Jackdaw looked down at her weathered, patchwork cloak, and its varied contents: Dusty old tomes. Journals, scraps of journals, minus necessary context. A stick that could turn into a slightly bigger stick. Dried-out herbs that would probably still disinfect a wound. And a tasteful variety of crunchable midnight snacks.
Jackdaw looked back to the wand pointed up her nose.
This has to be a dream, right? Not a rhetorical question.
Lucien wracks his brain for the last thing he remembers, what got him into this foodcourt. What's he wearing here, by the way? Not that it's important, but it'd be lovely if he had shoes right now.
The idea that this might be a dream doesn't make him feel any safer, mind you. The Heart is a strange place, and he's willing to take it for granted that harm done to him here is harm done. And we must always face our dreams alone...
Still, the Angel can only hurt what it can see. This one doesn't take a genius.
[Roll 2d6 = 4+3+1 = 8] [I get away, fast and without taking harm]
Lucien grabs whatever large bits of shrapnel he can, and throws it one way as he bolts the other, running as fast as he can. The Angel shoots what it sees, but it's still pausing between shots. He can cross a solid eight meters for every second his clay pigeon gambit buys him, enough to get him out of line of sight again.
He dives over the cash register of a food-court counter, and breaks his way into the kitchen area at a crawl. Knifes, deep fryers, spices, and as many reflective surfaces as he can take advantage of.
He probably can't outrun this thing forever, but he doesn't have to. He just had to find a decent position of ambush. Something he can fashion into a simple trap in one direction, while he can hide with a weapon near it. If the trap works, good. If it doesn't, he can nail it while it's distracted.
Ailee Sundish looks to the right. Ailee Sundish looks to the left. Ailee Sundish confirms the lack of witnesses with the careful, deliberate watchfulness of a hitman, uncaring of the minor laser-stings the process costs here. Finally Ailee Sundish produces a book the width of her torso from her backpack, opening the massive, well-worn tome to one of the bookmarked sections labeled R.E. BEES. Ailee Sundish takes a moment to double check the notes on the page and compare it to one of her hand-drawn sketchbooks labelled LANGUAGES. Ailee Sundish checks. Ailee Sundish confirms. Ailee Sundish nods grimly.
Then Ailee Sundish places her hands up to her ears, breaks into a wide smile, opens and closes her palms, steps to the side, and starts to dance. "Like the kitty in the house, I go meow meow meow meow meow~..."
She's not a natural or studied dancer so she avoids any challenging techniques. It's mostly step, step, cute pawing at the air, step step, lean and pose, step step...
"Like the cutie on the prowl, come on meow meow meow meow meow~..."
Neither does she have the song exactly down either. Dancing and singing - there's a lot to remember! Everything needs to be moving just so and in time with the words she almost rushes through accidentally. But despite her inexperience she thinks she's doing okay - the lyrics aren't, technically speaking, a necessary part of the communication experience.
"Like my heart is beating out, fascination of your smile~..."
Step step - technically she learned this from Jackdaw. Because of Jackdaw? Jackdaw liked taking language electives and while Ailee didn't particularly give a damn about being understood by lesser minds she wasn't going to trust some roomful of linguistics majors with her best friend - especially when she'd learned that there was going to be dancing involved. So she'd gone and she'd studied and... well, she'd enjoyed it more than any non-Jackdaw person was ever going to find out.
"Whatever you do, I do, meow meow meow!"
Anyway the point is that she's not all bad, give her a break. She's not here to steal your honey you dumb bees.
And then Gramps ushered him off to the sleeping car. But Coleman never forgot the look on Jerry's face--it had to be Jerry--as he sprinted across the platform, waving his hands, eyes locked on Coleman's and mouthing 'please' over and over.
***
Ooooooh fuck. Priority number one is to get Sasha off the tracks. A train could come barreling through here any second now--any engineer worth their salt will avoid this place like the plague, but sometimes things don't line up the way you want and a diversion through here is the only way through.
Priority two: no eye contact. Nobody really knows what the things that live here are, and believe me, every crew has their own version. Are they a doomed sacrifice by the first layers of rail? Is that what needs to happen, is that all the misfortunes somehow aren't real if there aren't passengers to witness it? Are they a damned crew who sinned against some primordial train and have been condemned to wander the platforms for all time? No matter the story, there's a common thread to the stories--you can never meet their eyes. Or... or what? Or your soul will be stolen, and the Not-A-You will ride away in your skin and leave you there? Or your train will lack the energy it needs to escape?
