she made a sound of discontent.

Wilbur stood instantly, eyes tracking her head movements. “What is it, Tallulah?” He asked. The girl’s eyelids were fluttering shut, and still her breath quickened in fear, and Wilbur saw her fingers curl into a frightened fist. He followed her line of vision to the dresser on which Leo’s hat and picture rested.

In a moment, she moved, flinching away from something. Tallulah’s cheeks were red, lips parted, brows furrowed in confusion. She narrowed her eyes at the spot on the wall beside the dresser, more alert than he’d seen her all day. She inhaled, exhaled, watching the wall intently.

“Foolish, wait,” Wilbur breathed, voice cracking, and held out a hand to stop him. “Tallulah, what’s wrong?”

Her hands lifted weakly to sign, “Always juntos .” She fingerspelled the last word, and then reached blindly behind her for Wilbur, gripping his hand tightly.

Wilbur froze, stiffening in surprise. Nausea turned in his stomach, and he lifted his gaze to Foolish, who’d stopped to look at Wilbur, confused. And for a brief moment, Wilbur was very happy that Foolish could not speak sign language.

That was Leo’s old phrase.

Wilbur cleared his throat. The room suddenly felt very cold, although perhaps that was simply his perception. “What are you talking about, Tallulah?”

Tallulah’s eyes appeared glossed over. She smiled slightly, just barely conscious, and a finger lifted and pointed towards the dresser. “The girl told me. The one with the red hat.”

Well, Wilbur’s heart dropped. Hurtled, rather, into a space inside of him that was thick and heavy, somewhere deep and untouched and endlessly murky. He felt his face pale, his hearing fade out, leaving a void that was quickly filled by a loud, buzzing static. His pulse rushed like it was trying to run away, and perhaps it was. Unbidden, Bad’s words returned to him.

Foresight alone is totally normal , he’d said—remarkably calmly, Wilbur might add, as if he was speaking of nothing more than the weather. It’s the only part of clairvoyance you can encounter without a near-death experience.

It’s the other symptoms you need to look out for.

Which meant, Wilbur realized with a start, that Tallulah really was near death. And, apparently, she was somehow communicating with Leo, which meant that on some plane of existence—even this one—Leo was in the room, which was such a terrifying and lovely and heartbreaking thought that Wilbur’s mind seemed to shut off at simply the implication of it. Leo was in the room, and she said the same words to Tallulah that they’d always reserved for their fathers. And now Tallulah was trying to communicate the same words back to Wilbur, as if she knew deep down that they were for someone other than her.

Distantly, Foolish’s voice floated into Wilbur’s daze. “Wilbur? What’s wrong? What did she say?”

Wilbur looked at the spot where Tallulah’s eyes had been glued for the past several minutes, unaware of the way his breath quickened in his chest.

There was a kid there. Leo was there. Leo was watching Foolish operate on Tallulah, and they were trying to talk to Foolish through Tallulah’s clairvoyance.

Foolish’s kid had stuck around. Missing him. Watching him and Vegetta even if they were never aware of her presence. Which meant there was a chance that maybe, hopefully, not all the kids were entirely gone.

Maybe there was a way to communicate with Tilín again, at least through another party.

Fuck. He didn’t want to think about Tilín right now. Wilbur had spent too much time trying to adjust to his newly empty home; even the possibility that he hadn’t been alone after all sent him reeling. Wilbur’s hands began to tingle, limbs going numb, and a heavy fuzz overtook his mind, turning his tongue to static. He couldn’t stop looking at the dresser, as though something bad would happen the moment he looked away.

There was a kid there. Wilbur couldn’t see them, but they were there.

He felt Chayanne’s and Foolish’s eyes fall upon him.

“Wilbur?” Foolish continued, furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re freaking me out here.”

Leo was there.

Tallulah was dying.

“I need some air,” Wilbur muttered, voice coming out choked. He pointedly avoided eye contact as he stood, the world blurry and grey around him. His mind raced, too fast to catch onto any of his thoughts, and the moment he stood, his knees threatened to buckle again.

Foolish said something as Wilbur left the room, and Chayanne rose to his feet. Wilbur was too distracted to notice either of them.

He wasn’t sure how he got onto the front porch, but in a split moment, he was sitting on the top step, staring out into a dark sky and the blades of grass blowing ominously on Foolish’s lawn, looking as though they’d been painted by liquid nighttime. His breath was shaky and his hands clamped together, fingers interlocked and nails biting into the flesh of the opposite hand, clammy and much too warm. His breath puffed white on the late autumn air, and he shivered.

The cold was good.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out there, but not long after he found himself on the porch, the door clicked open behind him. “Wil?”

Wilbur clenched his hands tighter together, focusing on the movement of the grass. He barely registered the footsteps approaching him, nor the soft weight that settled to his left, the warm feathery blanket that draped over his shoulder as his father pulled him closer, laying Wilbur’s head on his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me why you left in the middle of the operation?”

Wilbur opened his mouth to speak, but found the words came out strained. “I couldn’t be in there anymore.” His own voice was so quiet he didn’t recognize it.

Phil hummed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Wilbur locked his jaw, considering it. It would be so easy to open up to his dad, spill all the secrets he’d been keeping just for a scrap of comfort. He’d have one of his many weights lifted from his shoulders, or at least he and Phil could bear it together. Phil would know Tallulah was clairvoyant, and then maybe Wilbur wouldn’t feel so alone, knowing he himself was helpless to do anything to help her.

But that would be betraying Tallulah’s trust, and the last thing he wanted was for Tallulah to start hiding things from him for fear he’d tell Phil. Tallulah clearly wanted to keep the clairvoyance a secret, and if there was any chance at all of her surviving this, then Wilbur needed to honour her wishes.

If. If there was any chance.

“Wilbur,” Phil urged, rubbing his son’s arm slowly, “Stay with me here, mate. You don’t need to talk to me, but you need to come back to reality.”

Wilbur couldn’t tell Phil. It was that simple, and yet it was so, so complicated. 

Instead, Wilbur said, “You found me pretty fast.”

“Not really. Chayanne told me you left and didn’t come back. He seemed pretty worried.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think he was worried. Kid hates me.”

“He’s got a big heart, Wil,” Phil insisted. “Bold of you to assume he only cares about the kids.”

Despite all the arguments that rose on Wilbur’s tongue, he kept his mouth shut. He could’ve brought up all the evidence pointing to the opposite, proving that Chayanne despised Wilbur as much as Wilbur thought. Hell, the silent treatment Chayanne had given him not a few hours earlier was evidence enough of the kid’s feelings. Phil might have been wearing his usual rose-coloured glasses, but Wilbur’s eyes were open: no matter how hard Wilbur tried to be a good temporary guardian for the kids, Chayanne hated him. The kid simply wasn’t built to trust. Either that, or the notion of trust had been shaken out of him by the Federation.

