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Phantom limb pain is when you feel pain in your missing body part after an amputation (limb loss). It might seem like an illusion to feel pain in an area of your body that no longer exists.
But your pain is real.
[False Positive]
“Osmanthus soup?”
“Yeah! I learnt it from Honey. She said it would be the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted! I thought you might enjoy it.”
“...looks delicious.”
“Because it is! Try it, Whisp.”
Where did we come from? Why are we here?
Where do we go when we die?
“‘s a bit hot.”
“Oops! Sorry Whisp! Should have waited for it to cool first.”
“It’s okay.”
“But the taste was alright, right? You liked it?”
What lies beyond, and what lay before?
Is anything certain in life?
“It’s nice. Fragrant. Refreshing.”
“Right? Honey knew all the best spices and stuff to put all in ‘ere!”
“...spices and stuff?”
“Eheheh… I didn’t really pay attention to what she really put in there. Hope you’re not allergic to any of it, Whisp.”
They say “Life is too short,” “The here and the now”
And “You’re only given one shot”
“Man, I can’t remember the last time we had a nice picnic out here. I could lay here and suck in all the fresh air for weeks. Do you remember, Whisp?”
“...no.”
“All because of that blasted Mimic! But I think we finally heard the last of him, right? He wouldn’t come back as another impostor new member of the Diamond Cutters? I’m crossing my fingers tight. Look at ‘em.”
“...”
But could there be more, have I lived before
Or could this be all that we’ve got?
“Hey, are you alright, Whisp? It… isn’t any of your allergies flaring up already, is it?”
“Hm? No, it isn’t the soup.”
“What’s the problem then? Something bothering you?”
“...today seems a bit warm.”
“Warm? Ah, yeah — should have probably checked out on that forecast, huh? Drat, not like we stocked up enough sunscreen even if we did…”
“No, it’s fine. I… like it being warm.”
“Oh? I didn’t know that, Whisp!”
“I’m rediscovering that myself, too.”
“But hey, who wouldn’t enjoy a nice picnic out here in the field on a bright summer day? Some nice peace and quiet. You must have been living in some deep hole somewhere to pass up on this!”
“You’re right.”
“So just enjoy the moment, Whisp! We earned this! Here, I packed extra helpings of poundcake. Some croissants if you feel like switchin’!”
“Thank you, Tangle.”
“Owh, and some calzones too! Man, that shop I stopped at had everything you liked! Maybe we should visit it together some day, huh? For some nice tea.”
“...”
“Whisp? Are… are you crying? What’s wrong?”
“Hm? I am?”
“Gosh, Whisp! You’re tearing up a storm here! Is everything okay? Did the soup get to you?”
“No, I—”
“Man, I… messed everything up, didn’t I?”
“No, Tangle. Listen to me.”
“H-Huh?”
“Never apologize. It is never your fault.”
“W-Whisp? Whoa, hey!”
I used to be frightened of dying, I used to think death was the end
But that was before, I’m not scared anymore
I know that my soul will transcend
“You’re… crushing… me… Oxygen—”
“Thank you, Tangle. For everything.”
“Huh? What? O-Okay wait, you gotta let me go first, Whisp.”
“...”
“Whisper! I’m serious! Ack, I can’t breathe—”
Safe in the light that surrounds me, free of the fear and the pain
My questioning mind has helped me to find
The meaning in my life again
“Seriously, Whisp! What was that all about?!”
“...sorry, Tangle.”
“Don’t ever do that again! You scared me! Except maybe the hugging part. That part wasn’t so bad.”
“C’mere.”
“Wait no! I haven’t caught my breath yet! Whisp!”
Victoria’s real, I finally feel at peace with the girl in my dreams
And now that I’m here, it’s perfectly clear
I found out what all of this means
“What did you want to thank me for, Whisp? I didn’t do anything. The food basket wasn’t particularly hard to carry. Honey made the soup, and Miss Vanilla introduced me to this place! It was a team effort, really.”
“I meant… sticking around with me all this time, Tangle.”
“Oh, that. Well, I did promise to stick by ya since we first met. And yeah, we had some ups and downs, but mostly ups!”
“Mhm.”
“And now we’re on the highest peak we’ve ever been! I don’t think we’re coming down any time soon!”
“Tangle.”
“Oops. I blabbered too much again, didn’t I?”
“I wish…”
“Hm? What is it?”
“I wish today would never end.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day, Whisp. Because it won’t.”
“Oh?”
“Not on my watch! It’s all sunshines and rainbows from here on out, yessir!”
“...in that case, here’s to more ups.”
“Oh, I never made a toast on cups of tea before, but here goes nothing! To more ups!”
If I die tomorrow
I'd be alright
Because I believe
That after we're gone
The spirit carries on
[Hope is the Thing with Wings]
Yet another day, yet another moment where Tangle and Whisper simply exist. To exist, and be with the world, and waste. At least, that’s what Tangle said when she suggested that they just enjoy the view from the Mineral Museum’s skylight. The offered scenery is one Whisper has seen plenty of times: locals browsing colourful stands that bloom from the marketplace grounds every morning; the many rows of stone townhouses stacked next to one another, with even more rows of laundry spiderwebbing them; the river that serpentines past Spiral Hill and beyond, heralding a new year each time spring blossoms thaw it. She doesn’t mind, though. For she hopes that the sight is an augury of a new customary rhythm in her life.
