Derrick Walsh's apartment had a minimalist quality that came as a surprise to Abraham. The walls were plain painted white and lacking any artworks or photographs. The floor was bare, artificial wood in its most common orange-hued shade. The furniture, of the same wood, was sparse.

A table that sat two stood outside of the kitchen. A writing desk, a chest of drawers, and a few standard pieces filled space in the bedroom, through a separate doorway. Derrick draped a ratty old blanket over an armchair in the empty lounge and sat Abraham down.

"Stay where you are," he said. "I'm setting the alarm on the door. If you try to leave, I'll know."

Abraham looked around the room curiously. His head spun. He couldn't focus on anything. He pushed up his spectacles and looked to Derrick. He'd slipped in and out of consciousness throughout the day, which left him feeling perpetually disoriented. "I think you got carried away, Derrick. I..." He shuddered. "I can't feel my leg." He chuckled queasily and poked his finger into the quarter-sized hole in his trouser. "Oh my." His finger slid easily into his leg and didn't feel a thing. "Oh my."

"Tomorrow morning we will try to arrange a meeting with Lord Pallis. Get your finger out of your leg—it's disgusting."

Abraham stared dumbly. He poked his finger into the other hole, where the iron hook had poked upwards after entering through the first. "Am I in shock? Am I losing my leg? Did you strike a nerve with that hook? Am I going to live to see the morning? Do you have any morphine? Bourbon? Anything?"

"Shut up, Walters. You're overreacting." Derrick hung up his coat and vest. When the gate guards had given him the directions to Abraham, he had stormed over immediately and given the bastard the beating of his life, starting with an iron hook through the man's leg. In and out, leaving two holes at the top of the man's fragile thigh. He had screamed at the top of his pathetic lungs, unable to make out words until he lay collapsed and defeated on the concrete cell floor. That was when he had whispered what he had discovered.

"I spoke to Drew Hughes," he had managed, close to delirium from shock and blood loss, "I have information."

"What kind of information?" Derrick had asked.

"The lost subjects. The ones he helped to escape." Abraham had coughed until he was breathless. "I know where they are."

But Derrick hadn't been able to get the information out of the man, who knew very well that his information was the only thing that made him worthwhile. Very reluctantly, Derrick had filed the paperwork for his release and brought the man to his home. If he truly knew what he claimed to, then a million dollar reward could turn to a billion dollar reward. Derrick hungered for that, and for the glory of it. Oh, imagine the pride and pleasure on Lord Pallis's face when he would say he had found Drew Hughes, the notorious criminal, and the lost test subjects that he had freed? Derrick would never have a worry again. He'd be invited to the red carpet of all the finest parties. He'd be the talk of the town. He would have everything.

He wasn't interested in sharing. Especially not with Abraham Walters. He despised the man.

"Oh my..." Abraham moaned softly. Derrick looked, but this time, Abraham's eyes were closed and he slumped in the chair. If he was awake, he wouldn't be for long.

Derrick narrowed his eyes, and, satisfied, retired to his bedroom. He flicked his precious recording device into the air, caught it, and flicked it again. He slid it under his pillow.

***

Master Hughes stood over a box of potion vials sat upon a barrel. His hand traced over the box and he stared down. Slowly, repetitively, he banged his head against a shelf on the caravan wall. He didn't look up when Alyn entered, unsurprised by her appearance. She was the alchemist sort. The sort that took to healing, and always tried to help—even when it wasn't wanted. She couldn't heal him or help him. Hughes was troubled far beyond her understanding. He was troubled beyond his own.

"I don't know what I want," he muttered.

She crept quietly inside, trying not to disturb the mood. Her boots, in which she was still clumsy, thumped too loudly on the floor. "What do you mean?" She sat down and worked them off, then her braces.

"You wouldn't get it." He rubbed his eyes and stilled his head against the wood shelf. "I don't tell you anything."

"Why don't you?"

"It's personal. I'm a private person." He opened the box.

"But, you can trust me, right?"

"Child, I don't trust anyone. Much less an arrogant little girl that I picked up a week ago to settle a debt."

Alyn recoiled.

He recalled that he had apologized to her earlier, agreed that they could be partners. He grimaced. He touched at his eyes.

