Celeste and Carys walked shoulder to shoulder down the dripping corridor, their footsteps echoing faintly in the dark.
Carys gave a small laugh, brushing damp strands of fur behind her ear. “Well, one good thing about the end of the world—we don’t have to sit through Mr. Talon’s sketch critiques anymore.”
Celeste groaned dramatically, nearly tripping over her own boots. “Ohhh, thank the stars. I swear, I was never pretentious enough for his classes. Another one of his critiques and I think I’d have just—just melted into a puddle right there on the floor.”
Carys grinned knowingly. “You always did hate feedback day.”
Before Celeste could hide behind her sleeve, Carys leaned closer, brushing a stray lock from Celeste’s face with a casual tenderness. Celeste froze, her cheeks warming instantly. She tried to smile but ended up fumbling a half-laugh instead, eyes darting anywhere but Carys’s.
“You should come back to the university with me,” Carys said softly, her tone more earnest now. “When this is over.”
Celeste’s smile flickered, and she looked away sheepishly. “I… I’d love to, honestly. But… I’ve got the group now. They sort of—well, they sort of need me.”
“Oh,” Carys replied, her ears twitching faintly. “You have friends?”
Celeste perked up a little, nervous but proud. “Mhm! Besides Pitch, I met them at Comic Con. We’ve been… muddling through together, really. Surviving. You’d like them—I think. Maybe when all this is done you can meet them?”
Carys’s smile widened, warm and polite, but her eyes glimmered with something else—an edge of jealousy quickly tucked away. “That sounds… delightful,” she said, her voice smooth, but just a little too careful.
Celeste, as always, missed the subtext entirely. She just beamed back at her, awkward and soft.
Celeste missed it entirely, bouncing on her heels as she added, “Maybe afterwards we could all go to the University together? It’s a bit more fortified than our base. And, um—oh stars—do you think they’ll still try to have that prom they talked about? The butterfly-themed one?”
Carys laughed softly. “Oh yes. It was supposed to be beautiful.”
A vixen survivor nearby lifted her head at the mention. Her voice was low, wistful. “I remember the Butterfly Parade. Rows of stalls, art and crafts, ribbons on every lamp post. And we released butterflies together—thousands of them. The first festival to honor the hybrids who fell in combat. There was even a real summoner there, a woman radiant as sunlight. Iridescent hair, wings like crystal…”
Celeste’s eyes lit up. “I remember that too! Oh, and those butterfly-shaped Welsh cakes with the jam in them—so tasty! I ate so many I thought I’d—” she giggled softly, hugging her arms to herself, “—pop.”
The vixen tilted her head, ears pricking. “Sweetheart… how old are you?”
Celeste blinked. “Uh… eighteen i think?”
The vixen’s smile faded into something almost pitying. “Then you couldn’t have been there. That festival was twenty years ago.”
Celeste froze. Her tail twitched anxiously. “No, I… I was there. I was definitely there. I remember the butterflies, and the speech—the lady with the shining hair. I remember.”
But as she said it, her voice wavered. The certainty felt thinner, like a thread fraying in her hands. Doubt crept in, cold and cruel.
“I do remember…” she whispered, softer now, as if trying to convince herself. “I do.”
The gigantic military door loomed before them—its steel frame warped but intact, stamped with a blackened sigil that still glowed faintly red. Across the seal, painted in bold, unforgiving strokes, was the warning:
BY ORDER OF THE BURNING EYE OF THE COUNCIL – NO ENTRY.
Carys shifted uneasily, rubbing her nose with trembling fingers. “Should we… even go in? It looks like—like one of those places you read about and then regret stepping into.”
Celeste bit her lip, then gave a tiny nod. “If it says no entry, then… well, we’re definitely supposed to go in, aren’t we? Oh goodness.” She placed her paws against the cold handle and, with a grunt, hauled it open.
One by one, the survivors filed past her into the shadowed chamber. The air was heavy—stale, humming faintly with old power.
Rows of surveillance monitors flickered to life, bathing the room in pale light. Dust swirled in the beams, and then—movement.
On one screen, Ted was sprinting through the tunnels with the group of defectors who had left earlier. Celeste’s breath caught as, one by one, shapes slithered from the shadows. The survivors were snatched, dragged screaming into the dark.
Carys whimpered and buried her nose in her hands. “We should’ve… oh, we should’ve stayed with them…” Her voice cracked, trembling.
But Celeste’s gaze had already shifted to another feed—one far worse.
A cavern.
At its center, the monstrous silhouette of the Centerpied curled around a pulsing chamber of light. Sugar-glass pods lined the walls in grotesque order, each one filled with a gooey jelly substance.
And inside each pod—faint silhouettes. People. Hundreds of them.
Celeste’s knees buckled. She gripped the console with white-knuckled hands, her tail puffing.
“Oh stars… oh no. That’s… that’s where they’ve been taking them…”
The screen flickered, showing another pod being sealed, a limp figure suspended in syrup, their muffled cries distorted by the goo.
The sheer number—hundreds upon hundreds—stole her breath.
“Carys…” Celeste whispered, voice breaking. “They’re not just eating people. They’re… collecting them.”
Celeste flicked desperately through the surveillance feeds.
“Come on, come on—”
One camera snapped into focus: Pitch, sprinting through the tunnels, his shotgun in one hand, dragging another figure—Ted—by the scruff of his jacket. Close behind them, waddling with wide eyes and ragged breath, was Gordon.
Another screen blinked to life.
Celeste froze.
The gang—her gang—Ray, Mezzo, Arcade, Skye —were bound in layers of thick, glistening gum. Their bodies twitched and squirmed, but the gum clung like living taffy, tightening every time they fought it. And above them, the Cat-O-Wrap swayed side to side, its featureless face turned toward them, a false lullaby dripping from its throat. A sweet, stolen voice—Celeste’s own voice—sang through the speakers.
