The sun beat down on Hime, a benevolent warmth that mirrored the warmth in its inhabitants' hearts. For the first time in what felt like an age, bellies were full, round and content, not gnawed by the familiar pangs of hunger. Laughter, a sound too long absent, echoed through the newly vibrant streets. Wrinkles of worry, etched deep by centuries of fear and uncertainty, had smoothed into smiles.

The apocalyptic dread that had clung to the community like a shroud had finally lifted, replaced by a tentative, blossoming hope. Life, against all odds, was grand.

Diplomat Jones, once known as Scout Jones, found himself approaching Bathilda’s cabin with a sense of anticipation. “Cabin” was perhaps too rustic a word for the dwelling. It was more of a retreat, a sanctuary, a place of quiet contemplation.

The concept of a “getaway,” though perfectly apt, was lost on Jonesy. The term, like Bathilda herself, originated from a distant, almost mythical place called Earth, a world Jonesy knew nothing about. His focus was on the present, on the important mission he carried. The leaders of Home, finally recognizing the wisdom of Bathilda’s counsel, had requested a meeting.

“About time,” he muttered under his breath, a small smile playing on his lips. He raised his hand and knocked on the intricately carved wooden door.

It swung open to reveal a young girl, no more than ten summers old, with bright, inquisitive eyes. This was Bathilda’s adopted daughter, Flo. Unbeknownst to many, including the general populace of Home, Flo was also the Demon King.

Jonesy, however, was in the know. The revelation, delivered by Bathilda and Hiro with a casualness that bordered on the absurd, had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He still remembered the clammy palms, the racing heart, the sheer disbelief that had washed over him.

"Is she home?" Jonesy asked, striving for an air of calm neutrality. He desperately wanted to project an image of professionalism, of a seasoned diplomat, but the presence of the Demon King, even in such a diminutive form, still made his stomach churn. He focused on maintaining eye contact with Flo, willing himself not to soil his britches. The embarrassment would be monumental, for both of them.

Fortunately, Bathilda was indeed home. She emerged from the depths of the cabin, her presence radiating a quiet strength. After a brief, pleasant exchange, they set off together towards Home, the weight of the world, or at least the weight of Home's world, feeling a little lighter with each step.

Jonesy walked beside Bathilda, a strange mix of apprehension and hope swirling within him. He knew this meeting was crucial, a potential turning point for the city. He just hoped he could keep his composure and play his part in what he sensed was a moment of great significance.

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Ericson will still be on duty, he thought with a wry smile. He'd left the City just as Ericson had clocked in. Ericson, bless his soul, was one of the few who still called him "Jonesy Jones," a name that had thankfully died out with his teens. He was also, Jones recalled fondly, a walking, talking, occasionally tripping, encyclopedia of embarrassing anecdotes – mostly involving himself.

As he and Bathilda approached the imposing iron gate, Ericson was indeed manning his post, looking as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as if he’d just started his shift, rather than being halfway through it. They strolled down what was known as the "kill box," a narrow passage Bathilda had designed (and, he suspected, named herself), leading to the gate.

"Hail, Master Bathilda!" Ericson boomed, his voice echoing slightly. He and Carter, the other guard on duty, snapped off crisp salutes, leaving Diplomat Jones feeling momentarily superfluous.

"Are you here for some more specialized training today?" Jones asked, noticing a distinct twinkle in Ericson's eye. He vaguely recalled Bathilda putting the guards through their paces a few months back.

"Paces" was an understatement. She'd practically turned them into super-soldiers, each of them rising up by a good hundred levels. It was insane, but, Jones had to admit, it had given Home the means to actually defend themselves. A noble, if slightly preposterous, intention.

"Bathilda is here for a council meeting. If you don't mind, Eric?" Jones said, trying to steer the conversation away from combat training.

Ericson grinned, already working on the massive gate mechanism. "Not at all, Jonesy Jones. Old Elred should have have pulled his finger out earlier if you ask me. Bathilda's done loads for us." Jones couldn't help but nod in agreement. If they were to delve into the politics of why Bathilda hadn't been summoned sooner, they’d be there all night. And Jones, unlike some of the residents of the city, actually had a schedule to keep.

Bathilda, as always, was the picture of serene elegance. She wore a simple white dress that flowed around her like liquid moonlight, and her hair, finer than spun spider silk, danced in the gentle breeze. She exuded an air of quiet power that made even the most hardened warriors (like Ericson after her training) a little nervous.

"Indeed," she said, her voice soft but carrying. "Thank you, Eric. Come now, we don't want to keep the old codgers waiting. They might fall asleep." Jones' tone still playful.

"Or die from old age," Ericson added helpfully as the gate creaked open, earning him a stifled chuckle from Jones. He and Carter shared a hearty laugh as the gate swung shut behind them.

Jones led Bathilda through the bustling heart of Home. Everyone they passed greeted her with warm smiles and respectful nods. Bathilda, in turn, acknowledged each greeting with a gracious nod or a kind word, making Jones feel like he was escorting royalty.

The contrast was stark. When she'd first arrived, they'd branded her 'Demon,' 'Pariah,' 'The End.' Now, even though she'd saved their city, fear had blinded them. They couldn't see she was a sheep in wolf's clothing — a protector disguised as a threat

Finally, they reached a large, imposing building – the council hall. Jones ushered Bathilda inside, navigating the maze of corridors with practiced ease. They reached a heavy oak door, and with a deep breath, Jones opened it, revealing the council chamber.

The air inside was thick with anticipation, and the murmur of hushed conversations died down as Bathilda entered. The discussions about the city's future, and perhaps the world’s, were about to begin.