Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

      The air over Wartwood smelled of smoke and ash.
Anne stood on the lookout tower, staring past the dead horizon where the swamp met the sky. Frogs were rebuilding what was left of the village below — scaffolds creaked, hammers sung, and in the distance, the faint hum of the resistance camp pulsed like a heartbeat.
She should’ve felt proud; They had survived another battle, but instead, she felt… hollow.
Behind her, the ladder creaked. Anne didn’t have to look to know who it was.
“Still brooding, Boonchuy?” Sasha’s voice was rougher now — like someone who’d yelled too many orders, too many apologies, into a void.
Anne’s fingers tightened around the railing. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” Sasha said, but softer this time. The sarcasm didn’t quite land. She joined Anne at the edge, her armor glinting in the weak sunlight. “You were amazing out there. The toad squads followed your signals perfectly.”
Anne let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Yeah. Just wish that made me feel better,”
Sasha’s jaw shifted. She had learned not to argue when Anne got like this. “You think this will ever feel normal? The fighting?”
“No,” Anne said, looking at her. “And I hope it never does.”
They stood there, silent except for the rustle of the camp below and echos of all the things they hadn’t said. The hurt, the guilt, the history.
Anne’s eyes drifted to Sasha’s hands — calloused, scarred, trembling slightly. She remembered holding those hands once, before everything went wrong. Before control and pride and betrayal had ripped them apart.
“You’re doing good, you know,” Anne said quietly.
Sasha blinked, startled. “You really think so?”
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
That earned her a small, tired smile. “Guess that’s one of the things I missed about you. You never sugarcoat it.”
Anne didn’t say that she’d missed everything — even Sasha’s bad jokes, her overconfidence, her ability to make chaos feel safe.
Instead, she asked, “How’s Grime?”
“Grumpy. Which means he’s alive.” Sasha exhaled slowly. “He thinks we’ll have to hit Andrias’ supply routes next. He’s right. But it’ll be messy.”
“Messy’s kind of our thing,” Anne said. And for a fleeting second, the tension broke. A tiny spark of the old days — the way they used to laugh before the world fell apart.
Then silence again.
Sasha leaned on the railing, her gaze far away.
“You ever think about what happens after this?”
“After the war?”
“Yeah. Like… do we go home? Pretend we didn’t spend months in another world fighting a giant cyborg king?”
Anne hesitated. “I think about it. But it doesn’t feel real. None of it does.”
Sasha looked at her — really looked. “You changed a lot.”
“So did you.”
“Not enough,” Sasha murmured. “Not where it mattered.”
Anne turned fully toward her. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Sasha laughed once, bitterly. “I hurt you. I hurt Marcy. And now I’m playing soldier like it makes up for everything. Like saving people cancels out all the ways I messed up.”
Anne’s heart clenched. She wanted to tell her it wasn’t true — that people could change, that she had changed. But words felt too small against all the wreckage between them.
So instead, she reached out. Slowly. Carefully.
And placed her hand over Sasha’s.
It was a quiet touch — nothing romantic, nothing dramatic — just real.
And in that small, trembling contact, something shifted.
Sasha’s breath caught.
 Anne’s voice was low.
“You don’t have to earn forgiveness. You just have to mean it.”
Sasha didn’t move away.
“I do.”
Anne nodded. “Then that’s enough for now.”
They stayed like that — two soldiers, two friends, two something-mores — watching the light fade over a world that shouldn’t have asked this much of them.
And for the first time since the war began, Anne felt a little less hollow.

