Hordedoom

Aranea called Keyl on the way out, and the terminal's display showed an image of the Ice Fang in full ceremonial armor, paw on sheathed weapon. A white-and-yellow tabard covered the plates, and a cloak spread from his shoulders as his squires, Maxim and Ira, were lowering pauldrons on the knight-captain's shoulders in near divine reverence. They had to use stools to match the man's height. Banners of the House of Voidrunner stirred in the air current that filled the room.

"You look lovely today," Aranea complimented.

"You're not too shabby yourself, Night Shine," Keyl replied. "Has someone ruffled your feathers? You are more puffed up than usual."

Traces of recently removed scars still lining his muzzle, Keyl was shorter than his mate by a head and a neck. His white fur lacked even the slightest stain, and his eyes were clear and a little wide. Though a screen separated them, she could've sworn that his pleasant scent touched her nostrils, bringing care and readiness to protect.

"Found more family members." A spark of interest touched his gaze. "I'll tell you all about it over dinner. How are things on your end?" The corner of Ira's mouth widened before the girl regained her composure. "Hey, I saw that! Ira, what has happened?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Keyl answered in place of his squire. "Ultis broke the Voidrunner noble's nose."

"She did what?!" Aranea stopped dead, not caring if she was causing a scene for bystanders. "I'll teach…"

Ultis dreaded facing old age alone, so when her Ice Fang friend invited the Wolfkin to join her house, the previously superstitious soldier eagerly jumped at this opportunity. Annie was in labor, so Aranea vouched for her before the Shaman Council, brokering a deal that would've allowed Ultis to stay with the Tribe, despite her shared loyalties.

"Pipe down, Ari," Keyl advised, maintaining a mischievous grin. "Nothing disastrous happened. The Voidrunners were the ones extending the offer; the least they could've done was to be more accepting of certain norms. That sir found fault with Ultis' attire, claiming it is improper to appear in a sword saint's presence dressed like a commoner. An argument ensued. They agreed to a duel…"

"By the Spirits," Aranea groaned.

"As her chaperone, yours truly got to oversee the match. The noble gifted his sword to Ultis to make it fair…"

"Keyl. Don't you dare." She couldn't dispute the Ice Fangs' swordsmanship. In their trainings, Keyl regularly ended up with the tip of his blade pressed to her neck. When they played by the rules. Ultis was a bred killer, drilled to excellence by the late Dragena, with decades of actual combat experience under her belt. A duel had an entirely different meaning in the Wolf Tribe.

"She flung the blade at him, and when the sir blocked it, Lady Ultis swooped in, breaking his nose with a right hook," fired Maxim, eyes beaming. "That was awesome, Warlord! It was a punch, and then boom, the wind tearing at the clothes of the gathering."

"Oh, no."

"The sir wasn't half-bad himself," Ira continued. "He immediately caught Lady Ultis in a deadly bear hug, pile-driving the poor soul straight into the training mats, hard enough to reach the marble floor. Her croak was loud enough to be heard in the corridor outside."

"Phew." Aranea exhaled. At least it wasn't a one-sided beating. They hadn't come here to humiliate their cousins.

"Think of it as cultural enrichment, Ari," Keyl interjected, clicking his tongue in chastisement. The kids redoubled their efforts. "Macarius is not offended; the noble court was delighted by the demonstrated prowess, and both parties expressed satisfaction with the outcome, though the noble continued to pester Ultis, offering to pay for her dress."

"She agreed, got the gift, but didn't put it on," Aranea guessed darkly.

"You know her too well. I think she wants a rematch. Hate to cut us short, but the ceremony is about to start. I should be free by six. Are you still up for a late dinner?"

"Sure I am! Take care, Gallant Knight! Love you!"

"Don't catch a cold, Ari." His lips sent her an air kiss, and then he turned off the communication.

"Problems, Warlord?" asked a delicate voice.

Starstruck One, the shaman assigned to the Aranea Pack, casually joined the warlord outside the park, not even hiding the fact that she had been watching from a distance. Arms behind her back, posture as straight as if she had swallowed an iron beam, no fur graced the left side of the woman's snout with its presence. A fallen comet had kissed the young girl during her trials to be initiated into the clergy's ranks, forever injecting a surge of radiation into her skull, clouding her vision. Normally it would be a trifle to recover from for a Wolfkin, but the woman's eye had never recovered.