“Maybe,” Wilbur whispered. It felt like a lie.

His bones felt tired. It came like a sudden realization, but once he noticed, he couldn’t unnotice it. It was as though the world was composed of a thick fog, and Wilbur’s body was impossibly full of it, turning his skin heavy and his mind muddled. He frowned, barely aware of the hot tears stinging his eyes.

“Maybe I should go back,” Wilbur mumbled, but the words barely left his lips. He thought back to poor Tallulah struggling for every breath on that table. How Wilbur’s focus zoned in so intensely on her lungs, his heart fluttering in panic every time her chest paused between each breath, sure she wouldn’t take another. How he sighed in relief every time she inhaled again, because at least he hadn’t failed her yet.

Because failing Tallulah was failing Tilín all over again. Because no matter how twisted it was, there was something about the little girl that reminded Wilbur of his own child, and now it was coming back to bite him.

She had to live. Wilbur couldn’t have another child’s death on his hands.

His shoulders curled in on themselves. He didn’t have to look to know his father was watching him, blue eyes sad and sympathetic.

The hand wrapped around his shoulder tightened. “Wil, breathe.” 

“I can’t do it again, Dad,” Wilbur whispered, cheeks bitten raw where hot tears stung fresh against the nipping air. “I can’t lose another kid to sickness. It’ll fucking break me.”

Phil’s eyes searched Wilbur’s face for a moment, mouth twisted up—eventually, it smoothed into something soft. “Oh, mate.” And Wilbur’s dad opened his arms, and though Wilbur was a fully grown adult, he had no qualms about throwing himself into a hug and shielding himself from the world. Warm hands pulled him close, and rustling black feathers blocked out the evening chill, and Wilbur felt his face grow hot and his eyes turn wet anew. The height difference made the hug a little awkward; Wilbur had to bend down a little to plant his forehead into his father’s shoulder, but Phil didn’t quite seem to mind. The older man shushed him gently, featherlight fingers tracing comforting patterns into his back.

“It’ll be okay,” Phil whispered.

“You don’t know that,” he mumbled back into Phil’s shoulder. Because every time Wilbur closed his eyes, he was haunted by the image of Tallulah’s face. Because it looked so much like Tilín, even if it didn’t. Because in the seven years that Tilín had been gone, Wilbur had forgotten their voice and the way they smiled, but he’d never forget that look of ill horror as the virus slowly consumed their body.

Wilbur shifted, squeezing his eyes shut. His voice came out muffled. “I’m cursed, aren’t I?”

“Wil?” Phil frowned, rubbing Wilbur’s back soothingly to invite him silently to breathe. “What are you talking about?”

Wilbur’s fingers curled tighter into the grooves of Phil’s shoulder blades, becoming almost desperate. Like he had to ensure something was real, that he wasn’t completely alone out here. “It’s like, every time I care about someone, they die. Or leave.” he started, and choked on the words.

Phil pulled away, furrowing his eyebrows at Wilbur. “Mate, that is not your fault. You seriously can’t claim an apocalypse as your ‘curse’.” His eyes searched Wilbur’s face up and down, and when Wilbur turned away, he moved to maintain Wilbur’s eye contact.

“It’s not just that, Dad.” He sighed. “I mean, it was my biological parents first, right? And then Tilín got sick. And Quackity fucked off when I needed him most. Majority of my friends died. Charlie still crawls around town with his guts out and it freaks me out, Dad. Like, they’re all gone. I mean, shit, Phil, we held a fucking funeral for Chayanne.”

Phil shook his head pleadingly, cupping Wilbur’s face with both hands. “But he’s alive , Wilbur. Chayanne’s alive. And so is Tallulah. They’re right through that door.” Two thumbs brushed the tears off Wilbur’s cheeks. “And plenty of us made it, Wil. What about Cellbit and Roier? And Jaiden and Bad? Hell, even Quackity and his siblings?”

“Dad. I’ve spent enough days in an empty house.”

“Wil, stop,” Phil insisted, moving his head to catch Wilbur’s attention. “You’re not alone. You hear me? Not alone.”

“Tilín is dead, Dad.” The words rolled strangely off his tongue. He felt as if he was floating, like the ground wasn’t real and the world around him was little more than a distant memory. If not for his father’s hands keeping him grounded, he could have been anywhere in space. “And I’m never getting them back.”

“Hey, hey, Wil, look at me. Please ,” he urged. “Don’t you see what’s happening? You’re spiralling. You need to snap out of it.”

Wilbur was shaking his head, face and eyes stinging. “You don’t get it. You got your kid back, but mine…,” he muttered, only faintly aware he was speaking, and trailed off. “Dad, I had to dig their grave. I remember standing back and looking at all the thousands of tiny graves, and, like, it was terrifying. They were all so similar. And I was all fucking alone and…” He lifted his gaze finally, letting it settle on the door. “And Tallulah…”

“She’s going to live.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She’s going to live , Wilbur.” Phil readjusted his grip on Wilbur’s face, something settling in his gaze. “Because Foolish might not be perfect but he’s the best chance we’ve got. If he can delay the progression of Cellbit’s virus for a full year, he can cure a kid’s infection.”

“It’s not just a simple infection , Dad,” Wilbur pleaded, because he wasn’t listening and he didn’t see how this entire situation was falling apart at their fingertips. He pushed Phil’s fingers off his face and stood to his full height, turning to face the door again, half tempted to go back inside just to end this conversation. “You don’t understand. When we were back there, she said—,” he began, but cut himself off short.

The girl told me , Tallulah had said, pointing directly at the spot beside Leo’s old cap, The one with the red hat.

He couldn’t talk to Phil about that, could he? He was already red-faced and crumbling, little more than a broken child in a grown man’s body, layers of trauma defences stripped away by the mere sight of a sick kid. Talking to Phil about Tallulah’s clairvoyance was opening another can of worms entirely, one he wasn’t prepared to open just yet.

If ever.

Phil’s shoulders straightened, and his brows furrowed. “...Wil? What did she say to you?”

“Nothing,” Wilbur gritted out. He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his pants, and took a deep breath. He’d been out here too long, anyway; he should’ve been back with Tallulah. Breaking eye contact with Phil swiftly, Wilbur made for the door. “It’s not…I’m just—it’s nothing. Really.” He grabbed the door handle, ready to wrench the door open again, but Phil’s fingers landed on top of his, stopping him with a single silent motion. A moment of tension followed, in which neither of them dared to speak a word, but Phil’s stare said enough on its own.