Chapter Text

By dawn, the fog had rolled in thick over the marshes. It clung to the ground in long gray ribbons, softening the edges of the shattered trees and half-buried toad armor.
Anne adjusted the straps of her pack, the weight of her sword pressing against her shoulder. Sasha stood beside her, already armored and impatient, tapping her foot against the mud.
“You sure about this route?” Sasha asked, scanning the tree line.
“As sure as I can be.” Anne checked her map again, a crude hand-drawn sketch Marcy had made weeks ago, now smudged and creased from too many battles. “If Andrias’s patrols are guarding the main road, we’ll sneak through the south ridge. We grab the applesnail carts and get out.”
“Right. Easy. You and me. No problem,” Sasha said, and Anne caught the slight quiver in her laugh. She knew that tone - the one Sasha used when she was scared but too proud to say so.
“You don’t have to act tough, you know,” Anne said.
Sasha shot her a look. “Old habits die hard.”
“Yeah. Trust me, I know.”
They fell into step, boots sinking softly into the damp ground. The forest was quiet except for the chirping of strange marsh birds and the creak of Anne’s canteen. Every now and then, Sasha would glance over at her — small, quick looks, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to talk or stay silent.
Anne noticed, of course. She noticed everything now. The war had taught her that silence could mean a thousand things.
They reached the ridge just as the fog began to burn off. Below them, Andrias’s convoy was moving slowly through the valley — carts of food, weapons, and stolen frog supplies, guarded by half a dozen metal drones.
Sasha crouched beside her, eyes narrowing. “We hit the front first, draw them off. You take the rear carts.”
Anne hesitated. “Or we could distract the guards and steal the supplies without fighting.”
“That’s not how war works, Anne.”
“Maybe not. But it’s how we should work.”
Sasha sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “You always did know how to make me feel like the bad guy.”
Anne’s tone softened. “You’re not the bad guy.”
Sasha didn’t reply. She just nodded toward the valley. “On my mark.”
When Sasha moved, she was all precision — her blade flashing as she leapt from cover, cutting down the first drone in one motion. The others turned in a storm of mechanical shrieks, and Anne ran, channeling her energy into her glowing blue blade. She cut through the bindings of the nearest cart and called to the frogs inside, “Go! Run!”
One of them — a young frog soldier — looked terrified. “But the guards—”
“I’ve got you,” Anne said, and she meant it.
The battle was quick but brutal. Sparks flew, metal clashed, and smoke filled the valley. Anne and Sasha moved together like two parts of a whole — one charging, the other covering, their rhythm effortless even after everything.
When it was over, Sasha stood panting beside her, sweat streaking her forehead. “Still think we should’ve talked it out with them?”
Anne laughed breathlessly. “Okay, fine. Maybe you were right this time.”
“Say that again?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
They both smiled, tired but alive. The kind of smile that said, maybe we can do this after all.
By sunset, they were back at camp, sitting near the fire as frogs unloaded the stolen food. The smell of roasted applesnails filled the air — sweet and smoky, familiar.
Anne sat cross-legged, poking the fire with a stick. Sasha sat across from her, removing her gauntlets one by one.
“Hey,” Anne said after a while. “You did good today.”
“Yeah?” Sasha’s tone was light, but her eyes were wary — as if she didn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah. You didn’t overextend, you trusted me, and you didn’t go all... ‘Sasha the conqueror.’”
Sasha snorted. “That girl’s gone.”
Anne looked up, meeting her gaze. “Good. I like this one better.”
The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed. Sasha’s expression softened, the edge of her usual bravado melting away. “You know,” she said quietly, “when we were kids, I used to think I had to control everything. You and Marcy. Our little trio. Like if I wasn’t in charge, everything would fall apart.”
Anne smiled sadly. “And now?”
“Now I realize I was the one who made it fall apart.”
Anne reached out, her hand brushing Sasha’s wrist. “You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for it.”
Sasha looked down at their hands — her own scarred and rough, Anne’s still faintly glowing from the residual energy of her power. She didn’t pull away this time.
“I just… I don’t know how to stop,” Sasha said softly.
“Then we’ll figure it out together,” Anne replied.
Their eyes met across the firelight — warm, flickering, honest. There was still so much between them: regret, guilt, unspoken feelings that had been buried under years of pride. But for the first time, neither of them looked away.
Above them, the stars began to appear through the haze. Somewhere out there, the war was still raging, Andrias was still looming, and tomorrow would be another fight.
But for tonight, it was just Anne and Sasha, sharing the same warmth, the same fire, the same fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, love could grow again.

Chapter Text

The rain started before dawn.
It wasn’t a heavy storm, just a steady whisper that soaked through armor and cloth until everything smelled of mud and iron. Anne adjusted the strap of her pack and squinted through the mist. “We’ll lose visibility if this keeps up.”
Sasha tugged her cloak tighter. “Andrias’s patrol won’t see us either. Works both ways.”
They were leading a small team north toward a fallen watchtower — another scouting run for supplies, another day pretending the fear didn’t gnaw at them. Wartwood faded behind them, swallowed by fog.
The forest looked wrong in the half-light. Strange shapes moved where trees had been broken by shellfire, and sometimes Anne swore she saw familiar silhouettes in the mist — Marcy’s crossbow, Sprig’s wide eyes, her parents calling her home. Every ghost she carried followed her into battle.
Sasha noticed her staring. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The guilt look.” Sasha’s voice was light, but her eyes weren’t. “You’re not the only one who misses her.”
Anne nodded. “I know.”
They said nothing for a while, just trudged forward until the ruined tower rose ahead of them — half-collapsed, metal vines twisting through the rubble. Two drones hovered near the base, scanning.
Sasha crouched. “Two on watch, maybe more inside. I’ll draw them left. You circle—”
“Together,” Anne interrupted. “No splitting up.”
Sasha gave a small grin. “Old habits die hard, huh?”
Anne’s grip on her sword tightened. “Some habits aren’t worth keeping.”
When the fight came, it was quick and messy. The drones swarmed with mechanical shrieks, and the two girls moved in instinctive rhythm — Anne’s glowing blade slicing through one, Sasha’s sword deflecting the second. Sparks lit the rain like fireflies. When it was over, both were breathing hard, steam rising from their armor.
Sasha winced, pressing a hand to her arm where a shard had cut her. “I’m fine,” she said before Anne could ask. “Barely a scratch.”
Anne stepped closer anyway, brushing wet hair from Sasha’s face. “You always say that.”
Sasha looked up at her, eyes fierce and tired all at once. “And you always worry.”
“Someone has to.”
The words hung between them — not an argument, not quite comfort either. Just truth.
Inside the tower, they found what they’d come for: old frog-tech batteries, ration tins, a half-crushed map. But as Anne moved to pack them, she saw something else — a torn blue cloak, half-buried under debris. Marcy’s.
She froze.
Sasha followed her gaze and knelt beside her. For a moment they both just stared, the rain dripping through cracks above them. Anne’s throat tightened. “She would’ve loved this place,” she whispered. “All the weird machines…”
“Yeah,” Sasha said softly. “She’d already be figuring out how to fix them.”
Anne swallowed hard. “I should’ve—”
“Don’t,” Sasha said quickly. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Anne met her eyes. “You’re thinking it too.”
“Every day,” Sasha admitted. “But guilt’s not gonna bring her back. What we do now — that’s what matters.”
The words weren’t new, but the way Sasha said them — steady, quiet, not commanding — made them feel true. Anne exhaled, then tucked the cape carefully into her pack.
“Let’s take it home,” she said.
Sasha nodded. “Yeah.”
They reached camp well after dark. Most of the others were asleep, the fires burned low. Anne and Sasha dropped their gear by a tent and sat beneath the canopy, listening to the rain patter against the canvas.
Sasha flexed her injured arm again. Anne moved beside her and, without asking, began to wrap it with a clean bandage. Sasha didn’t protest — just watched her fingers work, gentle and sure.
“You’ve gotten good at this,” Sasha said quietly.
“Comes with the territory,” Anne replied. “People keep getting hurt.”
Sasha’s smile was small. “Including you.”
Anne hesitated, then leaned back against the tent pole. “Yeah. But I’ve got people to pull me back.”
Sasha studied her for a long moment. “You still believe in us? After everything?”
Anne turned her head, meeting her gaze. “I want to. And wanting’s a start.”
Outside, the storm eased to a drizzle. For a while they just sat there — shoulders touching, hands resting between them, sharing the same quiet breath. The ghosts didn’t feel so close now. The fog was lifting.
Tomorrow there would be more battles, more loss, more chances to fall apart again. But tonight there was only this — two friends, maybe more, learning how to stay.