"I am immensely confused," he said. Every word took care to voice, shaking and fragile, but expressionless. "I just... I don't... I don't know."

Alyn sat against a barrel and frowned. "What don't you know?"

"I don't know what to do. I'm..." His voice cracked. He watched the slight movement of the liquid in the potion vials in his hands. "I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what?"Alyn questioned. "Some praise? Master Hughes, all those people were happy to see you. I don't know why, I don't know what you did, and I really don't know why you're hiding from it. They're calling you a hero!"

"There is no such thing as heroes."

"No such thing... no such thing... You muttered it in your sleep before we got to the wall, over and over. Why? Why do you keep saying that?"

Master Hughes grimaced. Someone important had said it a long time ago, and all he remembered of it was that he should have listened. He should have kept his head out of the clouds. He would have been better off if he had listened.

He pulled a vial from his box and replaced the box on a shelf. He shook his head and stepped over Alyn to reach the other end of the caravan. He pried the lid from a barrel of mead and dunked his flask into it.

"Master Hughes. Why?"

The man heaved a long sigh. He screwed the cap on his flask. "Go away, Alyn. I need some time to think."

Alyn scrunched up her nose and stood up, indignant. "And by think, you mean drink? Because that ain't gonna do nothin' for you."

"More than you can do," he sneered. It was half-hearted and unconvincing. He waved his hand. "Just leave me alone, stupid girl. I have a lot on my mind." He flicked her hat off and patted her ears down. "You don't have to hide here. Go on." He didn't give her a choice.

He dropped her outside of the caravan and closed the flap behind her. She bit her lip and pulled her scarf around her head and ears, uncomfortable.

The man that had rammed into Master Hughes before swept around her on hooves and hands, like an animal. He investigated her hooves, while she nervously stood very still. He rose and pulled at her scarf, then tapped her bared horns and tugged at her ears. She winced.

He stopped, his ears twitching, and patted her on the head. One of his eyes was half-closed with a gaping pupil. The other eye was wide open with a speck of a pupil. One green, one blue. Twitching and crazed.

"Thumbtack!" Doorknob called. The odd middle-aged man turned around and crept to his summons. Doorknob ruffled his hair. Thumbtack pressed his blunt horn-stumps into Doorknob's chest, as he had done to Hughes. Alyn considered the action thoughtfully. It was a show of affection, she thought.

Doorknob smiled at Alyn. "This is Thumbtack. He... he doesn't talk." He pointed to Alyn's exposed ears and horns, then to her hooves. "You're a refugee, too? Does this mean that Berthold is back at it again?"

Alyn uncomfortably eyed Thumbtack. He was far from normal. "No," she said, "I'm not a refugee. I'm a faun." She swished air from cheek to cheek. "Why do you keep calling him Berthold?"

"I sorta grew up only knowing him with that name. Got used to call—calling him that, I guess. He don't like that name. Doesn't." Doorknob scratched Thumbtack's ears. "A real faun? You should meet Ted and Paige. They're both real fauns."

"You grew up knowing him?" Alyn blinked. "There are other fauns?"

"Knowing of him. I only met him for less than a day, but of course, he made a good impression. I was twe—twenty-five, I believe. Long ago, now. Is he okay?" Doorknob's eyes flicked over the caravan. "The fauns, yes. They've been very helpful here. You'll meet them."

"He doesn't seem very okay," Alyn mumbled. She looked the scrawny fellow up and down. "You don't look any older than twenty-five. How... how old are you, sir?"

"I don't know. Seventies, I think." He shrugged and pulled Thumbtack away from caravan, tucking his arm under the man's armpits. He started towards the center of the camp with his friend in tow and gestured to Alyn with a flick of his head. "Come. C-come on. You can meet the others."

***

The refugees were a welcoming bunch. They were open and genuinely happy, despite their deformities and scars and disabilities. Altogether, there were thirty-four at the camp, plus two true fauns that had found the place a decade previous. Alyn learned that each refugee had a surplus of terrible stories to explain his or her inhuman features. But, these were survivors. They held hands and bowed heads at any mention of others who had not been so lucky.

They were grateful for where they were. They were grateful that they had been fit enough, years ago, to escape when they were helped. Many hadn't the ability to run, or the strength, and they had been left to endure in the manor labs within Ban-Ken's wall.