Things are never that easy, are they?
“Whisper, there’s…something I wanna ask.”
“Hm?”
“That day, at Rainbow Ravine…”
Whisper frowns.
Tangle takes a deep breath, and commits: “Were you really gonna do it?”
No point sugarcoating it. “...yes.”
“...why?”
“Why not? After all he’d done. Will continue to do—if allowed to continue.” She shakes her head, as if warding off discordant thoughts. “Not that it matters. He paid the price anyway.”
“Yeah, but…” Tangle rubs her shoulders before steeling herself. “Taking someone’s life…it’s a heavy toll. I don’t want you to have to take that step.”
“If it had come down to it…I’m willing to pay the price.” She imagines the group photo of the Diamond Cutters, now framed in her study. “Fought against him for a long time. Alongside him, even longer. Time takes its toll on the battlefield. What’s not paid in blood…”
As she trails off, Tangle places her hands on Whisper’s. “A part of you didn’t want to do it, did you?”
“S’why he managed to trigger that explosion.”
“So, why did you…?”
“Because to see you cross that line for my sake would be an even greater punishment.”
Tangle could do nothing but hang her mouth open. Though she stammers for a bit, she brings Whisper closer, letting the wolf’s head rest on her shoulders. “Oh, Whisper…”
“Knew you’d feel that same, too. And yet, I…”
“There you go again, looking out for me.” Tangle smiles. “Always so selfless…”
“Selfish, more like.”
“Hey! I’m not letting you say that about yourself. I totally get where you’re coming from, which, well, I did just say I feel the same way—anyway!” She grins. “We’re Tangle and Whisper! We. Are. Awesome! And we’re never gonna let that happen to each other, ya hear?!”
Whisper can’t help but crack a smile. “Loud and clear.”
“‘Sides…with Mimic no longer causing trouble, we can brainstorm on what ‘home’ should look like!” From behind, the lemur drapes her arms on Whisper’s sides, face peeking out the wolf's shoulders a moment later. “You think pastel looks good, or…”
She pokes Tangle’s nose, earning a giggle from the lemur. “Mm…prefer something more rustic. Sure he's gone?”
“Heh, that jerk may be slippery, but I doubt even he can survive an explosion like that.”
Whisper clings onto that line, and lets herself hope.
[To Dream of Albatrosses]
That night, your dreams take the shape of an albatross.
You find yourself in a desert. Sand dunes ripple as far as the eye can see. No traces of civilization can be found here—the golden winds of the desert howl so. Everything has been stripped bare. You are home.
Sighing, you trudge forward, making your way…somewhere. As long as it isn’t here. You stop to gaze at the sand occasionally, not that there’s much to admire. The grains are the colour of your fur. Each infinitesimal particle makes up the desert’s waves, like a mockery of sunlight lost. Wind sweeps them into your face. You steel yourself, holding onto the glimmer of hope that you will find solace eventually.
Above, a winged creature circles. White, large, beaked: an albatross. It watches as you wear yourself out. Alarm bells flare in your head; it aims to strike you down. Your fur remains on edge as you wield your rifle, your senses heighted. The polymer composite is heavy in your hands. Trepidation makes you consider each step. But there is another feeling that has awoken you, one that’s risen after being away from polite society for so long.
Hunger.
[The Bells that Toll for None]
“Greetings, Whisper.”
“H’lo.”
“How are things on your end? I heard you’ve been busy sightseeing with Tangle.”
“Mm. Emerald Coast and Spagonia, to name a few.”
“Ah, I’ve always wanted to visit Spagonia…” Jewel shakes her head. “One of these days.”
“That reminds me…” Whisper fishes out a keychain depicting one of the many bell towers there. “Got this for you.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have…”
“I should.”
“At least let me do the whole song and dance…thank you, though.” Her smile dissipates as she glances away, gathering courage with a steeple of her fingers. “You know why I came here today. I wanted to update you regarding Mimic.
“...”
“They’re still searching for his body. It was a stormy night, and the rapids were powerful.”
Still searching. That means Mimic might be alive.
“...I see.”
“If you need any help, Whisper—”
“It’s fine.”
Jewel falters.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t have...”
“No, no. I understand. Just know that my door's always open, alright?”
Whisper sighs, and then tries to smile like she means it. “Of course.”
Mimic is no more.
So why is she still…like this?
“Oh, right. Lanolin says she wants to catch up with you. She's still busy with Emeraldville at the moment, but she can make time for you this coming Sunday. Is nine okay? At night, I mean.”
“Mm…sure.”
“Great! She says she’ll probably be at the cafeteria there. If not, just holler for her; she’ll come running in a bit. Say, don’t these bells look a little too big?”
