A gray infinity stretches out into entropy.

Flashes of dark, amorphous movements flitter about, black patches against the dull canvas. You look down; your lack of a body somehow doesn’t frighten you.

Hushed murmurs come from somewhere out in the expanse, unintelligible even when you focus. The attempt to do so hastens the little voids’ movements, obscuring the endless space further. Against the droning indifference of nothing, the whispers break out into a single, coherent word.

“…obscured…”

You try to formulate thoughts about it, but it’s all just extra noise, akin to static in an echo chamber.

Ages pass, and a force from behind begins to tug at your lack of form. A vague sensation of speed registers just barely as you glide against nothing, frictionless into terminus, until-

You wake violently, neck tensing uncontrollably as your head shoots up from the dusty sheets. At some point, you must’ve dropped onto your right side, pointing away from Hearth. Mercifully, gravity had chosen the shoulder that wasn’t wounded to have you fall onto.

The world spins as you come to, reaching out and gripping the bed for support as you blink away the remnants of dreamless sleep. Just before conking out, you’d held out hope that Luna would reach out, but it seems you’ll have to wait for proper rest for that to happen.

It takes an embarrassing length of time to take stock of the pressure wrapped firmly around your other forearm; one groggy gaze downward reveals Pal’s familiar, bony appendages gently shaking you awake.

“Come on, big guy,” he calls out to you. “Sun’s gonna come out, we need to get goin’.”

You lock eyes with him, everything still hazy. From beyond the blur, his ethereal pupils are unnaturally clear to you.

“How long was I out?”

You shimmy yourself into an upright position, and your body decries your actions with a wave of soreness.

“An hour or two, tops,” he replies, retreating from you. “You were twitchin’ a bunch. Felt so bad, I almost didn’t wanna wake ya.”

You can only grunt in response as you rub the sleep from your tired eyes. Your left shoulder aches like hell with every micromovement of your arm, but you’re so tired that it doesn’t properly register.

“Thanks, man,” you say, clearing your throat afterward.

“Don’t mention it, bud. By the way, ya ever worn a disguise before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

An infectious smile graces his ivory features. Before you can ask why, he backpedals over to the wall-mounted table, smoothing his bony hand over a mound of what looks like fabric.

“Well, you’re about to,” he says, almost enthusiastic about it. “Did a bit of scroungin’ around the place and found a maintenance worker’s uniform relatively in your size. Went a bit oversized for my disguise so I can carry Hearth underneath it.”

Your eyes flicker over to her still-slumbering form. The gentle rise and fall of the blanket covering her is the only way you’re able to confidently tell that she’s still breathing. You’ve been on the other side of sleep-inducing spells before during bouts of insomnia, but even the most potent ones seem to pale in comparison to whatever she was hit with.

The spell’s exact nature aside, you just hope it isn’t permanent.

You refocus back on Pal, who’s having trouble slipping… something over his head. Honestly, with it caught on his horns like that, it looks like a giant burlap sack.

Your grogginess slowly begins to fade as you sit up fully, a yawn escaping from somewhere deep in your lungs.

“You, uh… you need some help?” you ask.

He grunts as he finagles the baggy fabric around his horns, finally allowing him to slip his skull all the way through.

“I’m good,” he replies. “Go ahead n’ put yours on, we don’t got much time.”

“Got anything to carry the clothes I’m already wearing?”

“Huh? Oh, nah, just slip the uniform on over all that. You’ll probably enjoy the extra warmth, anyway.”

Good enough, you suppose. The warmer, the better, especially after that hellish blizzard you ran a marathon through. Letting your blanket fall to the cot, you rise unsteadily to your feet, thighs aching as they struggle desperately to function. Although you’re still quite cold, the rest you got underneath that shaggy mat certainly did some good in terms of conserving your body heat.