Personally, Coleman's explanation is if you meet their eyes, and see the desperation there, the only way to live with yourself is to stop the train.
Priority three: Find the rest of his team and pray the other rumors about Wormwood aren't true.
[7 on Look Closely. -Tell me about the other people on the platform. How could they hurt me? How could they help me? -Tell me about my friends. What are they doing? What will they do next?]
“What’s yours is mine!” That jab definitely went up a nostril, ack. “Now what are you?”
The wand is withdrawn, but only so that the figure can begin circling you ominously. Glass crunches loudly (just like snow) under their tiny boots. “What is it? Smells like mold. Belongs to her, but even water boils away, yes, yes!”
Around they come again, and the wand jabs you roughly in a kidney. “Hand it over! I don’t care what precious forgotten memories you have safe, all I care is that they’re all mine! Don’t you know the law, numbnuts?”
***
Lucien!
The angel actually seems rather disinclined to follow you once you get up out of the food court, though it’s a close thing; you swear that the last explosion singed your hind end as you dove up onto the broken tiles of a... rather dingy, very abandoned indoor market. Shelves lie empty or prone as far as the eye can see, stall signs impossibly bleached white, the only remaining symbols the signs of a train, everywhere.
The arrow is a bit of a surprise.
It bounces off the tiles a hair away from your head, and you follow its previous trajectory up to a rather singular fellow. He’s wearing something that was once an usher’s uniform in a previous incarnation of existence, covered in tiles stitched carefully onto the fabric. Blackened, broken bones hang from his necklace and the fringe of his sleeves, and, my my, is that facepaint meant to imitate a skull? What artistry!
Seeing that his shot missed, the gentleman in question lets out a long rising-and-falling whoop that sounds eerily similar to the cries of the angel below. From the corridors all around, similar whoops echo.
That probably doesn’t mean “hello, new friend, you have passed the trial of the Angel and are our new shaman.”
***
Ailee!
It was one heck of a gamble, but it turns out that Bees can understand your wiggling dances. Huzzah! Their answer, however, involves a swirling swarm with lights flashing in unison to make glyphs in Prelapsarian Huzzu.
A performance before one’s higher caste, with the tail stroke that specifically means it was appreciated. An enemy, combined with a festival mask (the closest the language can come to a disguise or false pretenses), beneath the interrogative dots. A wickedness (with the sub-glyph for truth to distinguish it from theoretical evil, the problem of), combined with the Seat of Reason (and the Huzzu didn’t believe that was the brain). Clarification, requested urgently.
A thought runs from the flashes of the bees on the walls, regurgitating stony paste and shaping it with their stubby little manipulator limbs, and you can see it swirl into the bees that are communicating with you.
An encore performance, requested. Urgently.
More and more bees are filling the corridor, landing on the walls, and staring at you with those glowing blue eyes.
***
Coleman!
Here you are, staring up at the New Arrivals And Navigation Board. Passengers disembarked: three, in the Galleria, the Interfaith Chapel, and the... throbbing cancerous growth. Ew. Ewwww.
Still, there’s been no recent First Aid logs (though pretty much all the logs are showing EXP. under condition which isn’t reassuring) which means they’re still alive. All you have to do is get them all together, find some safe spot in this nightmare, and prep Sasha for a real run on the tracks.
That’s the thought going through you as the oversized, makeshift carabiner flies through the air. It locks around your neck, and the cable attached to it pulls taut. You’re jerked off your feet, hard, and as you gasp and catch your breath, you’re stepped on. Also pretty hard.
You look up into the figuratively burning eyes of a Wolf. It’s one of the most intense looks you’ve ever been pinned by. She opens her mouth, and the words that come out creak with disuse.
“The train.” She nods at Sasha, waiting below the narrow stairway up to New Arrivals. “It... yours?” The cable tightens by another ratchet. It’s connected to a jury-rigged launcher. If you could just reach out and touch the cable release... “Take with you.”
Her cheeks are gaunt, one ear is gnawed down to the skull, and her clothing is filthy: ragged rags wrapped around her limbs and a colorless, threadbare jacket hanging off bony shoulders. When she licks her lips, her teeth are yellowed.
“Now.”
Old Scars — whenever you Speak Softly with Wolf, pay a price per question; whenever you Forge a Bond, pay a price. Answers are hard won with her.
Survivor — Wolf has Protection, and can extend this to one other in arms’ reach.
Look Out For Number One — if damaged, Wolf will immediately disengage and return later. When she comes back, she immediately makes a Hard Cut.
