Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Everything is so dark…
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It's honestly quite comfortable, it's strangely warm here, and it's like sleeping on a bed of clouds. It's almost like this void is trying to comfort me.

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I don't keep track of how long I've been stuck here but I don't really mind being here for longer because it's just so peaceful here compared to the busy life that I had grown used to. I don't mind staying here forever but…

I kinda miss my old life…

I miss the routine of waking up, going to work, going home, relaxing, and sleeping…

Sure it's boring but I find comfort in that same old boring routine…

Suddenly, a pixelated bunny mascot appeared beside them. Instinctively, _____ raised their hands as if preparing for a fight.

“Hey there! I’m Penny. I heard you wanted to return to your old life, right? Please put your hands down, I’m not here to hurt you.”
The seemingly harmless bunny chirped; its smile was a stitched on grin and its pixels shimmered like a low resolution halo. They slowly lowered their hands, still tense.

“Right… my bad. You just… appeared right in my face.”
_____ awkwardly scratched the back of their neck. “Then mind explaining why you’re here?”

“Here in Limbo, souls can either move on or reincarnate—though reincarnation usually means returning to a different world. Since you asked to ‘go back to your old life,’ the system logged that as a wish to come back to life. I’m your guide through the process.” The mascot explained with a cheerful, mechanical tilt of its head.

“But I didn’t want to be reincarnated.”
_____ voice was small, almost whispering. “I wanted… my old routine. The same boring life.”

“Semantics,” the bunny said, its pixels briefly glitching.
“Wanting to ‘come back’ is the system’s keyword. It treats ‘going back’ as ‘getting a new life.’ “ The bunny’s smile never faltered. “So an isekai, retrograde, or just plain cosmic clerical error? Your choice!”

They rolled their eyes.
“A bit weird, ngl.” A faint laugh escaped them, half-exasperation, half-nervousness. “Fine. Guide me, then. But if this is a scam, I will-”

“-file an objection form,” the bunny finished brightly.
“Step one: choose a world.”

“Well… Since this is a Phighting fanfiction, i'm picking that”
_____ said with a shrug

“Don't break the fourth wall now, you're not deadpool. And yes phighting… How original…”
The pixelated mascot rolled its eyes as it makes a waving gesture and—

PING

What the hell was that… A notification?

Suddenly a floating screen appeared before ____ and startling them

Whoa! What the fuck…

_____ recognized the UI of the screen

Is this… FUCKING AMAZON?!?! WHY IS THERE AMAZON IN THE AFTERLIFE

“Because you lived an average life, a little good, a little bad, leaning toward good. The system awarded you 1,5K points. You can spend those points to get advantages in your new world.” the pixelated bunny said, its stitched smile twitching like a loading icon.

“This is so… weird…”
_____ muttered, scrolling through the glowing options on the floating screen. The icons flickered like a cheap mobile game shop menu.

“We recommend the Starter Pack! It’s our best value bundle!” the pixelated mascot announced with the practiced cheer of someone who had done this a million times. “One week’s worth of food, climate-appropriate clothing, a generous pouch of local currency, and you get to pick one item from your previous life that is worth one hundred points or less. All yours for just nine hundred points!”

It leaned closer, its pixelated grin unwavering. “Convenient, affordable, survivable! First-timers love it.”

“That's like… A good chunk of my points”
_____ winced at the price as they read the description of the starter pack with some hesitation in their eyes, a guarantee of food, clothes, and money is hard to not choose “But it is tempting, I'll think about it”

_____ tapped the Phighting! Gears icon, the catalog flickering open in pixelated rows. Their eyes caught on a metallic cane, its dull shine almost pulsing against the screen.

“Adaptive Cane?” they murmured, pulling up the description.
‘Collapsible. Extends up to twice its length. Compresses to a knife’s size. Edge adjustable at will.’

“That’s… actually really cool,” they muttered, before wincing at the number stamped below. “Seven hundred points? Ouch.”
Still, their finger hovered near the purchase icon, a strange pull gnawing at the back of their mind. The cane felt like it was watching them.

The mascot, who had been chirpy a moment ago, froze. Its pixels flickered with static, smile locked but eyes glitching for just a second.
“…That item,” it said, softer now, almost wary. “You… weren’t supposed to notice it so soon.”

It straightened again, pixels smoothing back into place, grin wide and cheery. “Ah! But don’t mind me! Just a rare pick, is all. Costly, yes, but it always seems to… find its owner.”

“Could I… make some deductions to the Starter Pack? Maybe drop the extra money to make it cheaper?”
_____ asked, shooting the pixelated mascot a pleading look.

The bunny tilted its head, ears stuttering with static as if a program were running in the background.
“Hmmm…” it hummed, dragging the sound out. “I suppose you could. But it wouldn’t change much.”
The menu flickered, and the price ticked down.
“Without the money, the Starter Pack comes to… eight hundred points.”

Its grin never faltered, but the bunny leaned in closer, voice dipping just slightly.
“Most who try to save a little end up regretting it. But hey—your choice.”
It straightened again, back to its usual cheer. “Oh! And don’t forget: you can pick one item from your previous life.”

“Oh, right…” _____ rubbed the back of their neck. “I’ll take my MP4 player then. Uh—does that include the earbuds?”

The mascot blinked, its pixels glitching in and out like dropped frames. Then it gave a theatrical shrug.
“Y’know what? Sure. Without them the player’s basically a brick. Call it a complimentary bonus.”

_____ added those three items to the cart and pressed purchase, _____ winced as their points immediately disappeared from their account “There goes all of my afterlife credits… No refunds, right?”
_____ threw a witty joke to the mascot

“Absolutely no refund! Once you've pressed purchase, you can't go back”
The pixelated mascot huffed and crossed its stubby arms across its chest “Well then… Time to move on to character customization!”
The pixelated mascot swiped the screen away and replacing it with a different screen

“Of course there's more…”
_____ sighed in exasperation as they saw the massive amount of options on the screen “This is gonna take a while”
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FIVE HOURS LATER….

“That took a while…”
_____ muttered, stretching their stiff arms after what felt like hours buried in the customization menu. Their joints cracked in protest. “So… what now? How are you gonna send me there?”

They turned to the mascot — who was, somehow, floating belly-up in the void, tiny snores rendered in jagged pixel-sound effects.

The bunny twitched, one ear flickering like static before it jerked awake.
“Eh? Oh—right, right! Sending you off. My favorite part.” Its grin snapped back into place as if it had never left.
It raised a paw, and it snapped its fingers, the void around them rippled, black pixels dissolving into a blinding white.

Chapter Text

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_____ — or Adaptive Cane in this world — woke up lying on a bed of grass, seemingly surrounded by an endless expanse of trees and mountains.

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Well then… this is not an ideal spot…

Adaptive Cane thought, not exactly bothered to get up from the grass as they enjoyed the warmth of the sun.

The sun does feel really nice though… I don’t wanna get up. Maybe a nap would be nice, right? Nooo… I have to find civilization first, then maybe I can nap there…

The lazy fucker finally decided to stand and take in their surroundings, stretching their limbs. Hmm… so I didn’t spawn in Crossroads. Could be Playground or Thieves’ Den… I’m guessing the latter, since there are so many trees here.

Adaptive Cane finally took a moment to examine themselves. Sooo… when the mascot says “climate-appropriate clothing,” it apparently means a brown leather jacket, cargo pants, black gloves, and boots… Comfortable though, I’ll give them that and they remembered that I need glasses too...

They moved around a little, testing their range of motion. It's… perfect. It’s like the mascot knew my preferences. Thanks a lot, Penny. Spotting an olive-green satchel at the base of a tree, Adaptive Cane carefully picked it up and checked its contents. “A couple packs of jerky, some nutrient bars, a big canteen of water… and my MP4 player. Should be enough. Don’t wanna die in the second chapter,” they joked to themselves while slinging the satchel over their shoulder. Plugging in their earbuds, they immediately queued up a song.

Adaptive Cane squinted as they looked up at the rising sun and sighing, seemingly satisfied with their new life “Well… Let's go north it works in the walking dead game, maybe it'll work here too” They made a mental note on the direction of where the sun is rising and starting their trek up north to find civilization

After what seems like a few hours, Adaptive Cane is honestly enjoying this little trek plus music made the journey even better “It’s been a long while since I've been in a forest… This is making me nostalgic, I used to grow up near a forest with my grandparents…” They stopped walking and looked down at their clawed hands “I miss them…” Cane shook their head rigorously and slapped their own face “ Happy thoughts… Happy thoughts… and with that they resumed their journey

“Oh yeah… How do I even summon my gear? Do I just think of it and it'll just appear?” They wondered as they thought about their gear and suddenly it magically appeared in their hand, making them yelp and accidentally dropping it “HOLY SHI-... Okay, so I need to think about it to summon it” Adaptive Cane carefully picked up their gear and began to marvel at it “This is so cool… Kid me would be jealous…” How do i extend this? They wondered and the gear suddenly extended to the size of a hiking stick “Woah…That is really dope!” Adaptive Cane exclaimed with excitement comparable to a kid getting their birthday present

Adaptive Cane shook their head in amusement “Focus… Focus… Find civilization first then you can play with the gear” They muttered to themselves as they resumed their journey with their gear assisting their walk

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Adaptive Cane sat beneath a hollow tree, idly munching on jerky and sipping water while fiddling with their gear constantly shifting its shape and sharpness. “I don’t know why, but… you were calling for me, right? It’s as if you were meant for me,” Cane mumbled, running a thumb over the engravings with quiet admiration.

Stretching as they stood, Cane adjusted their satchel and tugged at their jacket. “Let’s get a move on… the faster I find civilization, the faster I can sleep on a real bed.” With that, they resumed their trek.

They froze mid-step, nostrils flaring. “Blood?” Summoning their gear, they extended it to the length of a staff and sharpened the tip, holding it ready like a spear as they carefully followed the metallic scent. “I really hope that’s not a goddamn bear… or anything else that can kill me. Not looking forward to dying again…” Cane muttered, rounding a corner only to spot the body of a deer, an arrow jutting from its torso. “Someone’s hunting around here? This looks fresh…”

A twig snapped behind them. Cane spun on instinct, weapon poised, heart thundering. Out from the brush stepped a figure in dark, weathered clothing, bow in hand, eyes narrowing the instant they met Cane’s. For a tense moment, neither moved the hunter’s arrow half-drawn, Cane’s spear leveled squarely at their chest. The forest went silent, save for the whisper of leaves in the breeze.

“…That’s my kill,” the hunter said flatly, voice low and edged with suspicion. Cane swallowed, gripping their weapon tighter. The thought of backing down clashes with their fear and suspicion towards the hunter, but so did the possibility of being skewered before they could even explain themselves.

“Right… I wasn’t planning on taking it anyway…” Adaptive Cane slowly lowered their gear and stepped back from the deer.

“...You look lost,” the hunter remarked, finally easing their bow but not taking their eyes off Cane.

“Was it that obvious?” Cane rolled their eyes, dismissing their gear with a thought before crossing their arms. “Aren’t you going to take the deer?” Cane motioned toward the carcass.

The hunter slung their bow over their shoulder but didn’t move toward the deer just yet. “I’ll get to it. Answer me first, where’d you come from? Don’t think I’ve seen your face around here.”

Cane hesitated, scratching at the back of their neck. “Uh… let’s just say I’m new in town. Very new.”

“New?” The hunter raised a brow, gaze flicking from Cane’s boots to their jacket, then finally to the faint movement of Cane’s eyes. “You don’t look like someone who wandered in by accident. Outsider, then?”

“Something like that.” Cane gave a lopsided shrug, trying to sound casual but feeling the hunter’s scrutiny. “I’m just trying to find civilization. North seemed like a good direction.”

The hunter huffed a dry laugh, finally kneeling by the deer to check the wound. “Going north, huh? It'll get you somewhere, sure. Not all of it’s friendly. Lucky you ran into me first.”

“Yeah, lucky,” Cane muttered under their breath, watching the hunter work. “So… you’re not gonna shoot me, right?”

The hunter glanced up with a faint smirk. “Depends. Don’t give me a reason to.”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m a newspawn?” Adaptive Cane asked.

“You? A newspawn?” The hunter gave Cane a quick glance before returning to the deer. “You look like a teenager. I believe it, though—you’ve got that glow newspawns always have. Teen newspawn’s is uncommon, but not that rare.” Their tone was flat as they crouched beside the carcass, pulling a knife and cutting the deer into manageable pieces.

“Right… Could you lead me to the town? I’m Adaptive Cane, by the way they/them.” Cane finally introduced themselves, wincing at the sharp smell of blood and instinctively taking a step back.

“Name’s Hunter’s Bow and Arrow,” the man replied without looking up, “but just call me Hunter. Full name’s a mouthful. He/him.” He stood once he finished cutting the deer into manageable pieces, sliding them neatly into his pack. “Sure, I’ll lead you to town. You’ll want to register yourself in the system once you’re there, just in case.” Hunter adjusted the straps on his shoulders and motioned for Cane to follow.

The trek through the forest stretched on in relative silence, broken only by the crunch of boots against dirt and the occasional bird call overhead. Hours slipped by beneath the shifting canopy until the trees finally thinned. Beyond them, rooftops and stone walls peeked through the fading green.

“There,” Hunter said, jerking his chin toward the settlement ahead. “Welcome to Thieves Den. Keep your head down, and you’ll manage.”

Cane exhaled, a mixture of nerves and relief washing over them as the first signs of civilization came into view. “Finally…” Cane admired the city, the way the city blends nature with their buildings is quite interesting to them and Thieves Den is a stark contrast to their old city concrete jungle “So, Hunter… Where should I register myself?

”Go look for a government looking building with a red roof towards the center of the city, a bit hard to miss. Alright have fun exploring the city and stuff, just don't get yourself into trouble” And with that, Hunter left Adaptive Cane on their own

“Government-looking building? Right… should be easy. Just head to the center and it’ll be there,” Adaptive Cane muttered to reassure themself, though their voice lacked conviction. The noise of the bustling town pressed in from all sides, vendors shouting, footsteps clattering, conversations overlapping each sound piling onto the next until it felt suffocating. They thumbed the volume on their MP4 player higher, letting the music drown out the chaos, a small anchor against the rising tide of anxiety. With a steadying breath, Cane pushed forward, weaving their way toward the city’s heart in search of the place to register themself.