Hurrying as much as your body will allow, you meander over to the table and grab the outfit Pal laid out for you, turning it over in your hands until you can see it in its entirety. All in all, it’s relatively ordinary apart from how dusty the thing is. From head to toe, it’s a simple slate gray, and no markings or logos pop out at you. In fact, the only thing that really catches your eye is the fairly lush black fur collar. That and the insulation, which is thick enough to feel through the outer fabric. Holding it by its shoulders, it looks like it’ll be a bit baggy on you, but comfort is the farthest thing from your mind at the moment as you kick your shoes off.

You work your left foot into the uniform, then your right foot, holding the coveralls by their hips and letting the upper half fall slack. It takes some effort, and you almost stumble over, but before long, you’re halfway in.

Your right arm slides in flawlessly, but as your left seeks to mirror the action, your shoulder cries out in renewed agony once more.

Alright, you really need to get this injury checked out. The medicine Pal found is helping, sure, but it can’t replace a medical professional giving you a once-over.

You push away thoughts of your festering wound as you zip the coveralls up, adjusting the collar as well for good measure. Though your body has yet to adjust, you can feel the chill of your dingy hovel stagnate within the confines of the uniform; within minutes, you’ll be isolated from the inner wall’s biting cold.

As much as you appreciate it, though, you do find an issue with it.

“Find anything to cover our faces? I mean, I don’t think there are gonna be wanted posters of us this soon, but you can never be too careful.”

Pal chuckles from behind you, and when you turn to face him, you understand why. Standing ominously across the room is Pal, covered head to toe in a hooded black cloak that completely obscures his skeletal form. You use “ominously” very loosely, of course - Pal’s goofy grin actively works against his imposing stature.

“Fancy one o’ these?” he asks, clearly having a bit too much fun considering the circumstances.

You chuff in disbelief, a grin supplanting your serious disposition.

“Is it normal here to go around looking like the grim reaper?”

“In the winter, yeah,” he replies, ignorant of (or unengaged with?) your sarcasm. “Folks’ll all have somethin’ like this on while they’re headin’ to work. One I’m wearin’ just happens to be a bit on the older side, is all. Go ahead n’ throw yours on.”

A quick glance at the table reveals that you had glossed over your own cloak. You oblige Pal, and in no time, you look like some hapless fantasy cosplayer. No accounting for taste out here in… well, wherever the Mecca is.

“Alright,” Pal says, adjusting his robe before heading over to you with the lantern from earlier, already lit. “This is gonna be real simple. We gotta get through the tunnels first. Should be easy, just stick close n’ stay quiet. I don’t think there’re any City Watch shitheads up in here, but you can never be too careful. You carry Hearth for now, and I’ll light the way.”

“Once we get to the exit, keep that head down n’ follow my lead. No sightseein’, alright? Act like ya belong here, and we’ll make it to the pub just fine.”

You nod, and Pal smiles.

“Good, let’s get goin’.”

With considerably more effort than you’d anticipated, you manage to hoist Hearth into your arms in a baby-style carry, her head slumped over your shoulder. What is she, two hundred pounds of pure muscle or something?

He starts heading down one of the dingy halls leading further into the wall, but stops abruptly and turns to you.

“Oh, I almost forgot. ‘Fore we get carried away with all o’ this…”

He extends a hand toward you, replete with an award-winning toothy grin. You quirk an eyebrow at the gesture, but find yourself meeting him halfway with your own free hand, the flesh of your digits wrapped tightly within his bony grip.

“Welcome to Khodasa, Anon. Remind me to take ya over to the entertainment district sometime, if this stuff with Her Children ever blows over.”

You frown.

“I thought this place was called the Mecca.”

“It is now,” he explains, a bit dejected as you follow him into the derelict halls. “No accountin’ for taste with these nutjobs, though.”

A chuckle escapes your throat as the three of you tread deeper into the wall’s inner maze.

You continue in silence, which Pal doesn’t seem to mind. He’s more than likely keeping an ear out for any unwelcome guests, so the more space you give him to work, the better.