She had taken this handicap in stride, naming it the Spirits' trial. Forever hindered, Starstruck One had found herself tasked with negotiating with the Normies, immersing herself in their traditions and ways and distilling the result for the Tribe. For centuries, she served at the side of warlords in need of guidance, sternly tempering the most unusual ideas into a railroad track for the pack to travel.

Strangely, she had yet to ban a single idea of her current warlord. A group of journalists broke toward them, shouting questions about the unusual eye and the visit to Iterna. The shaman courteously raised a paw, calling for the police to push the curious reporters aside while waving to cameras.

"Slight alterations," Aranea said, keeping First's plot in mind.

"See that this doesn't endanger the villages. If your plan fails, we'll lose more than our hides."

"Our honor?"

Starstruck One broke into laughter, bending in two. She grabbed Aranea's shoulder, helping herself stand as she wiped tears from her lame eye. "We are daughters of the sand. Honor is not our commodity." The paw tightened its grip. "I meant cubs."

"Trust me," Aranea replied. "How are things on your end? Has Carty caused any trouble?"

"Charmed the grandmaster this morning, from what I was told. The ice-boys didn't expect a Wolfkin with the manners of a high-society lady. Neither did I," the shaman snorted. Unlike her sisters, Starstruck One openly enjoyed mirth. "That blue dress suits her. Annie and Angoro visited an obstetrics clinic. Six. The healers claim they can save all. Eh, you may soon find your 'watchdog' dismissed."

"I didn't imply anything bad," Aranea said quickly. "I understand why supervision is important. It just irritates me when someone looks over my shoulder. Why would you be dismissed?"

"Prejudice," Starstruck One answered. "I wasn't in Valerye's pack because her visage unnerved me. That blend of Normie's face into our proud, bestial form invoked a certain disgust inside of me. Not even bloodletting banished it. And soon we will have potentially six more such individuals. A person of my rank cannot be guided by petty racism."

"Have you tried visiting a therapist?" Aranea suggested, and Starstruck One rolled her eyes. "What, you are brave enough for self-mutilation, but a little counseling is too scary for you?"

"You need to do a better job of baiting, Warlord."

They proceeded onto the main street, marveling at the busy city around them. It was difficult to accept that there was no risk of sudden danger, that no insectoid lurked in ambush, waiting to sink its scythe limbs into unsuspecting prey, that no parasite prepared to leap and hide under the skin, forming a colony there. Civilians went about their daily business, and only the unusual guests disturbed the picture.

Groups of black-furred Wolfkins gathered to watch or listen to street performances, clapping loudly as the New Breeds used their powers to amaze the crowds. Smartly dressed Ice Fangs taught their curious cousins how to use the Net safely, patiently explaining how to avoid being scammed. A sage and a shaman played chess, exchanging tales in between moves.

Change never happened overnight. But a gradual introduction to the new ideas was bound to bear fruit of shifting perception if done carefully, honestly, and beneficially. Aranea was done letting her people stew in their own pot. The world waited.

A representative of the Order, Lumie the Redeemed, had organized a tour for the sixteen youngest members of Aranea's, Olesya's, Valerye's, and Alpha's packs. These were the kids fresh out of the pits, still wary and ready to fend off sudden domination or protect their food. Lumie had bought them clothes and had grown slightly distraught when the girls refused to even entertain the idea of wearing skirts, deeming the garb impractical. The group was going to a museum, and the warlord greeted them warmly, wishing them well as they explored what Houstad had to offer.

"Not every facet of modern civilization is worth sampling," Starstruck One cautioned.

"I think Lumie is wise enough not to offer them drugs or pornography," Aranea whispered back with the corner of her mouth, smiling encouragingly at the kids.

"The Ice Fangs are all weirdos. That one tried to seduce the cubs to visit a clinic and get their scars removed…"

A figure broke free from the mall, nearby breaking its whooshing doors. Warlord Olesya wore a tattered bodysuit, revealing the shifting metal beneath. She had chosen to use the regular bipedal legs for today's occasion, took off the artillery off her back, and currently hugged her arms around the squeaking in wonder little cubs. Their tiny paws held bags of presents, supported by the arching manipulators protruding from their sister's chest. A cut left her back wide open where the flesh fused with the alloy that made up much of her body.

"And next we will visit an ice cream café!" Olesya boomed.