“Wilbur,” Phil breathed, and great, there was the full name, “We need to be on each other’s teams here, mate. I don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I’m not hiding anything from you, Dad,” Wilbur snapped, his voice a crack in the night, even though he kind of was. But his nerves were on edge and he felt like his emotions were spilling over at every possible moment and he wanted his kid back, and fuck, nothing ever went his way anymore.

Phil sighed, eyes deadening. “Wil.” He opened his mouth to say more, but flinched when the door opened in front of them, cutting their conversation short.

Light from the foyer pooled out onto the porch, washing the floorboards in warm yellow. Chayanne backed up a step, apparently sensing the energy of the conversation. His eyes flicked between Phil and Wilbur, and then hesitated on Wilbur’s face, probably noticing the obvious signs of tears. “Sorry, did I—”

“No, you’re fine, Chayanne,” Phil said, although his voice still carried a clear line of frustration to it. “What is it?”

Chayanne took another moment to watch them, as if trying to sense whether it was safe there, or whether the scenario would escalate again. “Foolish asked for you, Phil.”

A beat. Phil glanced once more at Wilbur, before a second sigh escaped him, and he ran a tired hand up and down his face. For a moment, his age showed, and he looked as though he might have collapsed from exhaustion.

Wilbur guessed he wasn’t the only one suffering from recent events.

Phil turned back to Wilbur. “Don’t worry about this for now, alright? We’ll talk about it later.” With that, he darted around Chayanne, who backed up to let Phil through—and maybe to put more separation between himself and Phil.

Wilbur expected Chayanne to follow behind the man. Or leave Wilbur out in the cold, anyway, go back to Tallulah like he’d trained himself to do.

He didn’t expect Chayanne to slip out onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

He stared at Chayanne.

Chayanne stared back.

Wilbur raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“What are you doing out here?” Chayanne asked. He signed the words as if he meant them to be accusatory, but they really came out as curious—perhaps even a little concerned.

Wilbur sighed, letting his head drop so his chin nearly touched his chest. “I’m sorry, Chayanne, I’m not really in the mood right now. Why don’t you head back inside?”

Chayanne stayed almost pressed up against the door, as if afraid to enter the house alone. Brilliant white hair whipped in front of his eyes—it was almost starting to look a little overgrown. “Not without you. Tallulah wants you there.”

“With all due respect, Chayanne, I’m kind of going through something right now. And I can’t be in that room until I get myself under control.” Wilbur watched the kid with a bit of a pained smile on his face. He knew Chayanne wasn’t trying to upset Wilbur, and the last thing he wanted to do was to lose his temper on Chayanne after Wilbur had spent so long trying to apologize to him, but he felt as though his emotions had all been tied into one heavy bundle and set onto a tightrope to see what happens.

Chayanne watched Wilbur with wide eyes, looking entirely out of place against the elaborately-detailed black door. He furrowed his eyebrows, gaze scanning over Wilbur, thinking—looking like he was tempted to flee back inside where he wouldn’t have to deal with an emotionally-vulnerable Wilbur. On his part, Wilbur was sure he looked a mess—red-cheeked with ugly tear stains making a mess of his features, eyes bloodshot and hands trembling. It was probably more than clear he’d been crying, and Wilbur thought that the last thing Chayanne needed to see right now was one of the only adults in his life crumbling in a time of emergency.

Wilbur straightened himself, wiping the backs of his hands against his cheeks, and cleared his throat. “You’re right. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Thanks for coming to get me, Chayanne.”

Chayanne blinked. “You could talk about it if you want.”

And—

Wilbur froze, sure he’d misread the signs. After all, his ability to read Federation sign was still largely imperfect, even when the kids slowed down so he could better understand them. But Chayanne was staring at Wilbur expectantly, waiting for a response, and Wilbur realized that Chayanne had genuinely offered up the opportunity for Wilbur to talk about his emotions.

Huh. Well. That was, quite literally, the last thing he expected Chayanne to say.

Wilbur took a step backwards, grimacing at a dull ache in his back. “I appreciate it, Chayanne, but we don’t need to talk about it. I’m not going to weigh you down with my problems.”

Chayanne shrugged, expression hard to read. “Doesn’t matter. If it’ll make you feel better. It was just an offer.”

Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows. It was all very strange behaviour coming from Chayanne.

He’s got a big heart, Wil. Bold of you to assume he only cares about the kids.

But that was just Phil being Phil, and naively choosing to believe that everyone was getting along even when they weren’t. Phil chose to live inside his own world because he could, but Wilbur couldn’t seem to escape reality.

Wilbur thought back to a time a couple weeks ago when he’d witnessed Chayanne and Pomme arguing, before they’d both stormed off in separate directions and Pomme burst into tears. Not twenty minutes later, Chayanne had sought out Pomme, sat down with her, and talked it through until she was okay again.

Huh. 

“You don’t have to help me, Chayanne,” Wilbur said. Not gently—he imagined Chayanne wouldn’t quite like that, might even interpret it as disingenuous or condescending—but soft all the same. “I know you think you need to protect all the others, but…you can just be a kid, man. Don’t worry about me.”

Chayanne paused for a second, seemingly disarmed. It was only a flash, and then his face turned up in a familiar grimace, body tensed and a red flush peeking out from above his neck bandages. “I’m not trying to protect you,” he said with distaste, although he seemed unsure even as he said it—his hands worked slowly like they had betrayed him. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Chayanne wrapped his arms around himself, closing himself off, and he avoided making eye contact with Wilbur.

He watched the boy, lingering on the way he trembled slightly, maybe from his frayed nerves and maybe from the cold. “Go inside, Chayanne,” he urged, “I’ll come join you in a minute.”

Chayanne looked behind him, perhaps considering it, hand subconsciously fiddling with the fresh bandages around his neck in thought. Eventually, he shook his head. “It’s not safe out here.”

“I’m a grown man, Chayanne. I’ll be fine.”

“This area is crawling with infecteds and you’re bad at fighting.”

Perhaps out of pure surprise alone, Wilbur laughed. “Ouch. Low blow.”

Chayanne shifted uncomfortably, tightening his grip around himself, knuckles turning white where they pressed against his skin. “Just—don’t be too long. Tallulah needs you.”

Really, Wilbur started to wonder whether Chayanne was worried about Wilbur staying outside at all, or if he was actually worried about being inside without everyone else around. Outside was danger and fighting and bravery, and Chayanne could handle those well enough—inside was sickness, and inside was quiet, and inside was a strange man operating on Chayanne’s little sister with tools that were only questionably sterilized. That wasn’t anywhere near Chayanne’s area of expertise, and it was far from Phil’s, too, so Wilbur had to pick up the slack.

His family needed him.

In the absence of a response from Wilbur, Chayanne turned, fingers slipping around Foolish’s dickishly ornate door handle. He moved to go back inside, but stopped, turning to face Wilbur. The door fell shut with a quiet click behind him again. “By the way, Foolish is almost done. Tallulah’s going to live.”

