The next morning, Ray and Pitch were up bright and early.
Bright, unfortunately, was a matter of opinion.
Ray had claimed the largest table in the Egg Tree’s lower room, spreading out scraps of old maps, torn council patrol routes, and one suspiciously sticky bakery receipt she had decided was “close enough to paper.” Pitch sat opposite her, chewing the end of a pencil and looking like he had personally offended sleep.
“The industrial sector’s crawling with mythics,” Ray said, tapping one claw against a smudged map. “If we want to reach them without getting shot, cursed, or politely vaporised, we need a route that doesn’t scream council errand.”
Pitch squinted at the map. “Darlin’, every route into mythic ground screams something. Usually profanity.”
Ray gave him a flat look. “Helpful.”
“I am helpful. I’m just helpful with seasoning.”
Outside, Marzipan sat curled around the base of the Egg Tree like a mountain of pale scales and sugar-frosted bone. The giant white zombie dragon had tucked her enormous head near one of the lower windows, watching the morning bustle with blank, glowing eyes and the oddly patient air of someone supervising a children’s craft table.
Which, in fairness, she sort of was.
Mezzo balanced on a chair inside, stretching a string of star-shaped paper garlands between two branches while Lumina stood beneath him with an armful of ribbons. They were decorating for Skye’s birthday party using supplies from one of Marzipan’s mystery capsules, which had appeared that morning with a wet little pop, a puff of sugar smoke, and absolutely no explanation.
The capsule had bounced through the open window, rolled across the floor, and burst open to reveal balloons, streamers, three tiny paper crowns, a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY SKYE in glittering letters, and one rubber duck wearing a wizard hat.
No one knew why.
Marzipan only watched from outside, looking smug in the limited way a giant undead dragon could look smug.
Arcade crouched near the window with his goggles down, notebook open, and a tiny scanning device humming in his paw. He aimed it at Marzipan’s enormous snout.
“No. No, this is impossible. You cannot just produce sealed party supplies from your mouth without a storage chamber, compression system, pocket dimension, or basic respect for physics.”
Marzipan blinked slowly.
Then her throat made a deep, sugary gurgle.
Arcade recoiled. “Don’t you dare.”
A second capsule popped out of her mouth and shot neatly through the window.
It bounced once across the floor, rolled into a mug, and exploded into a spray of confetti.
Mezzo grinned down at him. “She’s magic, mate.”
“She is not magic,” Arcade snapped, brushing confetti out of his quills. “She is an engineering insult with teeth.”
Lumina giggled. “Maybe she just likes birthdays.”
Outside, Marzipan gave a pleased rumble that shook sugar dust from the branches.
Arcade stared at the new capsule, horrified and fascinated. “That’s worse. That implies intent.”
In the warm comfort of the kitchen, Carys and Celeste washed dishes by hand. The hum of a music player whispered in the background while Bonbon waddled nearby with a mixing bowl on her head, announcing, "Flippin’ heck!" to no one in particular. Celeste raised a brow.
“Don’t look at me,” Carys said with a smirk, “she learned that one from Mezzo.”
As suds swirled and pans clinked, the two women talked quietly.
“After Clawdiff,” Carys murmured, “I might try and open that tea shop again. A real one this time. With sourdough toast, actual mugs…”
Celeste smiled wistfully. “And no zombies on the menu.”
They laughed.
“You think about what happens after?” Carys asked, scrubbing a pan. “When we’re free of all this?”
“Every day,” Celeste said, drying a mug. “But I’ve got no clear plan yet.”
Bonbon sat near the window, sipping milk and humming a tune off-key.
That’s when someone knocked at the door. Three firm, well-spaced taps.
Not a bash or a bang—but a polite, practiced tap-tap-tap. Carys frowned, drying her hands. “We’re not expecting anyone, right?”
Celeste shook her head, already moving toward the door, hand on one of her summoned twin katanas just in case.
She opened it slowly.
There stood Plum—the dusky pink bunny from the Centepied’s lair. Her presence was no less striking now. She wore a cheerful yellow dungaree dress over a knitted cardigan full of oversized flower patches, and a comically huge ribbon bow perched confidently atop her head. Her boots were scuffed, but she carried herself like someone on a mission.