"Warlord! Warlord, this is not dignified!" A scream came from inside the mall.

"Kiss my metal butt, I am a civilian today! Hi, Ari! Bye, Ari!" The warlord nodded to her friend. An engine surfaced from her smooth back, activating with a hum. Gravity reversed, and Olesya soared into the sky, leaving her shaman desperately trying to catch up with her on land.

"Weirdos, you were saying?" Aranea chuckled at the stunned crowd as they watched the rapidly disappearing dot above. Starstruck One simply gritted her fangs.

They journeyed to the river flowing north, past the shore that was reserved for tourists. Several of their kin were there, critically examining the water or feasting on the freshly boiled fish, praising the cooks. A lone pair of Wolfkins sat in a secluded, covered area near the passageway that led under the main street and out onto another. One of the Wolfkins, a wolf hag in a strict military uniform, her coat zipped up to a collar that bore the mark of a burning skull, watched a girl around five years old dressed in the white and dark blue of Wintersong House. An eyepatch covered one of the 'child's' eyes.

"What?" Aranea heard the girl ask bluntly. "What are you staring at, Rudara? On with it, you're souring my juice."

"I'm trying to make sense of it," Rudara said in a strained tone, tapping her fingers on the table.

Starstruck One motioned for Aranea to halt, gesturing to the crowd that was moving toward the arguing Wolfkins. Aranea had never seen people like this before. Rounded bodies, clearly muscular, never bumping into anyone despite their size, and led by a thin man in a brown robe with a beak for a nose and talons for fingers. Not the regular visitors.

"First, I hear that my mother turned into a gnat!" Rudara pointed a finger into Ashbringer's chest. "Aged backwards to an infant. Then you contact me, telling me that Bogumila is my warlord, while she breaks the bones of anyone daring to call her by that rank. Next you get kidnapped, we freak out, and we team up with the Iternians to hollow out that mountain while you were leisuring in that damned bus!"

"Hey, I rescued those cubs." Ashbringer sucked in the juice through a straw. "I've earned the right to a little nap."

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"Then, before I can meet my mother, she flies off to the Core Lands because Academician tortured her to near death, and the next time she calls me, she has that cursed thing instead of an eye!" Rudara towered over the table. "Tell me, Mom. Which part of this sounds normal to you? I don't know how to handle this shit anymore!"

"Stuff happens." Ashbringer shrugged unabashedly. "Stop worrying about your old woman…"

"Old!"

"Rudara. You are a wolf hag. If you ever want to become a warlord, direct your attention to the pack and your cubs…"

"Who are of the same age as you! How am I to ignore everything that has happened?!"

"So the rumors spoke true!" The man with the birdlike features announced, spreading his arms wide. "The revered Ashbringer has been reincarnated, rising like a phoenix from the ashes! Faithful, fall to your knees and worship the true incarnation of the Sky!"

"Khatun!" His flock chanted, prostrating themselves. "Khatun of the Gilded Horde."

"I've had enough of this! Rudara, get me out of here!" Ashbringer leapt onto her daughter's back, still holding the juice. The two tried to retreat into the passageway, ignoring pleas for blessings, when a figure stepped out of it.

Aranea placed her paws on the guardrails, ready to jump down. The newcomers were harmless enough; they had their share of religious fanatics trying to deify certain warlords back home, and the propagandists did their best to dispel those foolish superstitions. But the one who blocked the Wolfkins' path was dangerous.

It wasn't power armor, rainbow-colored, with a matching flowing cape barely concealing the long sword. A Wolfkin could gore most Normies trying to challenge them using suits. What alerted Aranea was the ease and speed of the movements, clearly honed by years to a near-perfect result of stealthily moving around while carrying nearly a ton of extra weight.

"Ha! You really have become a helpless girl. And now, even I can do this…" The gauntlet swung, grabbing Ashbringer under the armpit and bringing her to the round helmet. "…to you."

"Very funny. Wanna fight, Widowmaker?" Ashbringer asked, cracking her tiny fist. A grenade slid into it from under her jacket's sleeve. Rudara grabbed an armor-piercing knife from her thigh.

"Nope. That'll be boring." Widowmaker tossed the woman back to her daughter, letting them pass and blocking the way for the crowd. "You grow right back, you hear me! We have a dance to finish!"

"Screw you! Go die on your own spare time, bitch!"