It didn’t take long before the crowded streets gave way to a wide plaza. In the middle stood a tall, blocky building of gray stone and metal trim, its wide steps leading up to glass-paneled doors. A simple sign above the entrance read: Municipal Registry. It looked jarringly ordinary compared to the patchwork shops and crooked alleys surrounding it.

“Well… that’s gotta be it,” Cane muttered, tugging their satchel higher on their shoulder. Their clawed hands twitched behind them, betraying nerves their music couldn’t completely drown out. They paused at the bottom of the steps, staring up at the plain signage. “No turning back now.”

Inside, the air smelled faintly of old paper and floor polish. Rows of desks and waiting chairs filled the hall, clerks tapping away at boxy computers while others sifted through thick stacks of forms. The soft buzz of fluorescent lights overhead mixed with the occasional ding of a printer. Compared to the chaos outside, it was almost unsettlingly mundane.

Cane pulled out one earbud as they approached the front desk. The clerk—a woman in her late thirties with rectangular glasses and a sharp, practiced smile looked up immediately. “Name?” she asked briskly, hands already shuffling through a drawer for the right paperwork.

“Adaptive Cane,” they answered, hesitating just a little before adding, “they/them.”

The clerk nodded, jotting it down in neat block letters before sliding a few sheets of paper across the counter. “Fill these out. Basic information name, pronouns, age, and any special conditions we should be aware of. Once you’re done, we’ll get your photo and print your registration card. That’ll be your ID in town.”

Cane stared down at the forms, a cheap ballpoint pen already set on top. Paperwork. Figures. Even in a new world, can’t escape it.

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After what seemed like hours, Adaptive Cane finally finished filling out the forms and handed the stack of papers to the clerk “Uh.. Here…” Cane sighed in satisfaction “So, I don't know how to say this but… I'm kinda homeless currently… Is there a place where I could stay?”

The clerk looked up from her computer with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t have a place to stay?” Cane stiffened and gave a timid nod. “Yeah…”

The clerk sighed, fingers clattering across the keyboard. After a moment, she handed Cane their new ID along with a small note bearing an address. “Follow this address. You can stay at that boarding house for up to a month but no more. By then, you’ll need to find your own place and a job.”

Cane accepted the items with both hands, relief softening their expression. “Thanks a lot and, uh… have a great day.” They gave a slight bow before hurrying out of the office, clutching the note as they made their way toward the address.

The streets grew quieter as Cane walked farther from the bustling center of town. The smell of food stalls and the chatter of merchants faded, replaced by the muted hum of distant traffic and the creak of old wooden shutters. Finally, they stopped in front of a narrow three-story building with peeling paint and a weathered sign that read Wisteria Boarding House. Cane took a deep breath, adjusted their satchel, and stepped inside.

The air was warm and faintly scented with old wood and lavender, though the furniture in the lobby looked like it had seen better days. A small desk stood at the far end, behind which sat an older woman with silver horns and some golden chains adorned seemingly had been pierced into the horns, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she flipped through a ledger. She looked up the moment Cane entered.

“You must be the newspawn,” she said, her voice brisk but not unkind. “ID and note, please.”

Cane handed them over, trying not to fidget.

The woman scanned them quickly, then nodded. “Alright, Adaptive Cane. You’ll be in Room 3B, second floor. Shared bathroom, no noise after ten, and meals aren’t provided you’ll need to handle that yourself. Rent’s covered for one month, so make it count.”

As she slid a brass key across the counter, Cane noticed a few tenants lingering nearby. A tired-looking man in a suit sat slouched in one of the worn armchairs, staring blankly at a newspaper, while a pair of students whispered to each other on the stairs, casting curious glances at Cane.

“Thank you,” Cane said quietly, taking the key.

The landlady gave a curt nod before returning to her ledger. Cane gripped the key tightly, feeling the weight of both relief and uncertainty, before heading up the creaky staircase toward their new room.

Cane climbed the narrow flight of stairs, each step groaning under their boots, until they reached the second floor. Room 3B was tucked away at the end of a dim hallway, its door paint chipped and the brass numbers slightly crooked. They unlocked it and pushed it open, half-expecting something grim. The space was small—barely enough for a narrow bed, a desk pressed against the window, and a tiny wardrobe shoved into the corner. The walls were plain white, scuffed here and there, and the floor creaked with every step.

A single window let in the fading orange light of dusk, overlooking the cramped alley below. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, caught in the glow. The bed was neatly made with a thin blanket and a flat pillow—clearly functional, not comfortable. Still, it was clean, and after hours of trekking through the forest and navigating the overwhelming town, that was all Cane really needed.

They set their satchel down on the desk and sat on the edge of the bed, testing its springs. It groaned under their weight but held. Cane let out a long breath and flopped back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

“Not much,” they murmured to themselves, “but it’s mine… for now.”

The thought was oddly comforting. The room was small, but for the first time since arriving in this strange new world, Cane had a space to retreat to a place to gather their thoughts before tomorrow’s uncertainties came knocking. Slowly and surely, Cane exhaustion from trekking the woods for hours upon hours finally caught up with them and they fell asleep

Chapter Text

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Adaptive Cane stirred awake, heart skipping a beat before memory caught up. “Right… I’m in Phighting now,” they muttered, rubbing at their eyes with sluggish motions. A glance at the wall-mounted clock made them groan. “5 am huh… Old habits die hard. Guess reincarnation doesn’t fix sleep schedules.” Dragging themselves out of bed, Cane rummaged through the desk drawers with half-lidded eyes. “Oh, they even provided toiletries. That’s… nice of them, I guess.” They grabbed a towel and the small bag stocked with soap and horn care products, shuffling out toward the shared bathroom like someone heading to a shift they didn’t sign up for.

Thirty minutes later, Cane walked back down the hallway, towel draped over their head, hair dripping onto their shirt. Their jacket was left behind in their room, their clothes from yesterday clinging slightly damp. “Seriously… horn care is way too complicated. That’s gonna be annoying…” they muttered, pushing their door open and collapsing onto the bed without hesitation. They stared at the ceiling for a long moment before mumbling, “So… rent’s covered for a month. Which means I need a job. Something simple. Something that doesn’t kill me.” They rolled onto their side, tugging the pillow close. “But no resume... Right. I’ll need to make one.”

A sigh escaped before their eyes closed halfway. “Public library’s probably my best shot…” Cane sat up only because lying around wouldn’t make the problem go away. They slipped back into their leather jacket and slung the satchel over their shoulder, grumbling, “Alright, let’s get this over with. Minimum effort, maximum results. Worst case, I can always go back to napping.”

Outside, the town was barely waking. Street lamps still glowed dimly, their light mixing with the gray pre dawn haze. A baker down the street was already at work, the faint smell of bread drifting through the cool air, while somewhere a cart creaked over cobblestones. Cane rubbed their eyes again, walking past it all with the air of someone unimpressed by morning bustle. They were already planning the earliest possible excuse to return to bed.

Adaptive Cane followed the street signs, double checking with the occasional passerby. “Two story building with yellow bricks… west side of town… should be small but it has to have computers, right? I hope there’s computers…” they muttered, weaving down the sidewalk with their satchel bumping against their hip. Halfway there, another thought hit. “Right. Food. I totally forgot about that.” Cane frowned, mentally counting what they had left. “I guess I can live on the jerky and bars from the starter pack for a week. Maybe two if I skip breakfast.” Their tone was halfway between determination and resignation, the math clearly unappealing but it's manageable since they don’t get hungry that much.

A few minutes later, a squat, yellow bricked building came into view at the end of the street. It matched the description the kindly old man had given them, tucked neatly between taller, newer-looking shops. Cane quickened their pace. “Please be open…”

As they drew closer, their eyes caught on the sign above the door: Open 24/7. Cane exhaled in relief, shoulders visibly sagging. “Well, that’s convenient,” they muttered, pushing the door open. A soft chime from a bell overhead cut through the quiet interior, and the clerk at the front desk startled, snapping their head up like they hadn’t expected anyone at this hour.

Cane froze mid-step, halfway inside the doorway. “Uh… morning?” they offered, voice awkward but casual, earbuds still hanging around their neck like they’d walked in by accident.

“...Morning,” she said, her voice still groggy but tinged with curiosity. “We don’t usually get visitors this early. If you’re looking to browse or use the computers, you’ll need a library card.”

Cane gave a small sigh as they approached. “Yeah, figured as much. The thing is, I was quite literally born yesterday, so I’m still working out how all this works. Forms, right? I’m Adaptive Cane. They/them.”

The clerk blinked. “Born yesterday?” Her lips twitched, not quite sure whether to laugh or frown. “That’s… definitely a new one. I’m Necrobloxicon. She/they.”

“Still adjusting,” Cane said with a half-shrug, as though it were nothing more unusual than jet lag. “At least libraries don’t change. Rows of books, people pretending not to nap in the corners, maybe a vending machine that eats your coins.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Necrobloxicon. She slid a form and pen across the desk. “You’d be surprised how accurate that is. Here fill this out. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the vending machine behaves. Perks of working here.”

“Good to know someone’s in control,” Cane muttered as they scrawled their information down, handwriting was slightly messy but quick. They handed the form back, already glancing toward the row of computers.

Necrobloxicon stamped the paper with an efficient thunk, but her gaze lingered. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice a little, “most people who wander in here at six in the morning have some kind of story. I get the feeling yours might be… stranger than most.”

Cane adjusted the strap of their satchel, lips twitching in the faintest smirk. “Maybe or I just like early mornings and free wifi.”

Necrobloxicon’s eyes narrowed playfully, like she wasn’t buying it but wasn’t about to press. “Fair enough. Either way, computers are to the left. And hey, don’t vanish after today. The regulars make this place interesting.”

Cane gave a lazy little salute before heading off towards the computers. “Noted. I’ll try not to lower the bar.”

Adaptive Cane sat down at the nearest computer and inserted their library card into its designated slot. “Well then… time to find employment once again,” Cane mumbled, the tone somewhere between a joke and a groan. The screen flickered awake, and they began typing, not exactly thrilled but aware that survival came first.

After nearly two hours of squinting at the monitor, tweaking words on a blank document, and fighting the formatting options, Cane finally stretched their limbs. A freshly made résumé sat saved on the desktop, though it felt almost surreal to have one in this world.

“There aren’t many places that’ll take someone with no background… Oh! A shop’s hiring.” Cane leaned closer, clicking on a bright blue ad. “Da Shop… Zuka’s hiring? The pay’s decent, but it’s in Crossroads. That’s a bus ride away, and I don’t exactly have a single coin to my name…” They leaned back, staring up at the ceiling in quiet frustration before sighing.

“Well, can’t hurt to try. Doubt he’ll even look at my résumé.” Cane shrugged and attached the file, sending it to B. Zuka with the kind of resignation reserved for lottery tickets. With the email gone, they turned back to scrolling through the listings, hunting for anything else that didn’t demand experience, connections, or money up front.

“Still alive over there?” Necrobloxicon’s voice called casually from the desk. “You’ve been clicking and muttering like a conspiracy theorist for hours.”

Cane let out a tired laugh. “Yeah, just reinventing myself as the world’s most underqualified job seeker.”

Necro grinned, resting her chin on her hand. “Don’t worry, that’s basically half the city. You’ll fit right in.”

Cane shook their head with a small smile before turning back to the glowing screen. “Guess that’s… comforting?”

Adaptive Cane had just started scrolling again when the screen pinged with a new notification. They blinked, confused.

“…Wait. Already?” Cane clicked the inbox and nearly choked on their own breath. Sitting at the very top was a fresh email, subject line bold and impossible to miss:

“RE: Application — Come in today.”

Their eyes darted across the short message. “Resume looks fine. Come by the shop when you can. - B. Zuka.”

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Cane muttered, staring at the screen like it had just pulled a magic trick. “That’s… too fast. Suspiciously fast.”

From across the room, Necrobloxicon called out, “What, did you win the lottery?”

Cane swiveled in their chair, still wide-eyed. “He actually replied. Like instantly. I think I just got hired?”

Necro raised both brows. “Zuka? Yeah, that tracks. Guy’s either desperate, lazy, or both. Probably just needs a warm body behind the counter.”

Adaptive Cane rubbed their face with both clawed hands, half-laughing, half-panicking. “I was not emotionally prepared for success today…”

Necro grinned. “Better get prepared then. Crossroads isn’t exactly around the corner.”

Adaptive Cane sat frozen for a moment, rereading the email like it might suddenly vanish if they blinked too long. “Nope… still there. Guess I really am going to Crossroads today…”

They leaned back, earbuds dangling uselessly around their neck, mind racing. “Problem: no money, no bus fare. Solution …walk?” Cane groaned. “That’s gonna suck.”

Necrobloxicon, still half-buried in paperwork at the front desk, glanced over. “If you’re heading to Crossroads, just follow the main road west. It’s a trek, but the scenery’s nice, and you’ll hit a few resting spots along the way.”

Cane shot her a look that was equal parts gratitude and despair. “So… scenic suffering. Great.”

“Bring water,” Necro added with a lazy wave. “Zuka’s not exactly patient, but if you tell him you walked all the way there, he’ll probably give you a discount out of pity. Or call you an idiot. Either way, free entertainment for me when you come back and tell me about it.”

Adaptive Cane chuckled despite themselves, packing up their satchel. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

With a resigned sigh, they slung the strap over their shoulder and stepped out of the library. The streets were just beginning to wake up, the sky still a pale wash of morning light. Cane tightened their jacket and muttered, “Alright… one foot in front of the other. Time to earn my keep.”

And with that, they began the long walk toward Crossroads, music already queued up to keep them company.

The main road west stretched on endlessly, framed by tall trees and rolling fields. Adaptive Cane trudged along, earbuds in, satchel bouncing lightly against their side.

“Note to self,” they muttered between songs, “next time, reincarnate with bus fare included in the starter pack.”

Every so often, Cane would stop to adjust their jacket or take a swig from the canteen, quietly thankful for the jerky and nutrient bars. “At this rate, I’ll burn through my rations in a week. Maybe two if I pretend breakfast isn’t real.”