Lucien grins. This isn't a dream, this is something far stranger.
Fascinating!
Now he's having fun. Let's assess the situation, shall we?
The archer isn't the Angel, and this market isn't a food court, but they have a sort of... thematic consistency don't they? Abandoned food stores, enemy with a deadly ranged attack and a death motif - but this one he trusts is a bit more real. Maybe he's not in the right place yet, but he's closer to it.
Mostly because this new presentation comes bearing train imagery, and he's aware of what the bloody things can do to your head. It explains a few things.
Fight or flight: Does he take this one, since it's not as scary as its last iteration as an Angel - or does he keep trying to run away? See how the world reacts?
He throws himself into half-decent cover and draws his revolver, considers it. Bloody useless thing. He buys time while he thinks - just says whatever's on his mind for a moment while he hunkers, hoping the archer thinks harder about what he's saying than he is.
"You have the nicest collection of bones I've seen in a dog's age, don't you, Chuck? Where'd you get all those? Me, I grow my own, but I've never thought about making a necklace out of 'em. Seems like it'd hurt. You're going to have to tell me where you got the idea. You got a tailor? I'm looking for a new one. Actually, Chuck - you don't mind if I call you Chuck, right? You just look like a Chuck to me - you know where I could get a new pair of good boots? I'm thinking waterproof this time, and you seem like you'd know!"
[Look Closely - 4+3+2=9: What is going on here/What do my senses tell me, What will happen if I Get Away again, What in this environment could help or hurt me? I find one of these out the hard way. (Frankly, I deserve it)] [Bad Feeling: What's the fastest and what's the safest way out of this?]
Ailee sketches the glyph of the Queen Awaiting - she has her own will, pride and agenda (the line across the face symbolizes a veil, meaning that last one in particular must remain hidden). Tribute must be paid to receive her blessing. She is not here to perform for your amusement - she will do so when she is satisfied, and not before.
(The bees made a terrible mistake when they revealed they comprehended a language other than dance. Now she has leverage)
Another character set: a migratory queen, with swirls symbolizing wind - companions lost, scattered by the breeze. She wants to know where to find them.
Jackdaw gently rubbed at her stinging snout, a rare flash of irritation bubbling in her belly, lending her spine some strength. “How can I give you something I’ve forgotten I even have? And…” Her brow furrowed. “...for that matter, how can you know that I have something I don’t know I have?” It didn’t make any sense! Even by the Heart’s esoteric standards, it was just...the absolute, complete…
No, no, you know what? The word is hogwash.
“Do you know the law? Does it have something to say about this?” Because, genuinely, she would like to know.
Don't meet her eyes, or you'll feel sorry for her.
But that's the rub, innit? When you're not looking at somebody's face, you see everything else. The way the clothing probably used to fit, but now dangles off of too-guant ribs. The blood under the nails--hers, or somebody else's? But that jacket has his entire attention.
See, the color's faded, but he recognizes that cut, that pattern. Last he remembers, it was the uniform for the Sly Weasel, and he's racking his brain to try to recall the last rumors he heard about them. Did they crash here like he and Sasha? 0-6-0 freight hauler, he thinks. Not too dissimilar from Mighty Natascha--although, of course, infinitely worse in every way. Crew didn't even care enough to polish her.
What happened?
The carabiner ratchets again and digs into his throat, the wolf obviously impatient. "We both want out," he chokes out, "but you hurt me and Sasha won't help. And we can't leave til I find the rest."
[Talk Sense: 8-9 depending on whether this is Sense or Wisdom. Partial either way.]
What’s going on here? Pretty obvious. You’re about to be hunted for sport by a bunch of cannibals. The threat of cannibalism is actually a really big part of pulp novels about the Heart, and you know the warning signs: big inviting grins, bones and body parts being a fashion statement, protruding ribs, and physical mutation and horn growth. Yep, this is some textbook cannibal tribe shit you have gotten yourself into. Probably worship that Angel, too.
What will happen if you get away? You’ll end up in another disaster, probably, but that one might not want to eat you or blow you up, so, hey, progress! Whatever’s going on, it’s unlikely you can get out of it completely without some help from the likes of Coleman or Ailee.
What in the environment could hurt you? Well, the Owls with adorable little knit collars that are popping out of the vents around you. Trained Owls. My god. Those cannibals are definitely missing fingers, ears, and tendons from the effort. Their hoots are ominous as they hop and scuttle towards you, extending their retractable talented forelimbs.