“Go to sleep, little dreamer… hush now, little light…”
Her swords shimmered into her hands with a snap. Celeste’s heart pounded.
“Oh no—no, no, no, I need to help them—”
The feed cut. Static.
Her tail lashed. “No, no, no, no!” She slammed the console.
Another feed blinked to life—but the central chamber was empty.
The Centerpied wasn’t there.
Her ears flattened as she frantically flipped through feeds, claws scratching the buttons. A low static hum built louder and louder—until one grainy image caught her breath.
The rat-faced Centerpied barreled down the tunnel, hundreds of twitching legs propelling its massive body with horrifying grace. Its antennae whipped forward, tasting the air, its jaw unhinged in anticipation.
“Oh stars…” Celeste whispered.
On the glass window ahead of her, Pitch and Gordon came into view—Pitch shoving Gordon forward, yelling at him to run.
Then—
A scream.
Ted’s scream.
He was yanked backwards into the dark, his claws scrabbling against the tiles as his voice cracked into pitiful begging.
“Please—! PLEASE don’t—!”
And then he was gone. Swallowed by the dark.
“TED!” Carys screamed, hands clutching her nose in horror.
Pitch roared, spinning to fire—but the beast was right behind him, its monstrous body filling the tunnel, saliva dripping like molten sugar.
Pitch and Gordon dove through the door at the last second. Survivors shoved with all their strength, slamming it closed.
The chamber shook as the Centerpied’s bulk smashed against the door, the screech of its claws dragging against steel. Then… stillness.
Celeste stepped back, katanas trembling in her grip.
And through the small reinforced glass of the door window—
A face appeared.
Ratlike. Grinning. Its rows of crystalline teeth glinted as though mocking her.
And Celeste understood in that moment—
She wasn’t the hunter.
She was the trapped prey.
The Centerpied loomed against the reinforced glass, his jagged silhouette blotting out the tunnel beyond. His ratlike face pressed close, antennae twitching.
For a fleeting second, his manic grin faltered.
His eyes—black, glazed with sugar-rot—flickered with something else. Recognition.
Mourning.
Then it was gone. His mouth stretched wide again, crystalline teeth scraping as he laughed, the sound bubbling like syrup boiling too long.
“I warned them,” he hissed, voice thick with venom. “Warned them not to crawl into my lair. But you never listen…”
Celeste tightened her grip on her katanas, tail bristling—but her voice came out small, almost apologetic.
“Um—I mean, technically I sort of fell in… which, y’know, wasn’t very polite of me, but—that’s… beside the point, really.”
The monster tilted his head, taken off guard.
Celeste swallowed, ears flicking back nervously, but she stepped closer to the glass.
“I know you were once… someone,” she said softly. “You must have been. And—and I don’t believe you’re completely gone. People can be reasoned with. I think maybe you can be too. Somehow.”
The Centerpied froze. His antennae stilled.
For the briefest heartbeat, regret shimmered in his gaze—like a shadow of the man he once was, clawing desperately to the surface.
Then rage swallowed it whole.
“You know nothing about me, cat!” he screeched, slamming his grotesque body against the glass.
The whole chamber shuddered.
BANG.
A long crack split across the reinforced pane.
BANG. BANG.
More fissures spider-webbed outward, sugary dust raining from the frame. His claws hammered in a rhythm like war drums, his voice a furious wail:
“I’ll TEAR YOU APART!”
The survivors screamed, backing away, but Celeste held her ground—trembling, katanas raised, breath caught in her throat as the glass began to buckle.
Pitch’s shotgun was already raised, his finger hovering over the trigger.
“Just say the word, kitten. I’ll blow his sugar-dripping head off.”
“Stop!” Celeste blurted, waving her arms, voice cracking. “Wait, wait, don’t—don’t shoot, Pitch, please, just a second!”
Before either of them could act, a sudden burst of static fizzled overhead.
Then Bracer’s voice came through the old security speakers, clipped and gravelly:
“...Testing. Hmph. Is this bloody thing working? Right, listen. It’s me. Bracer. Picked up one of Arcade’s toys—looks like a comms relay. I can see your location. The whole sewer net. If you want to get out of there alive, you’re going to follow my instructions to the letter. No improvising.”
Celeste gasped, relief flooding her face.
“Bracer! Oh, stars, I—I’m so glad it’s you! I thought—well, I didn’t think you’d be—um, anyway—yes, we’ll follow, I promise!”
Pitch, shotgun still braced against his shoulder, muttered under his breath.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, kitten. These tunnels aren’t a maze, they’re a meat grinder.”
A low, guttural purr rolled through the chamber, rattling the cracked glass.
Mandibite’s voice, smooth and mocking, slithered in from the dark:
“Come out, little kitty. I’ll let the rest of your friends live... if you play with me. A game of cat and mouse.”
His massive body scraped along the glass with a screech. His ratlike grin widened, crystalline teeth catching the dim light.
“Only this time... the cat is the mouse. And the rat...” he leaned close, antennae twitching against the pane, “is the cat. What do you say, meat? Shall we dance?”
Celeste froze, blades shaking in her hands. Her mouth opened, shut, opened again.
“I—um—w-well, I don’t really like games that involve, um, being eaten, but—”
Pitch growled, shaking his head, cutting her off.
“Bad idea, Celeste. Really bad. You have no idea how twisted these tunnels get. He’ll string you along till you’re bones.”
The Centerpied slammed a claw against the glass, fissures splintering further with a sharp CRACK.
“Tick. Tock. I’m waiting, cat.”
The room vibrated with his fury.
And the decision hung in Celeste’s trembling hands.
