For several long seconds, Aramis didn’t move. The breeze tugged at the scattered corn rolling past his boots, each kernel bouncing downhill like a tiny herald of misfortune. Yumi’s grin still lingered in the air like perfume, and the Greatspur flock was beginning to take suspicious interest in the glittering trail she’d so enthusiastically deployed.

Aramis nodded once, very slowly.

“Yes, exactly, I'll lead them, Locke prepa-” Tap. A single kernel nudged the toe of his boot. He stared down at it. “…wait.” His head lifted.



He snapped his gaze toward Yumi for an immediate explanation — only to find a Yumi-shaped puff of dust, the breeze already fraying its silhouette into nothing. Aramis blinked. He turned sharply toward Locke next — and saw absolutely nothing. Just a faint shimmer in the air where a jump-jet flare had been a moment earlier. Silence. Realization. A very deep, very private sigh.

“...Yappari...”

He straightened his coat, set his shoulders, adjusted his grip on his staff and without another word, began the solemn, inevitable doom walk toward the bottleneck and the enormous, increasingly interested turkeys below.

Aramis moved at a steady, purposeful pace toward the narrow funnel of earth and fencing, the soft crunch of dew-damp soil beneath his boots the only sound accompanying him. The morning light still painted everything in a serene glow — drifting petals, rippling wheat, the faint hush of the breeze.

It would have been almost peaceful. Almost. A low tremor stirred behind him. He slowed. Another tremor. He frowned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder—and froze.

The Greatspurs were no longer meandering.They were bearing down on him, en masse, heads lowered, wattles flapping with violent enthusiasm, talons digging trenches in the earth as they thundered toward him like feathered siege engines fueled by pure homicidal hunger. Aramis inhaled sharply. His eyes widened. His entire posture stiffened in a singular instant of frozen, horrified realization. Then—

He bolted. Not with calm tactical intent. Not with dignified urgency. But with the desperate, high-speed, self-preserving sprint of a man who has just discovered that physics and poultry have united to kill him.

“NONONONONO—!”

His boots hammered the ground as he tore down the funnel, coat flapping wildly behind him like a banner of pure regret. The breathless thuds of pursuing turkey-titans shook the earth so violently he nearly stumbled on the uneven path. He did not look back again. He refused to look back again. Nothing good existed behind him anymore — only feathers, fury, and the worst death imaginable. The kill zone ahead suddenly felt like the most beautiful place he had ever seen.

“WHY ARE THEY SO FAST?!” he shouted to absolutely no one, voice cracking in a way he would later deny.

And so Aramis sprinted for his life — a lone, panicked projectile hurtling straight into the ambush point as the Greatspur horde thundered after him with murderous delight.

Aramis lay sprawled in the dirt for a heartbeat, staring up at a drifting petal as the world continued violently around him. The stomp that launched him had left his ears ringing, but he quickly realized—miraculously—that the turkey wasn’t attacking him anymore.

He pushed himself upright, grimacing, and followed the thunderous movement with wide eyes.

The lead Greatspur had fully turned toward Locke, who was already sprinting into position. Jumpjets flared, rifle barked, and the giant bird reeled in panicked agitation. The pilot’s precision was enough to keep the beast off Aramis entirely. Aramis exhaled shakily. Then motion behind him made him glance back. And he froze.

Yumi was a blur—vaulting onto a turkey’s back, using it as a springboard, twisting midair, hitting a tree, launching herself again.

Her boots connected with the gargantuan poultry skull hard enough to tilt reality, and her scythe followed with a decapitating slice that felled two titans in a single motion.

She landed in settling dust like a tiny, terrifying warrior-angel. Aramis blinked. Once. Twice.

”…right.”

He turned back to Locke—still moving with practiced military fluidity, still firing, still keeping the turkey from turning back toward him.

Aramis swallowed and gathered himself, brushing dirt from his coat in a futile attempt at dignity.

”I see we’re all having… productive mornings,” he muttered under his breath, breathless and stunned but very much alive.