Wilbur felt his breath go still, skin buzzing with surprised adrenaline. He widened his eyes, shoulders loosening. “She’ll be okay?”

“No,” Chayanne admitted, eyes deadening towards Wilbur. “Apparently, removing tissue is bad. I don’t really know the details. Either way, she’ll be on bedrest for a long time.” And Wilbur could tell from the way Chayanne’s hands paused after signing, the way his fingernails curled tight into his palms, that the news upset him as much as it did Wilbur. Chayanne swallowed, averting his eyes. “But she’ll live.”

And, well, Wilbur thought Chayanne looked smaller than he ever had, at that moment. Shoulders that were usually pushed back in a false display of confidence were curled up small, and his hands were wrapped around his middle, as if all his defences had broken down. The boy’s eyes were sunken and stained with purple from a lack of sleep, a slight shake pulsing through his entire body.

“You’re a good kid, Chayanne,” Wilbur said, voice soft in a way he hoped wouldn’t be threatening. Chayanne looked like his nerves were grated enough. “Just thought you should know. In case you didn’t.”

And though his face didn’t change and his eyes remained glued to the ground, the boy froze. Shoulders dipping a little, breath returning to a previously stagnant chest.

Still, when Chayanne finally looked up, he rolled his eyes, mouth turning up in discontent. “God, you’re just like Phil.” He shook his head, and Wilbur thought he caught an embarrassed flush on the kid’s face. “I’m going back inside. If you’re not back in two minutes, I’m locking you out.” Chayanne didn’t wait for an answer; rather, he turned and slipped back through the door.

Wilbur listened to the sound of his near-silent footsteps disappearing around the corner, reflecting silently on the teenager who was far too mature for his own good. Who refused to leave his sick sister’s side except to check on Wilbur, even though they’d fought earlier that day. Because protection was the only way Chayanne knew to show affection, whether he realized it or not.

It was strange, almost. Wilbur’s little brother had certainly grown up.

**

And every day, he is learning to swim again.

Chapter Text

When she opens her eyes, it is to another white room, hexagonal in shape like the walls are pressing in on her from all sides. She is no longer in pain, and yet the world is fuzzy, like nothing here is really real. The lights set deep into the ceiling are too sharp and too bright, and there’s something cold piercing her back.

Someone is shushing her. It’s warm, almost familial, like a parent would soothe their crying child. Warm hands cup her face, brushing away the hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, and she looks up again to find Wilbur smiling at her sadly. Face worn, a little older than she remembers, or perhaps that’s just the stress.

He’s dressed in all white, too. If not for his exposed face, he could blend in perfectly with any of the others, and Tallulah would never know.

It’s strange to see him like that, she thinks.

Why are you crying, little one? He whispers, voice honey-sweet as it’s always been. Then he leans in conspiratorially, a smile painting his face like she’s the most precious thing in the world. You’re home, Four. You’re finally home.

It’s enough to make her wish he had kept quiet after all.

⋅‒ ‒⋅⋅⋅ ⋅⋅‒ ⋅ ⋅‒⋅⋅

The little dragon does not catch the rest of the strange dots and dashes, but scribbles down what she can anyway. She figures she might not have time later.

**

Wilbur was tending to her. She knew without even opening her eyes, had grown accustomed to his feather-light touch as he adjusted the pillow beneath her head and brushed the hair from her face. When she blinked her eyes open, squinting to block out the light, he was smiling as always, eyes full of a kindness so vast that it hurt. It still hurt.

She frowned upon noticing the pills cupped in his hand. “Is it time already?”

He nodded, face unchanging, already used to this conversation. “It is indeed.”

She grimaced up at him. Half of the time, they got stuck halfway down her throat, even when taking them with water, and once she actually worked up enough courage to swallow them, they left an awful taste on her tongue.

Wilbur shook his head when he noticed Tallulah’s expression. “Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t like them,” he commented, handing a mug of water to Tallulah, “but I’m sure you’d rather take the pills than let the infection get bad again.”

She shrugged. “Wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Wilbur was not amused. “Tallulah,” he warned, although gently, careful as always with his tone to ensure it wouldn’t frighten her, and held out the pills to her again.

With an empty glare, Tallulah let the pills slide into her palm, and tried to ignore the bile rising at the back of her throat.

It took them a minute for her to get them down, and not without casting a look of betrayal in Wilbur’s direction. He laughed with a voice like a bell, and her gaze remained unchanged, perhaps even unimpressed.

“Okay, okay,” Wilbur said, smiling still, “I’m an awful person for laughing.”

“You are,” Tallulah agreed simply. He was.

Wilbur rolled his eyes despite the grin painting his cheeks in a happy glow. It was nice to see Wilbur like this; since Tallulah had started to recover, he’d begun to smile again. Now, his energy was returning—although perhaps from the ungodly amounts of coffee he was forcing himself to drink every day—and the tension in his shoulders had eased.

Tallulah tried her best not to smile. It was a failed attempt.

“There we go,” Wilbur continued, eyes soft and fond where they crinkled in the corners, and he reached for the thermometer on the side table bordering the couch. “Has Phil taken your temperature at all today? No?”

Tallulah shrugged. He hadn’t, but she didn’t feel feverish anyway.

So, Tallulah waited patiently and opened her mouth as Wilbur lay the thermometer on her tongue, and when he pulled the device out and checked it, he smiled. “It’s gone down again. Well done, Tallulah.”

The rest of Wilbur’s visit was short and sweet: he gave her an ice pack wrapped in cloth to lay on her forehead, a new book that Phil had salvaged from an old library on the edge of town, and a cup of tea.

And perhaps she shouldn’t have felt guilty, but it was hard to watch someone dote on her without worrying she didn’t deserve it. She hadn’t done anything for Wilbur but cause him stress, and yet he’d pushed aside his entire life to help her recover. She couldn’t help but think that if she’d just told him what was wrong in the first place, pointed out where it hurt and taken care of the infection, that she could have protected him from a lot of anguish.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur,” she signed.

He frowned, eyes creasing in confusion. “What do you mean? You have no reason to apologize.”

“I’ve caused you so many problems.” A lump settled in her throat, guilty and thick. Better to apologize now and make him realize how selfish she’d been rather than let him get angry on his own later. “And I’m still causing you problems. You’ve spent so much time taking care of me when I don’t ever give you anything back.”

A pause. Wilbur watched her for a second, raised an eyebrow, sighed. And she realized, oh. This was the moment when Wilbur would realize she was right, and then he’d get mad, and then this whole parental facade he’d kept up for so long would slip.