By midday, the sun was high and merciless. Cane found a shaded rest stop by a half-broken bench and slumped down with a groan. “This better be the kind of walk where I find a cool hidden treasure chest or something. Otherwise, I’m writing a complaint to Penny’s customer service.”

They flicked their cane into staff form and used it as a walking stick when they set off again, tapping it rhythmically against the concrete path. A small comfort against the monotony.

An hour and a half passed in a haze of music and muttered complaints. At one point, Cane spotted a squirrel darting across the road and chuckled. “At least someone’s got energy.”

By the time Crossroads’ skyline came into view, clustered rooftops, banners fluttering, bright neon signs, and the faint noise of a bustling hub Cane stopped in their tracks, almost disbelieving. “Holy crap… I made it. My legs didn’t fall off. Yet.”

With renewed determination (and a little desperation), they tightened their satchel strap and trudged toward the city gates.

The closer Adaptive Cane got, the louder it became. Crossroads wasn’t just busy — it was alive, pulsing with people going about their day, the sounds of dozens of cars, kids darted between legs, and the smell of fried food, smoke, and dust all mingled into one overwhelming wave.

“...Okay,” Cane muttered, tugging their earbuds out. “This is… a lot.”

They clutched their satchel strap a little tighter, weaving through the crowd with awkward determination. The sound of people bartering nearly drowned out their own thoughts, so they quietly hummed along to the last song stuck in their head to calm their nerves.

Still, the city had its charm — colorful banners draped across alleys, concrete streets giving way to open plazas. Cane even caught sight of a street performer juggling knives and stopped for a moment before shaking their head. “Focus, Cane. Survival first, cool distractions later.”

After a few wrong turns (and a moment of shame where they had to ask a fruit vendor for directions), they finally spotted a crooked wooden sign dangling over a door in bold, slightly uneven letters: Da Shop.

“Wow…” Cane whispered. The place looked exactly not what they had expected, it looked wildly different from the one they had seen in the game.

Inside, the bell above the door jingled weakly as they stepped in. The shop smelled faintly of metal, wood, and dust cluttered shelves packed with odds and ends, half-organized, half-chaotic. Behind the counter, a tall figure with sharp eyes and a coffee mug looked up from paperwork.

“...You’re the one who sent the resume?” the man asked flatly.

Adaptive Cane froze in place. “Uh… yeah. That’d be me. Adaptive Cane. They/them.”

The man Zuka, presumably sipped from his mug and gave them a once-over. “Hmph. You look more alive than most applicants. Don’t touch anything unless you’re buying. We’ll see if you last the week.”

Cane blinked. “...Wait, I’m hired?”

Zuka was already back to his paperwork. “You start now.”

“...What?” Cane whispered to themselves, dumbfounded, before sighing and muttering, “Guess laziness is postponed until further notice.”

It was nearing 5pm, the last stretch before closing. Adaptive Cane carefully swept the shop’s floor, the bristles of the broom rasping against the tiles in steady rhythm, before moving on to tidy a crooked row of mismatched goods on the shelves. Not what I was expecting… that was like working at a convenience store. Still, at least it’s somewhat peaceful.

With the broom set back into the corner and the shelves reasonably straightened, Cane stretched their back with a quiet sigh. First day done. And I didn’t screw it up. Not bad for someone who literally didn’t exist two days ago.

“Not bad,” Zuka’s voice cut through the quiet, making Cane turn. He stood behind the counter, arms folded, his sharp gaze unreadable.

“...Uh, thanks?” Cane offered cautiously.

Zuka dug into the drawer, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the counter. “Here. Day’s pay.”

Cane stared at it, blinking. “Wait seriously? Already? I thought that’s… like, a weekly thing.”

“Normally, yeah,” Zuka replied, already shrugging into his coat. “Don’t get used to it. Call it a one-time thing. I don't like seeing people start off with nothing.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not particularly warm, but not unkind either. “Next time, you wait for the end of the week like everyone else.”

Cane picked up the envelope gingerly, still stunned. “…Huh. Can’t say I was expecting that.” They tucked it into their satchel, a small, bemused smile forming. Guess I caught a lucky break.

Cane dusted their hands off after setting the last box straight on the shelf, shoulders slumping.

"I guess I could take the bus now… thank god, I feel like my legs can’t handle that shit anymore," they muttered under their breath.

Zuka, still at the counter tallying receipts, perked his ears and glanced over. “…Wait. You walked here? From Thieves’ Den?”

Adaptive Cane blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah? It took me a few hours, but I made it.”

Zuka let out a slow exhale, shaking his head. “…You’ve got your pay now. Use it for the bus. Don’t be an idiot.”

Cane rubbed at the back of their neck, sheepish. “Guess I didn’t think it through. Kinda just… went with it.”

“Yeah, well, don’t ‘just go with it’ next time,” Zuka muttered, softer but still firm. “Last thing I need is my only employee getting hurt before the week’s out.”

Cane gave a small laugh, both guilty and oddly touched. “…Didn’t know you cared that much already.”

Zuka rolled his eyes, returning to his paperwork. “I don’t. I just hate replacing my staff, too much of a hassle”

By the time Adaptive Cane stepped off the bus, night had already draped itself over Thieves’ Den. The ride home felt strangely short compared to the exhausting trek from before. Their satchel was heavier with the small weight of their first paycheck, and somehow that made the air feel lighter.

Cane trudged up the narrow staircase of the boarding house, every step creaking under their boots. By the time they reached their room, they tossed the satchel onto the chair, flopped face-first onto the bed, and let out a muffled groan into the pillow. “...So much better than walking.”

They tugged their earbuds into place, queued up a familiar playlist on their mp4, and let the music wash over them. The world could wait until tomorrow within minutes, Adaptive Cane was already drifting into sleep.

Chapter Text

It started with music.
Adaptive Cane remembered slipping in their earbuds, letting the opening notes of "Youth" by Daughter wash over them the same song they’d clung to in their past life whenever the world felt too heavy.

But in the dream, the song warped. The guitar strings bent out of tune, looping too fast, too sharp, until the melancholic notes cut into their ears like broken glass.

Headlights tore through the night. Blinding. White. Relentless.

The drums of the track synced with their pulse, hammering against their ribs until the rhythm and their heartbeat were one. Then came the screech tires on wet asphalt, shrill and merciless, swallowing the vocals whole.

Impact.
Bone snapped like drumsticks splitting mid-song. A burst of pain, raw and metallic, stole every breath from their lungs. The world crashed in cymbal-sharp flashes as their body slammed against pavement, the music still blaring as if mocking them.

The chorus didn’t stop. It looped. Again and again.
“And if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones…”

Warmth spread beneath them, too thick, too heavy blood soaking their clothes, crawling into their ears until every lyric was muffled, drowned. They tried to move their hands, to rip the earbuds free, but their arms felt like lead.

Shadows of faces appeared at the edge of their vision familiar, unfamiliar, all mouthing words drowned beneath the song. Judgment. Accusation. Silence.

Cane wanted to scream. To sing. To do something.
But their throat only cracked open in a shriek of feedback, ugly, broken noise that didn’t belong to them.

The song kept playing, cruelly unchanged. The final line stretched into static. Then silence.

Cane jolted awake, chest heaving, the ghost of Daughter’s “Youth” still humming in their ears. For a moment, the cracked notes and bleeding instruments clung to their vision piano keys like teeth, microphone like iron shackles but as their eyes adjusted to the dim boarding house room, it was just… a ceiling. Peeling paint. The faint rattle of pipes.

They rubbed their face and let out a dry laugh, more air than sound. “Hell of a way to start the day…”

The clock blinked 4:02 AM in neon green. Same as always. The habit carried over, no matter the world, no matter the body. Cane sat up slowly, bones heavy, and shuffled through the small motions of morning folding the thin blanket, reaching for their battered earbuds.

When the music finally came through, soft and ordinary this time, they let themselves sink into it. No distorted screams, no bleeding instruments. Just sound. Something to hold onto.

For now, the world was quiet.

By the time 6:00 AM rolled around, they were at the library, face neutral, voice steady, headphones still buzzing with low music to drown out the silence in their head. Necrobloxicon gave them a half-surprised look, and Cane deflected with a faint smirk: “What? You thought insomnia was optional?”

Routine carried them until 8:00 AM, when they pushed themselves through the shop’s door like nothing was wrong. Work, sweep, organize, joke if needed keep it simple, keep it moving. The cracks were there, but Cane kept them sealed tight, burying the weight of the night under a mask of practical calm.

Zuka glanced up from behind the counter, narrowing his eyes just a bit. “You look like you wrestled a garbage truck and lost.”

Cane let out a short snort, tossing their satchel behind the counter. “Nah, garbage trucks are way friendlier.” Their tone was dry, almost playful, but the shadows under their eyes betrayed them.

“Mm.” Zuka didn’t push, just slid a box of stock across the counter toward them. “Well, try not to drop dead while shelving those.”

“Don’t worry,” Cane muttered, grabbing the box and heading for the aisles. “Already did that once.”

The joke slipped out sharper than they intended, but they didn’t look back to see Zuka’s reaction. Instead, they busied themselves with lining up cans and boxes with practiced precision. Routine. Keep moving. Keep the mask steady.

Still, every so often, they caught Zuka glancing at them not prying, just watching. Cane ignored it, burying themselves in the hum of the store and the faint buzz of music leaking from their earbuds.

It wasn’t until break that Cane saw it.

A flyer, bright and bold, taped up on the community board near the door. Rookie Phighting Tournament Prize: 10,000 Bux.

The lettering was too loud, the kind of thing begging for attention. Logos lined the bottom, promising it was all official, safe, even “family-friendly.”

Cane stared at it longer than they should have.

Ten thousand. That was enough to pay rent for months, maybe replace the battered earbuds they refused to part with. Enough to breathe, even just a little.

But more than that… the thought crept in uninvited, ugly and tempting What if the ring was a place to finally let it out? Not just sparring. Not just survival. A place where the rhythm hammering inside them could break loose without guilt, without nightmares.

Cane shoved the last box into place, the shelf rattling under the force. The store’s lights hummed above, off-key, like a bad amp left to rot.

Then static. A sharp hiss in their headphones, white and ugly. Too much like tires. Too much like impact.

Their hand stalled midair, pulse hammering. The song steadied again, smoothed over, pretending nothing had happened.

Cane didn’t buy it. They never did.

“Routine,” they muttered, breath flat, pushing the word out like it could anchor them. “Keep moving.”

But the flyer still burned in their head. Red letters. Ten thousand credits. A crowd. A ring. A place to stop choking it down and finally let it bleed out loud.

The bassline in their ears warped, heartbeat and distortion tangled together until Cane couldn’t tell which was which.

They shut their eyes, just once.

And in the dark, the crowd was already there.

glitch

“…if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones…”

Silence.

Chapter Text

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Cane woke to the low hum of the same battered MP4 player they’d had since arriving in this world, a relic from another life, its screen cracked down the middle like a scar that never healed.

The track looping this morning wasn’t the usual slow tune.

It was “Cough Syrup” by Young the Giant.

> “Life’s too short to even care at all…”

The melody bled through the tinny earbuds, soft but restless. Cane sat up, squinting at the faint light seeping through the blinds of their tiny apartment. Same gray walls. Same half-fixed outlet near the door. Same jacket, brown leather, worn in the elbows, scuffed on the sleeves hanging from the chair. It still smelled faintly of smoke and metal polish.

They ran a hand through their MP4 player outer shell, exhaling.

Sunday.

Tournament day.

The air felt heavier than usual, pressing in from all sides. Cane’s chest ached with the kind of anticipation that wasn’t excitement, more like gravity. The kind that reminded them they hadn’t signed up for the thrill, or for the money.

They’d signed up because silence was worse.

At Da Shop, the morning was busy louder than usual. Gears hummed, metal clinked, the faint smell of lubricant and solder filled the space. B. Zuka stood near the counter, a thick-wristed lion of a man with oil stains across his forearms and a grin that didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Morning, Cane,” Zuka called, adjusting his tool belt. He was the only one who ever used Cane’s full name. “You ready for your big debut?”

Cane raised an eyebrow. “You make it sound like a concert.”

“Same thing,” Zuka replied. “Crowds, noise, sweat, just fewer broken amps.”

That earned him a weak laugh. Cane stepped behind the counter, flicking through a repair request form. Their reflection in the display glass looked foreign, the faint rings under their eyes, the careful stillness of their movements.

“You sure you’re not second-guessing this?” Zuka asked.

“I’m not thinking about it,” Cane muttered, scanning the list. “That’s close enough.”

“Hmm.” Zuka leaned against the wall. “You’ve only been here what, a week? Maybe two? Still adjusting. I get that.”

“Adjusting’s a nice word for it,” Cane said.

“Yeah. Veterans like me use nice words when we don’t wanna scare people.”

Cane looked up. “You ever fought in one of these?”

“Fought, no. Watched, sure. Seen plenty of hotheads turn scrap metal into art.” Zuka’s grin faded slightly. “You’re not a hothead, though. You fight quiet. I can tell.”

“I don’t really fight,” Cane said, slipping the repair form back. “I just move.”

That seemed to amuse Zuka. “Whatever works. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

Cane’s reply was flat but sincere. “I’ll try not to.”

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They clocked out early.

Zuka gave them a nod on the way out, that unspoken mix of concern and faith that said, Don’t let it eat you alive.

Outside, the afternoon light was harsh and reflective. The air buzzed faintly with the energy of the tournament crowd gathering in the industrial district. On the way, Cane stopped at a small outlet shop tucked between two neon-lit buildings.

A rack of clothes swayed in the draft of the door. They ran a hand across the fabric, soft cotton, clean lines. The brown leather jacket weighed heavy over their shoulder, years of wear folded into it.

“Maybe next time,” Cane murmured, putting the jacket back on.

They didn’t buy anything.

INTERLUDE — FREQUENCY

There are nights Cane still hears it — the sirens, the heat, the choking static that burned through their throat as they screamed their family’s names.

The fire had eaten everything, walls, photographs, breath, but not memory. Memory stayed. Memory fed on silence.

So they filled it with sound instead. Songs were the only thing that didn’t melt.