Chapter Text

The first warning came at dusk — a single flare arcing red across the sky above Wartwood.
Anne was already halfway to the command tent when Sasha stormed in from the opposite side, soaked from the rain, mud streaked up her arms.
“They’re hitting the eastern wall,” Sasha said, voice clipped. “Three drones, maybe four. Could be a scouting party.”
Grime barked orders nearby, but Anne barely heard him. The tension in Sasha’s voice was enough to set her heart racing.
“I’ll go with you,” Anne said.
Sasha didn’t look at her. “I don’t need backup.”
“Yeah, you do,” Anne replied, grabbing her sword.
The look Sasha gave her was sharp enough to draw blood, but she didn’t argue. They ran.
The fog had rolled in thick again by the time they reached the outer wall. Drones swept overhead, firing bursts of blue light that sent frogs diving for cover. Anne’s power flared instinctively, blue energy glowing faintly at her fingertips.
She could feel Sasha beside her — fast, efficient, her blade flashing silver through the rain. They fought in rhythm again, but something felt off. Sasha’s swings were harder than usual, reckless even. She wasn’t coordinating — she was venting.
“Left!” Anne shouted as a drone veered toward them.
“I see it!” Sasha snapped, spinning to destroy it with a single blow. The blast threw both of them back, crashing into the mud.
When Anne pushed herself up, Sasha was already standing, chest heaving, eyes burning.
“What was that?!” Anne yelled over the rain.
“I took the shot!” Sasha’s voice broke through the chaos. “You froze!”
“I didn’t freeze, I was—”
“Saving everyone else again?” Sasha’s tone was sharp, almost cruel. “You think you’re the only one who gets to play hero?”
Anne blinked, stunned. “What are you talking about?”
Sasha took a step closer, sword still in her hand. “You don’t trust me, Anne. You never did. You think I’ll mess it up again, just like before.”
“That’s not true!”
“Then why do you keep treating me like some project you have to fix?”
The words hit harder than any weapon. Anne felt the heat rise behind her eyes. “Because I care about you, Sasha! Because I don’t want to lose you again!”
Sasha flinched, but the anger didn’t fade. “You already did.”
The last drone fell, but neither of them noticed. They stood there in the wreckage and rain, breathing hard, the air between them buzzing with everything that hadn’t been said since Amphibia first tore them apart.
When the adrenaline faded, Sasha turned away. “Go check on the others. I need a minute.”
Anne hesitated. “Sash—”
“Go.”
Her voice cracked on the word, and that hurt more than the shouting.
Anne went.
Hours later, the camp was quiet again. The fires burned low, the rain a faint mist now. Anne sat alone by the supply cart, staring into the mud, her chest aching in a way she couldn’t fix.
She heard footsteps behind her but didn’t turn.
“Grime says the wall’s stable,” Sasha said. Her tone was even now — too even. “We made it through.”
Anne nodded. “Good.”
Silence stretched.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Sasha finally muttered. “Any of it.”
Anne shook her head. “You meant it.”
“I was angry.”
“You were honest.”
Sasha exhaled, frustrated. “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”
“Sometimes it is.”
They sat like that for a while, the quiet hum of frogs repairing the wall filling the distance between them. When Sasha finally sat down beside her, she didn’t look at Anne.
“I hate this,” Sasha said quietly. “The fighting, the mistakes, feeling like I’m one wrong move away from losing everyone again.”
Anne’s voice was gentle. “You’re not losing me.”
Sasha let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You say that now.”
Anne turned to her. “I mean it.”
Sasha finally looked at her — eyes tired, full of too much regret for someone their age. “You shouldn’t.”
But Anne just reached out, resting her hand over Sasha’s, the same way she had on that first night after the battle. This time, Sasha didn’t pull away, though her shoulders trembled.
“I’m not perfect,” Anne said. “I mess up too. But you don’t scare me, Sasha. Not anymore.”
Sasha closed her eyes. “Then you’re braver than me.”
The rain had stopped completely now. The camp smelled like wet earth and smoke. Somewhere, a frog played a soft tune on a reed pipe — slow and mournful.
They didn’t talk again that night. But they stayed.
And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.