The farther you delve, the more labyrinthine the structure becomes; hallways branch off into seemingly illogical paths, and none of them bear any sort of distinction barring esoteric markings that only frequent flyers would understand. Eventually, the paths become far more illicit, devolving into carved-out hovels that twist and wind every which way you can fathom. Occasionally, you’ll even dip downward, or have to crawl on your knees to slip through a passage.

Through it all, Pal is undeterred, taking only a few moments at a time here and there to gather his bearings before plugging onward. The farther in you travel, the more built-up the structure becomes; desolate stone hallways become carved out with flooring and tile, and signs of life, such as recent calendars and a relative absence of dust.

An inordinate amount of time flies by in this manner, the flow of movement steady and unending. Suddenly, though, Pal’s expression brightens as you round what must be the seven thousandth corner you’ve passed.

“Just a couple more turns and we’ll be at the exit,” he exhales, despite having no need to. “Not gettin’ cold feet on me, are ya?”

“You want a straight answer, or a light joke?”

“Straight answer for now.”

You heave an unsteady breath as you adjust Hearth closer to your center, making her a bit easier to carry.

“Being completely transparent right now, I’m freaking out a bit. But, uh…”

He looks back at you, and you meet his contemplative gaze with your best attempt at confidence.

“But I trust you, so… yeah.”

Despite having only known him for what feels like a day, you still firmly believe that he’s looking out for you. His facial bones morph into a level-headed smile as he turns slightly farther to better face you.

“Glad to hear it, bud,” he replies. “That goes both ways, ya know.”

Your left eyebrow instinctively hikes upward.

“Really?”

He scoffs lightheartedly as you both continue down the path.

“‘Course! Anybody who’s willin’ to lay the smackdown on those weirdo cultists is alright by me.”

…Oh, yeah.

You did do that, didn’t you?

The struggle seems distant now, a speckled smudge against the convoluted mess of the past twenty four hours. The shock of the fight, especially after having lived in cushy Canterlot for so long, gave you pause. Not out of guilt for Virtue, no, but out of guilt for engaging in violence at all.

This was different though, right? It’s not like you were seeking it out, no - you were just defending yourself.

“Alright, this is it.”

…A moral dilemma for another time, then.

You’re ripped from your inadvertent self-critique as you both round the final turn. Despite the feverish pace that you both kept, you don’t feel remotely overheated, even in the insulation of the jumpsuit.

Pal’s lantern chases the blackness away from the unremarkably rectangular exit door, marked as such by the sign at its crown. You can hear the faintest of murmurs coming from the other side, and all at once, your heart sails into your throat. Before you can choke it down, Pal sets his lantern on the floor and turns to you, both arms reaching out as he crouches down.

“Hand ‘er over,” he says, far less levity in his voice now.

With as much care as you can muster, you hoist her off of your shoulder and place her in his arms. As he cradles her gently, he shifts a tad, allowing his robe to fall over her and conceal her completely.

“We’re gonna take this nice n’ slow,” he explains as he stands upright again. “Remember - we belong out there, in that crowd. Got it?”

Ignoring the clamminess building up in your hands, you nod fervently.

“Good. Stick close n’ stay quiet, an’ we’ll get through this just fine.”

“What if we get separated?”

“We shouldn’t,” he reassures you. “But if we do, just look for a cafe called ‘The Bellowing Bull’ in the inner portion o’ the district. Big sign, good food - ya can’t miss it. Once you’re in, sit down at the bar and order an Incaru topped off with a thin layer of Strider honey. The wife’ll know what to do.”

You wrack your brain committing the bizarre order to memory, the rhythm eventually sticking after a few seconds.

“Is that a dish you used to like, or something?”

“Very, very much,” he reminisces, a spectral teardrop falling from his eye socket. “But we can chat about all that later. You ready?”

The tumult of your ordeal manifests itself as an uneven exhale, wrought with worry.

To be frank, you aren’t ready, not in the slightest. Waiting here isn’t an option, though, so you’d prefer to rip the bandaid off sooner rather than later.

Your troubled gaze falls upon the exit door once more, idly roaming over its patterns and divots.