What’s the safest way out? Good question! Not the vents. Not the store passageways. Not the cafe with the angel inside it. But if you can get over to that elevator shaft, scramble up it, and crack open a door higher up? The Owls can’t fly up that high with their fluttering jumps, and the cannibals won’t have good lighting for shooting you down.
Good luck.
***
Ailee!
The hive deliberates. This takes longer than you probably want, but the Bees have to debate amongst each other: are you what you claim to be, are you aligned with Calamity, are you part of the Working. The glyphs were for your benefit; you have to watch them and consult the book to eavesdrop on their discussions.
Then the Bees begin rhythmically lighting up a passageway, indicating that you should follow. You descend, and come out in what once might have been a ticket office.
The room is calcified. Thick pulp and wax have turned manuals and pamphlets into solid blocks, and the only break in the slick glaze all around is an iron spike growing out of the ground, rusty and malignant, twisted into some strange floral form.
The Enemy, the Bees around you signal. The Enemy, The Enemy. Friends = scattered, lost. An animal that consumes other animals. Danger.
Exit? Remain? Destroy?
***
Jackdaw!
“The law is avarice. Rule by want. And I want what you have more than you do, as you can plainly see.” The Chief Squeaker pulls out a scale, which seems to be favoring one side very definitively. Then the scale is gestured at emphatically before being folded back up. “Now, hurry up, hurry up, before I make up my mind about what I’m going to turn you into! Probably a kobold. But if you move any slower, maybe a bug!”
***
Coleman!
“Why?” It’s almost snarled. “Crew?” This seems to satisfy her for a moment, as she rolls it over in her head. “Crew. Needed. Mmhm.”
She lets you up, but doesn’t remove the carabiner. This is a little awkward, but it seems rather important to her that she have the ability to knock you down or drag you around. “Scattered? Disaster. Skeleton crew. Bonecrackers, Angels, Squeakers, Bees. Owls in pipes. Dead. Minimum?”
Bonecrackers? That sounds ominous, doesn’t ring a bell. Squeakers? Rats, bunch of dragon cultists and surreal imperialists. Angels? Heart-fauna, very dangerous. Bees? Unlucky, possibly invasive species. Owls? Pack hunters, go for the hamstrings.
Ailee is fascinated. This... could this be a pure manifestation of the Heart, a vector from which its influence has spread? Could this be melted? Smelted? Recast? What properties could be hammered into it, what will might this strange bloody vector of knowledge attain with proper machining? She fetched her glasses from her pocket and crouched down in front of the spike, in front of the pages.
Soft lavender light ran along her tattoos. The Vice burned within her like a furnace. Could she read this? Could she touch this? How deep did this go? What secrets did it hide - and whose secrets might it reveal by implication?
"Curious," she signalled to the bees, blinded in this moment to the dark weight behind that word.
[Roll: 8: I get away quietly, drawing no attention.]
Being stealthy is hard with tracking animals and already being spotted. He'll need one hell of a distraction. He-
Lucien checks his pockets for the sticks of owl jerky he has on him, similar to what that ratter mongrel was snuffling. He crumbles them in his hands to meaty confetti, the tearing making them fragrant. It'd be silly to assume that just because the hunter is a cannibal their pets are too... but with owls, it's a sure bet.
He throws the peppery chaff over his cover, catching the owls attention as it hails down on the cannibal hunter. The owls track the meat as it flies, making the air heavy with a gamey smell, and scatters over their owner.
The hunter is distracted. The owls are well-trained enough not to attack him, but they haven't figured out it's the jerky the owls are stalking towards now, not them. The distinction might not even matter, since they're covered in it. Lucien's the lesser threat, left ignored as the handler gets the owls back under control before getting eaten. The owls have lost Lucien's scent as they're sent snuffling towards their handler...
Lucien keeps low and quick for the elevator shaft, socked feet muffling his steps on the wrought iron rungs of the ladder he takes up the shaft.
Coleman considers, briefly, saying something along the lines of "Seven, but we can get by with four." But it's not a good idea to start a lie to a stranger that's so easily disproven by just looking at the New Arrivals board.
And that's a long list of possible threats. He frowns, and taps his chin in thought. Bonecrackers are an unknown, and therefore something to tackle once he's gathered his crew. Ditto the angel, with a side of "not fucking with that." Of the remaining three...
A kobold? Like Coleman? What would she be like, as a kobold? Would she get a new coat of scales? Would she be built strong like a conductor? And the tail, what about-
No. No, the tail would be different. And she’d be different. And if she was different - really, truly, permanently different - would her own name recognize her? She couldn’t say for sure, but the risk? Too great. Much too great. Nevermind the bit about being a bug.