Chapter Text

The morning after the raid felt wrong.
The sun came up red and low over Wartwood, and for a moment the whole town looked like it was on fire again.
Anne woke to shouting. When she pushed open the tent flap, smoke was rising from the eastern edge of the camp. The smell of rusted and schorched metal clung to the fog.
Sasha was already there, sword drawn, eyes wild.
A patrol of Andrias’s machines had slipped through during the night—small ones, the spider-legged scouts that could tear through wood faster than axes. They’d hit the frog houses first, then the famined food carts.
Anne joined the line without thinking. The battle itself lasted minutes but felt like hours; flashes of light in the dim, the scream of grinding gears, the heavy thud of falling structures. When the last machine collapsed in sparks, the silence that followed was worse than the fight.
A few of the frog soldiers didn’t get back up. No one spoke. The only sounds were the distant crackle of fires and Sprig’s quiet sob somewhere behind the barricade.
Sasha stood motionless, her blade still humming. Then she slammed it into the mud hard enough to spray dirt across her boots.
“Where were the lookouts?” she snapped.
No one answered.
Anne stepped closer. “Sash—”
“Don’t,” Sasha said, voice shaking. “They trusted us. We were supposed to keep them safe.”
Anne felt the same hollow weight pressing in her chest. “We can’t protect everyone.”
“That’s not good enough.” Sasha’s voice broke. “It has to be good enough, or what’s the point of any of this?”
She turned away, pacing, breathing too fast. When Anne reached out, Sasha jerked back like the touch burned. “You’re always calm about it,” she said. “Like loss is just part of the job.”
Anne swallowed hard. “If I let it in all at once, I won’t be able to move.”
Sasha laughed bitterly. “Maybe moving isn’t what we need. Maybe we need to stop pretending this is normal.”
By noon, the fires were out. Wartwood was still standing, but barely. The frogs worked in grim silence, carrying the wounded to the healer’s hut, covering what they couldn’t save.
Anne tried to help, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every time she looked toward the ruins, she saw Sasha’s face when she’d shouted — furious, terrified. And beneath it, something she didn’t know how to name.
That night, Sasha didn’t come to the command tent. Grime muttered that she’d gone to scout the perimeter alone. Anne waited until the camp was asleep before following.
She found Sasha at the edge of the marsh, sitting on a fallen log, armor half-off, staring into the dark water. The moonlight made her look older somehow.
Anne approached quietly. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Sasha didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t keep following me.”
Anne sat anyway, a few feet away. The night smelled of ash and rain. “You were right. We weren’t ready.”
Sasha let out a long breath. “I keep thinking about their faces. I gave orders. They believed me.”
“They followed you because they trusted you.”
“And look where that got them.”
Anne hesitated. “You can’t carry all of it.”
Sasha finally turned toward her. “Then who will?”
The question wasn’t angry anymore. It was small, fragile, almost a whisper.
Anne didn’t have an answer. She just reached out, slowly, resting her hand on Sasha’s wrist. This time Sasha didn’t flinch.
They sat like that in silence — two soldiers in a swamp, surrounded by the loss of the day.
After a while Sasha spoke again, voice low. “When this is over… if it ever is… I don’t know what’s left of me.”
Anne squeezed her hand. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Sasha looked at her for a long time, eyes glinting with something raw — not forgiveness, not peace, but the first tiny spark of hope.
“Don’t promise me that unless you mean it,” she said.
“I mean it,” Anne replied.
The wind stirred the smog, and for a moment the stars broke through. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see the path ahead — cracked, uncertain, still standing.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, Wartwood no longer smelled of smoke—only wet earth and sap.
The frogs were already working: hammering, hauling, talking in low voices that carried equal parts grief and determination.
Anne helped replace support beams along the inn’s porch while Sasha organized patrols. Neither had slept.
Every time Anne looked up, she caught glimpses of Sasha through the morning haze: shoulders squared, jaw tight, every motion deliberate.
She was holding herself together with discipline and guilt in equal measure.
When the day finally slowed, Anne found her behind the old mill, inspecting a broken spear. The marsh around them was quiet except for the low croak of frogs settling in for the night.
“You can take a break, you know,” Anne said.
Sasha didn’t look up. “If I stop moving, I’ll start thinking.”
“That’s not always bad.”
Sasha snorted. “You ever try it after something like yesterday?”
Anne hesitated, then stepped closer. “Yeah. Every night.”
That earned her a flicker of a smile, small but real. She sat on the ground beside Sasha, boots sinking slightly into the mud. For a while they just listened to the millwheel creak and the water slip through the channel.
Finally, Sasha spoke. “When I yelled at you… out there in the rain… I wasn’t angry at you. Not really.”
Anne looked over. “I know.”
“I was angry that you still believed in me after everything. It’s easier when people don’t.”
Anne’s voice was quiet. “Too bad. I’m stubborn.”
Sasha laughed once, softly. “Yeah, you are.”
The sound faded, replaced by the slow rhythm of water and wind. The moon climbed higher, casting silver across the marsh. When Sasha finally turned toward her, the light caught the scar on her cheek and the tired softness in her eyes.
“I don’t know how to start over,” she admitted. “Every time I think about the things I did… it feels like I’m still that person.”
“You’re not,” Anne said. “You’re someone who’s trying.”
Sasha looked at her for a long moment. “And you? You forgive too easily.”
“Maybe. But I’d rather risk getting hurt than lose what’s left of us.”
Something shifted then—subtle, quiet, but unmistakable. The air between them felt smaller, the world around them farther away.
Sasha’s hand brushed Anne’s as she reached for balance, and neither of them moved it away.
Anne’s breath caught. The warmth of Sasha’s fingers lingered. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Sasha’s voice was barely a whisper. “We’re a mess, Boonchuy.”
“Yeah,” Anne said, smiling just a little. “But we’re still here.”
They stayed like that—hands touching, words running out, the silence between them full of everything they didn’t need to say.
Above them, fireflies drifted out from the reeds, their glow reflected in the slow current. The night felt fragile, hopeful.
If anyone had walked by then, they would have seen two soldiers sitting close together by the water, leaning toward each other as if to share a secret.
The moment held, trembled—and then the scene itself seemed to exhale and fade, leaving only the sound of the mill and the quiet promise of something beginning again.