“…Yeah. Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Pal, freeing up one of his hands momentarily, throws his hood up, obscuring his face and cementing his deathly visage. You have no idea how he’s gonna go unnoticed like that, but if he’s confident, then you have no real objections.

“‘Atta boy,” he says. “Mind gettin’ the door?”

With another deep breath, you slide past him into the narrow corridor, tentatively reaching for the door handle as he falls in behind you. When your fingers come into contact with the frigid metal, the chill worms its way up your arm, the cold battling against the inner heat of anxiety for dominance over your body. Your skin crawls from the sensation, and you shiver against your will in the face of the task ahead.

All at once, though, you will your body into action, throwing the handle downward and yanking the door open. Frigid air rushes in, knocking your hood down and threatening to push you backward. Snow follows into the vacuum you’ve created, a few errant flakes needling your face and hands.

In opposition to the darkness you’ve been bathing in, the assault of the early morning light is all but blinding, and you turn away as your sight struggles to compensate. Once you’ve adjusted, though, you prop the door open with your foot and let Pal leave first. Your eyes follow him as he steps through the threshold, and despite his no-sightseeing mandate, you can’t help but ogle your surroundings as you follow suit.

You exit into an alleyway, beset on both sides by towering buildings made from what looks like cobblestone; it’s as if you’ve stepped straight into late nineteenth century England. Snowfall, though undoubtedly calmer than it was during your trek here, still peppers the world around you, thinly coating any flat surface you can see. The sky is completely overcast by rolling clouds, coating everything in dull gray light.

A fair distance ahead, you can see that the alley breaks out into what looks like a road, tread upon by a veritable sea of warmly dressed strangers. Pal wasn’t lying, either; even from this distance, you spot far more than a few cloaked individuals in the narrow window in which you can see. Your nerves kick up a gear as you pray that none of them notice you during your approach.

“We’re up,” Pal whispers out to you over the distant murmur of the crowd.

As if you needed to be reminded.

You fall in line behind him as you both approach, passing trash cans and backdoors aplenty. Thankfully, the alley you’re in seems to be completely abandoned for now, which will make blending in a far more seamless experience.

Hopefully.

As the two of you draw near, you remember to throw your hood back up over your head. Your hearing becomes a tad muffled as your admittedly heavy breaths are caged by the cloth swathing your head. A deep breath or two doesn’t help much, but the sting of the cold air through your nostrils does help keep you rooted in the moment. Only a few meters away, and then you’ll be joining the masses.

The alley’s entrance is widened by your closer point of view, and with a quick flick of your eyes, you realize that “sea” might not have been an adequate enough descriptor for the sheer tide of people heading in every manner of direction.

Every single species you can name and then some, countless of each, all hushedly hurrying along to what you assume to be their jobs. The murmur of the endless crowd is a dull roar from up close; Pal says something, but it’s drowned out by the cacophony. You’re about to try calling out to him yourself, but you’re surprised when his bony hand shoots out from within his cloak and takes hold of yours, turning you to the left.

He brings you almost right up against him, and without any fanfare, the both of you are subsumed into the flow of people. You do as you’ve been instructed and keep your head down while he guides the three of you deeper into the fray. Every now and then, though, you steal glances at your surroundings whenever you think you can afford it.

Industrial buildings jut high into the snowy haze on your left, the sound of steelwork and other laborial practices ringing out just above the voices of the crowd around you. Thinly interspersed down the deceptively wide street are small lookout towers in front of the factories, each manned by uniformed individuals, either biped or quadruped, who look like they’re scanning the crowd for any oddities.

You grip Pal’s hand tighter and cast your gaze to the floor, eager to be as diminutive as possible. Your eyes trace the rocks as you use your free hand to pull your hood down tighter. Instead of skyward, you turn your attention to the undulating mass of people around you.