Aranea exhaled, observing how the crowd of believers had tried to shove aside Widowmaker. The breeze from the river was relaxing, lulling her into a promise of safety, but that brief interaction had brought back a very unpleasant memory from the past. No one had been around to save her then, and the results…

Stop. What happened, happened. She snapped out of it, hurrying toward the sport center and opening the terminal to distract herself. For the most part, the Tribe was behaving itself. There was already a news story about a skewered corpse found in an alley. A random fool attempted to mug a tourist, unknowingly attracting the attention of a male nearby, who solved the issue rather than calling the police. Despite the gruesome sight of innards strewn about, the Oathtaker tourist thanked his unexpected rescuer. The male was swiftly taken away to take a shower.

At the airport, the decorated troops of the Third conducted maneuvers alongside the troops of Lugal-marada in preparation for tomorrow's parade. A bulky transporter slammed down its ramp, and Aranea saw two warforms, funny-shaped walkers. Each had a spherical body with several smaller mechanical arms, suitable for careful handling should the need arise to sift through the rubble. Their main limbs ended in three-fingered blade fingers, sharp enough to open the hull of a battle tank with a mere touch. Cameras dotted the segmented plating, providing the pilot with complete coverage. A plasma cannon and a missile launcher on the suits' rear ensured that if the energy weapons failed, the usual kinetic assault was ready to do the job.

Professionally, the wolf hags sitting inside the mobile suits walked upon the ramp. The four-meter-high warforms no longer lacked grace or fluidity of motion; after months of drills, both women operated them with the same ease as if they were wearing simple power armor.

"Is everything okay?" Annie's warrior, Lucendra, asked anxiously over the loudspeaker.

"Perfect!" the pilots cheered. "Come, join us! We have an egg prepared for you!"

"But these machines are meant for wolf hags, and I am not even a scout…"

"But you have legs, right?" barked the voice of Acting Warlord Bogumila. "Use them and get in the seat before I stuff you in one by force!"

"It's alright," Sly's voice yawned. "Go on, have fun. I'll oversee the situation."

Aranea smiled, watching how another warform, identical to the first two in every way aside from the deep sea colors of the third pack, stepped out of the transport, effortlessly joining the officers below.

"How's that, Lucy?" asked a wolf hag. "We painted it ourselves."

"You shouldn't have to… I am not on your level. I am not strong; I even lost to Sly and…" Lucendra mumbled. The warforms' wrists prompted her machine to take the lead.

"Don't care! Loosen up. Let's have some fun, Lucy, and show these core landers how the Third cooks!"

The road brought the pair to Houstad's Sports Palace, a large dome standing guard over the nearby orphanage. Four lines, crafted of gold, bronze, silver, and platinum, lined its outer walls, linking together at the very top, symbolizing different races and cultures coming together to compete as equals under its roof. Aranea had skimmed through a booklet on the way to Houstad, learning a little about it. Funded by a group known as the Merchants, its foundation had been laid by the children of Iron Lord as part of the reparations for the unjust invasion. What had begun as a reconciliation effort soon turned into a fierce design process, as the scientists and architects of the Reclamation Army contracted a disease known as ambition. Emboldened by the desire to be the pioneers in establishing international competitions, they erected the building.

Normies, clad in the latest power armor, pitted their wits against New Breeds wielding various powers, New Breeds themselves matched each other in various national sports, to the delight of viewers. Football, basketball, boxing, brawling, grappling, running, creation of arts using exotic abilities—every challenge imaginable was performed here.

There were certain limitations to this dome. While a force shield around the main arena could theoretically contain a low-yield nuclear blast, Second Sunblade sheared through it with ease, leading to the prohibition of A- and S-ranked New Breeds from participating in any directed competition for the safety of the spectators. Most of the judges here were hardened veterans, able to spot danger in a split second, fast enough to prevent maiming.

As Aranea and the shaman approached the Sports Palace, another message came into her terminal. Knight-Captain Thyia reached the village, ringing the knights around it, while the volunteers led by Till Ingo's student Mehmed, met the locals. Starstruck One simply glowered, watching the Ice Fangs assume the defensive positions in place of their own kin, serving as protectors for their kin for the first time in a century. The shaman in charge of the village stopped Thyia, introducing herself as Earless One.

Small steps. Everything starts with them. Aranea decided as the vast shadow blanketed her. The shaman bowed out, retreating immediately to let the wyrm land.