Chapter Text

The sky above Wartwood was the color of iron.
Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountains, not from storm clouds but from the engines of Andrias’s army moving in the distance.
Everyone knew this would be the last stand.
Anne checked her gear one more time, hands shaking slightly as she adjusted her gloves. Across the camp, Sasha was finishing her own preparations—armor polished, sword gleaming in the gray light. She looked every bit the commander she’d become, but there was a heaviness in her eyes that even battle couldn’t hide.
When she came over, the air between them felt different. They didn’t need to speak; everything that could be said had already been said in a dozen half-whispered moments, in shared glances across campfires and silent nights.
Sasha stopped a foot away. “You ready?”
Anne nodded. “I think so.”
Sasha gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’ve been pretending all morning. Figured you’d be the brave one.”
“I’m not brave,” Anne said. “Just stubborn.”
They both smiled, the kind of small, worn smile that comes from surviving too much together.
For a long moment, neither moved. The camp noise faded into a low hum—the sound of frogs arming themselves, Grime shouting orders, the distant hiss of steam from Andrias’s machines.
Anne took a slow step forward until she could feel the heat of Sasha’s armor in the cool morning air. Her voice came out softer than she meant. “Sash… if we don’t make it—”
“Don’t,” Sasha said, shaking her head. “We will.”
“But if we don’t,” Anne insisted, “I want you to know that you’re the reason I’m still standing.”
Sasha blinked, the words hitting her harder than any enemy strike. Her voice cracked. “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that before a fight.”
“Then you shouldn’t have given me the chance.”
The distance between them shrank to almost nothing. Anne could see the raindrops clinging to Sasha’s hair, the pulse at her throat. The world seemed to pause—sound draining away, air thick with everything they’d never said aloud.
Sasha’s breath caught, her eyes searching Anne’s. She leaned in just enough that Anne could feel the warmth of her, the unspoken promise hovering in the space between them. And then—
A horn sounded from the ridge. The first wave was coming.
The moment broke, but something inside it remained—unfinished, suspended like a heartbeat that refused to fade.
Sasha stepped back, jaw tight. “Guess that’s our cue.”
Anne nodded. “Yeah.”
And together they ran.
The battle was chaos.
The ground shook under the weight of Andrias’s machines, metal limbs slamming through barricades, blue light cutting through the smoke. Wartwood fought like a cornered animal—every frog, every toad, every bit of courage thrown into the storm.
Anne and Sasha stayed side by side, moving as one. Where Anne’s power burned bright, Sasha’s blade followed, sharp and sure. They didn’t speak; they didn’t need to. Each knew where the other would be before they moved.
But victory never feels like victory when it costs so much.
By dawn, the machines lay in ruin, and Wartwood was still standing—but at a terrible price. The fields were scorched, the air heavy with smoke. The survivors gathered in silence, counting faces, holding on to each other.
Anne and Sasha stood at the edge of the marsh, watching the sunrise push through the haze. The war was over, and somehow they were still there.
Sasha’s voice was hoarse. “It doesn’t feel real.”
Anne nodded. “Nothing does anymore.”
Sasha turned toward her. “What happens now?”
Anne looked at the sky, where the first light of home shone faintly through the thinning clouds. “We go back. We try again. We live.”
For a while they said nothing, just listened to the frogs rebuilding, to the quiet rhythm of a world trying to heal itself.
Then Sasha reached out, hesitated, and let her hand rest lightly over Anne’s. “You still stubborn?”
“Always.”
Sasha smiled. “Good. Someone’s gotta keep me in line.”
The two of them stood there, the marsh bathed in gold, the space between them smaller than it had ever been.
They didn’t need to close it completely.
They just needed to know it could be.