It’d...been some time since she’d heard that argument. Had to make that argument, to be precise. But hearing it again, her feet settled on two solid facts: She could not let this silly, stuffed-up, mouse turn her into a kobold, or a bug, or whatever struck its fancy. And she could not let go of all her precious things. Not yet.
“Alright,” she said, kneeling down to their level. “I’ll tell you what I know. Here, come closer, I can’t be too loud...”
She told them of every night they’d ever sat alone in the dark, and wished in their secret heart for the sound of another soul. She breathed to life the memory of cold, digging through skin, through bone, through sense and reason. She spoke the words of comfort they kept only for themselves, and they pierced all the more to hear them on another’s tongue. Ached, for the sea of storm surrounding them, forever around them, until at last they go to where they will never feel the wind and rain again.
She spoke the name of the Flood to a heart unprepared.
“It’s...not a matter of wanting and taking.” She said quietly, tears flowing freely down her own face. “You have to want it, yes, the original want is quite important. But, you’ve got to want to hold onto it once you’ve got it.”
“...do you still want to hold onto the rest?”
[Rolling to Finish the Grand Squeaker with Grace: 3 + 6 + 2 = 11]
The smell of the flower blooming is indescribable. Lenses and speakers bud and blossom, glowing from within, as you are examined in turn. The Bees buzz furiously and agitatedly; some throw themselves against the metal flower and burst in a shower of sparks, while others lash out and sting you because you’re the closest thing to sting. Throbbing waves of growth cause showers of static as the flower looms over you.
“Welcome to Wormwood Station!” The voices of the speakers entwine like snakes fucking, one black and jagged and rusty, one shining neon sugarpop. “Please be mindFUL and follow all POSted secuRIty measures! Security is [bzzzzzt] byword! Report SUSpicious aCTivity to your near [bzzzzzzt] injury, maiming or DEATH. Mind the Gap! Mind the Gap! Mind [bzzzzzzzt]!”
***
Lucien!
You’re halfway up the shaft when there’s a gravitational inversion. Up becomes down, and down, unfortunately, becomes up. This means that you’re now hanging upside down to a rusty elevator chain, trusting in your core strength to not hurtle down to your doom far above.
The other problem is that the crashed elevator far, far below is hurtling down towards you with a hideous screeching sound, like a bat out of some terrible hell. You have to outrace the descending elevator to an exit without falling to your doom!
***
Jackdaw!
The Chief Squeaker crumples and begins to sob. They sob so hard and with so much volume that salty puddles begin to form. Wait, no. There are waves moving in them.
In no time at all, there are waves breaking against the carefully maintained glass dunes, waves glittering like ice, but infinitely sharper.
And that’s when the floor underneath buckles and gives way, sending everyone in torrents below.
***
Coleman!
You get your answer when the water starts leaking from the roof. Wolf and you react almost at the same time, scrambling for cover as the roof caves in underneath water and glass and screaming mice and kobolds.
But as you’re scrambling together (and, one might note, Wolf leads the scrambling, as she’s still got you on a leash), you see a familiar raggedy fox on her way down...
"Fascinating..." murmured Ailee. "And ow. Quit it. Ow! Knock it off, assholes! I'm trying to learn about this stupid piece of junk! Don't give me that, you bought me here."
Impatience builds within her like static electricity. It wants to just be done with all this bullshit and get the conversation to its conclusion - a conclusion where she is no longer getting opportunistically stung by panicking bees. She rolls her jaw. The difference between an Archmage and some sort of vice elemental was her ability to focus those sensations on what mattered.
Her big book of nightmare translations is out again and she's flicking through it to the chapter on deranged public transportation infrastructure. "Warning acknowledged," she stated as her tattoos glowed, letting herself be known and heard. "Hello, Wormwood Station. I am the Chief Inspector. Calm your flailing. It is unseemly. We will discuss this over tea like civilized Aspects."
[11: I get away Quickly without Harm, and Quietly without drawing attention]
This isn't the first time this has happened to Lucien. Well, not specifically this. But if you shimmy up enough pipes, eventually one's going to detach from the fifth floor while you're along for the ride. The trick, he repeats now, is to let yourself fall and catch yourself.
Simple physics. You're climbing up, you hold the chain above you and you grip it below you between shin and calf. You flip - your hands are reaching over you. If you hold the chain loosely with your hands and let go with your legs, then your bottom half falls faster than your top half. You flip, and catch the chain with your legs again.