“You deserve to be taken care of, Tallulah,” Wilbur countered, voice soft. “Especially when you’re sick.” He leaned forwards and brushed a hand through her curls—not really smiling, not with that flicker of concern resting in his eyes, but thoughtful, at least. “I take care of you because I want to take care of you. I brought you to Foolish because you’re a good kid and I think you deserve much more than I could ever offer you. Infinitely more than this world has given you.”

Tallulah kept silent, eyeing him nervously. She couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking; he didn’t seem the type to joke about something like this, but then again, adults had a tricky tendency of surprising her at the worst of times.

She looked at him with uncertainty, hands clenched in the fabric of her blanket. Wilbur’s sweater still pooled over her wrists and shoulders, much too large for her but a part of her anyway. She let her hands slip into the fabric, soft and worn and familiar. Tried to let it remind her that this was Wilbur, this was Wilbur , and Wilbur didn’t lie to her like that.

Wilbur must have noticed her shift in emotion, because he exhaled softly through his nose. “If I could wave a magic wand and make this all go away, then you’d have grown up with a loving family and parents who gave you the world in the palms of their hands, Tallulah.” He smiled, but it was sad. “I wish you’d been given so many good things that it turned you spoiled and rotten. And I’m sorry you’ve been raised to think that basic human decency is something you have to repay.” He leaned in, giving her a look. “You don’t, by the way. I’m going to continue taking care of you as long as you’d like, and I’ll never expect anything in return.”

Frankly, it sounded like everything she wanted. The sort of thing she’d have dreamed about back at the Federation, shivering under a thin blanket and overhead lights that never truly shut off. She would’ve let her mind wander to a place where she was loved and warm, where she could experience sadness and silence without them being permanent.

Her eyes began to water without her really realizing it. She blinked them away, unwilling to let Wilbur see. She thought by the sympathetic smoothing of his features that he noticed, anyway.

“Why are you so nice to us?”

He paused, watching her in soft silence. When he spoke up again, it was with a quaver in his voice. “Rest up, Tallulah.” His fingers stilled where they combed through her curls. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Tallulah looked away. She tangled her hands in each other, picking at the skin around her nails to distract herself from her emotions. Part of her insisted that she didn’t deserve it, even if the others had earned all the good things Wilbur had given them. She’d only given Wilbur and Phil grief, and the whole house had suffered as a result.

But Wilbur took care of her. He liked taking care of her, cherished and adored her like she was his own child. Even in the short few months that she’d known him, he was more generous and kind and gentle than any other adult had been before; treated her like she was important.

It was sad, in a way. Perhaps he missed having his own child around, and was using Tallulah to feel needed again. Hell, he’d even called her Tilín once or twice before catching and correcting himself. Even so, Tallulah didn’t mind too much; she liked being loved.

It did sting a little, maybe. Just a tiny bit.

She liked thinking that, perhaps in another universe, he could have been her dad. Or, at least, an adult in her life, someone who wanted the best for her. Maybe it was selfish, but then again, she’d always been a dreamer. She’d been dreaming of a doting parent for years back at the Federation, and that sort of long-time ache never went away.

For now, she held it close to her heart where it could be secret but loved, the wish that he was her proper guardian. That she could stay in this cottage forever and never have to worry about the Federation again.

It was a naive thought, but at least it kept her warm.

**

Two days later, Tallulah noticed the brown curl. It was hidden at the base of her neck, almost completely buried in the nest of her hair. When Pomme entered the room to dab at the back of Tallulah’s neck with a wet cloth, she found the curl and tugged on it, confused. For a long moment, Tallulah and Pomme stared at it in silence, unsure what to make of it. The dark lock of hair stood out like an omen, stark in contrast to the brilliant white curls surrounding it.

They knew what it meant, of course. Neither of them commented on it, but Tallulah could tell by the dawning realization in Pomme’s eyes that she knew what had changed.

Gently, Tallulah pushed her sister’s hands away. Pomme nodded in silent understanding and stood, eyes still focused on Tallulah’s neck.

They wouldn’t talk about it. And, no matter what, they would not tell Chayanne.

**

It had been nearly three weeks, and Tallulah was still on bedrest. Three boring weeks in which she was not allowed to leave the couch without supervision, and every time she did, there was at least one person supporting her, ensuring she wasn’t putting pressure on her leg. There was almost always someone in the room, taking care of her wounds or keeping her company or simply sitting in silence.

It was nice, in a sense.

However, Tallulah was an introvert. Never in her life had she wanted to be left alone more than now.

After a week, Tallulah became irritated. A week and a half and she was overwhelmed. Two weeks and she tried to be healthy just so she’d be left alone. Three weeks and she was ready to snap.

Unfortunately for Tallulah, she didn’t snap.

Instead, she sat in silence, constantly overstimulated by the bodies in the room, the family tending to her wounds and helping her walk. On lucky days, she was allowed outside, helped down the back steps so she could lie in the grass and stare up at the sky.

It was getting colder. The clouds were a constant churning grey, the wind shallow and scented with ice, the ground hardening beneath her back, the grass always tinged with silvery pin pricked frost.

Winter was settling around the town, and Tallulah was still recovering from the fall.

If she wasn’t alone while awake, then she certainly wasn’t alone while asleep. She thought for a while that her dreams would be her only escape from all the stress of the household; when the rest of the cottage was asleep, Tallulah’s world came alive, the moonlight a canvas for her wild imagination.

And, for a while, it was an escape.

It happened slowly. She’d seen glimpses of them out of the corner of her eye, flashes of red and yellow, but every time she looked directly at them, nobody was there. Part of her was sure it was a lingering effect of the fever, some sort of prolonged hallucinatory trip. But why was it always the same child, and why now?

Never before had her dreams been so plagued with nightmares. She woke up multiple times a night covered in her own sweat, scratching at her neck and gasping for air, sure there was a red ribbon choking her to death. Her dreams were mosaics of lost yellow feathers sitting in piles of dust and a guitar melody that was almost surely forgotten to everyone but her.

And every time it got too bad for her to handle, every time she lashed out and writhed in her sleep, she woke to the same cold hands protectively cupping her face, shaking her from the dreams that had her clutched in their grasp.

Nobody was there. Nobody was ever there; it was always Tallulah ringed alone by moonlight, peering into the darkness to see no one but her sleeping siblings on the floor beside her couch. Sometimes Chayanne would be holding her hand in his sleep, but that was the extent of it.

It wasn’t until tonight that she saw the child directly.

Her dreams were different than usual. Tonight, there was no child, no yellow feathers or sweetly ominous words, no red ribbons or faded beanies.

Tonight, she looked down and saw no body attached to her soul; only an endless white room, blindingly bright and eerily familiar. She saw a chair chained to the floor, and Wilbur sitting as still as could be, face devoid of emotion. She saw the void consume him piece by piece, white paint disguising his skin with every delicate stroke.

And he let it.