Plum’s ears perked as Celeste opened the door. She beamed, her crooked smile bright as always. “Astallan! Just the girl I wanted to see. Mind if I borrow a tick of your time? Got a rather… interesting proposition for you.”
Celeste blinked, relaxing her grip on her sword. “Um… oh, of course. Come in, if you like?” Celeste stepped aside. “We’ve got tea.”
Plum stepped forward—then paused, patting her bag like she’d forgotten something. “Ah, but before that—!”
Footsteps clattered down the hall. Arcade appeared, squinting down at a half-built device bristling with wires and glowing nodes. “Who’s banging on the door at this hour? I swear if it’s—” He froze when he saw Plum. “Oh. Bunny girl.”
Plum gave a theatrical bow. “Hedgehog boy. Lovely timing, actually! I’ve got a little something for you.”
Arcade narrowed his eyes. “Before you start, we’re not a charity. Supplies cost. Repairs cost. Keeping this place standing while everyone treats it like a free hotel with trauma included? Also costs. So if you’re here for help, you brought payment.”
Plum’s grin only widened. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
She swung her satchel around and—with a grunt—hauled out a mangled droid’s head. Its lenses were cracked but faintly glowing, like eyes that hadn’t quite gone dark. She plonked it on the table with a clunk.
“A gift in exchange for some help,” Plum said breezily. “This little darling still has council records intact.”
Arcade’s ears shot up. His goggles slid crooked as he lunged forward. “Intact?! You’re joking. These things self-wipe the second they’re compromised!”
Plum wagged a finger. “Ah, but if you’re quick enough, you can stall the failsafe. Old trick of mine from my less-than-legal freelancing days.”
Arcade sputtered. “That’s—! That’s not a trick, that’s lunacy! Do you know how much classified data—how much power—is sitting in here?” He gripped the head like it was a holy relic. “I need tools. I need quiet. And—stars above—I need you all to shut up for three hours while I work.”
Plum clasped her paws together, all innocence. “Then it’s a fair trade, hm?”
Before Celeste could answer, the egg tree beside the doorway gave a violent shudder. Its twisted branches creaked and folded inward, sealing the exit like a living barricade.
Plum shrieked as she got caught halfway through, her legs kicking furiously outside while her head and arms thrashed inside. “No-no-no-no—bad tree! Bad tree! I was leaving dramatically!”
Celeste hurried forward, hands raised in a soothing gesture. “It’s alright, everyone—it’s okay! She’s a friend.”
Plum’s ears flopped as she flailed, voice muffled as her other half scrabbled outside. “I swear I am! Please don’t decapitate me! Again!”
Bonbon clapped from her seat with a milk moustache. “Bunny stuck!”
Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose. “This base is going to be the death of me.”
Celeste sighed, then smiled faintly despite herself. “It’s alright, Plum. We’ll… um… get you unstuck.”
Plum flailed harder, ears waggling desperately. “Much obliged!”
Carys was doubled over in the doorway, laughing so hard she had to clutch the counter. “Oh heavens—look at her legs go! Like a rabbit in a washing machine!”
“Not helping!” Plum yelped, still kicking frantically as the egg tree’s branches flexed like bars of a living gate.
“Alright, alright—hold still,” Carys said between giggles, wiping her eyes. She reached up, patting the trunk gently. “Come on, old thing. She’s with us.”
The egg tree groaned, creaked, then finally uncoiled its limbs. With a loud plop, Plum tumbled inside in a heap of ribbons and ears.
The group filtered in properly after that. Pitch flopped onto a couch, his hoodie tied around his waist. Ray leaned in the doorway with a towel over her shoulder, still holding the map she and Pitch had been arguing over. Mezzo emerged from the decorating chaos with glitter stuck in his fringe. Lumina hovered beside the birthday banner, trying not to laugh. Even Arcade looked up from his soldering work. Bonbon peeked out, whispered, “Bunny!” then vanished behind a blanket fort.
Plum wheezed, dusting herself off. “Not the most dignified entrance, but… survivable.” She pulled herself upright and straightened her comically large bow. Her grin returned in a snap. “Right, then. Down to business.”
The laughter in the room faded. Everyone leaned in as Plum smoothed out a crumpled notepad from her satchel.