Each one a thread.

Each one a way to not remember what burned.

By evening, the arena was alive.

Neon banners hung from the rafters, digital screens pulsed with names and sponsorships, the hum of a thousand conversations filled the air. The space wasn’t large, maybe a converted warehouse but the lights made it feel electric.

Cane adjusted the strap of their bag and made their way to the waiting area. Rows of competitors lined the benches, their gears gleaming blades, guns, armatures, orbs.

Cane’s gear looked unassuming in comparison: a simple metallic cane with faint seams running along its length, polished but old.

Their opponent was already there.

“Hey there,” the voice was sharp and confident, a young man in a sleeveless jacket with streaked blue horns and eyes that flicked like neon. “You’re Adaptive Cane, right?”

Cane nodded once.

“Name’s Steel Tonfa,” he said, spinning his gear, a pair of mechanical tonfas that unfolded with a click. “Hope you can keep up. No hard feelings when I win, yeah?”

Cane gave a small smile that didn’t reach their eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead. “Next up Rookie Bracket, Round Two: Adaptive Cane versus Steel Tonfa!”

A cheer erupted from the crowd.

Cane stepped into the ring. The lights shifted brighter, hotter, too much. Their heart thudded in their chest, slow and uneven.

They reached into their pocket, pulling out their MP4, thumb hovering over the cracked screen until a track started.

“Runaway” by AURORA.

> “And I was running far away, would I run off the world someday?”

The bell rang.

Steel Tonfa lunged first.

Cane didn’t move at first.

Their eyes were empty, blank glass catching light but no reflection. Then, without warning, their hand twitched. The cane came up, intercepting the first strike by sheer reflex.

Metal met metal. Sparks. The sound echoed.

Steel Tonfa grinned. “Okay… you’ve got reactions.”

Cane didn’t reply.

They stepped back, the music pulsing through them not rhythm, not coordination, but instinct. Each movement jagged, reactive, almost animal. The cane shifted slightly with each parry, the seams along its shaft glowing faintly.

The next strike was faster. Steel Tonfa ducked low, tonfas spinning, but Cane moved again, not elegantly, not trained, but like something inside them knew where the hit would land.

Their breathing hitched. The sound of the crowd blurred.

The arena floor flickered.

Suddenly, it wasn’t the warehouse. It was the hallway. The smoke. The heat. The screams.

The song warped, glitching through Cane’s earbuds.

“Nobody knows, nobody knows…”

Steel Tonfa's voice cut through, distorted by distance. “Hey- what’s wrong with you?”

Cane’s hand clenched. The cane cracked open down the middle, a hiss of mechanical sound as the internal mechanism unfurled. A blade shimmered out, smooth and curved, reflecting the neon light.

The audience gasped.

Steel Tonfa stumbled back. “Whoa! That thing can change?”

Cane didn’t answer. They couldn’t.

Their mind was somewhere else entirely.

The sound of fire returned, muffled, warped, like memories underwater.

Cane’s jaw tightened. Their movements grew harsher, faster, unrefined. The blade swung wide, clashing against their opponent tonfas. Sparks flew again.

It wasn’t training. It was survival.

Every swing carried fragments of emotion regret, fear, desperation like echoes trapped in motion. The cane vibrated faintly, responding to each pulse of adrenaline. Its surface shimmered parts shifting shape mid-fight, an evolving form that matched Cane’s heartbeat.

Steel Tonfa stumbled back again, panting. “You’re… you’re not even looking at me.”

Cane’s eyes were half-lidded, unfocused. The music changed again, bleeding into another song automatically “Silhouettes” by Of Monsters and Men.

“It’s hard letting go, I’m finally at peace but it feels wrong…”

Each note bled into the rhythm of the fight. Cane’s steps synced unconsciously with the tempo uneven, reactive, guided by nothing but the pulse of the melody.

They swung. Steel Tonfa barely blocked.

Then a flash.

The memory surged.

A door locked.

A scream cut off.

The smell of burning paint and skin.

Hands that slipped out of their grasp.

Cane gasped. The blade trembled in their grip.

The world distorted — flashes of red light and smoke overlaying the arena. For a second, Steel Tonfa wasn’t Steel Tonfa. He was-

Don’t think.

Don’t remember.

The weapon reacted again the tip splitting, forming a second edge that curved back like a crescent. A defensive form. A desperate form. The crowd roared as the weapon evolved mid-strike, reshaping like molten steel, alive in motion.

Steel Tonfa hesitated, stepping back. “You- you’re not even here, are you?”

Cane’s lips parted. A whisper escaped.

“I was.”

And then they moved.

The music swelled now “Yellow Flicker Beat” by Lorde. The bass rattled through the arena floor, through their bones. Every impact of metal-on-metal echoed like thunder.

Cane’s body moved with terrifying precision, not planned, not conscious. Just pure instinct, a body that remembered how to protect even when the mind couldn’t bear to.

Their expression never changed. Blank. Hollow.

But their movements spoke everything they couldn’t say.

Each strikes a heartbeat.

Each dodge a breath they couldn’t take that night.

The cane glowed brighter, edges warping fluidly between blade and shield. Metallic ripples coursed through its surface, every layer syncing with the faint light from Cane’s pulse beneath their skin.

The sound of fire mixed with the roar of the crowd is indistinguishable now. The music in their ears drowned it all, bleeding into the noise until there was nothing left but motion.

Cane pivoted, blocking a final strike. Steel Tonfa staggered, his weapon cracked, mechanical frame sparking. He dropped to one knee, panting.

Cane stood over him silent, breathless, the metallic hum of their gear resonating faintly.

“My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones…”

Lorde’s voice melted into static. The MP4’s screen flickered once, twice then died.

Silence.

For a moment, everything stopped.

The arena lights dimmed. The audience held its breath.

Cane blinked once, twice as if waking from a dream. The blade in their hand slowly folded back into its cane form with a soft metallic sigh.

They looked around, disoriented. The crowd erupted into cheers, flashes of light from cameras bursting like fireworks.

Steel Tonfa managed a weak laugh, clutching his side. “Guess I lost, huh?”

Cane didn’t answer. Their voice were gone.

They turned, leaving the ring as medics rushed in.

Outside the arena, the night air felt too still.

Cane sat on the curb, jacket wrapped tight around them, staring at their reflection in the faint puddle near their boots. The metallic cane rested across their knees, still faintly warm to the touch like it remembered the fire too.

Their MP4 crackled back to life, skipping tracks before landing on “Ribs” by Lorde.

“This dream isn’t feeling sweet…”

Cane let the song play, eyes distant.

Inside, the noise was gone. But the silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was heavy, the kind that made their hands shake.

They pressed their forehead to the cane, whispering, “You remember too, don’t you?”

The metal hummed faintly, almost like a breath.

For the first time, Cane wasn’t sure whether it was comfort or warning.

Chapter Text

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Morning crept softly into Thieves Den, slipping through the half-closed blinds like shy sunlight trying not to wake anyone too soon. It painted Cane’s small rented room in streaks of muted gold, touching the folded jacket by the chair, the Adaptive Cane leaning quietly against the wall, and the faint outline of a satchel near the bedside.

The clock blinked its quiet insistence: 4:02 a.m.

Cane stirred, eyes opening slowly. The ceiling stared back. For a few seconds, they lay still, waiting for the familiar dread, the sharp drop of waking from a nightmare, the choking echo of something lost. But nothing came. No panic. No racing heart. Just the soft hum of the early hour and their own steady breathing.

That was new.

They blinked once, then twice, unsure if it was relief or unease they felt first. Either way, it didn’t matter. Their fingers reached for the small MP4 player on the nightstand. The cracked screen flickered faintly to life, and a familiar track started to play. “Motion Sickness” by Phoebe Bridgers filled the quiet, guitar lines threading through the still air.

Music first. Breath second.

The earbuds muffled the world. For a while, Cane simply lay there, tracing the notes as they came and went, the song looping once before they finally pushed themselves upright. They tugged on their jacket, brown leather, worn soft from travel and time, then glanced toward the Adaptive Cane. Its metal sheen caught the light, faint veins of color pulsing just beneath the surface like a heartbeat waiting to sync.

When Cane touched it, something inside them settled. The gear hummed faintly, responding to the brush of their fingers, as if greeting them. A memory surfaced, not from this life, but the last. A kitchen glowing in afternoon sun. The smell of cheap noodles, steam curling past chipped mugs. Laughter, someone calling their name Ariel. The sound echoed, gentle and gone.

They exhaled and shook their head. The past had sharp edges; today, they wanted something soft.

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By mid-morning, Cane was on the bus to Crossroads. The city unfurled outside the window, sprawling streets, flickering billboards, chrome rails gleaming in sunlight. The bus rattled past clusters of market stalls and glass towers alike.

“Runaway” by Aurora played through their earbuds, light and dreamlike, a fragile layer between Cane and the world. The other passengers looked half-asleep, heads nodding with the rhythm of the road. Cane leaned their cheek against the cool glass, watching sunlight scatter across the moving landscape.

They didn’t have much to their name, the MP4, their satchel, the Adaptive Cane, the clothes on their back. But each item held weight. These were constants in a world that didn’t feel constant at all.

The bus hissed to a stop. Crossroads stretched ahead, neon-lined and restless, alive in a way Thieves Den never was. Cane stepped off, slipped the earbuds deeper, and blended into the crowd.

Da Shop sat wedged between a ramen joint and a gear maintenance stand, its sign half-lit and metallic, the paint just starting to flake at the edges.

Zuka was already there. He leaned against the counter like someone who had spent years in the same spot, patient, still, and sharp. His gear, the namesake bazooka, rested by the wall behind him, clean and steady as its owner.

Cane lifted a hand in quiet greeting. “Morning.”

Zuka’s response came with a small nod. “You’re early.”

Cane shrugged, slipping behind the counter and unpacking a tray of small tools. The routine steadied their hands. Repair work was familiar, quiet, methodical, filled with the kind of silence that didn’t hurt.

A hum of machinery filled the shop as the day began. Cane lost themself in gears and wires, soldering iron flicking sparks that died before they touched the floor. Their playlist shifted on shuffle, “505” by Arctic Monkeys, then “Take a Slice” by Glass Animals, a strange mix of mellow and pulse.

At one point, Zuka brought over a malfunctioning motor. “You want me to test it?” he asked, his tone light.

Cane blinked, eyes refocusing from the haze of work. “Yeah. Please.”

He tapped the switch. The motor purred clean. “Good work,” Zuka said, voice low, approving. No big grin, no grand praise. Just the right weight of words.

Cane nodded once. “Thanks.”

And that was it, a brief exchange, comfortable in its simplicity.

By early afternoon, the day slowed down. Customers came and went in lazy waves, sunlight slanting through the shop’s half-open blinds.

Cane stretched their arms, feeling the subtle ache in their wrist. “I’ll take a short break,” they said, glancing toward the door.

Zuka looked up from a toolset. “Go. Don’t get lost out there.”

Cane almost smiled. “No promises.”

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Outside, Crossroads was buzzing. The scent of grilled food and rain-warmed concrete mingled in the air. Street vendors lined the sidewalks, calling out soft pitches, steam curling from their stalls.

A flicker of scent caught Cane mid-step, roasted meat and sweet buns. It hit them like a chord.

They stopped. Turned. The source: a small hawker stall run by an older man, selling skewers brushed with glaze and baskets of fluffy, steaming bao. Cane’s chest tightened with sudden familiarity.

They bought a few without a word and took a seat on a nearby bench. The first bite was small, tentative, the kind of taste that carried memory.

And then it came.

A flash: narrow streets, strung with paper lanterns. A younger version of them, no gear, no jacket, running through a bazaar, laughter ringing in the air. The press of a sibling’s hand in theirs, sticky from syrup. The smell of grilled meat and spices. Voices overlapping. The world is alive.

For a moment, Cane forgot where they were. The present folded neatly into the past.

When the memory faded, they sat quietly, chewing the last bite of the bun. The ache it left behind wasn’t sharp, just tender.

Their playlist shifted again: “Creep” by Radiohead. The opening chords matched the hollow warmth in their chest. They pulled the hood up, leaned back, and let the song blur with the hum of the city.

Later, Cane wandered aimlessly through Crossroads. The crowds thinned as the sun tilted west, casting everything in gold. They stopped by a small trinket store first, the kind that smelled faintly of old wood and lemon polish.

Tiny figurines lined the shelves: cats, dragons, foxes. One, in particular, caught their eye, a bright orange fox, plush and small, its stitched smile just a bit crooked. Cane picked it up, thumb brushing over the soft fur.

It reminded them of something, maybe someone. They didn’t try to name it.

The shopkeeper smiled. “Cute pick. You collecting?”

Cane hesitated. “Something like that.”

They left with the plush tucked carefully in their satchel. Then came the stationery stall, all pastel pens and blank sketchbooks. Cane picked up a slim violet notebook and a pen that wrote like silk. No reason, really. It just felt… right.

Impulse purchases, small anchors. Tangible pieces of a life quietly rebuilding itself.
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When the streets began to cool with late light, Cane wandered toward the park at Crossroads’ edge. The world softened there, the noise of the city dimmed to murmurs, leaves catching amber light.

They sat beneath a tree, earbuds still in, the faint pulse of “Blinding Lights” by The Weeknd lifting the quiet around them.

The Adaptive Cane rested across their knees, gleaming faintly. It responded to their touch almost immediately, the surface shifting, reshaping in sync with subtle changes in mood. A curved blade became a slender staff, then shortened again to a baton. The transitions were smooth but took effort; each change drew on emotion, and the strain was real.

Too many transformations, too fast, and the metal pulsed dull, a warning thrum. Cane paused, breathing steady, fingers easing their grip.

They smiled faintly. “Alright, I get it.”

They tried again, slower this time, letting the form flow more gently, coaxed instead of forced. A slender curve emerged, soft and steady. It wasn’t perfect, but it moved with their rhythm.

For the first time, Cane allowed themself to enjoy the act. The process wasn’t about fighting or defending. It was play, exploration. A quiet dance between feeling and function.

A jogger passed by, barely glancing their way. A few kids laughed near the fountain, tossing paper boats downstream. Life moved easily here, like the city forgot its chaos at the park’s edge.