She learned that poor Thumbtack had once been a top experiment subject, until he had been too bold with the Lords. Little was known of how he had survived, for his mind was too far gone to explain it himself.

Doorknob had been the first successful test subject. He said that he would give anything to relieve himself of the curse of what so far seemed to be eternal life. It didn't prevent him from feeling pain. Living as a fugitive, he could not use his longevity elsewhere in the world. He would watch every friend in the camp die and still have no hope of joining them in the afterlife. He said it was maddening to live through everything. He said it frightened him to go anywhere, because despite how human he looked, if he were to land in the Shir's hands he would never see daylight again. For eternity.

The others couldn't leave at all without hiding themselves in large hats and oversized clothing. Even then, they had to be careful. Most of them simply stayed in the safety of the camp to avoid the trouble.

The world outside was no paradise, anyways.

Here, they had a broken dome filled with vegetables, flowers, and alchemical reagents. They lived a beautifully rare life as gardeners in the barren present day. Ted and Paige, the fauns, had taught them tricks to it, and it had become a great addition to the community.

Then, there were the children. There were five children among the thirty-four. They didn't carry the sown-on or injected traits of their parents, but did look younger than their ages.

Many of the people looked younger than their ages, due to the laboratories' main goal of preserving life indefinitely. Some of the refugees had been given better preservation than others, though Doorknob was the only survivor with successful eternal life. Shoelace looked the oldest in the camp, but both Bucket and Peeler were older. All of the adult refugees were older than Master Hughes, surrounding young Alyn with seniors.

The camp residents sat around a blazing fire on a ring of sawed-in-half oil drums, holding plates and forks as they waited for a meal. Alyn sat next to Doorknob and Thumbtack, with Shoelace and Nail on her other side. Old Shoelace had a leader quality to him, and the camp seemed to respect him. He was refreshingly sane, among handfuls of the panicky and the strange. He led a solemn prayer, unrelated to any unseen savior or god.

Everyone bowed their heads and touched two fingers to their brows. Alyn looked around uncertainly, then did the same.

"...to those we have lost..."

Names were spoken into the fire, all at once. Each refugee gave multiple. The volume around the campfire rose, then sank to silence after a brief moment.

"We hold you dear in our hearts," Shoelace continued. "To those we have hope for..."

Again, the volume rose with an outburst of many, many names, spoken under the breaths of thirty-four unfortunate souls.

"We wish you luck and send you our spirits so that you do not lose yours," he said, nodding, his eyes closed. "Our hero has returned tonight."

The camp murmured. A few heads raised to the change in their familiar prayer.

Alyn chewed on her inner cheek and glanced around. She felt as if she did not belong in the circle, as though she were being included where she didn't belong, and all she could do was feel sorry.

"And we hope," Shoelace continued, "that he has returned not for us, but for you."

Alyn looked back at the caravan. Hughes' silhouette paced back and forth behind the canvas, cast, enlarged, upon the caravan walls by a flickering light within.

"Amen."

"Amen," returned the camp. "Amen."

Their heads raised and all turned towards a small wooden cabin nearby. The door was open and firelight shone out onto the sand. Two fauns carried a large bowl of salad each, springing forward on powerful haunches.

"That's Ted and Paige," murmured Doorknob. "Our fauns. The real ones."

Ted was a head shorter than Paige, standing barely higher than five feet tall. He wore a collared button-down, a lab coat, and small round spectacles with purple lenses. His furry legs and ears were fully exposed, and his movements were energetic, but jerky and stiff-jointed.

Paige wore a dirty purple blouse and a brown corset. Her short, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her haunches were covered in a neat layer of short and smooth fur, very unlike Alyn's or Ted's. She moved swiftly, with grace.

A goat and a deer. One graceless, one graceful.

"Dinner, lads!" Ted grinned, holding his bowl out to the first cluster of refugees.

Paige started at the other end of the horse-shoe shaped ring of oil drums. "Take your fill, we've plenty more."

Ted, humming an old folk song from the west, came to Alyn with his bowl and screeched to a halt. His face fell in surprise, his humming ceased, and his thick brows pinched together. His jaw dropped, and his lips moved noiselessly. Puzzled, he glanced to Doorknob, on her right, and Shoelace, on her left. "And, ah..." He prodded his specs up his nose and squinted. "Who might you be?" His eyes lowered to her exposed legs and their shaggy coat.