She woke only when her body was rattled awake. Hands were on her shoulders—not the face, this time—impossibly cold but unmistakably human, and they shook her gently awake, touch urgent and yet respectfully soft.

Tallulah gasped for air as if she’d been drowning. Instinctually, she grabbed onto the hands that held her, squeezing the fingers to reassure herself this was real.

It was becoming more and more difficult to tell.

A little voice was shushing her—a voice , an unfamiliar whispered hush. “Calm down,” they muttered, voice soft enough that Tallulah could barely distinguish the words. “Please.”

When Tallulah got a good look at her surroundings, she immediately noticed three things: one, that all four of her siblings were soundly asleep on the floor; two, that she did not recognize the voice speaking to her, hushed as it was; and three, that even in the dim blackness of the living room, she could make out the glint of gold feathers.

And, well, if she were another child, she would have said one of those bad words Chayanne told her never to say.

On instinct, Tallulah flinched back, pressing herself into the couch cushions behind her.

She’d seen Tilín countless times in her dreams by now, memorized the blurred face of a child from a long time ago, hidden in a photograph turned facedown in Tilín’s old room.

Nothing had prepared her to see the kid in person. She hadn’t expected that Tilín would look older than the five-year-old haunting Wilbur’s dreams; taller, and where their wings were soft and tiny and new in the photograph, they now carried a wingspan of almost five feet, carved of a brighter yellow-gold that was only muted by the shadows of the darkened living room. Now, they crouched by Tallulah’s couch, one finger pressed to their lips to get Tallulah to quiet down and the other hand flattened out in a placating gesture.

Tallulah wasn’t sure what to do. She’d pressed herself as much as she could into the couch cushions, and, having nowhere else to go, grabbed her pillow and used it as a physical shield between herself and Tilín. Not that pillows would stop a dead person, but it was worth a try.

The pillow rustled as she reached for it.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Now please shut up,” Tilín urged, eyes growing wide. It was funny, because Tallulah hadn’t even said anything. They put out their hands to calm Tallulah, which really only made her shrink away from them more.

Tilín continued, “Please. I can’t speak to you if the others wake up.”

Tallulah waited a second. Listening to the rapid, terrified fluttering of her heart.

And she lowered the pillow, blinking at Tilín in silence. Examining Wilbur’s child in detail—because they were real, they were real , and they were solid and touchable, and they breathed and blinked like a living person, and they’d aged since death, and if not for the freezing temperature of their skin, Tallulah would be certain they were still alive. She stared, a little horrified and a little in awe.

“Hi,” Tilín breathed. They smiled, slightly-crooked teeth glinting almost silver in the moonlight.

And then they reached out, fingers stretching like they were planning on touching Tallulah, and Tallulah promptly remembered, oh. This was a dead person. A dead person who wanted to touch her.

A knot settled quickly into her throat, heart resuming its rapid thumping. Mind racing, she darted under Tilín’s hand to shake Chayanne awake. Chayanne was smart and brave and Chayanne liked making decisions, so when Tallulah couldn’t think, Chayanne would decide what to do with a dead kid in the living room.

Chayanne jolted to wakefulness, dull grey eyes wide and immediately alert. Tallulah’s fear must have shown in her eyes, because in an instant, he was by her side, eyes scanning her skin for injuries and fingers brushing a white curl out of her eyes.

“What, Tallulah?” He signed, and cast a glance over his shoulder to ensure the other children were still there. “What’s wrong?”

“Tilín.” She stumbled her way through the letters, hands shaking.

Chayanne furrowed his eyebrows. “Tallulah, who’s—,” he started, and then paused, thinking, as if startled by the name. It was a little strange.

And Tallulah jostled his shoulder, and she pointed, but by the time she looked back at Tilín, she was met instead with empty air.

Tilín was long gone.

And Tallulah was alone again in a room full of people who, up until a month ago, she never would have kept secrets from.

The knot in her throat tightened with guilt. Chayanne was still stuck in an odd sort of daze, but snapped to attention when she began signing again. “I had a bad dream,” she lied. “Sorry.”

Chayanne blinked sleepily. She watched as the tension melted from his shoulders as soon as the immediate danger had left, and his grogginess returned in full force. Chayanne looked wistfully at his spot where he’d been sleeping on the floor, sighed, wiped a hand down his face in exhaustion, and fixed Tallulah with a closed-lipped smile. “It’s alright, Llulah. You go back to sleep, and I’ll stay awake for a bit to ensure you’re okay.”

Tallulah frowned. It was only now that she recognized the bags under Chayanne’s eyes, and his restlessness the past few weeks. She began to regret waking him up after all.

He hadn’t slept well at all since the incident with Foolish and Vegetta.

“Go to sleep, Chayanne,” she signed. “I’ll be fine.”

And perhaps on another night, Chayanne would have resisted. In fact, on most nights, Chayanne would’ve stayed up without hesitation to make sure she went back to sleep soundly, even if it meant sacrificing his own sleep.

But this Chayanne was tired, and his nerves were frayed beyond his control, and in his state of grogginess, he simply nodded. “Yeah,” he signed, eyes already half-lidded with sleep. “Yeah, okay.”

And so Tallulah lay back down, and she watched Chayanne’s breathing even out as he fell asleep once more, and she knew without a doubt in her mind that she wouldn’t fall asleep again for a long time. She couldn’t even close her eyes without thinking of the dead child that had tried to contact her. That had smiled so wide when they succeeded, only for Tallulah to scare them away moments after.

Tilín didn’t visit again that night. Tallulah supposed she deserved that.

**

She woke a second time in the night—or, rather, the morning, but so early into the dewy, fragile dawn that the sunlight was a weak pool sitting on the edge of the horizon, painting the sky in silver. As always, she woke earlier than her siblings. Which was good, because it meant things were starting to get back to normal.

She was craving normal again.

For a long moment, she lay immobile, squinting through the window at the sunrise. It was pretty, if not muted in tone by the dawn. She rubbed at the edges of her eyes, sleepy.

It was only then that she noticed the rustling. Perhaps it was what had woken her—or perhaps, she thought, the distant sounds of Wilbur moving around in the kitchen—but now she was fully alert, listening into the careless rustling of thick fabric.

Coming from inside the room.

She snapped her head in its direction, towards where they’d deposited the backpacks they’d found in the dilapidated woodland cottage all those months ago.

It was a boy. Not Chayanne or Richas or, in fact, any boy she’d ever seen before; this boy looked to be the same age as Tallulah, if not a bit short and stubby for his age. Unruly black hair stuck up in places all around his head, cheeks tinged with red from the cold and jaw smeared in one place with dried mud. A pair of old overalls hung loosely around his body, as if they were made for somebody taller.