Her ensuing conversation with Jewel isn’t eventful. Not after what Jewel had just revealed to her. Nightfall approaches as the rest of the day stalks by. Mired, Whisper finds herself cascading into a dream once more.
[To Pull the Trigger that Saves a Life]
The albatross circles and circles, flapping its wings. Wind currents bend to their weight, sending a mournful gale that threatens to sweep you off your feet—a song of remembrance. You sigh. Gritting your teeth, you bring your arms up; your cloak flaps like a demented response. The reminder is unnecessary; you’re a soldier; you haven’t forgotten.
Death is something you remember very well.
The albatross circles once, twice, as prey and predator eye each other. The skies quiver with each wingbeat. And then, the albatross swoops in—
You squeeze the trigger until it budges. A cry rings out across the barren wasteland, and the albatross plummets toward you. The elusive beast—slain by the huntress. But gold and glory it is not. Red stains its pristine white feathers. Its wings, large and ungainly, make walking forward difficult, and no matter how much you try to shrug it off, it clings to your body like a memory. You are stuck here. You are home.
Lost, you gaze above—the night sky is swathed with stars that twinkle in laughter.
[Argumentum ad Ignorantiam]
The kettle on the stove whined sharply. It had been for the past minute. Five minutes now. Ten. Its lid began to tremble at the top, making some desperate exotic dance, a last ditch effort to anyone who could see. And someone saw. It wasn’t enough.
Twenty now. Soot began to form by the legs of the kettle, burning a convicted heretic alive. Saving this unbelieving soul for its doubts. Its voice had died out long ago, fading to eternal silence. Still, not convinced.
Close to thirty. The lid shot out. Unrepentant, shaking. Angry. Water spilt out, running down from all corners, a decapitated prize. Frantic spurts, life escaping. Frothing, bubbling. Gruesome. A long stream flowed steadily from the rim straight to the depths of hell, threatening a forbidden meet between creation and condemned.
Now it was time to turn the kettle off.
Whisper picked out her favourite cup from the cabinet. She made a mental note to purchase a new kettle afterwards.
Something that cannot be proven cannot thus be said to be true. That is a fundamental principle of a logical argument. That is expected of any sound conclusion. The very fact that she is told to accept this conclusion regardless of this important distinction is illogical ab initio. From the very beginning. How could it be any other way? Post hoc ergo propter hoc. After this, therefore because of this. There were no signs of Mimic anywhere. She watched his body dissolve into the water. Nothing arose. Silence. Therefore, he is no more. Sound logic.
This was the evidence she was given. This is the conclusion she must grasp.
Whisper seated herself next to the window, a cup of warm matcha in her hands. She gripped it tightly with both of her hands, trying to absorb as much heat as possible. She folded her legs and tugged them beneath her on the cozy couch. It was her favourite spot to enjoy her breakfast. All this while her head remained turned to the window. Calm tranquility. Bright, promising morning.
A world of endless possibilities. A world of endless uncertainties.
A single butterfly flapped its wings towards the garden in front. It landed on a single leaf, nestled contently in the row of hedges. A perfect length for someone to be hidden there, crouched over, sheathing his dagger for the perfect time to strike. What, five, six paces to the window? A knife could easily smash it open. And what about that tree at the other corner? Strategic location. Prime blind spot. She would’ve picked that spot herself too. Too tempting to pass up on. With the right angle, a single shot could kill anyone seated by this window…
Whisper chuckled to herself as she realised how vulnerable her home was. If she was in charge, she would have gotten the job done before her water had boiled. Yet, she was still here. Because unlike her, in time Mimic finds a friend. A confidant to patience. Each second passing by would be a boost of dopamine to him, delighted in seeing her lose her hair one strand at a time.
An albatross soaring the skies, she wonders when the trigger would be pulled from the ground below. When she would come plummeting onto the ground, sanguine embraced. She can’t see it, but she knows that it was always aimed at her. Because she would do the same.
And if she stops, it would be too easy.
She turned back to the kettle. It was quiet now. Calm and resting. Experiencing the peaceful fallout after expelling the immense pressure that had built up from the accumulated steam. At that moment, Whisper felt that it would be akin to an effective trepanation on her own self. Preferable. To release this immense pressure within her tiny little head.
She was used to it. But what she wouldn’t give to stab herself with an ice pick and let it all out, just like that kettle. To let it all burst, followed by tranquility and rest.
But, no. Has she learnt nothing? The kettle screeched. Should be ample evidence, yes? Incorrect. Inconclusive. She waited. It shook, shuddered. Hot steam rushed the air, threatening to amplify the longer she refused to accept. Abnormal observations. Surely, the water must have boiled now? And she waited. Finally, it burst. And now she could see that clearly, the water was indeed boiling. She was sated.
A death is confirmed by the observation of the deceased’s body. Mimic fell into the water. No body appears. No remains appear. Nothing of him appears. Because he did not drown in it. He got out. Therefore, he is not dead.
Produce the body. Then only shall she be sated.