Ivar Murzaliev, the Blue Wyrm of the Ravaged Lands, touched the ground, his three artificial limbs and tail indistinguishable from his single organic arm. The man must have paid an obscene amount of tokens to have his torso covered in artistically crafted scales, stylized after his own natural ones. If it weren't for the excessively flat wings and the smoke spewing from the engines at his back, even Aranea might've found herself fooled by his whole appearance.

"I didn't expect you would come to cheer for her," Aranea said.

"Leila is not a tower for me to hang in a closet until I wise up enough to be ready for her, Aranea," he said coldly, surveying her as if she were a curious insect. A flick of his tail sent a nearby policeman running to shut down a reporter's camera with his palm. "I am aware that I am flawed. But life goes on, waiting for no one. I'll be damned if I'll let savages such as you tarnish her brilliant future any longer. It is bad enough that she got tangled in the doofer's mess."

Yeah, the same fucking Ivar.

"Besides, who do you think financed your team?" He raised a paw, tapping the tips of the claws larger than Aranea's claws together. "There's a reasonable bet on the Desert Badgers reaching the semifinals, so the least I can do is to motivate the underlings to overwhelming success."

Tokens. Sure. "On any occasion that I start to believe you begin to have an ounce of good in you, you go and disappoint me," Aranea grumbled, moving past him.

With serpentine agility, Ivar nimbly turned his body, joining her. "Welcome to my world, Aranea. In my sight, you are all inferior, yet for Leila's sake, I have to endure the common rabble."

"Leila and I are not dating, if that is what you think."

"Obviously. Had it been otherwise, I would've murdered you myself," he responded casually. "She deserves a proper, high-society partner, valuing her wondrous hobbies, curious desires, and delicate inner beauty."

I don't envy any of her future suitors. "How is your orphanage? Is it safe? My soldiers are not misbehaving?"

"Mine and Leila's, Aranea. We own the prestigious establishment together." His eyes betrayed a gleam of irritation that vanished instantly. "Your troops are adequate. Tell me, have you heard of any of the Cartel's goons in the area?"

"I heard infernal wailing."

"Exactly." The gates leading inside the building moved, letting the two enter. "I suppose the threat of me visiting Pearl to discuss their silly joke had its effect."

"Never took you for a joker." Aranea smiled.

"I am not." Ivar met her look. "Commander Wyrm Lord ordered me to wait three months. Supposedly, Warlord Alpha and Wolf Hag Tiny will solve it during their diplomatic mission. In three months, the Cartel will cease to exist."

"Academician is the true enemy. Not some thugs."

"Shortsighted as usual. Ignore a roach, and you'll have an infestation. As for the walking corpse, he'll be disposed of; have no doubts." Ivar went silent for a little while as they passed through a corridor designed to accommodate the most unusual of New Breeds. "I was wrong to dismiss the previous commander's concerns about the matter. It won't be repeated."

Ivar admitted he was flawed? Wrong? It was up to Leila to forgive him or not, but personally Aranea wished that cold-hearted bastard luck on the road to improvement.

Inside, the palace was divided into several sections to accommodate simultaneous competitions, as well as to provide space for non-local teams to train. She smelled the pungent stench of lightning being unleashed somewhere nearby. Loud pounding and explosions signaled that a team of exotics was training nearby for the upcoming match. Gears turned in the walls, and energy flowed through the cables as the mechanisms carried platforms carrying players to the main arena.

But they hadn't come to watch the show. After several turns, Aranea and Ivar finally reached one of the underground levels. She tilted her head, hearing the agitated voices.

"…What the sand sea vomited!"

A smooth wooden floor covered the surface of the circular platform. Stands unfolded from the walls, letting pregnant Kate, Yuki, soldiers of the Third, and Wolfkins watch from the safety of a protective screen. Two groups nearly bumped heads in the center of the field, exchanging insults and taunts. Virginia, the self-appointed leader of the Desert Badgers, stood ahead of the half-wyrm Leila, Ron of the Omega Pack, Geldi, Kaleb, and the rest, growling at a six-legged Malformed.

Chitin covered his insectoid legs, which ended in sharp points. They connected to his torso at the waist from the sides instead of sticking out from under him. A t-shirt emblazoned with the letters 'Da Brood' covered his burly body; needle-shaped, razor-sharp teeth flashed behind his smirking lips. He had two normal humanoid arms, with another insectoid limb ending in a pincer protruding from under his armpit. His smaller copies stood at his back; some had a single insectoid leg, others a pincer for a hand, but all wore jade and gold sports uniforms.