He was crouched in a squat on the other side of the room where Chayanne and Dapper had left their backpacks side-by-side, turned slightly away from Tallulah. A number of items from within now lay discarded on the floor: their old single-use water bottles, what little was left of the gauze, Pomme’s diary, and the flute Tallulah had found in the schoolhouse. She watched as he dug his arm into Dapper’s backpack, rooting around for a second before he pulled out a piece of familiar cloth. For a moment, he turned and held it up to the light, as if ensuring he’d found the right thing.

Cellbit’s bandana. The one he’d given to Tallulah on the day they’d escaped the Federation. Tallulah was still planning—perhaps naively—on returning it to Cellbit once he came back to town.

So, why would this strange kid want it?

More importantly, who was he? One glance at the feathery down spread across his back, a myriad of black and blue and purple feathers, told her he wasn’t a dragon hybrid.

He should be dead. He should be dead , and yet the boy seemed to be very much real and very much alive, and more importantly, very much an intruder.

Tallulah snapped her fingers to get his attention.

The boy flinched like he’d been zapped, apparently unaware that he was being watched. When he saw Tallulah, a wide, mischievous smile spread up his cheeks. If only to make things worse, he held up the bandana and shook it a little, like he was teasing her.

Tallulah frowned. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

And she didn’t think the boy understood sign language, especially not Federation sign, but his smile spread wider. He stood quickly, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Tallulah, and took off, little legs deftly hopping over the bodies of Tallulah’s sleeping siblings.

Without thinking, Tallulah startled to her feet. Her heart beat a thick, heavy pulse in her ears, and she wanted nothing more than to be able to run again. She took a step, ignoring her limp and the stinging pain in her leg, and moved to catch up to the boy.

He dashed out of the living room and into the front hall, lit by the flickering yellow of the overhead lights.

Tallulah tried to move faster. Her leg protested in pain.

Hm. She’d have to be careful about this.

When she turned the corner, she saw him standing at the front door, holding the bandana tauntingly in front of him. The door was open, which was strange, because she didn’t hear the familiar creak of the old hinges. It was simply open, as if waiting for him—waiting for the both of them.

He grinned back at Tallulah from the doorway. Apparently, he was waiting, too. Only when she was in sight again did he slip through the door, bandana twirling lazily around one finger.

Oh, this was wrong. The sounds of Wilbur moving about the kitchen only reinforced that, and it sent a pang of guilt through her heart. She knew deep down that she was making a bad decision, that it would’ve been smarter to open up to Wilbur and tell her about what she was seeing, and then Wilbur could help her through it.

But this little boy was getting away, and if she didn’t follow, Cellbit’s bandana would be lost forever.

Before she could regret it, she stumbled down the front steps and onto Wilbur’s front yard, only focused on catching up with the strange boy. Her brain felt strangely fuzzy, as though she was still stuck in a stage of half-sleep. She blinked, trying to shake the fog from her mind.

It was only when she looked up and caught sight of the street that she stopped. Heart curling with fear, shoulders shivering from a chill.

It was Wilbur’s street. It was, except also so remarkably different that she was sure something was wrong.

She didn’t remember the sky ever being clear or blue like this, didn’t remember the pavement being uncracked or the houses being intact. The abandoned house across from Wilbur’s cottage was now upright and filled with a warm yellow glow from inside. A bald man and a second man in a dark blue hoodie stood together on the front porch, overlooking a front garden where a teenager with bleached blond hair and overgrown brown roots was playing with a younger boy who wore a moustache-themed bandana around his neck.

She waved, more than a little alarmed.

All of them looked on, seemingly unaware of Tallulah standing across the street from them. Apparently, they could not see her at all.

Something was definitely wrong.

A light was on in the living room of the house next door, and through the window, Tallulah could see a dining table where a number of women and a little girl wearing a pancake-shaped beret were sitting down to eat. Down the street, a little boy was spinning the propeller on the top of a colourful hat, looking bored.

In fact, every house down the street was occupied by families—and children , children she’d never met, and for a moment it almost felt real. The air was warm and sweet like it was summer, and there was laughter, real laughter, and Tallulah thought it was almost nice.

A giggle sounded from behind her. She jumped, shocked by the closeness of the noise.

Wilbur was descending the steps down to his front lawn—but young Wilbur, just barely in the beginning stages of adulthood, and he was accompanied by the yellow-winged man Tallulah saw in the photographs. Tilín sat on Wilbur’s shoulders, younger than Tallulah had ever seen them—they couldn’t have been older than three.

Which was strange, because the rest of these people might have been dead, but Wilbur was most certainly alive. Which meant that something else was going on here, something for which Tallulah wasn’t prepared.

She was beginning to feel nauseous. She stumbled away from the house, body burning with a mix of adrenaline and fear. If she wasn’t already certain, the sight of young Wilbur reinforced the idea that Tallulah wasn’t meant for this place, wasn’t meant for this time . She walked backwards over uneven bumps in the road and wet, squishy patches she knew were moss, but when she looked down, she was met with unblemished concrete. Cold drops of rain stung her skin, but her skin remained dry and the sky remained blue and cloudless.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

The facade of this town, the one that existed before the apocalypse, sat on top of everything like a blanket. She knew the air was cold from the goosebumps on her arms, but the wind that brushed past her cheeks felt warm. And she realized, oh. This town wasn’t just full of ghosts.

This town was a ghost itself.

A rough hand grabbed her shoulder. She jumped away as if she’d been burned, immediately overstimulated and immediately overwhelmed.

The boy in the overalls was in front of her again, grinning mischievously. He looked like a natural piece of this false landscape, another happy child that might have lived down the road.

Another happy dead child, she might add.

Before Tallulah could stop him, he took off running again, Cellbit’s faded bandana in his hand the only evidence of the apocalypse having ever happened.

Tallulah understood with a snap. He was trying to lead her somewhere.

And so Tallulah, ever the obedient child, followed. Painstakingly slowly, still adjusting to walking on her own with an injured leg, and ignoring the slivers of pain shooting up her calf with every step.

She tried as best she could not to gawk idly at the town, now that she could actually see it for what it was. At one point, it had been colourful and full of life, if this illusion was accurate. As she neared town, she took note of all the hundreds of people milling on the streets and in storefronts. She bet most of them were dead by now, and the thought made her sick. The faded, torn flags that hung on wires between buildings were now vibrant and fresh, jostling on a slight breeze as she passed underneath.

She tried to remember that underneath this facade, she was still in an apocalypse. This town might have seemed bright and teeming with life, but she was still a little girl in a town full of infecteds, and nobody knew her whereabouts. And, given that she was currently stuck in a hallucination, she had to listen extra carefully for anything out of the ordinary.

She never knew when something could sneak up on her.