It’s like the universe took a heaping handful of species from around the world and just… dumped them all in the middle of nowhere. Everything you considered ‘exotic’ back in Equestria is more or less commonplace here. Hell, half of the races you see, you don’t even recognize. Most of them are dressed for what look like factory jobs, too, so none of them really stand out. It takes all of your willpower not to gawk, but you just barely manage it.

Pal, not privy to your inner turmoil, guides you further into the flow, butting up against passers by in the process. You mutter apologies to them, but you don’t get many in return. Some won’t even acknowledge your presence.

Eventually, Pal stops leading you to the right and simply matches the pace of the crowd once more. You inwardly wonder whether you can sneak a quick glance at your surroundings, and perhaps get your bearings so that you have an idea of what to expect from Pal’s movements. The way those towers were spread out, you might be able to-

“Hey!”

Your veins run ice cold. A voice in the crowd, but who? Civilian, or guard?

Pal’s grip on your hand tightens, but you can barely feel it.

“You!” the raspy voice shouts, rife with irritation as it inches closer. “Yeah, you! You think you can just… get away without any consequences, huh?”

This is the end, then.

Pal grips your hand even tighter, and your thoughts fly into a frenzy. Flashes of the past few days play out in excruciating detail as you come to terms with your impending doom.

…You hope Twilight and Spike are-

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Another gruff voice, cool-headed as can be, cuts through your inner monologue. It sounds as if it’s right behind you. The grip on your hand loosens, as does the phantom pressure around your heart. Your legs, however, remain primed to run.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is,” the first voice replies. “Give it back.”

Now that he’s closer, you can almost hear the intoxication dripping off of his tongue with every slurred word.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the second voice replies, more confused than anything.

“You’re about to,” the first voice threatens, his voice shooting up about eight thousand decibels. “Gimme back my stash, or I’m gonna make you wish you never got out of bed this morning!”

“No one’s taken your contemptible drugs,” the second one replies, suddenly going sour. “Fly from me, junkie.”

A moment of silence passes before sounds of a struggle ring out behind you, air from the brawl pressing your cloak further into your back. You feel the people behind you peel apart to make room for their skirmish, some even slowing down - to watch the skirmish, no doubt.

Pal, in response, picks up the pace as a whistle from one of the towers rings out. You dutifully follow suit, eager to get away from… well, whatever the fuck that was.

You’re on edge now, though; in fact, you suddenly become very aware of just how much air you’re heaving in and out of your lungs.

The two of you continue on for some time, Pal occasionally course-correcting as you stare at the countless rounded rocks of the cobble path. Suddenly, he slows; if you weren’t so alert, you might’ve accidentally ran into him.

He tugs your arm to the right, and you follow, slithering slightly against the flow of the crowd. The volume gets thinner and thinner, sets of legs disappearing slowly until it’s finally just you and Pal.

“We’re here,” he calls out to you, voice still low.

Timidly, you raise your head, pulling your hood back a bit so you can see better. The starkly white watering hole in front of you looks, much like the rest of what you’ve seen so far, as if it’s been ripped out of old England.

Its dark, wooden shingles and fixtures make it stand out among neighboring establishments’ drab stonework. It all looks a bit dusty and aged, but it works in the place’s favor. The front doors are shaded by a thick awning, at the forefront of which is the golden ornamented sign Pal had pointed out to you prior; The Bellowing Bull.

“There she is, in all ‘er glory,” Pal says, sighing deeply as he steps back to survey the entirety of the establishment.

While he drinks it in, you look around to see if you’ve been followed. Apart from the odd passerby, though, the street you’re on is relatively empty.

“With everyone headin’ to work, should be easy for Kalliope to close the place for a bit.”

“Do you think anyone noticed us?”

Pal looks sideways at you, a skeletal eyebrow raised.

“I don’t think you got anything to be worried about, ‘Non. It’s like you said - it ain’t even been a full day yet.”

Your gaze continues sweeping the area, almost as if you want to find something out of place. His reassurance doesn’t quite satisfy your need for security, but that’s just something you’ll have to swallow for the time being.

“…Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

You release your held breath, fog billowing out in front of you as you turn back to Pal.