"Got a problem with us, Crabsie?" Virginia nearly headbutted the opponent. He bravely pressed his forehead against hers, matching her infuriated gaze.

"My problem is that you don't deserve to be here, Wolfie," he hissed. "There are no basketball teams in the northern regions. For star players such as us to give your peasant assembly gathering is outrageous. You distract Da Brood from a proper challenge."

Virginia's fist closed. Aranea expected Ivar to say something, to call the guards, or simply to verbally lacerate the upstarts, but the wyrm faced a group of reporters filming from a distance, and the warlord understood the situation, almost bursting with laughter.

They knew so little of the Core Lands.

"Think you can win, kiddo?" Aranea called. The sound of her voice reined in Virginia's irritation, stopping her from throwing a punch.

"Hah, a warlord!" The Malformed turned his back on the wolf hag. "Lookie here who they need in vain hopes of matching us…"

"Eh, you're half right." Aranea stuck out her tongue, placing paws on her waist to pose for cameras. "I am a warlord, all right. But I am a cap'n of cheerleaders. Otherwise, it wouldn't be any fun for the people if we trampled your ass right away, now would it?" The light of her eyes shone on the rival team. "When you battle the Tribe, there's only one result. A crushing defeat."

"Oh, it will be crushing, Warlord." The Malformed picked up a basketball from the floor, jumped up, ruining the elegance of his movement with the dribbling of his flesh folds, and then tossed the ball straight into the hoop using his pincer limb. "Da Brood never fails to deliver."

"Ha!" Virginia yelled.

She bounced away from the man on her toes, muscles bulging beneath her skin. In a single bound, she crossed the platform, caught the ball before it could hit the floor, and hurled it, shaking the rectangle above the hoop as the ball bounced off it. It flew to the center of the field, and the Malformed hopped to catch it, but a stream of rust-colored fur streamed over him. Virginia grabbed the ball and tossed it, earning a field goal as it slipped through the basket, accompanied by the whistle of the Malformed.

"You're on," Aranea promised.

"Got it!" The cameraman shouted, and the contemptuous smirk on the Malformed's face changed into a warm smile.

"Thanks, Jon! Torgaljin, nice to meet you, miss." He offered a hand to Virginia. "Awesome throw."

"Why are you complimenting me?" Virginia blinked.

"Did I confuse you? I thought you knew the customs."

"Dumbass," said one of his smaller copies. "You startled them."

"My bad, my bad!" Torgaljin chuckled. "Virginia, right? Folks here enjoy a good, heated beef prior to a game."

"I love a good meat myself," Virginia admitted.

"No, I meant arguing, competition, one side a villain, another an underdog," Torgaljin explained. "My family and I are Malformed; we aren't exactly liked, so we lean into a villain role. Sorry for grilling you like that; I thought you were playing…"

"No! Stay snapped!" Virginia jumped to him. "You're ruining it for me! This was a perfect rivalry brewing in here!"

"Let me offer to pay for a disco party for you all as compensation," Torgaljin continued, ignoring the wolf hag. "Forgive me. I truly wasn't intending to insult any of you."

"Accepted," Leila said readily. "I have questions about the Gilded Horde. History, legends, traditions…"

"Never been in the west," said a female Malformed.

"Bummer. Fun is on the menu, then."

"Bastard! Stop being nice!" Virginia slammed her fists into the floor, sending the wood trembling. "Compete! Fight! Outdo! Win! Can bond later!"

"She is a nice person once you get to know her!" yelled a Wolfkin medic, Svetlana.

A screech interrupted the cheering. Ivar was pulling the end of a long, metal, barbed whip from his prosthetic limb, calmly watching the Third's team. Virginia started to ask why he would need a whip, then opened and closed her mouth, giving out a bellowing roar for the team to drop everything and resume training. Aranea said farewell to the Malformed team and took her uniform from Svetlana to head into the locker room and get changed to prepare for practicing their dance.

Those who came before them, those whom they had lost. Gregor, Kalaisa, Janine, Kostya… too many to count had given their best for a brighter tomorrow. Aranea intended not merely to exist but to live to the fullest, changing the Tribe and helping those around her, honoring her loved ones this way.