The matcha was poured down the sink, not a drop tasted. The abused kettle was thrown into the trash bin, its lid barely closing. She closed the curtains on the window, vowing to never sit there ever again.
The screams. The fanfare. All fickle distractions from getting conclusive evidence.
Water boils when continuous bubbles rise and break violently on the surface. She saw it flow down the kettle, the lid discarded, the ambers of final resistance from the angry bursts being snuffed out. Even as the fire rages on. Quietly, but definitively.
Therefore, the water was boiled.
[To Undulate Wings that Sink]
The albatross’ carcass feels heavier every time you glance down. It’s tied around your neck, a hegemon of regret. Wings sift through sand like lumbering oars. Are the feathers chomping down on the ground to plant seeds? Seeds to polyps, polyps to cycles. Eternal, eternal cycles… The jester runs the world.
But you climb, still. Light awaits you at the top—warm, ditzy light, shining blazingly bright.
You snag the albatross and trudge up the incline, ignoring its sneer. Time is a suggestion here: each step takes an eternity. Muscles ache; mind atrophies. One more step, yet one more step… How long have you been carrying this burden? In a way, this dream of nothingness is an interlude; you’ve gotten used to it by now. Almost at the halfway point, now—
An appendage bursts from the albatross’ neck; blood splatters onto your skin. You recoil, but that’s all the albatross needs to exert its will. Wings unfurl like a hateful god’s woodcarving project. Writhing does little to stop the wings from ensnaring you. One flaps open like a paper fan and hits you right in the snout; tiny feathers carve scars into flesh as if moulding you. It is the sculptor, and you are the clay. It is the hound, and you—you press on.
It, too, persists. Wings and legs unfurl from its head. The planted seeds reach into oblivion as forests of wings. Moons gleam in the albatross’ sockets, pure white amidst a pool of ink. The albatross is dead, but its presence and will lingers. They’re his eyes. They’re his eyes, and when you shut yours, his eyes are still there, lurking behind your eyelids. When you regain your senses, you are suspended upside down between the sand dunes and the starry void above. Trapped, like a fly in a spider’s web, in the middle of the ever-growing forest of wings.
With your weapon out of reach, you resort to clawing away at the wings. They give way like vines to a knife. Sinew and bone forcibly extrude to block your path; you wiggle through before they fully do so. But their persistence isn’t what’s making this journey difficult. It’s because each time you cut through those limbs…
It feels as if you are hurting yourself.
It’s not a sharp pain that shoots through your spine, no. It burns. It feels as if those wings belong to you. Like they should be—no, are attached to your back. Each wing severed is an olive branch scorched. Fallen feathers sew themselves onto your back, held together by pointed, bent edges that had torn its way out of your flesh. As your limbs skitter in agony, the uncut wings caress your cheeks, loving as an estranged father, careful as a vivisector too eager with a scalpel. More and more wings continue to sprout; your back now blooms a curled bouquet of bones.
Through your pained gasps, you can’t help but wonder: with you dragging behind all of those wings, what sort of monster do you look like?
[Silent Discordance]
Sunday night arrives. Rubbing her eyes, Whisper leaves her residence and pulls her cloak closer against the crisp wind. Her boots pointedly avoid dead leaves scattered across the stone path. The night is young: a few kids sprint away in raucous laughter. Chatter from well-lit diners travels past curls of mist. The night sky is swathed with skies that twinkle in laughter.
She is almost at the cafeteria, humming quietly to herself. A warm aroma splashes across her senses. She is almost at the cafeteria. The winds aren’t particularly strong today, and yet gentle eddies like ocean waves resist against her locomotion. She is almost at the cafeteria. In the bushes behind, something shuffles. She is almost at the cafeteria. A chill slides down her neck, a dagger’s tip.
Biting her lips, Whisper ducks into a secluded alleyway, away from polite society and into the slums. Every major city has one—locals use its artery as a shortcut; dubious characters conduct unscrupulous transactions in one of its many, many poorly-maintained subdivisions; politicians skirt around it with rhetorical arts. Above all, it is the perfect place for someone who wishes to disappear to do so.
She didn’t immediately change course, of course; that’d draw too much attention. But once she’d shifted past the crowd into the narrow, dank path, subtlety was all but abandoned as the wolf quickened her pace. Newspapers crunch beneath military-styled boots as Whisper pulls her cloak closer against a chill only she could feel. Matted fur aside, an onlooker would think that Death was running away.
Almost, almost.
Furtively, she stalked past an unwieldy drunkard into the barrens marking the burial site of the old Restoration HQ. An airship’s corpse splayed its hull across the ground—a mark of failure, yet some individuals have set up shop here like it was a monument. Flesh sizzle and crackle on grills. Ghostly plumes spun like unbidden nausea. A cat, faced away from her, stabs needles into skins and threaded red silk like connective tissue. They paid Whisper no mind as she drifted past them to the construction equipment that marked the new Restoration HQ.
