Chapter 9: After the Salute

The platform is quiet.

Not peaceful.

Just… emptied.

The mirror Pride exited through fractures with a sharp, delayed crack — lines spidering outward before the entire surface implodes into glittering shards. They dissolve before hitting the floor.

Petty.

Spiteful.

Angelica recoils slightly at the shatter.

“That was not good,” she breathes, the words barely above a whisper.

Then, abruptly, she perks up.

She reaches beneath one of the warped control desks and produces an old rotary phone — pastel pink, of course, cord tangled like nervous fingers.

She dials with quick, practiced spins.

Ring.

Ring.

She tucks the receiver between her shoulder and cheek, tail curling anxiously around her own waist.

“Hey Mike,” she says in a hushed tone, though no one is listening but Envy and Lu. “I need thirty guys.”

A pause.

“No, no, not to—” she giggles softly. “That one’s for Friday.”

A beat.

“No, I need thirty of our lamest guys to sacrifice. Yes. Tomorrow.”

She nods seriously.

“Love you, Mike!”

Click.

She gives a tiny squeal at the end, as if she just confirmed brunch reservations instead of scheduling ritual slaughter.

Envy is pacing now.

Fast.

His shoes click hard against the metal.

“Pride,” he hisses. “Arrogant trench-rotting relic.”

He rakes a hand through his faded-black hair.

“Now I have to play nice with Cheshire.”

He spits the name like it tastes sour.

“That blue grinning parasite.”

The ruined vat gurgles faintly behind him, as if mocking.

Angelica twirls the phone cord absentmindedly, already stabilizing emotionally.

“It will be fine,” she hums, though she does not sound convinced. “We’ll make it fine.”

Envy stops pacing abruptly.

He turns toward Lu.

Lu is still standing near the sludge vat, knife dangling loosely in his burned hand. Lipstick faint on his mouth. Fur singed.

Small.

Envy’s eyes flare behind the red lenses.

“Get the hell off my platform.”

The words are sharp again.

Controlled.

Lu flinches.

He nods quickly.

And moves.

Angelica drifts her mirror shard closer, balancing it carefully on a bent support beam so it hovers near Envy’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she coos softly, trying for warmth. “Don’t worry. We can still drink tea. And besides… we may even get set on a mission together. Ah? Ah?”

She nudges the mirror frame gently against him like someone tapping a friend’s arm.

Envy exhales through his nose.

“It’s just…” he mutters, staring at the ruined vat. “I dislike that man.”

His jaw tightens again.

“He thinks he is so… grrr… better than me.”

He gestures vaguely in Pride’s direction, though Pride is long gone.

“And he hates us all.”

Angelica tilts her head.

“That’s because he doesn’t understand love.”

Envy does not respond.

In the background, Lu is looking around the platform, scanning for his return rail.

The conveyor that brought him down is already gliding back upward.

Without him.

“Oh.”

He watches it disappear.

There is no lift.

No staircase.

No convenient button.

So he does what he always does.

He shimmies.

He wraps both arms around a thick vertical rail and begins to awkwardly climb, legs hugging the metal, tail dangling and twitching for balance.

Up.

Up.

His burned hands slip slightly.

He keeps going.

Angelica continues whispering reassurance.

Envy continues brooding.

Lu climbs.

“Hey… envy…” Lu whimpers faintly.

And then—

His grip fails.

He drops.

There is a sharp metallic clang.

Then another.

Then the unmistakable churn of grinding gears catching something soft.

A horrible, mechanical chewing sound.

Angelica gasps.

Envy does not even turn.

“Husks,” he calls flatly. “Go retrieve him.”

Several scrawny figures detach from the shadows immediately, scuttling toward the grinder pit with unsettling speed.

Envy rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

His glasses lift slightly.

For a moment, the lenses part.

Beneath them, his sockets are not flesh.

They are deep ink voids.

Tiny glowing dots drift within them like distant, dying stars.

He lowers the glasses again.

“I hate this job.”