“There’s been movement on both sides,” she began, ears twitching. “What’s left of the council? They’ve barricaded themselves in the district—keeping the purebloods safe behind their walls. But here’s the twist: they’ve got a heap of hybrids penned in with them, too.”
Arcade snorted, adjusting his goggles as he inspected the salvaged droid head. “Of course they do. Cheap labour, bodies to burn, same old story. Go on.”
Plum nodded, flipping a page. “Meanwhile, the mythics—they’re trapped in the dome. Can’t get out, so they’ve set up shop in the industrial sector. I’ve gone to both sides, poked my nose where it wasn’t wanted. Both told me the same thing: no help unless they get something in return.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been to the bunkers?”
Plum’s cheerful expression twitched, just slightly. “Tried to. Council won’t let me in.”
Pitch raised a brow. “Can’t imagine why.”
Plum gave him a dry little smile. “Apparently, calling several council members ‘silk-collared corpse polishers with emergency power and no emergency manners’ on a public feed has consequences.”
Mezzo barked a laugh.
Arcade looked up. “You said that online?”
“I said worse online.” Plum lifted her chin proudly. “Point is, I’m not getting into their bunkers. Not now. Not unless they’re desperate, and even then they’d probably make me wear a muzzle and a humility badge. So this place?” She gestured around the Egg Tree. “This is my best bet.”
Celeste’s ears twitched as she hugged her arms, voice small but earnest. “And you think… the mythics are the better choice?”
Plum jabbed her pen like it was a gavel. “Best bet you’ve got. And it’s not just their magic—it’s their reach. If we want to fight back, organise, get word out—we’ll need them.”
Ray glanced down at the map in her paw, then back to Pitch. “We were heading that way anyway.”
Pitch scratched his chin. “Supposed to be finding the safest road to the mythics, not picking up a freelance news goblin and her bad decisions.”
Plum pointed her pen at him. “Employed news goblin, actually. That’s the other reason I’m here. I want you to hire me.”
Arcade stared. “Hire you?”
“Yes.”
“With what money?”
“Future money.”
“That is not a currency.”
“It is if we survive.”
Arcade groaned. “I hate optimism. It’s just debt with sparkles.”
Plum ignored him and leaned over the table, tapping her notepad. “Listen. You need supplies. You need people with skills. Medics, mechanics, guards, cooks, runners. You need safe routes, salvage jobs, trade requests, missing person reports. All the stuff the council should be organising but won’t because they’re busy protecting their carpets. So we build a radio tower.”
Arcade went very still.
Then slowly, dangerously, he turned his head toward her. “We build a what?”
“A radio tower,” Plum said brightly. “Here. At the Egg Tree.”
Arcade stared at her as if she had just suggested teaching Bonbon tax law. “You want to bolt a broadcast tower onto my already impossible sentient dessert tree?”
Plum pointed her pen at him. “Not onto it. Near it. Probably. Unless onto it works better.”
“It does not work better.”
“See? This is why I want to hire you.”
Arcade’s eye twitched. “That is not hiring. That is threatening me with architecture.”
Ray glanced toward the window, where Marzipan’s massive white head loomed outside, still dusted in confetti. “A tower would draw attention.”
Plum nodded. “Yes. The right attention. We broadcast from here. We ask for help. We post jobs. We trade supplies for work, work for food, medicine for patrol duty. We make the Egg Tree a hub until the council remembers it has a spine.”
Celeste blinked, cheeks colouring. “Wait—me? You want me to talk to them? For you?”
Plum’s grin sharpened. “Kitten, it was your idea to start a radio station in the first place. Broadcast hope, rally the survivors. I say we do it right here. Make this base more than a tree—make it a beacon.”
Arcade groaned, throwing his paws in the air. “Oh brilliant. Let’s just throw up a giant glowing sign that screams ‘come eat us, zombie generals!’ Real smart, bunny.”
Plum wagged a finger. “Attention, yes—but the right kind. Survivors need a voice, a rally point. And someone’s got to coordinate, or we’ll all stay scattered and scared. We can’t fight the Dragon alone, but with the right signal? With the right words? We stand a chance.”
The room fell into a thoughtful silence.
Bonbon hiccupped from her chair, milk moustache bright on her face. “Radio…” she mumbled sleepily.
Celeste glanced at the little one, then back to Plum. Her tail twitched as she whispered, half to herself: “A beacon…”