Crowded area. Confrontation won’t be prudent. But this is a conflict dragged into overtime, a play continuing after the curtain call. Even the sharpened blade of professionals can be dulled into the fractured claws of wild animals, if given enough time. Their battle has proven this.
And so, she runs. Forest canopy to Emeraldville. A place previously so familiar had been warped by unease. Muscles ache in protest. The thumping of her heart is louder. The cafeteria. The woodworking section. The storage. The cafeteria. The woodworking section. The storage.
Despite Whisper’s best efforts,
that presence still
hounds her
her mind drifts to albatrosses
But
this isn’t a dream, no
it was a living nightmare
one that broke free
from its confines and is now
shambling rapidly toward
her
an inevitable curtain call.
[Clangorous Discordance]
████ the ██████████ ███████████████ ██████ █ y████
███████████ ████ ██s███████ ██████████ ██g██ ████████ ██.
█████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
Muscles ache, mind atrophies. The thunder of pursuit drowns out all else in your head.
███ ███████ ███ ██ ████ the trigger.
Your breathing starts to become ragged. Behind, something weighs you down. It has always been with you, will always be with you, and yet, it feels like the one chasing you.
███ ███████ ███ ██ pull the trigger.
Despite the distance, the surroundings still manage to slow you down, seemingly snag on your clothing, your fur.
███ chooses ███ to pull the trigger.
Charred tendrils to scarred wings. Still-crackling suction cups grasp gently, the kiss of death.
She chooses not to pull the trigger.
“Whisper!”
Jumping slightly, Whisper whirls around—Lanolin’s form stands there, looking irked yet concerned.
“Phew, you finally noticed. I had half a mind to reach for my Wispon.”
Blue eyes. Brown fingerless gloves ending in hoof stubs. Candid expression and tone.
“La-Lanolin.” She sighs. “It’s you.”
Lanolin’s bell. Nearby chatter. Voracious clinks of utensils.
“Is everything alright, Whisper? You look…shaken.”
Whisper glances back: there’s nothing but the shadows of the past.
Gloves creak. Claws dig into their own hands.
“...just thought I saw someone.”
Lanolin frowns, and then gestures to her office door with her mug. “Let’s talk inside?”
“...okay.”
Ignore the curious volunteers peeking over. Ignore them. Lanolin holds the door open for her, and the two enter her private quarters. Space is small. Fits just nice for Lanolin and one extra person. Best Tangle didn’t come with. The large glass window behind makes this place less stuffy, thankfully. A nightlamp on a table illuminates some documents ready to be filed away, as important as they are boring. Books like Taking it Easy: Flora the Butterfly’s Guide on Managing Your Spine and How to Not Give a D__n take up the small bookshelf beside.
That was more than three, she’s pretty sure. Was it? Taking a deep breath, Whisper stumbles into a seating position, digs her claws into her knees, and does not face Lanolin.
“So,” Lanolin says, setting down her mug before regarding Whisper’s hunched form solemnly. “It’s been a rough week, huh?”
Whisper's gaze remains downcast. “How do I look?”
“A mess.”
In lieu of a reply, Whisper merely sinks onto her desk and sighs.
“You look like a beautiful monster.”
“Thanks.”
Lanolin shrugs. “Just being honest.”
“I know.” Whisper messes with her hair, or rather, messes up her hair, running her hand through it causing it to fray even more. She looks very much like a disgruntled lover at a bar, fumbling for another glass of beer. “They haven’t found him yet.”
“Jewel said as much.” As Whisper’s gaze drifts up to meet hers, she clarifies: “What? He toyed with me during his stint here. Though I didn’t participate in the battle, I would very much like to know his fate. Frankly, I hope he’s dead.”
“Just hoping for an answer at this point. Know it’s what he wants, this paranoia. If he’s still alive.”
“Chaos, I hope he’s dead.”
“You said that already.”
“I know.”
“S’just…what if we never find out?”
“The chances of him surviving that fall are close to none. But as for the certainty…you definitely don’t need me telling you this, but there won’t always be a proper closure. I want an answer too. If he’s dead, then, I hope hell isn’t a revolving door. If he’s alive…hah. Did I ever tell you this? There was a part of me that wanted to come with.”
Whisper frowns. She finds it in herself to sit upright. “You didn’t,” she says carefully.
“I wanted to pay him back for what he did.” Lanolin glances down at the bell on her neck, and fiddles with the clapper. “To the Diamond Cutters, to our team, to me. Above all else, to you. But I thought better: I was thoroughly schooled at the Sweepstakes. Clutch and Mimic pulled the wool over my eyes. I was a bad teammate, and a bad friend. I wanted to help, but…”
Whisper’s hands find Lanolin’s. “You are helping.” And then, when she realises their intimacy, she immediately shoves her hands below the table and averts her gaze. She sinks into her cloak a little. “Sorry.”
A smile tugs at Lanolin’s lips. “...I wouldn’t mind more of that. Just…don’t let Tangle rub off of you so much that you start giving me bear hugs.”
“Thank you, though. For bearing with me. ‘M slipping again.”