"Ah'm Alyn. Alyn Smythy."

"She's a faun," Doorknob added, forking salad onto Thumbtack's plate, then his own. "Same as you and Paige, Ted!"

Ted blinked and straightened out. He shook his head incredulously. "But that's not... It's not possible..."

Alyn shrugged and wrinkled her nose. She started to fill her own plate, and Ted held the bowl nearer for her.

"Where are your parents? Who are they? Or, who created you?" Ted asked. He knelt in front of her and passed the big bowl of greens on to Shoelace.

Alyn shrugged again. "I'm an orphan, sir. Don't know much 'bout who or where or why."

"Ah..." Ted waved Paige over.

Paige handed off her bowl and strode over. Her eyes widened at Alyn and she touched Ted's shoulder. She bunched his stiff white coat in her fist. "Who is this?"

He patted her hand and said, "Alyn Smythy. An orphan."

Paige lifted Ted to his feet and ducked to speak directly to his face, looking anxiously into his bright hazel gaze. The glint of his purple specs reflected in her eyes. "Could she be Jake and Meela's? Or Watson and Jenna's? I didn't think they were in the country."

"No... No, why would they abandon a child? And her accent sounds a mixture of the southern and western states. None of our breed have been in the United States for at least twenty years. She looks perhaps twelve. She can't be theirs."

"I'm thirteen," said Alyn.

"And her fur..." Paige pointed to her ears, then her shins. She inhaled deeply and looked again to Ted, whilst Alyn self-consciously combed at her fur. "Too dark. Too long. She has shaggier fur than you, a male."

"Oh, yes..." said Ted. His eyes widened and he rubbed his chin. "Oh, yes, I see it. I... Yes. She is not one of ours."

"But if she isn't one of ours, Polcene's, and she isn't one of the Shir's, then where did she come from? Where was she created, and by who?"

"Created?" Alyn choked. "I'll tell you, I was born in Indiana, far as I know. Ah grew up there, anyways."

The fauns looked to her, back to each other. They blushed simultaneously and extended their hands.

"So sorry," said Paige. "I am Paige, and this is my partner, Ted."

Ted smiled. "We... well, we haven't seen another faun in a long, long while."

"It's nice to meet you."

Alyn shook both their hands in turn. "Nice to meet you, too. Master Hughes'll be real excited. He's a big fan of fauns."

"Master Hughes?" the fauns asked.

"Drew Hughes!" Shoelace exclaimed. The old man threw his hands in the air. "Ted, the man himself is here."

Ted gasped and exchanged bright-eyed glances with his partner. "We'll get to meet the hero, at long last?"

"Yes!"

Alyn frowned. "What makes him a hero?"

The whole thrum of the camp quieted to stare. They murmured to each other and tilted their heads. They fingered their tattooed wrists.

Shoelace spoke first.

"You travel with him, and you don't know?"

Alyn bit her lip and glumly averted her eyes. "He's... a private person."

"He's the one that helped all of us to escape the Shir manor," Shoelace answered. "He cured hundreds of people from the plague, maybe even thousands. He..."

At a heavy thunk, the elder silenced and turned around. In the corner of the camp, Master Hughes pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the caravan. Ears twitched around the camp. Quiet gasps and whispers swept around the fire and drifted off in the evening dark. Ted and Paige stood taller, alert, and squinted.

Hughes stared back at the campfire, then turned away. He paced in a circle with a hand to his forehead. Alyn noticed the glint of a vial in his other hand.

The blacksmith had removed his massive coat and looked vulnerable in his distended bracers and stained old shirt.

Alyn set her plate down on her seat and stood, watching attentively while she debated whether to go to him. He stopped pacing and staggered sideways a few steps. From his distance, from the dark, he seemed to search the campfire crowd, looking over them all. He ran his hairy forearm across his brow, licked his lips, and made his way towards his apprentice. He kept his eyes away from the refugees.

Alyn stumbled over the drum and out of the campfire ring to meet him and he all but fell onto her shoulders, his hands thumping down and clamping, hot and clammy. "Alyn."