Cane tilted their head back, eyes half-closed, listening. The next song, “Electric Feel” by MGMT, carried a pulse that matched their heartbeat.

Somewhere between beats, their mind drifted back again. That old bazaar. The sunlight. The sound of footsteps beside theirs. But instead of aching, the memory sat lightly this time, like something they could keep without breaking.

They practiced until the Adaptive Cane dimmed to a soft hum, signaling fatigue. Cane set it aside and leaned back against the tree, smiling quietly to themself.

Evening found them retracing their steps through Crossroads. Streetlights flickered on, one by one, as the first signs of night brushed the skyline.

Cane stopped by a sweet shop before heading back, the kind that sold nostalgic candies in glass jars. They picked a few at random: caramel sticks, fruit drops, honey squares. Zuka would probably call it unnecessary, but Cane liked the comfort of unnecessary things.

As they stepped out, they almost bumped into him.

Zuka looked from the paper bag to the stuffed fox peeking out of the satchel. “You’ve been busy,” he said with a small, amused smirk.

Cane blinked, ears faintly pink under the hood. “I got… carried away.”

Zuka chuckled, low and brief. “Good. You needed that.”

They walked a few blocks together, quiet but companionable. Zuka peeled off toward the main road, lifting a hand. “See you tomorrow.”

Cane nodded, soft. “Yeah. See you.”

---

Back at Thieves Den, the room felt warmer, less like a temporary stop, more like a space slowly becoming theirs.

Cane set the plush fox on the nightstand beside the MP4 player. The notebook and pen found their place next to it. They lined up the candies and buns neatly on the table, an oddly domestic arrangement.

Adaptive Cane rested by the bed, faintly pulsing as if it, too, had settled in.

The playlist played on shuffle, “Space Song” by Beach House, “Runaway” by Aurora, “Motion Sickness” again. The songs overlapped and bled together, filling the quiet.

Cane sat cross-legged on the bed, practicing small shifts with their gear, nothing drastic. Just soft curves, patterns, minor pulses that responded to emotion. The Adaptive Cane shimmered with muted hues of violet and silver. When it pulsed weakly, Cane stopped, setting it down gently.

“Okay,” they murmured. “That’s enough for today.”

They leaned back, letting the final track of the night “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron fill the space. The soft melody wrapped around them like a memory that didn’t hurt anymore.

The world outside murmured traffic, laughter, and wind. Inside, the only rhythm was music and heartbeat, steady and calm.

For the first time since waking in this new life, Cane didn’t feel like they were running from something.

Just existing. Breathing. Between tracks.

And when sleep came again, soft, dreamless, and whole. The Adaptive Cane pulsed once, faint and content, before dimming to rest beside them.

Chapter Text

The days after the first match passed quietly, or maybe just emptily.

No dreams. No jolts in the dark.
Just stillness.

It was supposed to feel like peace.
It didn’t.

Morning light filtered through the blinds of Thieves Den, painting soft gold over the bare walls. The clock blinked 6:47 AM, a rare change from their habitual 4:02.
A luxury, if only in theory.

Cane sat on the bed’s edge, MP4 in hand, earbuds dangling loosely. They pressed play before they could change their mind.

“Liability” by Lorde.

They say, you’re a little much for me…

The song threaded through the quiet, soft and raw, filling the tiny room with warmth that almost felt earned.

The brown leather jacket rested over a chair, edges frayed from prolonged use. They pulled it on, smoothing the collar. It was the only constant that still felt theirs.

The Adaptive Cane leaned against the wall, faint seams glowing like a heartbeat.

Cane brushed their fingers along it. “Back to normal,” they murmured.

It sounded like a prayer.

Crossroads – Morning

The bus rattled through pale rain and early chatter. Neon signs blurred across the window, colors smearing like wet paint.

Cane sat near the back, one earbud in, music low. “Holocene” by Bon Iver. The world outside rolled past like a dream half-remembered.

They were supposed to feel nervous, second round today, winners’ bracket. Instead, they felt nothing. Just that strange, hollow rhythm that replaced emotion when you’d run out of it.

When they stepped off the bus, the arena towered ahead, slick glass reflecting the city’s pulse.

Adaptive Cane vs Infernal Gauntlets.
Rookie Division — Round 2.

Cane exhaled, jaw tight. “Fire... Great.”

The Adaptive Cane pulsed faintly at their side, as though sensing what was coming.

They entered without another word.

The Match

The bell rang.

Inferra moved first, twin gauntlets blazing. Flame crackled in rhythmic bursts as he closed in, fast and confident.

Cane reacted late. The Adaptive Cane snapped open, lengthening into a staff just in time to block the first blow. Sparks scattered across the floor, lighting the air between them.

They stepped back. Reset.

The next swing came quicker. Cane parried. Then another, block, twist, counter. Their rhythm returned, the music helping them keep time.

“Take a Slice” — Glass Animals.
The bass steadied their breath.

Then the smell hit.

Burnt air. Scorched metal.

The sound of heat.

For a split second, they weren’t in Crossroads anymore. They were standing in a narrow hallway, flame curling across wallpaper, smoke thick enough to burn the lungs.

A voice, high, terrified, and it echoed in their skull.
“Please—!”

Cane blinked, too slow. The hit connected.

Their side exploded in pain.

Inferra didn’t mean it, it was just a match. But the heat and the sound. It all blurred together until the crowd’s cheering warped into something monstrous.

Cane swung back on reflex. No form, no control. Just motion. Their grip slipped, breath catching on a sound halfway between a sob and a gasp.

A heartbeat later, the fight was over.

“Winner: Fire Gauntlets!”

The applause came like thunder. Fire Gauntlets extended a hand.
“You okay?”

Cane looked up through the haze. “Yeah.”

It didn’t sound real.

By the time they stepped out of the ring, the screen had already updated:

Adaptive Cane → Losers Bracket.

They didn’t look back.

Da Shop – Before Opening

The bell above Da Shop chimed softly as Cane pushed through the door.

Zuka looked up from his coffee, brow arched. “You’re early. That a good sign or a bad one?”

“Lost,” Cane said flatly, setting the Adaptive Cane beside the counter.

Zuka took a sip of coffee. “Still got a chance in the losers’ bracket.”

“Yeah.”

“You sure you wanna work right after that?”

Cane shrugged. “Better than sitting around.”

He studied them a moment longer. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cane said. Too quickly.

He let it go. “Alright then. You know where everything is.”

Cane nodded and got to work.

They started small, replacing worn joints, soldering circuits, tightening screws. Easy, repetitive tasks. The kind that didn’t require thought.

Music filtered in softly through one earbud. “Creep” by Radiohead. The hum of the shop filled the gaps between verses.

For a while, it worked.
Until it didn’t.

The smell of oil started to warp, something acrid under it, too close to smoke.

Cane’s breath hitched. Their hand trembled as they tried to fasten a screw. It slipped, skittered across the counter.

“Damn it.”

Zuka turned from the shelves. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Cane forced a smile. “Just clumsy today.”

The wrench clattered next. The sound was louder than it should’ve been. Too loud.

“Cane.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Zuka didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop watching either. His gaze was steady, quiet — the kind of patience that made silence feel heavy.

The MP4 in Cane’s pocket clicked to a new track.
“Fourth of July” by Sufjan Stevens.

We’re all gonna die…

Their breath stuttered.

The smell was stronger now, fire again, phantom but vivid.

Cane gripped the counter until their knuckles went white. “Not again,” they whispered. “Not here.”

Zuka took a cautious step closer. “Cane, sit down a sec—”

“I said I’m fine!” It came out sharp, panicked, too loud.

The lights above buzzed in response, flickering once. The Adaptive Cane glowed and vibrating erratically against the wall, reacting to the pulse of emotion rolling off them.

Zuka’s tone softened. “You’re shaking.”

Cane laughed once, low and brittle. “Guess I just haven’t had coffee.”

Their knees trembled. Their breath grew ragged.

Zuka opened his mouth again, but stopped when he saw their face, pale, unfocused, eyes glassy with something too old to be fear.

“Cane,” he said slowly, careful now. “What’s happening?”

Their lips moved before their mind could stop it.
“I tried to save them.”

Zuka froze.

The words poured out faster now, trembling. “The fire it spread so fast, I thought I could reach them but-”

They broke off, a sharp inhale cutting through the air. “I couldn’t. They were screaming”

Zuka’s training took over. He moved closer, quiet and deliberate. “Hey. You’re here. Look at me. You’re in the shop.”

But Cane’s body wouldn’t listen. Their hands pressed against their chest, as though trying to hold the air in. The wrench dropped again.

“I can work,” Cane said suddenly, breath hitching. “I can finish this.”

“No,” Zuka said firmly.

“Yes.”

They reached for the tool again, but their fingers shook too hard to grip it.

Zuka caught the wrench before it fell. “That’s enough.”

Cane tried to glare, but the tears broke through before they could speak. A small, choked sound escaped, then another.

And then the mask finally cracked.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, strangled, a collapse inward rather than out.

Zuka didn’t touch them, didn’t crowd. Just crouched beside them, voice steady. “Breathe.”

Cane pressed a trembling hand over their mouth. “I’m fine,” they whispered again, hoarse. “I just need to work.”

“Cane.”

They looked up at him, eyes red, jaw trembling. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Zuka said softly. “And that’s fine too.”

Something in the words cracked them open completely.

The sob came out sharp and shaking, shoulders curling inward. The Adaptive Cane glowed too bright for a second, then dimmed again, its pulse syncing unevenly with Cane’s breathing.

Zuka waited it out, quiet. He’d seen this kind of thing before, soldiers after the noise stopped, when all they had left was the echo.

When Cane’s breathing finally steadied, they looked hollow, spent. “Sorry,” they muttered.

Zuka shook his head. “Don’t be.”

“I can finish the shift.”

He sighed. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

He looked at them for a long moment, then nodded once. “Fine. But no soldering. And no heavy lifting.”

Cane gave a weak huff of laughter. “You’re strict.”

“I’m fair,” Zuka said. “You just scare easy.”

That earned a small smile, fragile, but real.

Evening

By closing, Da Shop was quiet again.

Zuka had left them to lock up, trusting them to have their space. Cane stood alone behind the counter, MP4 turned off, Adaptive Cane leaning nearby.

They looked down at their reflection in the glass display, tired eyes, messy appearance, a faint sheen of sweat still on their skin.

“I’m okay,” they whispered.

It didn’t sound true. But it sounded possible.

They grabbed their satchel, slung it over one shoulder, and stepped outside.

Crossroads – Night

Rain had come and gone, leaving the streets slick and reflective. The air smelled faintly of ozone and fried food from the night stalls.

Cane wandered aimlessly, earbuds back in, MP4 on shuffle. “Rivers and Roads” by The Head and the Heart.

A year from now, we’ll all be gone…

They walked until the music became part of the city, the hiss of cars, the chatter of people, the hum of neon signs.

Every now and then, someone from the crowd turned, recognizing them from the rookie matches. A few called out “Hey, you’re that Cane person, right?” but Cane just gave a vague nod and kept walking.

They weren’t ready for eyes.

They stopped at a food stall near the edge of the square. Steam rose from the grill, carrying the same smell that haunted their childhood: skewers and sweet buns.

Without thinking, they ordered two of each, the warmth of the food grounding them more than the words ever could.

They sat by the curb, eating slowly. The rain started again, light and whispering.

The Adaptive Cane rested across their lap, seams glowing faintly, steady now.

Cane looked down at it. “Guess we made it through today.”

It pulsed once, gentle and warm.

The song in their ears faded out.

For once, Cane didn’t restart it. They let the silence linger, and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t hurt.

Chapter Text

The first morning after the breakdown was quiet.

Not peaceful, just quiet in that heavy way silence can be when there’s nothing left to fight.

Cane sat on the edge of the bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. The air in the room felt cleaner somehow, like the storm that had shaken them had finally passed, leaving everything muted in its wake. No music yet. The MP4 sat on the nightstand, dark and smudged, waiting.

They ran a hand across their face, staring at the pale seam of sunlight creeping through the blinds. Outside, Thieves Den was waking, footsteps on cobblestone, vendors setting up stalls, the low murmur of someone boiling tea in another room.

Their chest hurt. Not from panic this time, or grief. Just ache, dull and human.

The Adaptive Cane leaned against the wall, its seams glowing faintly again, steady and calm. The faint pulse of light matched their breathing, as if waiting for them to catch up. It looked at peace.

Cane envied it.

They pressed a palm to their sternum, feeling the faint echo of their own heartbeat, and whispered, “Alright.” Then, with a soft click, they turned the MP4 on.

Music filled the air, fragile and grounding.

“Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” by John Mayer.

Not intentional, just what the shuffle chose.

The irony wasn’t lost on them.

They let it play for a minute before standing, shoulders squaring. The reflection in the window looked pale, a little hollow, but alive. That counted for something.

Cane pulled on their gray hoodie, slipped on worn jeans, and reached for their satchel. No destination, no plan, just motion.

Before leaving, they brushed their fingers along the Adaptive Cane’s smooth surface and murmured, “Let’s try to make today boring.”

The seams pulsed once, warm and quiet.

And for the first time in days, that almost felt like hope.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Crossroads — Monday Morning

The bus rattled down the road, wheels humming through early chatter and drizzle. The city drifted past, neon reflections on puddles, blurred lights, motion without meaning.

Cane sat near the back, one earbud in, volume low. “Holocene” by Bon Iver played, the soft, airy chords threading through the static of the engine.

And at once I knew I was not magnificent…

Their gaze lingered on the cityscape outside. Crossroads always seemed to glow differently in the morning, like it didn’t know whether to wake up or stay dreaming.

They didn’t feel anxious about the upcoming match. Not really. Just… suspended. A little numb.

By the time the bus hissed to a stop, Da Shop’s sign had already flickered to life.

Zuka stood inside, wiping down the counter with quiet efficiency. His expression softened when Cane entered. “Morning.”

“Morning,” they echoed, shrugging off their hood.

Routine. Predictable. Safe.

They clocked in, grabbed their toolkit, and got to work, replacing broken casings, rewiring fuses, and aligning circuits. The work didn’t demand creativity, only steadiness, and that was exactly what Cane needed.