Chapter Text

The sky was falling.
No, not the sky — the moon.
It hung over Amphibia like a burning eye, its surface fractured with lines of purple fire. Even from Wartwood, Anne could see the faint, writhing shape beneath the cracks: the Core, alive, furious, and ready to drag the entire world down with it.
“Holy toadstools…” Sprig whispered, staring upward.
Marcy swallowed hard. “It’s the Core. It’s using the moon as a host.”
Sasha clenched her jaw, sword trembling in her grip. “Then we stop it. We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again.”
But Anne already knew — this was different. There was no army to rally, no castle to storm.
This was the endgame.
They raced toward the resistance base, now a makeshift command center. The air was thick with panic — frogs, toads, and newts shouting orders, engines roaring, airships rising toward the impossible.
“Even if we throw everything at it,” Marcy said, voice shaking, “we can’t destroy something that size.”
Polly slammed her fist into a console. “We can try!”
Sasha’s eyes flicked to Anne. “You’ve got that look again. The ‘I know something and you’re not gonna like it’ look.”
Anne didn’t answer.
She just reached into her pocket and pulled out the broken pieces of the music box gems — faintly glowing, each color dim but alive.
“The power still remembers us,” Anne said softly. “We can use it one last time.”
Marcy looked horrified. “Anne, the Calamity energy nearly killed you last time.”
“I know.”
Sasha’s voice rose. “Then you don’t know! You can’t just throw yourself away again, not after everything!”
Anne met her eyes — gentle, sad, steady. “Someone has to. And this time, I understand why.”
They took the skyship as far as it would go before the atmosphere thinned into silence. The moon filled everything — too close now, glowing like a wound in the heavens.
Marcy stayed at the controls, hands trembling. “I’ll get you close.”
Sasha gripped Anne’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be the hero, you know.”
Anne smiled faintly. “Maybe not. But I do have to be me.”
Sasha’s throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to shake her, to make her stay — but all she could do was whisper, “Then come back.”
“I will.”
Anne launched herself toward the moon, the shards of the gems fusing around her hands, her eyes burning with all three colors — blue, pink, and green. The energy surged through her, wrapping her in a radiant form of pure light.
Down below, Sasha and Marcy watched, helpless, as Anne soared toward the burning Core.
The Core’s voice echoed through the sky — thousands of minds in one.
“You think you can stop eternity, child?”
Anne’s voice rang back, clear and strong.
“No. But I can give it a second chance.”
She struck the Core with everything — all her fear, her love, her humanity. The explosion rippled across the sky, brilliant and terrible. For a heartbeat, the world was nothing but white.
Then… silence.
When the light faded, Anne was gone.
The moon stilled, its purple glow dimming, slowly pulled back into its orbit.
The Core was dead.
But so was she.
Marcy fell to her knees, sobbing. “No, no, no— she said she’d come back—”
Sasha’s voice broke as she shouted into the sky. “ANNE! COME BACK!”
Nothing.
Just the sound of the wind, and the faint hum of the ship drifting through the quiet aftermath of the world saved.
They returned to Wartwood like ghosts. The celebrations felt hollow — everyone alive, but the heart of it all missing.
Sprig cried until he couldn’t anymore. Polly refused to leave her room.
Marcy and Sasha sat together on the edge of the woods, unable to speak.
The war was over.
But it didn’t feel like a victory.
And then — a light.
Soft. Warm. Gentle as morning.
Anne blinked awake. She was lying in a field of stars, endless and quiet.
A vast, cat-shaped figure watched her with eyes full of galaxies.
“Hi, Anne.”
Anne blinked. “Are you… God?”
The being tilted its head. “Not exactly. More like… a caretaker. Someone has to watch the universe, after all.”
Anne sat up, looking around. “Did I die?”
“Yes,” the Cat said simply. “You gave all your energy to save your world. That was… very brave. And very human.”
Anne hesitated. “So what happens now?”
“That’s up to you. I could bring you back — but not as you were. You’d have to start over. The girl who gave her life can’t stay, but a new one could take her place.”
Anne thought for a long time. “Will I still be me?”
The Cat smiled. “Enough to make the difference.”
Anne looked down at her hands — light flickering at the edges, fading.
Then she smiled. “Then yeah. I think I’d like to go home.”
The light returned to Amphibia in a beam that split the clouds.
Sprig was the first to see it — and he screamed so loud the whole town came running.
Anne lay in the grass, breathing softly, her clothes burned but her smile the same.
Sasha froze, staring in disbelief. “No way.”
Marcy choked on a sob. “Anne?”
Anne blinked awake, squinting up at them. “Hey, guys… did we win?”
Sasha’s laugh broke halfway into tears. “You absolute moron.”
Marcy hugged her first, nearly knocking her over. Sasha joined in, and for a moment none of them said a word.
They just held on — to her, to each other, to the proof that miracles could happen twice.
In the days that followed, Amphibia healed.
Andrias stepped down, quietly helping rebuild what he’d destroyed.
Marcy found solace in the archives, learning rather than escaping.
Sasha led reconstruction with Grime, the best parts of both soldier and friend.
Anne spent her time between Wartwood and the wilderness, teaching Sprig everything she knew about her world — about humanity, kindness, and choice.
When the time came to return home, it wasn’t a victory march. It was a goodbye full of love and peace.
They hugged the Plantars, promised to write, and stepped through the portal — one last time.
Back on Earth, everything was quiet again.
The sky blue. The grass green. The air full of possibility.
But sometimes, when Anne looked up at the moon, she’d see a faint glow at its edge — purple, green, and pink.
And she’d smile.
Because she remembered.
Because they all did.