“Don’t mention it. No, seriously, don’t mention it. I just…Chaos, I didn’t imagine it going like this. This was supposed to be relaxing! We were supposed to catch up, and, I don’t know, have fun!”
“It was always going to end up on this topic.”
“...with us at the helm, yeah.” Lanolin concedes. Then, she slowly reaches toward her. “May I?”
Whisper nods, and Lanolin brushes the wolf’s bangs with a gentleness that only comes with calloused fingers. The wolf giggles a little at the touch, instinctively leaning away from the sheep and making the chair teeter slightly.
Lanolin brightens up. “You really do look nice, especially with a smile.”
The night passes as they discuss the near-sinking of Turtleshell Island, and how the cause of the buoy’s explosion hasn’t been determined yet. They discuss Lanolin and Jewel’s work at Emeraldville, and how things aren’t progressing according to their Gantt chart. They discuss supper. Whisper pointedly dismisses coffee as an option before the sheep even has a chance to mention it. Leveling a glare at the wolf, Lanolin remains silent for a bit before promptly lambasting the contribution of poundcakes to Islandic society. In the end, they are filled to the brim not with food, but laughter. Victory? Their rumbling stomachs would disagree.
Still, one truth becomes increasingly apparent to Whisper through their conversation: sometimes uncertainty is an answer itself.
[Argumentum ad Verecundiam]
“Whisper? Good to see ya! You wanted to see me?”
“Mhm.”
“How have you been, Whisp? You look… a little tired.”
“Only a little.”
“You… okay? Something bothering you? Or bothering you still?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh. Anything I could do to help?”
“...I don’t know.”
“Erm, you don’t know?”
“Didn’t sleep well, ‘s all.”
“Crud, was I still snoring too loud? I could buy a mask—”
“No, it’s not you. Not this time at least. Don’t worry, Tangle.”
“Still, I could tell you really were having trouble… Saw you tossing and turning all night.”
“Mhm. I was.”
“Mimic?”
“...yes.”
“Well, believe it or not, Whisp, he’s on my mind too. Ironic, huh?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Hard to get that guy off your mind when you’ve seen the stuff he’s done. Plus, with the way he went out… that could leave a mark on anyone.”
“That’s the thing.”
“What is?”
“He… I… I don’t think he’s…”
“Whisper?”
“He’s still alive out there. He has to be.”
“What? But Jewel said—”
“Jewel… doesn’t really know what she saw. On that day anyway. I saw him. And nothing surfaced in the water. There was nothing that can definitively prove he was dead.”
“That may be true… but I mean c’mon, no one can survive a fall like that, right? He dipped straight into the river!”
“...this is Mimic we’re talking about.”
“Whisp. He blew up in front of you.”
“It… he has survived worse things before. I’ve seen him walk out scott free. Unscathed. As if it was just all one big fireworks show. Like he was showing off a magic trick.”
“Well, I can’t really explain what happened during then…”
“So the same must have happened here. He got away. Again.”
“But, that’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Not when it comes down to him.”
“Look, I think we’re getting too ahead of ourselves here—”
“I can’t take any chances with Mimic, Tangle. I really can’t. And you of all people should know that.”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you! It’s just…”
“What?”
“I dunno, Whisp. Maybe we could give this all… what’s it called? Something doubtful?”
“Benefit of the doubt.”
“Yeah, that’s it! I feel… he’s not coming back.”
“How can you be so sure, Tangle?”
“I know that his body hasn’t been found yet, Whisp. Jewel told me.”
“Then you should know they don’t know what they’re dealing with. But I do. They shouldn’t be this nonchalant. It’s—”
“But have you ever seen something like this before?”
“...”
“This whole fight… It seemed like a pretty big one. It was either us or him. He was never gonna get out of there alive, Whisp.”
“...how could you say that for certain?”
“Because he gave his all, Whisp. He was cornered, he had no other place left to run. A really great magician, I agree. But he’s just run out of tricks. We’ve revealed all of them.”
“I… No, he can still recover…”
“He can’t, Whisp. Because we got him beat. He was on his last legs. And we knew there was a slim possibility of him quietly returning back with us to the Restoration.”
“Still…”
“Come here, Whisp.”
“...ow.”
“Sorry. Still haven’t really been able to control my hugs, heheh.”
“...‘s fine.”
“I… understand what you’re going through, Whisp. And if I might add, it’s good you considered it too! The rest of the Restoration may have missed the fact that he might have gotten away. Even I’d admit we get too carried away with our wins sometimes.”
“...”
“But, and it’s just my opinion, I really don’t think that big meanie is coming back. I’m right beside you in making sure he doesn’t. And I may not know that much about him, about what he is capable of as much as you do, I’ll admit. I just feel that, even if he does, he’s toast. He has nothing left. And you… You have everything. You have us. The Restoration. Jewel. Lanolin. Silver. Heck, even Sonic once he hears about this! He’ll drop everything and guard your room 24/7! And Mimic? He has no one. None. He abandoned everyone. He is truly alone. Even if he really comes back… what can he do? What can he do to you that he hasn’t already tried? He can’t do anything to you anymore.”