At one point, Zuka slid a sandwich across the counter without looking up. “You forgot lunch again.”

Cane blinked and mildly surprised. “You keeping score now?”

“Just pattern recognition.”

They accepted it, quietly. “Thanks.”

No jokes, no smiles, but something warmer lingered between them. Understanding that some things didn’t need to be named.

The next morning brought light, real sunlight this time.

Cane wore their brown leather jacket, hair tied loosely, sleeves rolled. Their reflection in the bus window didn’t look so hollow now, tired, sure, but present.

Their playlist shuffled to “Ribs” by Lorde.

It feels so scary getting old…

The line stuck with them for a while, even after the song faded.

At Da Shop, Zuka hummed off-key while fixing a gear joint. Without realizing it, Cane found themselves matching the rhythm under their breath. The Adaptive Cane, resting against the counter, pulsed faint gold, steady, and approving.

That day, nothing broke.
Nothing burned.
And for once, that was enough.

By midweek, the calm cracked just a little.

Cane was soldering a small stabilizer when the smell hit, sharp, chemical, faintly burnt.

Not fire, not really, but close enough.

Their throat tightened. The world narrowed. Their hand slipped, and the wrench clattered loudly against the table.

Zuka’s voice cut through the haze. “Cane?”

They forced a slow inhale. “Just need air.”

He nodded, no hesitation. “Take it.”

Outside, the rain had started again, soft and cold. Cane pulled their hood up, jammed their earbuds in, and skipped through songs until something fast and synthetic filled their head, “Flesh Without Blood” by Grimes.

Noise. Distraction. Control.

By the time they came back, their pulse had steadied.

Zuka handed them a bottle of water, not asking questions. “Take the rest of the day off.”

“I can finish this.”

“Not today.”

Cane hesitated, then nodded. “...Thanks.”

The following morning, the city felt cleaner after the rain.

Cane wore their long black coat, hood up, eyes hidden from the world. When they arrived at the shop, Zuka handed them a folded paper about the tournament updates.

Losers’ Bracket – Round 1:
Adaptive Cane vs Plasma Mace.
Sunday, 1:00 PM.

“That fast?” Cane asked, tone flat but eyes wary.

“Losers move fast,” Zuka said.

Cane snorted softly. “Guess we’re efficient.”

He studied them quietly. “You ready?”

Their gaze shifted to the Adaptive Cane leaning by the counter. Its seams glowed a soft, reassuring gold.

“Yeah,” Cane murmured. “Ready enough.”

Friday brought noise back into Crossroads. Posters for the rookie tournament covered every wall, every kiosk. Billboards replayed highlight clips of past matches, flashy edits of fire and lightning and blade.

Cane wore a navy overshirt, sleeves rolled, trying to look like part of the city instead of apart from it.

The shop was busier than usual, customers chattering about the tournament, excitement bubbling in every voice.

One of them pointed, mid purchase. “Wait… you’re Adaptive Cane, right? The one with the transforming gear?”

Cane blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah.”

“Man, even losing, that fight was wild! Your weapon, it’s alive, right?”

They smiled faintly, polite. “Something like that.”

When the door shut behind the customer, Cane realized their hands were shaking.

Zuka noticed. He didn’t say a word and just set a steaming cup of tea beside them. “Hydrate.”

Cane huffed a small laugh. “You’ve got to stop mothering me.”

“Not until you stop looking like death.”

That earned a quiet, tired grin. “Fair enough.”

Saturday came warm and restless.

Cane traded gray for blue, a light shirt and gray pants, simple, comfortable. The city buzzed with anticipation, vendors shouting, kids waving homemade signs for their favorite fighters.

Cane drifted through the streets with earbuds in, “Everything in Its Right Place” by Radiohead looping softly. The rhythm was precise, mechanical, calming.

They ended up at the park again, near the fountain. Children splashed through puddles, laughter filling the air.

A memory surfaced: Ariel Zaya, barefoot, chasing paper lanterns through the rain, siblings screaming with joy.

The ache that came with it wasn’t sharp this time. Just... human.

Cane let out a slow exhale, grounding themselves with the Adaptive Cane’s familiar weight beside them. The seams pulsed soft blue, calm and patient.

“Yeah,” Cane whispered. “I know.”

They stayed until the sun dipped behind the skyline and the city lights flickered to life, bathing everything in warm neon.

By Sunday morning, the air had that sharp, clean cold that came right before something changed.

Cane zipped their brown leather jacket halfway, black shirt visible beneath. Their reflection in the window looked clearer, still tired, still quiet, but alive.

The Adaptive Cane rested across their lap, glowing faint white in the morning light.

They scrolled through their MP4 until they found it, a song they hadn’t touched since before everything burned.

“Shake It Out” by Florence + The Machine.

And it’s hard to dance with a devil on your back…

Cane closed their eyes, letting the melody fill the room.
Their breathing steadied. The ache in their chest softened.

They slipped the satchel over one shoulder, brushed their fingers along the Adaptive Cane’s surface, and whispered:
“Let’s try again.”

The seams pulsed once, steady, and warm.

Cane smiled. Small, quiet, real.

Outside, Crossroads stirred, bright and loud, ready for the next round.
And Cane stepped toward it, not healed, not whole, but moving.

Just enough.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Crossroads — Afternoon

The city was electric.

Crowds pressed in around the Rookie Arena, shouting, laughing, alive with anticipation. Vendors yelled over each other, hawking skewers, drinks, souvenirs. The air was thick with fried sugar, damp pavement, and adrenaline.

Cane stood at the edge of it all, quietly apart, one figure adrift in the blur of noise and color.
Their hood was up, earbuds in. The Adaptive Cane rested against their shoulder, seams glowing soft gold with every measured heartbeat.

Their playlist looped to “Runaway” by Aurora.

And I was running far away, would I run off the world someday?

The song hummed faintly under the crowd’s roar. It didn’t fight the noise; it just existed with it, soft, insistent, grounding.

Cane closed their eyes, breathing in the rhythm of it all.
Noise first. Breath second. Routine.

They almost didn’t notice him at first.

At the edge of the crowd, standing half in the light, half in the shadow of a neon billboard, a familiar silhouette.

B. Zuka.

His posture was casual, but his eyes weren’t.
He wasn’t cheering, or smiling, or calling out their name like the others, just standing still, hands in his pockets, watching the ring. Watching them.

The crowd surged and shifted, blocking him from view for a heartbeat.
Then he was there again.

Zuka’s gaze met theirs, a brief but steady, the kind of look that didn’t demand, didn’t question. Just understood.

No words. Just that small nod, quiet and sure, saying ”I see you.”

Something in Cane’s chest cracked open.
Not painfully. Just… softly. Like something dormant stretching for the first time.

The noise around them blurred, fading into the background hum of applause and static.
The Adaptive Cane pulsed once, in rhythm with the flicker of that feeling, not warmth, exactly, but the ghost of it.

Zuka looked away first, glancing toward the ring, pretending he wasn’t watching as closely as he was.

Cane let out a slow breath that almost became a laugh. They didn’t know what to make of this, of him but it anchored them more than they wanted to admit.

Then the announcement cut through the air:
“Adaptive Cane, you’re up next!”

Cane blinked, refocusing.

They adjusted their grip on the Adaptive Cane, its glow tightening from soft gold to steady white.

Their fingers brushed the handle.
Music still played, quiet, defiant, and alive.

I’ve been trying to escape this place…

They whispered under their breath, maybe to the gear, maybe to Zuka, maybe to themselves:
“Press play.”

And then they stepped toward the arena gate.

As they walked, the crowd swallowed them in color and light, but Cane didn’t feel alone.
Not this time.

Behind them, just before disappearing into the ring, they risked one glance back through the blur of people.

Zuka was still there.
Still watching.
And for the first time since they’d arrived in this world, Cane didn’t feel like running from it.

Chapter Text

The bell rang.

For a heartbeat, the world contracted into rhythm, a pulse, a song, a heartbeat echoing through bone. Cane moved, slow at first, hands steady on the Adaptive Cane as the seams along its shaft flared gold. Across the ring, Plasma Mace smirked, his twin mace glowing bright orange with heat. Sparks licked the air with every twitch of his hands.

“Didn’t think you’d crawl back after that loss,” he called, grin wide, practiced, the kind of fighter who liked to play to the crowd.

“Guess you’ll have to deal with disappointment,” Cane said, voice flat but calm. Their stance was loose, deceptively relaxed.

The bell sounded again. The crowd roared.

Plasma Mace lunged. The first blow came heavy and fast, flame arcing through air like a whip of molten light. Cane blocked, the Adaptive Cane extending on reflex. Sparks scattered where steel met energy, the echo vibrating up their arm.

Another hit. Another block. The rhythm built, clash, step, twist, breathe. The music in Cane’s earbuds bled faintly through the crowd, the beat keeping their hands steady, thoughts clear. A rhythm to keep from drowning.

Plasma Mace grinned through the heat. “That's all you got, Adaptive Cane?”

“You talk too much.” Cane pivoted, catching his wrist mid swing and redirecting the momentum. The crowd cheered when Plasma stumbled back, though Cane barely noticed. They were in rhythm now, muscle memory, instinct, music, all fusing into one steady flow.

But then—

The smell hit.

Burnt air. Scorched metal. It clawed into memory.

Flames. Screams. Smoke choking a narrow hallway. A voice calling from behind a locked door

“Please—!”

The world tilted. The arena’s lights warped into firelight. The crowd noise faded into static. For a second, they weren’t fighting Plasma Mace, they were trying to reach the other side of a burning wall.

“Cane!” someone shouted, but it was already too late.

The hit connected. Pain burst across their ribs like shrapnel. They staggered backward, gasping. The Adaptive Cane’s light faltered, flickering white-gold, trembling with them.

Plasma Mace hesitated. “Hey, you good?”

Cane exhaled sharply, forced a small, crooked smile. “Still standing.”

The next song kicked in, something fast, synthetic, grounding. The beat steadied their breathing. Cane lifted the weapon again, slower this time, deliberate.

“You’ve got heart,” Plasma said, circling. “Didn’t expect that.”

“You talk like you’ve already won.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Not yet.”

The Adaptive Cane pulsed bright, blinding white this time, its seams stretching, curving, reshaping. The glow rippled down its length like molten glass. It matched Cane’s movements perfectly now, fluid, alive, adaptive in every sense.

Each step found rhythm. Each swing aligned to the music’s pulse. The weapon flowed like water, edge turning to arc, staff shortening, then lengthening mid-motion. Every change was instinct, not calculated, not forced, just felt.

“What the hell—” Plasma started, but the next strike cut through his guard, stopping an inch from his chest. The air shimmered from the heat of the friction.

Silence fell.

Winner — Adaptive Cane!

The crowd erupted. Cane didn’t raise a hand. They just stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the faintly glowing weapon that pulsed like a heartbeat. The Adaptive Cane’s glow softened again, steadying into calm light, as if to say, ”you’re still here.”

The alley was quiet except for the hum of rain and the faint click of Cane’s boots. The crowd’s cheers faded into a far-off murmur, leaving only the soft hiss of water on concrete. They stepped outside, air damp and cool against their skin. The adrenaline from the fight was gone now, leaving behind a hollow stillness that sat heavy in their chest.

The Adaptive Cane rested against the wall beside them, seams glowing a muted amber, calm, steady, like it was waiting for permission to rest too.

Cane dug through their jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette box. The cardboard was bent, edges soft with age, something they’d found at Da Shop and forgotten about. Until now. The faint smell of tobacco and dust hit like a memory long buried.

They turned the box in their hand, thumb tracing the faded lettering. Ariel Zaya had smoked these. Not Cane. Not Adaptive Cane. Just someone from another world, someone who used to lean out of an apartment window, watching city lights flicker through the night.

“Haven’t done this in… forever,” they murmured. The words tasted strange, like the smoke would.

The match flared to life, a fragile spark against the rain-dark air. For a moment, Cane hesitated, flame trembling just shy of paper. That hesitation wasn’t guilt. It was reverence, a silent acknowledgment of the life they’d lost, and the pieces they still carried.

Then the flame touched the end, and smoke curled upward, thin and gray. The first drag hit hard, sharper than memory. The warmth filled their lungs, dragging something heavy loose from behind their ribs. The exhale came slow, soft, dissolving into the mist.

It didn’t taste like home. But it smelled like it, the faint echo of old streets and neon signs. The sound of laughter that didn’t exist here anymore.

They closed their eyes. “Guess I’m still chasing ghosts.”

The Adaptive Cane pulsed faintly gold beside them, sympathetic, patient. Cane huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. You don’t have to look at me like that. It’s not permanent.”

“You sure about that?”

The voice cut through the rain, smooth, familiar, with a smile hidden beneath it.

Cane turned.

Zuka stood a few steps away, umbrella half-open, droplets sliding off the edge in soft rhythm. His jacket was soaked, his hair damp and messy, and yet his expression carried that same quiet steadiness that always managed to disarm Cane. He held two paper cups, steam curling from each.

“You know,” Zuka said, stepping closer, “that’s a habit I didn’t peg you for.”

Cane exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “First time since… before.”

“Before what?”

“Nevermind.”

Zuka didn’t press. He just nodded once, watching the smoke rise between them. “Well,” he said softly, “you’re still here now. That counts.”

He handed one of the cups over. “Coffee. Black. It fits you better than cigarettes.”

Cane accepted it, fingers brushing his briefly. “You came all the way here for this?”

“You weren’t exactly subtle leaving the arena like a ghost,” Zuka said. “I figured someone should make sure you didn’t vanish.”

Cane huffed a small laugh, quiet and uneven. “I’ll try to be less dramatic next time.”

“Please don’t,” Zuka replied, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Makes life less boring.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. The rain filled it gently, steady against the umbrella. They stood close enough that Cane could feel the heat radiating from Zuka’s arm, a quiet, grounding warmth.

“Thanks,” Cane said finally. “For… this.”

“Don’t mention it,” Zuka said. “Just promise you’ll stop standing in the rain looking like a movie poster.”

“No promises.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Pot’s Noodles & Steam

The warmth of the noodle shop hit like a memory. Steam fogged the windows; the air smelled of garlic, soy, and comfort. Zuka didn’t ask, he just ordered. “Two specials. Extra noodles.”