“Alright, so what now? Do we just walk in, or…?”

He looks at his restaurant, glaring pensively at the front door. A few moments pass, tender and bruised, as his expression slowly falls.

“Uh… Yeah, yeah. I just…”

The sleepy, barely noticeable lump under his cloak bobs up and down twice as he adjusts his stance.

“I gotta find a place to put Hearth down first. Kalliope always kept a spare key to the back door in her garden out back, so I’ll set her down in one o’ the spare rooms. Keep my wife company until I’m done, will ya?”

You frown incredulously.

“Wouldn’t it be better to just put everything on the table at once, man?”

He shakes his head.

“She don’t do well with a lotta change. All o’ this after months o’ silence…”

He “blinks” a couple of times, staring at the ground for a second before meeting you with uncertain eyes.

“Better to take it slow here. Trust me, Anon.”

You scan him, put off by his sudden hesitancy, but decide that now wouldn’t exactly be the best time to revoke your trust. The trust he’s earned, no less. You’d do well to discard that nasty habit of flip-flopping sooner rather than later.

“Just hurry, alright?”

“‘Course. You remember my order?”

“Incaru with strider jelly, I got it.”

“A thin layer o’ strider jelly,” he emphasizes. “Gotta be specific or she won’t pick up on it.”

“I’ll remember, Pal.”

“Just makin’ sure,” he says, a disarming smile beaming at you from under the shade of his hood. “See ya in a bit, Anon.”

The sound of his tarsals tapping against the concrete rings out gently as he heads around back; for a creature of his size and strength, he’s remarkably quiet. As he disappears from view, you lock eyes with the homely set of front doors.

Deep breaths, Anon.

Inhale.

The frost in the air sets your lungs ablaze.

Hold.

The battleground in your chest rages.

Exhale.

The remains of your uncertainty are scattered to the whipping wind, leaving only action in its wake.Your legs carry you over to the entrance, and gingerly, you throw wide the left door.

A resounding bell announces your arrival. Immediately, you’re hit with the wonderfully succulent smell of fresh pancakes, a strong odor of syrup accompanying. And if you’re not mistaken, hiding rather brazenly among the aromatic pallet is…

Umami.

Specifically, bacon.

Bacon, which you haven’t had since before Equestria.

Your salivary glands begin to work overtime before you’ve even fully stepped through the door. How long has it been since you’ve eaten…?

You shake your head, desperate to snap yourself out of it - that’s not why you’re here.

Once you’re fully inside, you hold the door as it closes, more out of politeness than any desire to stay meek and hidden. As the door reforms its seal against the elements, the much warmer climate of the restaurant offers a luxury you haven’t had since this whole ordeal began - comfort.

Looking around, most of the interior seating is made of wood similar to the fixtures outside, whether booth or table-and-chair. Funnily enough, most of the interior is scaled up to the size of most minotaurs; for once, you feel below average. It’s easy to forget that you’re not the only tall biped out there when you live in Equestria.

Dotted around the place are potted plants of various colorations and structures, most of which you’ve never seen before. On the walls, various paintings hang, most of them depicting scenes from the Minosian mythos.

You throw back your hood - it wouldn’t do to be conspicuous here.

“Be right with you!”

A woman’s voice, deep and velvety, reaches your ears from behind the counter of the bar, which you’re surprised you didn’t notice until now. Too taken by the charming decor, you surmise.

Behind the counter, a mountain of a minotaur, easily rivaling Pal’s imposing height, stands tall. Her gray, grooved horns spiral around and point forward, cresting just beneath the curve of her jaw. Emerald eyes peer over at you, looking you over with passing interest as she finishes cleaning a glass mug.

Wavy brown hair spills forth from her head, culminating in a single braid reaching down to her shoulder blades. Her lean, yet bulging musculature is poorly hidden underneath a slick coating of winter fur, remarkably blonde in coloration. A rarity in most minotaurs, if you remember Twilight’s lectures correctly.