Chapter Text

Six months after they came home, the world felt both too small and too fast.
Cars, lights, school, people — everything moved like nothing had changed.
But Anne still woke sometimes expecting the croak of frogs, the buzz of dragonflies, the smell of damp earth and lilypads.
Instead, it was traffic and toast and her mom calling her for breakfast.
She’d gone back to school, pretending to fit back into a world that had no space for sword fights and glowing blue hearts. Her friends smiled politely, asked where she’d been, joked about her “summer abroad.”
She laughed along, because what else could she do?
But there was one person who didn’t make her pretend.
Sasha.

Sasha had moved back to St. James High too.
The first few weeks were rough — whispers, glances, the weight of old memories from before Amphibia.
She didn’t have her armor anymore, just a worn denim jacket and a quietness that used to be foreign to her. She walked through the halls like someone still learning how to exist.
Anne started walking with her between classes. At first, it was small things — lunch in the courtyard, homework study sessions that turned into long talks about everything and nothing. They didn’t talk about Amphibia much. But sometimes, when the light hit just right, Anne would catch Sasha staring out the window, far away, and know exactly where her thoughts had gone.
One afternoon, Anne found Sasha at the skate park, watching the younger kids roll by. She sat beside her, kicking her sneakers against the ramp.
“Do you ever think about it?” Anne asked softly.
Sasha didn’t look away from the sky. “Every day. I dream about it, sometimes. Then I wake up and… I don’t know who I am.”
Anne smiled gently. “You’re Sasha. You’re figuring it out.”
Sasha turned, eyes tired but warm. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not,” Anne admitted. “But it’s better than doing it alone.”
Sasha looked at her for a long time, then nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

Marcy was the one who had the hardest time staying.
Her family decided to move—new city, new start, maybe a chance for her to breathe again.
They threw her a small going-away party at the Boonchuys’ restaurant. String lights, music, too much food. It was almost normal.
When it was time to say goodbye, Marcy hugged them both tight, tears streaming down her face.
“I hate this part,” she whispered.
Anne smiled through her own tears. “We’ll visit. Promise.”
Sasha’s voice cracked. “You’d better. I can’t deal with this world’s math alone.”
They laughed, and for a moment it felt like Amphibia again — three girls who’d been through too much, holding onto what they could.
When Marcy finally left, the silence she left behind was heavier than expected.

Anne and Sasha started meeting more often after that — walking home together, cooking dinner at Anne’s place, sometimes just sitting on the roof and watching the sunset.
They didn’t call it anything. They didn’t have to.
There were nights when Anne would catch Sasha tracing the scars on her arm absentmindedly, or staring at the stars like she was trying to find a constellation she’d left behind. And Anne would quietly reach over and rest her hand beside hers — not holding it, not needing to. Just a presence. Just there.
Sometimes, that was enough.

Winter came.
One evening, Anne stopped by Sasha’s house with hot chocolate and a stack of old photos they’d printed from Anne’s phone. Pictures of Wartwood, of the Plantars, of the three of them standing on the hill outside the castle ruins — one of the last photos they took before returning home.
They sat on the floor by the heater, scrolling through memories.
Sasha laughed softly. “God. Look at my face in that one. I was trying so hard to look brave.”
“You were brave,” Anne said. “You always were.”
Sasha looked down at the photo, then back at Anne. “You really believe that?”
“I do.”
The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the heater.
Sasha’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You never gave up on me. Even when you should have.”
Anne smiled faintly. “You’d have done the same.”
Sasha shook her head. “Maybe now I would.”
Their eyes met. Neither looked away.
Outside, snow began to fall — soft, slow, endless.
Sasha exhaled, shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like years.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For seeing me. When I didn’t deserve it.”
Anne’s smile grew, small and full of warmth. “That’s what love is, right?”
The word hung there, not loud, but true.
Sasha didn’t flinch from it. She let it settle between them, like the snow, quiet and real.