“I…”
“But on the odd chance he really does come back, then I’ll erm… I’ll punch him right in his nose! Yeah! How dare he come back and haunt my beloved partner! Hasn’t he done enough already?”
“Heh—Quit it, Tangle. You’re tickling me.”
“You feel better now, Whisp?”
“...still, in the off chance he comes back—”
“Oh, you bimgus. I guess I’m not hugging you tight enough. C’mere.”
“Tangle! Stop it—”
“Hey, Whisp?”
“Mhm?”
“Don’t worry about him too much, okay? Whether he is truly gone, does that really all matter? I just feel that he shouldn’t be allowed to keep haunting you in your dreams like this. It just isn’t fair. We won.”
“...okay.”
“And if you wanna talk about it, I’m always here.”
“Thank you, Tangle.”
“Phew, Imma be honest, thought you were gonna do something drastic back there. Scared me for a second!”
“Sorry.”
“Just take care of yourself, Whisp. ‘cos I’m worried about you.”
“I admit I was being too silly.”
“No, it wasn’t silly. It was something normal to worry about.”
“Still, thank you for making me see clearly, Tangle.”
“Always happy to help! Now, would some osmanthus soup help?”
“Please.”
[To Assemble a Name from Scars]
You awake in a velvet coffin made of feathers. Back here again. Membranes pulse to lap at your skin. You cough out feathers that enter your throat. One thing is clear: fighting it won’t help—at least, not with how you’ve been going about it.
Fighting against your instincts, you will every part of your body to calm down: your muscles relax, your breathing evens.
Everything pauses.
The wings stop jittering. Blood is no longer encased by feathers anew. With everything frozen, the world is a cheap tintype, snapshotting its history for you to relive. Behold: flesh, chronology, burden. Great white-and-black pinions droop from each other, stiff as a statue even as wind silently carded through your hair. Among the catafalque’s attendees, only time dares to whisper. The mass of wings that you’ve been carrying molt away, molt away, until only the original albatross remains.
A sigh of relief escapes you. But you’re not out of the woods just yet. There is still the matter of navigating through this dense, feathery forest. Now, to extract yourself from these constraints…there. You test your footing on a particularly hefty wing; it doesn't give way, thankfully. Slowly, you collect your weapon and wade through the mass of albatrosses. Winged, you soar—blemished but unclipped.
Still carrying the albatross’ molting corpse. Still with this indelible scar. Still here.
You’ve made a list of things that felt like the end of the world. Your village being displaced by Eggman’s awakening of Dark Gaia. Mimic’s betrayal. Surge snatching your Wisps away. Each time you revisit this list to add to it, you look back at the previous entries. Leaving your home led you to the Diamond Cutters. Mimic’s betrayal led you to saving Silver from afar, and that chance encounter with him and Sonic following that. The battle with Surge…your stay in the hospital ward was hazy, but you wouldn’t have formed the Neo Diamond Cutters if you had found a lead into Mimic’s whereabouts. You wouldn’t have made a new friend in Lanolin.
You wouldn’t be here.
But you are here, now. And you find yourself returning to this list to add yet another anecdote, and once again you reread the previous entries. A smile, perhaps unwarranted, escapes you. The list is proof that you can survive anything—
Even this.
[Aspera Noctis, Astra Lucis]
The albatross doesn’t visit her dreams for the entire week.
It hasn’t completely disappeared, of course; Whisper doubts it ever will. Some days she can still hear it. Discordance like wingbeats. Echoes of a battlefield, of a gunshot unfired. The silence of nature stilled. But the siren plucking memory’s chord hasn’t found its way into her customary rhythm yet. Instead, low frequency ship horns and waves lapping against cragged rocks permeate through the air. Despite it being out of the way, Tangle had insisted on bringing her to this port while they were sightseeing at Chun-nan. To Tangle’s credit, the view it offers is indeed beautiful. To Whisper’s credit, she only protested mildly before happily letting Tangle drag her to wherever she desired.
Retreating rays of sunset gild the harbour; the sky and sea melt from gold into amber and violet. Silhouettes of fishing boats and cargo vessels rock gently, etching themselves into the horizon. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries mingling with the distant hum of engines and the soft clang of rigging against masts. The breeze carries the scent of salt as it brushes against her fur, like trickling sand to glass. Wind isn’t the only thing brushing against her fur, though—Tangle’s tail is slightly curled around her waist, like a clingy child. It tickles her hips like a kiss of light.
She describes it like it’s a bad thing. In all honesty, she’s carding its fur like it's the finest silk in Chun-nan. How did Tangle put it again? Ah, right. “My tail has many soothing properties.”
An albatross perches right next to her. It chirps, like the warmth that goldens the day. But its shadow hides a seraphic creature waiting for just the right moment to pounce, just when you think everything is going well enough.
For now, though, it’s just an albatross. It lets out another cry as it moves its head sharply and rhythmically, acquiescing with her. Whisper reaches out…and pauses. Her gaze drifts to Tangle. She grins and nods, even giving her a thumbs up. Go on.