Cane slid into the booth across from him, hair still damp. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

“You look like someone who eats whatever’s warm,” Zuka said. “Besides, it’s on me.”

“That doesn’t make it less presumptuous.”

“Maybe not,” Zuka said, “but it makes it harder to complain.”

Cane’s lips twitched. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”

“It’s a curse.”

The food arrived. two steaming bowls of noodles. They ate quietly at first, the clink of chopsticks mixing with rain against glass. The warmth seeped into Cane’s hands, their chest, their bones. They hadn’t realized how cold they’d been until now.

“You still staying at Thieves Den?” Zuka asked, breaking the silence.

“For now,” Cane said. “My stay’s almost up. I’ll have to find somewhere else soon.”

He stirred his noodles. “You could crash near the shop. Got a spare room. Cheap rent.”

Cane paused, looking up at him. “You’re offering me a place to stay?”

“It’s quiet, close to work. You’d save on bus fare,” he said simply. Then, softer: “And it beats worrying about where you’ll sleep next month.”

They studied him for a long second. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“Never claimed to be.”

Cane smiled, faint and tired. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good.”

The rest of the meal passed in comfortable quiet. Occasionally, their eyes met across the table, just enough for something unspoken to pass between them. Familiar. Careful. Warm.

They left the shop to a drizzle that blurred the neon lights into soft watercolor streaks. Zuka tilted the umbrella toward Cane without comment, the small gesture saying more than words could.

“You’re quiet,” Zuka said after a while.

“Just… thinking,” Cane replied. “Feels strange. Being okay.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. “If you let yourself.”

Cane glanced sideways, half smiling. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Maybe,” Zuka said. “Or maybe I just like seeing people come back to themselves.”

“That’s a dangerous hobby.”

“It’s worked so far.”

They stopped at the corner where their paths split. The rain whispered between them, soft and steady. The Adaptive Cane pulsed faint white at Cane’s side, calm, settled, alive.

“You’ll let me know about the room?” Zuka asked.

“Yeah,” Cane said. “I think I will.”

He smiled faintly. “Good.”

For a moment, neither moved. The air smelled like rain and warmth and something quietly new.

“See you tomorrow,” Cane said.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Zuka replied.

They parted ways, the rain swallowing their footsteps. For the first time, Cane didn’t feel the silence pressing down. It wasn’t emptiness anymore, just space.

And in that space, something began to breathe.

Chapter Text

The first thing Cane heard wasn’t their alarm.
It was Bon Iver.
This my excavation…
Gentle. Melancholy. Way too calm for a morning that should’ve started hours ago.
Cane’s eyes shot open. The light in the room wasn’t dawn-gray, it was full-on daylight. Warm. Unforgiving.
They turned toward the clock.
10:12 AM.
There was a solid five seconds of stunned silence before Cane whispered, “No.”
Then louder: “No. No, no, no, NO!”
They shot upright, tripped on the blanket, and immediately ate the floor.
The Adaptive Cane leaned against the wall, pulsing faintly. The glow rhythm looked suspiciously like a laugh.
“Don’t,” Cane warned, glaring at it while trying to shove both legs into their pants at once. “You don’t get to judge me.”
The cane pulsed again.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” Cane muttered, hopping into their boots. “Some partner you are.”
They grabbed their MP4 from the nightstand, screen faintly cracked, the volume slider sitting smugly at zero.
“…Okay, fine, maybe that one’s on me.”
They grabbed their jacket, nearly forgot their satchel, then remembered mid-turn, ran back for it, and bolted out the door with the Adaptive Cane clattering behind them.

Thieves Den was already alive, vendors calling, oil sizzling, kids laughing somewhere in the maze of alleys.
Cane tore through the crowd, hair flying, jacket half-zipped.
And then they smelled it, bread. Fresh, warm, heavenly.
The baker, an old man with too much cheer for this hour, blinked as Cane sprinted toward his stall. “Cane? You’re late?”
“Can’t talk!” Cane shouted, grabbing a roll. They slapped cash onto the counter without stopping.
“You’re never late!” he called after them, laughing.
“Character development!” Cane yelled back through a mouthful of bread.
The baker laughed until his sides hurt. “Guess miracles happen!”
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The bus was gone when Cane reached the stop. They stood there, panting, half a roll still in hand, watching it disappear.
“...Perfect,” Cane groaned.
The Adaptive Cane pulsed once, mockingly sympathetic.
“Not. A. Word.” Cane bit the last of the bread with grim determination.
The MP4 shuffle kicked in.
“Stressed Out” — Twenty One Pilots.
Cane squinted at the sky. “You’re not funny either.”

When they burst through the door of Da Shop, the bell jingled like it was mocking them.
Zuka looked up from behind the counter, mug in hand. His eyebrows rose slowly.
“…You’re late.”
Cane froze, still half out of breath. “Not technically.”
“It’s almost eleven.”
“Time is subjective.”
Zuka took a sip of coffee, fighting a smile. “You? Oversleeping? I thought you were part clock.”
“I had a long week!” Cane said, exasperated.
“Sure.”
“I did!”
“Uh-huh.”
They crossed their arms. “Stop smiling like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” Zuka admitted.
Cane groaned, rubbing their temples. “Unbelievable.”
“You’ve got a little something,” he said suddenly.
“What?”
Before they could react, Zuka stepped closer, close enough that Cane could smell the faint trace of coffee and solder on his jacket. His thumb brushed across Cane’s cheek, wiping away a breadcrumb.
The touch was light. Quick. But the world stopped anyway.
Cane froze mid-breath. Their heart forgot its job.
Zuka smiled faintly. “There. All clean.”
Cane blinked once. Then twice. Then very fast.
“Y-you— you could’ve just told me!”
“I tried. You were panicking.”
“I wasn’t— I— I wasn’t panicking!”
“You’re stuttering,” he pointed out, clearly amused.
“I— I’m not!”
“Your face is red.”
“It’s— hot!”
“It’s twenty degrees.”
“Shut up!”
Zuka chuckled, stepping back, grin wide. “You’re cute when you panic, you know that?”
Cane nearly dropped their satchel. “Don’t— say— that!”
“What? That you’re cute?”
“STOP SAYING IT!”
He lifted his hands innocently. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop.”
A pause.
“Eventually.”
Cane buried their face in their hands. “You’re insufferable.”
“You say that,” Zuka said, leaning against the counter, “but you came back to work anyway.”
“I need the money.”
“Sure,” he said, smirking. “That’s the only reason.”

Cane spent the next few hours pretending to be unbothered.
They weren’t.
Every time Zuka walked past, their shoulders tensed; every time he leaned over to hand them a tool, their breath stuttered just enough for him to notice. He didn’t tease — not aloud — but the faint grin he wore said plenty.
“Flux pen,” Cane muttered.
He passed it wordlessly, fingers brushing theirs — by accident, maybe.
They pretended not to notice.

When they closed up shop, the city was glowing with evening neon, reflections stretching across puddles like color-streaked glass.
Zuka locked the door, glanced over. “Dinner?”
Cane blinked. “Dinner?”
“You skipped lunch.”
“I— yeah, but—”
“My treat.”
“I can pay for myself,” Cane said quickly.
“I know.” He smiled. “Let me, anyway.”
Cane hesitated, then sighed. “…Fine. But if it’s somewhere fancy, I’m leaving.”
“No faith in me?”
“None.”
“Good,” he said, and led the way.
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The place wasn’t fancy. It was small and warm, tucked into a side street between glowing signs and old scaffolding. The air smelled like soy, sesame, and faint spice.
Cane sat across from him, fiddling with their straw. “You’re weirdly quiet.”
“Enjoying the view,” Zuka said casually.
Cane blinked. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Zuka.”
He grinned into his drink. “You make it too easy.”
Cane’s ears went hot. “I swear if you—”
“I’m just saying,” he interrupted smoothly, “you look less tired tonight.”
Cane’s throat went dry. “…That’s good?”
“It is.”
“…Stop being nice, it’s weird.”
He laughed quietly. “You’re so bad at taking compliments.”
“I’m bad at being ambushed by them.”
“Then I’ll ambush you more often.”
“Zuka!”
“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands, though his grin didn’t fade. “You’re just fun to talk to.”
Cane blinked again, words catching in their throat. “I— uh— thanks.”
He tilted his head. “You always this flustered?”
“Only around you,” Cane blurted before realizing what they’d said.
They froze.
Zuka’s grin widened. “Oh?”
“I— I didn’t— forget I said that!” Cane sputtered. “I meant— uh—”
“Sure you did.”
Cane groaned into their hands. “I hate you.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, “I know.”
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Dinner ended quietly, comfortable, almost domestic.
As they stepped outside, the city buzzed around them, but between them it felt muted — warm.
“You still at that boarding house?” Zuka asked.
“Yeah. But I’m almost out of time. End of the month.”
“You got a plan?”
Cane shook their head. “Not yet. Might crash somewhere short-term.”
Zuka nodded thoughtfully. “You could crash at my place.”
Cane stopped walking. “…What?”
He shrugged. “Spare room. Close to work. No curfew. Less running late.”
“That’s— that’s— weirdly considerate,” Cane said, caught off guard.
“Practical,” Zuka corrected.
Cane squinted at him. “You’re flirting again.”
“Just being honest.”
“Same thing.”
“Then I’m honest a lot.”
Cane made a strangled sound. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Zuka said quietly, “you’re still here.”
Their heart stuttered. “…Shut up.”
He laughed softly. “Can’t.”
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.
At the bus stop, the air was cool and clean. Streetlights shimmered against wet pavement.
“Hey,” Cane said quietly, clutching their satchel strap. “Thanks. For… dinner. And the offer.”
“Don’t think too hard about it,” Zuka said.
“I already am.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other for a long moment before Cane turned to board.
As the bus pulled away, Zuka raised a lazy wave.
Cane caught their reflection in the window. flushed cheeks, a small smile, the Adaptive Cane glowing faint gold at their side.
And for once, the music in their head was quiet

Chapter Text

The knock came early.
Soft but certain, the kind of knock that only happens when you already know what it means.

Cane stirred under the blanket, the air thick with detergent and dust. Morning light seeped through Thieves Den’s paper curtains, pale and gold-gray, painting tired stripes across the floor.

When they opened the door, Mrs. Teapot stood there, ledger in hand, polite smile painted with a little pity.

“Morning, dear. It’s the twenty eighth.”

Cane blinked. “Right.”

“Last day of your lease,” she said kindly. “Checkout’s by noon unless you’re staying longer.”

“I’m not.”

Mrs. Teapot tilted her head, smiling softly. “You’ve been a quiet tenant. Respectful. Maybe too quiet.”

Cane gave a low huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Guess I’m consistent.”

“Quiet’s not bad,” she said. “But don’t let it turn into loneliness.”

Her voice lingered even after her footsteps faded down the hall.

Cane turned back toward the room, the threadbare blanket, the cracked mug on the desk, the faint mark where a fox-shaped trinket once hung.
It wasn’t much. But it had been theirs.

They looked at the MP4 on the bedside table, thumb brushing over its worn metal edge. It powered on with a soft click, backlight flickering to life.

Shuffle picked something immediately:
“Something’s Gotta Give” by Rio Romeo.

The first chords crept through the tinny speaker, raw and unpolished.

Something’s gotta give, and I hope it’s not me…

Cane smiled faintly, small, and tired, but genuine. “Too on the nose,” they murmured, sliding the MP4 into their pocket.

The song followed them as they packed, every verse folding neatly between each movement: folded shirts, coiling earbuds, tucking the Adaptive Cane gently atop the pile.
By the time the chorus hit, the box was full, their life distilled into one cardboard box.

When they shut the door behind them, the last note of the song faded.

Crossroads — Morning

The bus rattled through puddles, shaking softly with each turn. The mist outside made the city look half-awake.

Cane sat near the back, cardboard box balanced on their knees, earbuds in again. The MP4 had looped back to the same song, Something’s Gotta Give and they didn’t bother changing it.

Something’s gotta change…

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Their reflection wavered in the fogged glass, tired eyes, long hair tied loosely, jacket collar pulled up.
The Adaptive Cane leaned beside them, faint seam glowing gold with every bump in the road, pulsing like a heart.

When the bus sighed to a stop in front of Da Shop, Cane let the chorus fade out before standing.

Inside, Zuka looked up from behind the counter, mug in one hand and a small wrench in the other. His sleeves were rolled, hair messy, still looking like he’d just stepped out of a project.

He blinked when he saw the box. “...You redecorating the shop?”

“Funny.”

“That’s a heavy box for sarcasm.”

“It’s my stuff,” Cane said, setting it on the counter. “Lease ended today.”

Zuka frowned. “You brought your life to work?”

“Didn’t have anywhere else to put it.”

He studied them for a moment, then said simply, “You could’ve just taken the offer.”

“I am,” Cane said. “If it still stands.”

His grin softened, faint but real. “Told you, I don’t make empty offers.”

“Guess I’m moving in, then.”

“Good,” he said, leaning on the counter. “I was starting to worry I’d have to start charging rent for floor space.”

Cane shot him a look. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Da Shop — Evening

Work passed quietly. The soft whirr of gears and solder filled the background while a half-charged speaker played a shuffled playlist, mostly Cane’s, since Zuka always “forgot” his own.

The faint hum of Something’s Gotta Give drifted again at one point, background noise to the rhythm of repairs and Zuka’s off-key humming.

He nudged a sandwich toward Cane at lunch. “Eat.”

“You’re not my boss.”

“No,” he said, “but I’m right.”

Cane smirked, but took it anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Not sure which of us should be offended.”

Zuka grinned. “Let’s call it even.”

For a moment, Cane let themself smile. It wasn’t wide, but it was real.

Crossroads — Night

By the time they closed, the city was wrapped in a damp orange glow. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles that caught the streetlights like shards of glass.

Zuka’s car smelled faintly of coffee and motor oil, steady, lived-in. The cardboard box sat between them on the seat like a silent third passenger.

Cane’s MP4 was plugged into the car stereo now. The same song played again, though slower this time, quieter through the old speakers.