Spring came again.
Anne got a job at the local nature center, helping rebuild a wetland park that reminded her a little too much of home.
Sasha would visit after school, sometimes helping, sometimes just sitting under a tree reading or sketching.
They’d talk about everything: college, travel, the future — and the world they left behind.
They never talked about being together in labels. They didn’t need to.
Everyone around them knew. The way they looked for each other in a crowd, the way their laughter fit together perfectly — it said everything.
On quiet evenings, when the park closed and the sky turned gold, Anne would sit beside Sasha on the dock. The water rippled, reflecting the orange of the sunset. They’d talk about Sprig, Hop Pop, Polly. About Marcy’s latest postcards from her new city.
And sometimes, when the conversation faded and the world grew still, Anne would rest her head on Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha would lean gently against her. Maybe even a gentle kiss pressed between.
It wasn’t Amphibia anymore, but it didn’t have to be.
It was home.
A different kind of magic — quieter, steadier, human.

Years later, when people asked Anne Boonchuy about the craziest thing she’d ever done, she’d smile and say something about a school field trip gone wrong.
But when she looked at Sasha — sitting beside her at the park, sketchbook open, hair brushing her cheek — she’d think, No.
The craziest thing was forgiving each other.
And somehow, that had been enough to save them both.

Chapter Text

Ten years later, the world had changed again — but not nearly as much as they had.
Anne stood outside a little bookstore tucked on a quiet corner in Portland. The window was filled with adventure novels, fantasy maps, and a small display of potted plants that looked suspiciously familiar — long vines with spotted leaves, bright blossoms that pulsed faintly with color in the right light.
When the door opened, a bell jingled softly.
Marcy turned from the counter, her hair a bit longer, glasses slipping down her nose, a pen tucked behind one ear.
Her face lit up instantly.
“Anne! Sash! You made it!”
Anne barely had time to set down her bag before Marcy hugged her so tight it almost knocked the air out of her.
Sasha laughed, pulling both of them in. “Careful, you’re still stronger than you look.”
Marcy grinned. “Guess all those late nights hauling boxes finally paid off.” She flexed her muscles in a joking manner, with a wider grin - toothily curled from ear to ear.
They hadn’t seen each other in almost two years. Texts, calls, and postcards had kept them close, but seeing each other again — really seeing each other — was something else entirely.
The store smelled like paper and rain. Shelves were lined with books, some with hand-written notes tucked into the pages. In the corner, a terrarium glowed faintly blue — a little ecosystem of moss and water, home to a single lily pad floating on still water, with what Anne imagined to contain plants from Amphibia. She was surprised to see how she kept them alive — it was Marcy, after all.
Anne’s breath caught. “You kept it?”
Marcy nodded. “A little piece of Amphibia. Don’t worry, it’s stable. I just… I couldn’t let it go completely.”
Sasha stood beside her, watching the light flicker over the water. “None of us really did,” she said quietly.

They spent the afternoon together — catching up, sharing stories about work, life, the little victories and mistakes that made up adulthood.
Anne worked now as an environmental educator, teaching kids about wetlands and conservation — always with that spark of wonder that Amphibia had given her. 
Sasha managed a youth center, helping kids find direction and self-worth. She still skated, still smiled with that same half-smirk that Anne secretly loved.
 Marcy had found her peace among stories — writing, editing, building worlds instead of trying to escape into them.
As the sun dipped low, they walked out to the park near the river. The water glinted, and for a moment it felt like standing at the edge of Wartwood again.
Marcy broke the silence first. “Do you ever think they’re still out there? Sprig, Polly, everyone?”
Anne smiled softly. “Yeah. Sometimes I still feel them. Like… when the frogs sing at night after it rains, or when the stars are extra bright. It’s like they’re saying hi.”
Sasha crossed her arms, watching the light dance on the calm river. “They’d better be okay. We fought hard for that world.”
“They are,” Anne said certainly, tossing in a giggle. “They have to be.”
For a while, the three of them just stood there, watching the sunset. No tears this time — just quiet understanding.
Marcy reached into her bag and pulled out something small — a faded sketchbook, its pages worn but carefully preserved. Inside were drawings from long ago: the treehouse plans, doodles of Wartwood, and three human girls standing in front of the castle, arms around each other.
She smiled. “I used to look at this and think it was the end of something. But now it just feels like the beginning of everything we became.”
Anne traced a finger over the page. “We were kids. We thought we had to be heroes.”
Sasha’s voice was gentle. “We were. In our own way.”
The three of them laughed softly, their voices blending with the sound of the river and the city beyond.
When twilight finally came, Anne felt something stir — not sadness, not loss, just… peace.
 The kind of peace that comes when you’ve carried something for a long time and realize you can finally set it down without forgetting it.

As they said goodbye later that evening, Marcy stood in the doorway of her shop, waving.
 “Don’t be strangers, okay? You’re my favorite customers.”
Sasha grinned. “You don’t even sell anything we buy.”
“Exactly!” Marcy called back, laughing.
Anne slipped her arm through Sasha’s as they walked down the street, their shadows stretching long in the lamplight.
“Think we’ll ever stop missing it?” Anne asked.
Sasha shook her head, smiling softly. “No. But I don’t think we’re supposed to.”
They passed a puddle glinting under the light — and for a heartbeat, Anne could’ve sworn she saw something move in it, a tiny ripple shaped like a frog’s leap.
She smiled, squeezing Sasha’s arm. “See you soon, Amphibia,” she whispered.
And somewhere, impossibly far away, the stars seemed to ripple in answer.