Well. Not exactly the same way. This time he loops it so it coils over his right thigh, catching it with his ankle so he slides down like a zipper. Last time he did this was a long red silk curtain, which had much less of a problem with friction, but that would be more of an issue if he needed to apply more brakes. Right now he's trying to outpace a falling elevator and only slow himself just enough not to break both his legs when he lands.
Now, was the burlesque kick with the other leg strictly necessary? For practical purposes it means he's converted some of his downward motion into horizontal, so he can swing for a landing. The other part of it is muscle memory. Where, exactly, do you think one learns to do flips on long poles and twirl down curtains?
Lucien gets to comparative safety, and he does it fabulously.
When the elevator hits the bottom-top, Lucien bows for the crash of the cymbals.
What fresh hell awaits him now, then? His heart's pounding, and damned if he can't stop smiling.
Sasha whines uneasily and backs away as the water laps at her feet.
That's all Coleman needs to dive away towards the little falling fox body. Sasha knows enough, now, to distrust the wiles of the Flood. (And a wry part of him wishes that he or Jackdaw could learn that lesson.)
The platforms are slippery, soaked in a flood of salty brine. All that's needed is one tug at the right moment to send the wolf sprawling, and enough force forward to keep her from scrambling up while he drags her forward.
They were in a train station! And a desert before that! She’d just started to remember what it was like to be dry every morning. To not have to flip through her books and find the lingering pockets of damp. The Flood was many things, but she wouldn’t have thought impatient would be one of them!
She scampered up the sparkling dunes and instantly regretted it, her paws stinging from a thousand tiny cuts. Maybe, the walls? Could her staff reach that far? No, no, they were all solid rock besides, there wasn’t anywhere to get purchase. A wave slammed into her, sending her spinning in the glittering depths and robbing her of all sense of direction. Where was she going? Which way was up? How much air did she have?! Not again, not again, no no no no no no no-
And stop.
Freeze.
She panted madly. Fresh air. Not water. Water was over there. Water was going down. She was not. She was held. She chanced a peek downward. Black, scaly hands, ending in worn and weathered claws held her steady.
In one great sigh, she limply wrapped herself about his shoulders. “Th-thank you, Coleman…” Lucky thing she was shivering; he’d not catch the wince at her stupid, trembling voice.
The terminal where you end up looks like a wartorn death zone. Bodies lie here and there, mostly ones so strange and warped and inhuman that they must be angels, slowly sprouting into a variety of odd mushrooms where they lie. But the angels did not die fighting themselves.
On the other side of the terminal, the architecture has been repurposed into blocky, sharp-angled pillars and walls, mathematical precision cutting into normal curves and surfaces. The only thing curved about those walls are the many holes— and if you looked closely, you’d see they’re hexagons.
From the ceiling above, something is being hatched. One metal wing has punctured its cocoon, more frame than structure, and needle-thin claws are raking at the thick wood pulp of the cocoon. In response, a hum that sets your teeth on edge issues from the severe, inhuman walls as glowing neon blue bees begin to emerge in their dozens.
But nobody has noticed you. If you wanted, you could set up a chair, munch on suspicious mushrooms like popcorn, and watch the show.
***
Ailee!
“InSPector!” There is a whine of radio static, the flickering of voices, as the receiver tunes in on you. When it speaks again, its voice is choppy, rising and falling, as if assembling words from fragmented sounds stolen from other words. The two voices are there, always there, entwined perversely: the polished charm of the station announcer and the jagged growl of the station itself. “You are very late. Nevertheless, we here at Wormwood Station apologize for the current conditions. Safety is everyone’s responsibility!”
You are considered a moment; there is a sound that is almost like breathing. “Due to present unfortunate conditions,” the station offers, “We are willing to arrange an expedited departure from Terminal Ivy, provided you first assist custodial staff in clearing the cancer in this Terminal. Safety is everyone’s responsibility! Reply.”
***
Coleman! Jackdaw!
For a moment, you are safe. There is a waterfall that is flooding the Terminal, but you have high, safe ground. The ragged-coated Wolf pants and licks her lips, tightening her grip on Coleman’s leash, but you have that moment.
Oh, Jackdaw, that’s a thing. Coleman is very caught by someone who looks like they are starving. Quite literally starving. Ribs can be seen. And the look they’re giving you suggests they haven’t made up their mind whether you’re a friend, or whether you’re lunch.