At the end of every street, the boy stopped and turned around, peering through the people swarming the streets to ensure Tallulah was still following. He seemed to be growing impatient, his cheeky smile transforming slowly into an irritated frown, as if he was growing tired of her slow pace. She wanted to tell him to wait, that she was still in pain, but every time she lifted her hands to form a word, he turned again, slipping down the street as if he hadn’t noticed.

It was becoming frustrating.

He led her through the middle of the town, past the old schoolhouse at which she’d stopped during her first night in town—now coated in fresh paint with windows that glinted in the light of the sun—all the way to the centre of town, where the crossroads of buildings and alleys gave way to a massive bulletin board slowly drowning in the rain.

Rain.

She didn’t remember it raining. But she blinked, and her head spun, and in a moment she was all alone again, and it was cold again, and her skin and clothes were drenched by freezing sleets of precipitation. The bricks beneath her shoes were little more than rubble, and when she looked behind her, the crowds of people had disappeared. These buildings sagged like they were tired, windows little more than jagged shards sticking from their frames.

In her hands, she clutched a faded bandana soaked through with rainwater. Perhaps she’d been holding it this whole time. She thumbed over the fabric in confusion, watching as beads of water dripped from the ends.

The illusion was gone.

The boy was not. In fact, he was standing directly in front of Tallulah, solid and real and eyeing her with an urgent sort of look. He grabbed onto her wrist, ignoring the way she flinched, and pointed in front of him.

In a moment, Tallulah understood.

Two people stood before the bulletin board—real people, familiar in a way that gnawed at the edges of Tallulah’s memories. She thought she’d seen this before, a hazy sort of recollection pulling itself from her dreams.

A spider hybrid and an avian leaned their bikes against the edge of the bulletin board, and were now staring dejectedly at the slew of soggy missing persons papers turned to sludge by the rain. The avian, brilliant black and blue feathers drenched with water, was digging through her backpack. Her voice was almost silent through the rain, and Tallulah strained to hear.

“This one too?” She asked, squinting to see the man beside her. Dark strands of hair were plastered to her forehead, and she blinked through wet eyelashes unhappily.

The man beside her nodded, expression unreadable. “This one too.”

Tallulah watched with a lump in her throat as they hung up the poster, sticking it with a squelching noise to the mouldy cork board.

“Come home soon, Gatinho,” the man muttered, tracing his fingertips down the edge of the poster. Even from a distance, Tallulah noted how empty he seemed, like he’d lost every ounce of hope. Tallulah looked between the printed picture of Cellbit’s face and the bandana sitting in her hands, filled with a growing sense of guilt.

The boy in the overalls released Tallulah’s wrist. Tallulah watched as he ran up to the pair and wrapped his arms around the woman’s waist, squeezing her tightly. Now that the facade of the town had slipped, he was hard to look at in a way Tallulah couldn’t describe. Too sharp and too blurry all at once. It made her head hurt.

In response to the child around her legs, the woman shivered, wings bristling behind her back, and the boy flinched in surprise.

The man beside her frowned, startled by her sudden movement. “Are you cold?”

The avian furrowed her eyebrows, folding her arms over her chest. She rubbed one arm subconsciously, face turning up in a sort of grimace. “Got a random chill.”

Tallulah pretended not to see the boy’s face fall.

She looked down at the bandana in her hands, a thin sheet of understanding falling over her.

The boy wanted her to give the pair the bandana. If Tallulah’s visions were right, if the man really was Cellbit’s husband, and if they really were out here in the rain searching for him, then they’d want one of his belongings, right? Giving it back would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?

Wilbur would think so.

Chayanne would disagree.

Phil would mediate.

And, as always, Tallulah was stuck at a crossroads, trying to decide which of their opinions was the most trustworthy. Wilbur would always trust the townspeople, because he had a big heart that never learned to stop trusting; Chayanne would trust nobody, because Chayanne’s learned his lesson far too well; and Phil would be far too attached to both of them to choose an opinion.

But they weren’t here. Tallulah was alone in the rain, watching a husband lose hope from afar.

So, while their backs were turned, Tallulah threw the bandana. It landed softly and silently behind them, giving Tallulah the opportunity to hobble backwards, hand along the wall of the dilapidated building to her left, until she could crouch in its front doorway. Her fingers closed around a bit of broken rubble at the door, and she threw it to the far wall, where it made a loud clack and echoed off the walls.

The woman and man both jumped, surprised by the sudden noise, and turned in the direction of the noise—away from Tallulah.

“Hello?” The woman called at the same time the man yelled, “That’s not funny!”

The spider hybrid grabbed blindly for the avian, a mixture of fear and alertness fixing his posture into a straight rod, looking as though he was a second away from taking off.

Tallulah supposed the apocalypse had made everyone a bit jumpy.

The woman turned, wings flared, searching for a sign of someone, and it was only then that her gaze fell upon the rain-soaked bandana lying patiently before them.

A beat. The rain continued like a steadily beating drum.

“Roier,” she breathed, and the man turned.

For a moment, there was only silence. His head tilted to the side upon noticing the bandana, and then he shook his head, apparently registering that it was familiar. He took a step forward, movements cautious, and dropped to a crouch slowly. The sharp edges of his body were blurred by the pounding rain, and yet Tallulah noted his deep confusion even from a dozen metres away. The man cradled his husband’s bandana between his fingertips, face unreadable.

When he looked up, Tallulah pressed herself against the doorframe and out of view. It wouldn’t do her any good to be spotted now.

“Cellbo!” He shouted, voice echoing like a slap off the old, abandoned storefronts. It was a wrecked voice, damaged from overuse and ragged like the rain. “Cellbo, where are you?!”

Silence. Nobody would respond now.

Tallulah watched through a shattered, filmy window as the man sighed, shoulders dropping in disappointment. The woman squeezed his shoulder and muttered something softly.

Every word from there was drowned out by the rain.

**

Several days later, Tallulah stood in the mirror, combing her fingers worriedly through her hair. If she could simply roll up the small chunk of brown curls there, tuck them into the collar of her shirt, nobody would notice.

She hoped.

**

I just don’t understand , she signs. This isn’t you. 

He watches her curiously, face blank, and answers only with a curious tilt of his head. She wonders if he understood her at all.

A little golden bird squeezes the dragon’s hand, and for the first time ever, she squeezes back. They’re the only one who can comfort her now.

Chapter Text

hey y'all just wanted to check in and let you know that in light of recent news i will no longer be writing this fic or continuing to update it. i do not support wilbur and cannot see a future in this fic without wilbur being involved in it, so my decision has been to discontinue it entirely. i'm sorry to anybody who was waiting for new updates. thank you so much to everybody who has shown their love and support for my writing <3 <3 it truly does mean so much to me and i am so grateful for you.

in the meantime, stay kind and drink lots of water. lots of petals from me to you.

- pluto :)