Her chest is covered modestly by a large embroidered white sash, red stitching patterns making up the intricate designs in the middle of it. A matching set of bottoms, down to her middle thighs, completes her ensemble, which is traditional minotaur dress, if you aren’t mistaken.

She hangs the mug up on an overhead rack, wipes her hands with a cloth, and comes out from behind the counter to make her way over to you. It doesn’t take long; much like Pal, she’s easily a foot taller than you, maybe more. It’s honestly a little intimidating.

She looks down at you, a warm smile accompanying direct eye contact.

“Dining in?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Follow me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She grabs a menu from a nearby counter and sets off. As you follow her further in, you take a moment to survey the place for any other patrons. Thankfully, it’s completely deserted apart from you; you really did luck out, after all.

She stops just shy of a table and allows you room to sit, which you do.

“Haven’t seen anyone like you around before,” she asks as she passes you the menu. “You from one of the other districts?”

Her accent is much softer than Pal’s, but it’s still there, hidden under what sounds like years of picking it up from him.

“I’m from out of town, actually.”

Her eyebrows shoot skyward as she rests her hands on her hips.

“Shoulda figured, but it’s still hard to believe all the same. In any case, welcome to the Cradle, mister…?”

“Anon.”

“Kalliope,” she exchanges. “Now, what can I get ya?”

A welling anxiety constricts your heart as you remember the order perfectly.

…Well, shit, why not get some actual food, too? A brief look over the menu is all you need, really.

“Two pancakes, a side of bacon, and…”

She takes out a notepad, penning down your order as you go.

Alright, Anon. Time to get down to business.

“An Incaru with a thin layer of strider jelly.”

Her fervent writing ceases immediately, face contorting into dubiety. After a moment of silent consideration, her dreadfully neutral eyes lock with yours.

“Haven’t served that one in a while,” she deadpans. “Ain’t it a bit early to be drinking, mister?”

She got it!

Though, judging by her expression, you’re not sure whether that’s a good thing.

“I normally wouldn’t, but, uh… a friend of mine wanted me to try it as soon as I could. Is that alright…?”

A frown forms on her face, almost imperceptible.

“Far from me to tell a stranger how to take their breakfast. Just a moment, please.”

She retreats from the table slowly, tossing the notepad onto a nearby table. Rather than head for the kitchen, she makes for the front doors.

She reaches up, and with a flick of her wrist, the “open” sign you hadn’t taken stock of earlier flips to “closed.” A flourish with her opposite hand, and the click of a lock bounds throughout the dining area as well.

You let go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding in, letting your head fall nearly to the table in the process.

“Oh, thank god,” you exhale heavily.

You rub your face with a free hand, your other placed precariously on the table. Fuck’s sake, why were you so nervous? Pal said she would get it.

“I guess I should probably start with expl-”

You pick your head up, only registering her rapid hooffalls as her massive hand bunches up the collar of your jumpsuit and lifts you clean out of your seat. The chair you were sitting in clatters to the ground, the unpleasantly loud noise startling you just as much as her sudden aggression.

Your legs hang uselessly, though they try to regain some sense of footing to no avail. Both of your hands shoot to her forearm as she holds you well above even the highest table in the restaurant.

It’s all you can do to not shit yourself in terror.

“You’ll never leave us alone, will you?” she yells, louder than you imagined she could.

“Woah, woah, w-”

“We’ve done nothing but comply all this time, and you people still keep showing up on our doorstep, trying the same shit over and over again. It never works, and it never will, no matter how much information Atlas feeds you.”

You people?

Atlas…?

“I’m n-”

“But this… parroting his favorite things at me, sneaking under my snout like a snake, trying to get under my skin like an unrestrained cancer. You’ve all gone too far this time.”

She brings you uncomfortably close, her enraged breath washing over you.

“You want something to convict me for? Fine!”

Her other hand coils itself all the way around your neck and squeezes hard, cutting off your airflow without any effort. You try beating on her wrist to get her to let go, but your paltry blows don’t register at all in her rageful state. As the edges of your vision blur, you try desperately to squeak out some kind of explanation, but it’s no use.