Tense, she planted her hooves more firmly and splayed her fingers at her sides for balance. His hair stuck to his brow, soaked in sweat. His breath stunk of alcohol, but it was stale, which told her that he had not been drinking in that caravan. A sort of shock controlled his haggard movements. He seemed ready to topple over.

"M-Master Hughes? Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "No. No." His gaze lifted over her head at the many others, pained and reluctant. "Please... Is there... Is there anywhere that I can stay for a night? Away from..." He halfheartedly raised his vial of potion. "This..." He winced. "... And alcohol." He pressed the vial into Alyn's hand. "Before I changed my mind."

Ted stared, taking in the grandness of the hero that he had heard so much about for years on end. He dusted his knuckles on his coat and jumped to action, springing up and waving his arms. "You can stay in the cabin!"

He looked to his partner for confirmation.

Paige nodded and slipped between two drums to offer a hand to Hughes. "I will show you there, sir. The bed is made. The water runs."

"Th-Thank you." Master Hughes took a hold of her hand, his clammy fingers twice the size of hers, and let go of Alyn. Paige slowly led him around the circle of refugees. She made sure not to move any faster than the pace he was setting.

Halfway to the cabin, he cried out in a panic that he had changed his mind. He slapped himself on the forehead and dragged his palm over his face, then changed his mind again and Paige led on.

When he disappeared inside, the camp residents burst into murmurs again. Alyn picked up her plate and sat down again, unsettled. Thumbtack was quietly whimpering.

She cringed at a touch to her back, then calmed. It was only Doorknob. He patted her gently.

"I believe in him," he said. "Tomorrow afternoon, he—he'll be right as rain."

"We've had the so-called medication in our camp before. It does no good," Shoelace grumbled, poking his crutch in the dirt. He didn't eat much. Either his scrawny frame and caved-in gut couldn't take it, or something had put him off his food. He handed it off to a younger refugee. "The withdrawal becomes intense so fast. We lost Sack to it, and Tin, may they rest in peace. It's a foul thing. Foul."

"D-Does he need to be taking it?" Alyn asked, nervous. "I mean, is he going to be okay if he doesn't?"

"Pfft," Shoelace muttered, "he's not going to be okay if he keeps taking it."

Alyn's ears drooped. "Why? What's it for?"

"Man-made repression of the past," the elder scowled. "No good."

"Represhun?"

"You're scaring her, Shoelace," whined Doorknob. "Lay off."

"Bah."

Ted sat down with his back to the fire, in front of Alyn. He opened his mouth to question.

"Ted, it's Memoriae Imperium," Shoelace interrupted. "We tested it when he was unconscious."

"Oh my." Ted adjusted his spectacles, though they didn't need to be adjusted. "I see. Well. That is a bit of a bummer, really. A bummer, indeed."

Alyn passed her salad to Thumbtack, who eagerly took it. It stopped his whimpering. "What is it?"

"Memory control," Ted answered gravely. "It means he has... opted to forget things. The potion blocks selected memories; each batch made specifically for each person's case. I have a feeling I know what he's blocked. It is dangerous for him to be here with us, if I am right."

"Brings a whole new meaning to drinking to forget, does it not?" piped the hairless man named Bucket, giggling.

Nettle, the woman with the small flesh-colored snout and animal-like nose, elbowed Bucket in the side. She scolded him, batting his nose with her fork. "It isn't funny, Bucket."

Bucket rubbed his ribs and squinted at the flicking of his nose. He snorted. "Well, come on. What's so bad that he wanted to forget it all, anyways? No one ever laid a finger on him. He was privileged. He ate like royalty, dressed like royalty, spoke and learned and had power like royalty. Then, as a little hobby on the side, he went and saved us, and did good things he should have been proud of. It sounds all good to me."

Nettle scowled and smacked the man across the cheek. He frowned and scooted away, bumping into the fellow on his other side.

"Don't talk about things that you don't understand, Bucket," Nettle sniffed. "We only know what was on the surface of that boy. We only know what we were raised knowing, and what we saw when he rescued each of us. I saw him as lonely. He suffered. He suffered differently to us, but he suffered all the same."

"But he gave us strength when we needed it m-most," Doorknob stammered. "Bless his k-kind soul. He was brave."