His grip tightened on his staff as he repositioned himself toward the funnel, trusting—with equal parts relief and exasperation—that his companions had the situation in hand far more than he currently did.

With a weary sigh, he lifted his staff just slightly in Locke’s direction.

A tiny, shimmering barrier flickered into existence around the pilot—small, unnecessary, and almost apologetically weak compared to the carnage unfolding around them.

Aramis muttered, under his breath, in the flattest, half-sung, sarcastically enthusiastic tone imaginable:

”…ganbaaaatte~.”

Aramis remained very still as the final Greatspur collapsed behind Locke with a thunderous, ground-shaking thud. Dust rippled over him. A few stray feathers drifted down like the world’s saddest confetti. He blinked at the scene of carnage—the toppled giants, the cratered earth, the shredded field—then at Locke, who had just executed a maneuver so cleanly it looked choreographed.

“…impressive,” he managed, still a little breathless. “Terrifying, but impressive.”

He brushed a smear of dirt from his sleeve.

He did not get all of it.

Then Yumi bounded up.

Covered.

Entirely.

From boots to hairline.

In turkey blood.

She looked like a cheerful yokai that had just burst through the floor of a horror film. A feather stuck to her cheek. Another slid down her scythe. She didn’t seem aware of any of it.

Aramis’ brain made a soft clicking sound as it tried to process the contrast.

"Sugoi!" she said, beaming. "That was freakin' AWESOME!"

Aramis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then she thrust out a gore-slick, squelching fist.

"Victory fist bump!"

Aramis stared at the fist. Then at the blood dripping from it. Then back at her bright, expectant smile.

He swallowed.

Very slowly, he lifted one hand—carefully, delicately—and extended one single finger forward to tap her knuckle with the smallest, most minimal contact physically possible.

boop.

“…victory,” he said quietly, because at this point he wasn’t sure what else one was supposed to say.

Aramis exhaled.

“I… think we should locate water,” he added, tone flat, gaze flicking meaningfully at the crimson streaks running down her face. “A lake. A river. A well.”

He paused.

“Anything. Soon, preferably.”

Aramis didn’t say anything when Yumi finally looked down and realized the state she was in. The simple "Ah..." drew a tiny shift in his expression — the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he were suppressing a sigh and a laugh at the same time. Locke’s muttered comment summed it up well enough.

The rest of the work unfolded without drama. Hauling the Greatspur carcasses back to town. Turning them in. Bringing the last one home. Aramis moved through it with quiet efficiency, grateful for something practical to focus on.

Back in the kitchen, he settled naturally into the rhythm Locke established — chopping where asked, stirring when directed, offering occasional dry observations when Locke tried something questionable. It was… calming. Predictable. Safe ground after the chaos of earlier.

Then Yumi returned from washing up. And Aramis froze for half a second. Gone was the gore. Gone the blood-slick chaos. Instead she looked—well—he caught himself staring and looked away sharply before his expression could betray anything too obvious. He told himself it was just the contrast. The dramatic shift from battlefield carnage to… her. Clean. Bright-eyed. Smiling softly as she stepped into the warm-lit kitchen. That was all. Probably.

He cleared his throat and said something that, in hindsight, he immediately regretted:

“...ah. Good. You look... functional again.”

Functional? Functional?!

He shut his eyes for a moment as if mentally erasing the line from existence. He tried again, quieter: “...it.. suits you.”

Whatever that meant. Thankfully, the work resumed before he could embarrass himself further. Together, they finished the dinner — Locke leading with confidence, Yumi precise as always, Aramis steady in the background.

When Evie arrived, he stepped back, letting the moment be hers. Her reaction softened the room, her gratitude warm and genuine. Aramis accepted her hug with stiff surprise but didn’t pull away. As the four of them finally sat at the table, the meal glowing under the gentle lights, Aramis allowed himself a moment to breathe — really breathe. It was peaceful. Almost… comfortable.

He glanced, briefly, at Yumi across the table. Then immediately looked down at his plate, ears warming just slightly. He survived giant turkeys today. He was not prepared to survive that.

He didn’t know what Thanksgiving was supposed to feel like but this? This felt close.