[b]Lucien![/b]

The terminal where you end up looks like a wartorn death zone. Bodies lie here and there, mostly ones so strange and warped and inhuman that they must be angels, slowly sprouting into a variety of odd mushrooms where they lie. But the angels did not die fighting themselves.

On the other side of the terminal, the architecture has been repurposed into blocky, sharp-angled pillars and walls, mathematical precision cutting into normal curves and surfaces. The only thing curved about those walls are the many holes— and if you looked closely, you’d see they’re hexagons.

From the ceiling above, something is being hatched. One metal wing has punctured its cocoon, more frame than structure, and needle-thin claws are raking at the thick wood pulp of the cocoon. In response, a hum that sets your teeth on edge issues from the severe, inhuman walls as glowing neon blue bees begin to emerge in their dozens.

But nobody has noticed you. If you wanted, you could set up a chair, munch on suspicious mushrooms like popcorn, and watch the show.

***

[b]Ailee![/b]

“InSPector!” There is a whine of radio static, the flickering of voices, as the receiver tunes in on you. When it speaks again, its voice is choppy, rising and falling, as if assembling words from fragmented sounds stolen from other words. The two voices are there, always there, entwined perversely: the polished charm of the station announcer and the jagged growl of the station itself. “You are [i]very[/i] late. Nevertheless, we here at Wormwood Station apologize for the current conditions. Safety is [i]everyone’s[/i] responsibility!”

You are considered a moment; there is a sound that is almost like breathing. “Due to present unfortunate conditions,” the station offers, “We are willing to arrange an expedited departure from Terminal Ivy, provided you first assist custodial staff in clearing the [i]cancer[/i] in this Terminal. Safety is everyone’s responsibility! Reply.”

***

[b]Coleman! Jackdaw![/b]

For a moment, you are safe. There is a waterfall that is flooding the Terminal, but you have high, safe ground. The ragged-coated Wolf pants and licks her lips, tightening her grip on Coleman’s leash, but you have that moment.

Oh, Jackdaw, that’s a thing. Coleman is very caught by someone who looks like they are starving. Quite literally starving. Ribs can be seen. And the look they’re giving you suggests they haven’t made up their mind whether you’re a friend, or whether you’re lunch.

Coleman, want to make introductions?