"He was clever," said another.

"So sweet and loving," said another.

"And accepting," said another.

Shoelace nodded with a grim sort of hum, poking a stray ember with the end of his crutch. His gaunt face drawn, he peered down at Alyn and found her eyes. "The thing about the people that start out with more, is that when they have less, they can't appreciate it. They never focus on what they have. They focus on what they don't. And once upon a time, your friend, there, had everything that anyone could ever want, at least, materially, and more. When a man is raised up as high as he was, rock bottom is a lot further a fall than it would be for you or me. He made that fall in a single day."

Alyn looked down at her lap and bit the inside of her cheek. "Oh." She looked up again, now to Ted, lips pursed. "Can I stay with him for the night? In case he needs anything?"

The faun smiled softly. "Of course." He stood and offered his hand to her. "I'll show you the cabin."

Alyn took hold and said goodnight to the refugees. Ted led her across the camp, into the wooden cabin. It was a small place, with only two cozy rooms. The kitchen, Ted quietly explained, was where all the meals in the camp were made. There was a keg of boiled and cooled water open on the counter to use in case she or the blacksmith got thirsty. He told her that it was best not to chance the straight tap water for drinking, for the pipes they had built weren't without flaws.

"When does he usually take his potion?" Ted asked.

"It was between six and seven, before. But, I messed it up, so's it's been closer to nine, lately, ah think."

"I see. It takes twenty-four hours to wear off, and with the added recovery based on other cases of this situation... I'm sure he'll be up by tomorrow afternoon, though perhaps not quite 'himself', or at least the self that you and I have seen. It is a taxing recovery. He'll be exhausted and unhappy."

"Only twenty-four hours? That soon?"

Ted's gaze dropped to the floor. He rubbed the back of his neck. "For the most part of the recovery, yes. But, it will feel a lot longer for him. A refugee by the name of Hinge described it as feeling like he'd relived his entire life... I can't promise Mr. Hughes won't be permanently affected." He slipped his hands into his lab coat pockets and gave her a reassuring smile. "He will be fine. It won't kill him. Goodnight, Miss Smythy."

"Goodnight, sir."

He dipped out of the cabin and loped off, back to the campfire. Alyn slipped into the bedroom, stepping softly onto a thin woven carpet. Quiet whimpers met her ears. She crept around the queen-sized bed and nervously peered at the man in the bed, conflicted by the feeling of being out of place. It felt violating to seem him so vulnerable. More so than it had been when he had been drunk.

Master Hughes lay curled on top of the blankets, his boots by one wall. His suspender straps hung at his sides. His body was tense—so much so that even in unconsciousness, he quaked. His eyebrows fought to reach other, the creases on his forehead deep, like wounds.

Alyn's ears drew back and she pursed her lips, crouching at the bedside. She had always thought that grown-ups were immune to nightmares. It was as fascinating as it was frightening, and though she felt the conscious urge to look away—as one might in the event that they saw an alligator about to devour its offspring, or a lion advancing on its prey—it was an event that felt cruel and unfeeling to observe, but was so uncommon and bizarre to see that it was near impossible to look away.

His expression pinched in pain and every few moments, his lips moved, or his teeth ground together, or he feverishly shook his head or curled tighter or pulled at his sweat-soaked hair. His eyes flicked back and forth incessantly behind closed lids.

What in all hell, she wondered, could be so terrifying?

He exhaled a long breath, muttered something, and relaxed. He covered his face with his arm.

Alyn frowned. She drew back and slowly rose. She stared a while longer, but Hughes was still and calm. She tiptoed to the kitchen and found a cloth, then ran it under the tap. She rung out the water and brought the damp towel back into the bedroom. Hughes was restless again. The bed groaned with every writhing movement.

Alyn knelt and waited for his tossing and turning to calm. She reached out and delicately placed the damp cloth over his forehead, startling at a cloud of steam. She curiously poked his brow, exclaimed, and sucked on her finger, then turned and leaned against the bed. Gradually, she sunk lower and lower, until her head rested on her hands and she lay, stiff and uncomfortable and worrying, on the floor. Her eyes remained open for a long while as she listened to the weeping and the whining and the quiet murmurs of a familiar name, over and over again.

"Pallis."