Something’s gotta give, something’s gotta change…

Zuka tapped his thumb on the steering wheel, matching the rhythm. “Didn’t peg you for sentimental.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He smiled. “Guess not.”

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The house was smaller than Cane imagined, cluttered with tools and half-finished projects, but alive with warmth.

A child sat cross legged in the middle of the living room, tinkering with a small drone. He looked up as they entered, grin immediate.

“Hi! You’re Cane, right?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“That’s Rocket,” Zuka said. “My kid.”

“Adopted!” Rocket added quickly. “He didn’t make me.”

Cane’s mouth twitched. “Good to know.”

Rocket tilted his head. “You cook?”

“Yeah.”

“Good! Dad doesn’t!”

Zuka groaned. “Once.”

“Twice,” Rocket corrected.

Cane raised an eyebrow. “Twice?”

“Experimental.”

“Arson,” Cane deadpanned.

Rocket giggled. “Mom’s funny!”

Cane blinked. “I— I’m not—”

Zuka grinned. “He’s not wrong.”

Cane sighed. “This is a mistake.”

“Welcome home,” Zuka said, smug.

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The first thing Cane did was open the fridge. Then the pantry. Then stop.

“…Zuka.”

“Yeah?”

“What in the nine hells is this?”

He turned, brow raised. “Food?”

“This is a hate crime,” Cane said. “You have one egg, pickles, and soy sauce that’s older than your kid.”

Rocket peeked in. “We have crackers!”

“Not dinner,” Cane said, exasperated.

They turned, glaring lightly. “We’re grocery shopping. Now.”

“It’s late,” Zuka said.

“So is your nutrition, apparently.”

He sighed. “You’re bossy.”

“Efficient,” Cane corrected. “Now move.”

Rocket cheered. “Candy run!”

“Healthy candy,” Cane said.

“That’s not a thing,” Zuka muttered.

“It is tonight.”

Crossroads — Late Night

The grocery store buzzed under flickering lights, half-empty at this hour. Rocket darted down the aisles while Zuka slipped junk food into the cart like a man on a mission.

“Zuka,” Cane said, not even turning. “Put the chips back.”

He froze mid-reach. “How?”

“Intuition.”

Rocket laughed. “You’re scary!”

“I’m efficient,” Cane said.

“Same thing,” Zuka muttered.

“Keep talking and dinner will be boiled kale.”

“Noted.”

Zuka’s Kitchen — Later

Garlic hissed in oil, soy and chili danced in the air. The sound of sizzling filled the house.

Rocket sat on the counter, eyes wide. “You cook like magic.”

Cane smiled faintly. “Practice. Lots of it.”

Zuka leaned beside them, arms crossed. “You’re terrifyingly competent.”

“Compared to you? Low bar.”

Rocket giggled. “Mom wins again!”

Cane sighed, muttering, “You two are impossible.”

“And yet,” Zuka said, “you’re still feeding us.”

“Out of pity.”

“Sure.”

Dinner was laughter and warmth, the kind that made the air feel thick and human.

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When Rocket began to nod off at the table, Cane stood and scooped him up easily. “Alright, soldier. Bedtime.”

Rocket mumbled, “You’re comfier than Dad.”

Cane smiled faintly. “Don’t tell him that.”

“I heard that,” Zuka called.

“Good,” Cane replied.
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Backyard — Midnight

The city hummed quietly beyond the fence. Cane sat on the porch steps, the Adaptive Cane beside them, a cigarette glowing softly in their fingers.

Smoke curled into the cool air, dissolving under the stars.

It wasn’t a habit, not anymore. It was a ritual. A way to feel human.

The door creaked.

Zuka stepped out, tea in hand. He leaned against the doorframe, gaze steady.

“You always smoke this late?”

“Not always,” Cane murmured. “Just when my head won’t shut up.”

He nodded. “You’re doing it less.”

“Are you keeping track?”

He smiled faintly. “You’re hard to ignore when you sneak off.”

“I don’t sneak off.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Silence settled, comfortable, familiar.

Cane took another drag, exhaled. “I used to do this before work. Back… before I ended up here.”

“Back where you came from?”

They nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t pry.

“I didn’t even like the taste,” Cane said softly. “It was just something to do when everything else was burning down.”

Zuka smiled. “Still is, huh?”

“Sometimes. But it’s quieter here. The fire’s different.”

“That supposed to be poetic?”

Cane’s mouth twitched. “Don’t get used to it.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dare.”

He stepped closer, the faint glow of the cigarette catching his face in half-light.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Cane didn’t look at him, but their voice softened. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Good,” Zuka said. “Don’t let it eat you.”

“I won’t.”

He turned to go, but Cane said, “Thanks for letting me stay.”

Zuka paused at the door, half-smiling. “Wouldn’t feel right without you here.”

Cane looked down, flicked the last ember into the grass. “Careful. I might start believing that.”

“Good,” Zuka said, stepping inside. “Means I said it right.”

The door shut softly behind him, leaving Cane alone with the quiet hum of the city.

They sat a little longer, the night stretching gently around them, Something’s Gotta Give faintly looping again through their MP4, softer now, muffled through their pocket, like an echo from another life.

They listened to it fade.

And when they finally went inside, the air smelled faintly of warmth, of tea, of home.

Chapter Text

“Soft Bitch” — Rio Romeo

Morning began like a half-remembered song, familiar, gentle, and not quite steady but close enough.

Cane woke before the sun, as always.
The sky beyond the blinds was still deep gray, caught between night and dawn. The air was cool, the kind that clung to bare skin and whispered for stillness.

They sat up slowly, running a hand through their hair. The faint scent of detergent lingered in the borrowed sheets, Zuka’s detergent, citrus and pine. Homey, in a way that made their chest ache a little.

The MP4 blinked to life on the nightstand, screen cracked and glowing pale blue.
The opening chords of Soft Bitch hummed into the quiet.

I’m a soft bitch, I’m a weak one, and I cry when I need to…

Cane huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. That’s me,” they murmured.

The shower filled the bathroom with steam, fogging the mirror in seconds.
Warm water rolled down their back, grounding, washing away the exhaustion and noise that had lingered for days.
For a while, the world was only water and breath.

When they emerged, towel slung around their shoulders, the same song played softly through the tiny speaker.
They caught their reflection, hair damp, eyes steady, and for once, the face staring back didn’t feel like a stranger’s.
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Downstairs — Early Morning

The house was still asleep.

Cane padded quietly through the kitchen, barefoot, careful not to wake anyone. The fridge hummed when they opened it, still full from the grocery yesterday. A small spark of pride flickered in their chest.

Progress

They set to work: eggs, scallions, butter, garlic.
The sounds of cooking, the gentle clatter of pans, the hiss of oil filled the silence in place of conversation. It was ritual, not routine.

The song looped again. Soft Bitch’s chorus swelled low and warm.

You don’t make me feel stupid, you make me feel safe…

“Dangerous lyrics for this early,” Cane muttered, just as a familiar voice joined in behind them.

“You always cook like this before dawn,” Zuka said, voice still rough with sleep, “or is this a special occasion?”

Cane didn’t turn. “You call breakfast special?”

“When you’re the one making it? Yeah.”

“Flattery this early’s a dangerous habit.”

Zuka leaned lazily against the doorway, hair messy, shirt half tucked, eyes half lidded but faintly amused.
“What can I say?” he said, stepping closer, “You inspire good habits.”

Cane flipped the omelet cleanly, refusing to look at him. “You inspire headaches.”

“That’s fair,” he said easily. “Need help?”

“Do you trust yourself with fire?”

“Not really.”

“Then sit down.”

He laughed and obeyed, sliding onto the stool. “You always this bossy in the morning?”

“Efficient,” Cane corrected.

Zuka smiled into his coffee. “You’ve been smiling more lately.”

“Must be your imagination.”

“Sure,” he said, grinning wider.

For a moment, there was only the sizzle of the pan and the faint rhythm of the song. Something peaceful. Something fragile.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a while. “Cooking, I mean.”

“Comes from practice,” Cane replied simply.

He tilted his head. “Used to cook for someone?”

Cane hesitated, just long enough for the air to shift. “Yeah. Feels weird doing it again.”

“They must’ve eaten well.”

“Sometimes,” Cane said with a faint smile. “When I didn’t burn the rice.”

That made Zuka laugh, quiet and genuine. “I like this side of you.”

Cane glanced at him. “Which side?”

“The one that doesn’t pretend not to care.”

The spatula froze mid motion. Then, with a small sigh, Cane set the omelet on a plate. “You talk too much for a man half awake.”

He smiled. “And you listen too closely for someone pretending not to.”

The silence after wasn’t awkward, it was something like understanding.

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Small footsteps broke the quiet.

“Mmm… pancakes?” Rocket’s voice was thick with sleep as he stumbled into the room, hair a mess.

“Omelet,” Cane corrected, sliding a plate his way. “Sit before you fall over.”

“Hi, Cane. Hi, Dad,” Rocket mumbled before inhaling his food. “Cane, this is sooo good!”

“Careful,” Cane said lightly. “You’ll inflate my ego.”

“Too late,” Zuka said.

Rocket looked between them, grinning. “You make good food, Mom.”

The room froze.

Cane blinked. “...What?”

Rocket froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh! I meant Cane! Not Mom! I just- you sound like one!”

Cane’s face went scarlet. “Rocket.”

“Sorry!” the boy said, giggling uncontrollably.

Zuka coughed hard, trying not to laugh. “To be fair, he’s got a point.”

Cane glared. “Don’t you dare.”

He shrugged. “You nag like one, cook like one, and now you’re getting called one.”

Cane groaned, burying their face in their hands. “You’re insufferable.”

“Admit it,” Zuka teased. “You love us.”

“Plead the fifth,” Cane muttered.

Rocket laughed. “They love us!”

“Told you,” Zuka said, smug as ever.

Cane sighed. “I’m not paid enough for this.”

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Late Morning — Da Shop

The day at Da Shop was quiet. Rain had left the air cool and clear, sunlight filtering through the dusty front windows.

Cane and Zuka worked side by side, close enough that their elbows brushed now and then. He kept finding excuses to lean over, to reach past them for tools, to murmur something teasing just loud enough for them to hear.

“You’re standing too close,” Cane said finally.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see you moving.”

“Because you’re in my way.”

“Sounds like an excuse.”

“It’s a fact.”

He smirked. “Facts are flexible.”

Their eyes met, brief, sharp, and alive. Then Cane went back to their work.

“You ever stop talking?” they muttered.

“Only when I want something.”

“Then want less.”

He grinned. “Can’t.”

When their fingers brushed reaching for a part, neither moved for a second too long.
Zuka cleared his throat first. “You know, if you’re trying to hold my hand, there are smoother ways.”

Cane deadpanned, “There are smoother men.”

He blinked, then burst into laughter. “Touché.”

Afternoon

When the same customer from last week stopped by, she smiled knowingly at the sight of them.

“You two again,” she said, amused. “You’ve got the same energy as always.”

“Is that a compliment?” Zuka asked.

“Depends,” she teased. “Are you two official yet?”

Cane nearly dropped their wrench. “We’re- no!”

Zuka, ever the instigator, smiled easily. “Not yet.”

The woman laughed, waving as she left. “Give it time!”

Cane turned to him slowly. “Not yet?”

He shrugged. “Optimism.”

“You’re going to die young.”

“Worth it.”

Evening — Crossroads

They picked Rocket up from school. The boy chattered endlessly about his day, holding Cane’s hand as Zuka carried his bag.

By the time they reached home, the sky had turned gold and lilac.
Dinner came easy, muscle memory. Cane cooked; Zuka hovered. Rocket commented on everything. It was messy, noisy, perfect.

When Rocket yawned mid-sentence, Cane scooped him up. “Time for bed, kiddo.”

“You’re comfy, Mom,” Rocket murmured sleepily.

Zuka choked. “He’s not—”

“It’s fine,” Cane said softly, brushing Rocket’s hair.

They tucked him in together.
“’Night, Mom. ’Night, Dad.”

Zuka sighed. “We’re really gonna have to fix that.”

Cane smiled faintly. “Maybe not tonight.”

.

.

.

.

.

Night — The Porch

Crossroads shimmered faintly in the distance. The hum of traffic was soft, almost soothing.

Cane sat on the back porch, cigarette glowing in the dark, the Adaptive Cane leaning against the railing, seams pulsing white and steady.

Zuka stepped out, barefoot, a mug in hand. “Can’t sleep?”

“Something like that.”

He joined them on the step. The wood creaked, shoulders brushing. The quiet between them was thick, not uncomfortable, heavy with knowing.

“You’ll quit one day,” he said.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I’ll keep saying it until you do.”

“You’re persistent.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“By me.”

He grinned. “Not denying it.”

They both smiled faintly, letting the silence breathe.

Cane’s cigarette burned low. “You ever stop trying to fix people?”

“Only the ones who don’t need it,” Zuka said softly.

“Dangerous philosophy.”

He turned to look at them. “You make it look worth the risk.”

That made them pause, eyes flicking up, and unreadable. “You’re really pushing your luck.”

“Maybe I like testing limits.”

“Maybe you should stop before you hit one.”

“And if I already did?”

Cane’s voice dropped. “Then you’re flirting with a fire you can’t put out.”

Zuka smiled, low. “Good thing I like the heat.”

That earned him a quiet laugh, small, reluctant, and more importantly real.

“You’re impossible.”

“Predictable.”

“Same thing.”

He tilted his head. “Rocket’s called you ‘Mom’ twice now, you know.”

Cane froze. “…You keeping score?”

“Just observing. He’s not wrong.”

“Zuka-”

“What? It suits you.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

He smiled gently this time, no teasing. “Or maybe it’s because you care.”

That shut them up completely.

He started back toward the door, pausing beside them.
“You make this place feel like home,” he said quietly. “Rocket just said it out loud.”

Cane blinked, stunned.

Zuka’s smile softened. “Good night.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, Cane stood there a long time, smoke curling into the dark.

“…You’re impossible,” they whispered, almost fond.

The Adaptive Cane pulsed faintly at their side, soft, white, alive.

They flicked the last ember into the dirt, a faint smile ghosting across their lips.

“Mom, huh?”

The night didn’t answer but for the first time, Cane felt like it didn’t need to.