Her grip tightens ever more, and you fear for your life, until-

“Kalliope!”

A voice that could’ve been sent by Heaven itself yells out, and Kalliope’s expression does a complete one-eighty into utter shock.

She lets go of you, and you fall to the ground, crumpling over in a pathetic heap as you inhale as deeply as you can. You look up and see Pal at the back door, his hood down and his skeletal arms raised, palms toward your would-be murderer.

“Kal, I… I know what this looks like, baby, but-”

She yells in terror, backpedaling behind you before holding her ground.

“Y-You… Ya just can’t stop desecrating him, can you?” she cries, a pained glare cast right at you as her adopted accent strengthens for a moment.

“No! No, Kal, it’s me. Palatìn!”

Her voice wavers, the horror in her eyes boundless.

“Ya can’t even leave him his voice!?”

You finally get enough air to speak, but it comes out strained and weak.

“It’s really him!”

Your pitiful explanation does nothing; tears flow freely from her eyes.

“We ain’t lyin’ to ya, babe,” he pleads, slowly inching forward. The devastation on his skull is plain for all to see.

“Me n’ Anon, we helped each other get outta that prison. They… they did all this to me, but I’m still me, hon. They could never take that away.”

She holds her ground, still on guard, but her features begin to soften the longer he talks.

“Baby, I swear,” he says, lowering his arms a bit. “Whatever ya need me to do to prove it, just say the word. C’mon, just… ask me somethin’ only I’d know.”

He stops inching forward, supposedly intent on giving her the space she needs. You, on the other hand, are crawling over to him as fast as your body can muster.

She doesn’t give chase; she simply stares headlong at Pal. You can see the memory of her physical body fighting with her sense of reason to figure out how to process the situation. All the while, her cheeks are wet with grief.

A tender silence later, she deigns to speak, frog entrenched in her throat.

“When… When we first made love together, you did something in the middle of it, and we laughed all night about it. What’d you do?”

“My voice cracked when I told ya I was about t’ blow,” Pal replies, laughing at the memory. “Took forever to wrap it all up afterward.”

Her eyes widen and her stance loosens, but she remains resolute.

“What was in the envelope you gave Athan when he was born?”

“A letter I wanted ‘em to open when he became an adult. Took so many tries to get it perfect, but I did, eventually. The night before he was born.”

Her guard lowers further, and she chokes up.

“W-What did…”

She swallows hard, mouth contorting uncontrollably.

“What did you whisper to me before they took you away?”

Pal’s own voice quivers, but he finds his footing.

“I made ya promise to wait for me… told ya I’d be back, no matter what that meant.”

He chuckles grimly to himself as he looks down at his skeletal form.

“Guess I was right, huh, babe?”

His final answer is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; she breaks down and runs to him, almost tripping over you in the process. She crashes into his arms, bawling openly. her agonizing cries coloring the world a few shades bluer.

You catch your breath as the two continue their tender reunion, unwilling to separate them for anything.

Shitty death… she must’ve been a few pounds per square inch away from breaking your neck.

“I… I thought you were gone,” she chokes out.

“Not gone, just delayed,” Pal answers, a bony appendage rubbing her back. “I’m just glad we didn’t lose too much time together.”

Her head rises from its perch on his shoulder, locking eyes with him in disbelief.

“Too much time?” she croaks, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and then on Pal’s cloak. “Pal…”

He searches her features for the source of her dismay, trademark goofy grin doing its best to light up the room.

“Well, yeah! I mean, it’s only been a few months, Kal. We got all the time in the world.”

She falls onto her haunches, and you can feel the impact travel through the groaning floorboards. The broken disbelief on her face sends a shiver down your aching spine.

“What…?” Pal asks unsteadily.

Her reply comes strained, struggling to make it past the waterfall waiting in her tear ducts.

“Pal, you… You’ve been gone for twelve years.”

Author's Note

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