The albatross doesn’t move away as her claws approach. Perhaps idyllic waters and Tangle’s cooing have it sated. So she pets it, like one does when taming a beast. It bobs its head, satisfied with this arrangement for now.
A few moments later, it takes off, flying off into the sunset. She imagines herself with wings, soaring alongside it, and then she imagines herself as it, radiant and blemished. As nightfall approaches, it’ll encounter hardships: it may lose its way in the storm, or return whence it took off. That’s just how it is. Rarely is the path of life straightforward. Though it may wind and be filled with perilous pitfalls, it helps if there’s other people by your side to help you navigate the path.
“Hey, Whisp!” Tangle’s tail pulls out a camera from her satchel. “Smile!”
And this bird has plenty of loved ones to help keep her on the right track.
Whisper obliges. She’d been anxious at first, frowning at the lens. And then, she sighs, and smiles anyway. Only one life. Best make use of it. A flash—Tangle takes the photograph. It’s bound to be developed and rest in their new home. A forest of pictures—some taken, some drawn. Most of them are happy. Occasionally, Whisper likes to visit that corner and take it all in—that space filled with history, where only time dares to whisper.
Whisper wonders when taking photos will be something natural for her again. Perhaps sooner than she thinks. Tangle had always been good at this sort of thing. Making moments that they share linger on. Stretching echoes of laughter where they soar and perch.
Natural. That word and concept seems to pop up a lot. Perhaps because of this, they ended up with something reminiscent of nature for their place of residence. Wood panelling. Warm, terracotta colours. Whatnots and mounted hutches filled with mismatched tchotchkes that Tangle fishes from Chaos-knows-where, stacked like an abstract mosaic of vines. Whisper’s half-certain that Tangle happened upon some of these items quite literally at the side of a road.
She still doesn’t sit at that chair by the window for long. But she still gazes through that window occasionally, taking in that same view that she’s seen hundreds of times—the world and people that she loves and swears to protect until her last breath.
“Hee hee...look!” Tangle shakes the camera as she flaunts it at her, completely negating any chances she has on viewing the photo. “Isn’t it great? Super clear! And you look fantastic!”
Whisper feels the fires of passion rushing up her cheeks. “You say that all the time.”
“That’s because you look fantastic all the time!”
“Mmrrh…you, too.”
“Aww…” Tangle sniffs dramatically. “You know what, let’s take more! Unless you’ve run out of energy…”
“Hardly.”
“That’s the spirit! C’mon! Race ya to the pier!”
Without waiting for her, Tangle grabs the upper platform with her tail and swings up and away—up, and then down, down towards the wooden platform below. She’s about to give chase when she feels a sense of unease crawling closer toward her back, sinking its fangs down at her—
And then she sees Tangle sticking her tongue out at her.
Whisper does something stupid—she follows Tangle’s route and leaps down even without her Variable Wispon. From the corner of her eye, she can see Green staring at her like she’d been replaced by a skinwalker. Too late. Platform fast approaching. She lands with a roll, and then gives chase to the gamboling Tangle.
Through each battle they’ve risen, and reached beyond thought. Navigated through the geography of burden to end up somewhere else. Is the destination a place without turmoil? Hardly. But it is a safe haven—one Whisper can return to nestle in a large beanbag with Tangle only to leap up and make a mad dash toward the kitchen because the kettle on the stove they’d forgotten about started spewing calamities.
Mimic would say that to be his companion was to be a sweeter prey. That betrayal was what nourished him, and the love of the hunt was what he basked in. That he’d seen the broken shards within himself reflecting nothing but darkness, and made peace with it. Relished it. Touted it. Picked one of those shards and stabbed you with it.
An idiot was what she’d called him.
In some ways, she holds pity. Not for the man, but for his inability to love and be loved. The gift of companionship. The miracle of a normal life. A warm breeze on a golden sea. All things he denied himself. As she catches up to Tangle, she savours all of these, and, for a moment, forgets all the shards she had shed.
Before they realize it, the sun sets; their laughter carries the moon into the sky. Even then, they still continued to take plenty of photographs. As they slink back into their lodge to rest for the next day, Tangle cheerfully hands her one—she’d gotten them developed in record time—with a note attached to it at the back. The photo captures the two of them leaping off the platform at the pier, their feet up in the air as if soaring. Tangle’s eyes have a starry-eyed vigor to them; Whisper’s own are open, the cadet blues glancing at Tangle, caught in the act.
She flips the photograph over, reads the note, and smiles. Gently, she tucks them into the pocket of her cloak and sinks into the queen-sized bed, where she will snuggle with Tangle before sleep ultimately falls over them both.
Beneath the waves, something churns, and Whisper is all the more ready for it. Because she’s right where she needs to be—home—and that’s all that matters right now.
Like celestials that shine in the night, our voices lead each other to the light.
If you should despair, just look to the skies where birds soar freely, and search for the constellations we hung together—
A lifetime of memories, written in the language of stars.