Tomorrow came, and when Red woke up he immediately wanted to die. His head hurt, a pinprick core of intense pain somewhere deep in his brain that radiated dulling agony through his skull. His breath smelled somehow worse than his sandpaper mouth tasted. The worst part was his stomach, which roiled with an inexplicable discomfort he couldn't blame on gas or hunger. Opening his eyes just made his head hurt more, so instead of doing that Red nestled his face into the crook of his arm, took a deep breath, and then let everything out in one long, loud groan.

"UUUUUUGH."

Something sizzled nearby. Sniffing, Red could smell doughy sweetness mingled with the distinct tang of cooking bacon, but even this, enticing as it was, could not drive Red to his feet, so instead he just groaned again.

"UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH."

Zelda's voice came in response, as snide as ever. "Either come eat or shut the hell up already."

That at least got Red to blink against the daylight. He turned groggily, craning his neck, and it was then he realized he was currently lying on one of the couches in the Roxbury Outpost's living room, still donned in the same clothes he'd worn to the party, now rumpled and dotted with dried stains.

Red's bleary eyes zeroed in on the kitchen table, atop which sat a big diner-style breakfast buffet. A steaming bowl of grits sat opposite a bowl of scrambled eggs, between these lay a platter of perfectly charred toast, a ready stick of butter, a glass kettle half filled with warm brown coffee alongside a carton of milk and an open sugar pot, and standing tall over all this loomed a leaning tower of thick pancakes already covered in a deliciously dripping coat of syrup. Seeing and smelling it all, the roiling in Red's stomach really did turn into hunger, and he couldn't help licking his dry lips.

Sitting by the kitchen table, Zelda handled a mug of coffee and glanced over at Red with cold amusement. Malcolm was sitting there next to her, though he didn't bother so much as looking up. Like Red the other boy still wore the same outfit he had last night, and like Red he seemed vaguely sick, forehead propped solidly up by both hands.

Meanwhile Jason stood by the stove, one hand holding a pan and the other holding some tongs. He fiddled with the cooking bacon, and when he turned Red saw he wore an apron that said Meat the Chef.

"Nice to see you up," Jason said, shooting Red an easy smile. "Guess you guys had a pretty wild night, huh? Zel, get us some plates will you?"

After taking one more sip from her coffee Zelda stood and went to one of the drawers. Red somehow managed to roll off the couch and onto his feet by the time she returned with the plates, and he collapsed onto a chair at the table by the time Jason came back with a greasy bundle of bacon strips.

"Alright everyone, bon appétit," Jason said, then pointed at Red and Malcolm with his fork. "Especially you two. Believe me, only way to start feeling better is to get some proper nutrition."

Red and Malcolm both just moaned miserably, but they did slowly start piling their plates up with food along with everyone else. After a few bites, Red found enough strength to start chugging cup after cup of water in between mouthfuls of pancake. Malcolm, though, remained downcast, picking distractedly at a mound of eggs.

"Guess you had it rougher than me," Red mumbled.

Malcolm only groaned in response, half his face still covered by one of his hands as if to hide from view. Jason chuckled, and even Zelda let a smile slip.

"Kit said he threw up in front of a girl he likes," Jason said, "so I'm assuming Mal wants to die right about now."

"I don't just want to die," Malcolm said, voice despairingly hollow. "I want to crawl into a hole and cease to exist. Stupid, dumb, idiot..."

These last few words were directed at himself because seriously, that conversation with Rebecca had actually been going alright up until he... until he...

God...

His head slammed into the table with a thunk and the rattle of dinnerware, just barely missing his plate. A smiling Jason reached over to place a comforting hand on his shoulder while Zelda snickered as she chewed, hand over her mouth.

Red would've joined in on their tempered mirth, but the mention of Kitty soured him even more than the vague taste of boozy bile he'd been dealing with since waking up. He still remembered their argument at the dock, how her usually vacant expression had morphed into a pinched disdain, thin brows drawn together, narrow nose flared, plump cheeks flushed.

He mulled on her words, and suddenly the food he was eating, delicious as it was, turned to tasteless mush. Deadbeat, she'd called him. Just a lucky deadbeat. You don't deserve them. Annoyed, Red kept shoving forkfuls into his mouth, trying to enjoy them, but now it was impossible not to think about how he hadn't paid for any of it. "Where is Darkness anyway? I bet she's feelin' just as shitty as we are."

"She's out right now," Jason said. "Something about a meeting. And she looked fine. Only one of you three to come back sober."

"At least one of you brats is responsible," Zelda said, refilling her coffee. Then, noting Red's surprise, she raised a brow. "What? Who else do you think got you guys back home? You two could barely even walk. I'm surprised she didn't just leave you both there."

Jason smiled softly. "I'm sure it wasn't her favorite thing to do, but you can always count on Kit. Still," he pointed at them with his fork again, "you guys better thank her properly when she comes back. And next time, please, let's show a little more restraint. I assume that's not something you need me to tell you, right Mal?"

Malcolm raised his head, stared wordlessly at his brother, then slammed it back down on the table. Now Jason and Zelda both laughed out loud, and Red did too, feeling his mood brightening up, all his efforts to shove the bad thoughts away—and since when did he have those?—strengthening with the fuel of good food, good company, and the panacea of time.

At least until Stretch walked through the door. The guy swung it open as simply as if he lived there himself, already grinning and holding a plastic container full of store-bought muffins. He looked at them one after another, lips widening when he saw Red and Malcolm's bedraggled states. "Mornin' people. Any room left for me?"

They gave a round of greetings and made room—or rather, everyone but Malcolm did, the boy still basically catatonic. Red kept glancing over, his own smile strained, accepting Stretch's offer of a muffin more by reflex than any real desire, and again Kitty's slurred words came to him. Are you just gonna keep mooching off him?

And then the phone rang. The red landline on the wall, its tone more like an alarm.

Stretch put a finger on his nose, then Red did the same, and even Zelda joined in. Jason tried, but was too slow to put his fork down. He looked over at Malcolm, who hadn't even bothered, and when it became clear his little brother barely seemed to register the ring he sighed and stood up.

"Taking the shot like a true Captain," Stretch said, scooping some eggs onto his plate.

Jason shook his head as he walked to the phone, thinking it was just his luck that Baba slept in on weekends. When he got there, he took the ringing red handle and held it up against his ear. "Roxbury Outpost. What's the job?"

To his surprise, the voice on the other line wasn't the usual drone of some anonymous RC operator. It was much more familiar than that.

"Captain Column?"

Incredibly direct and incredibly formal. Unconsciously, Jason straightened, jaw set. "That's me."

"The Chairman has called an emergency meeting and requests your presence. You are expected at headquarters tomorrow morning." A pause. "And he would like to see his daughter, if you'd be so kind as to pass that along."

Letting himself relax a bit, Jason glanced over at Zelda over by the table. She was busy decapitating one of the muffins so she could eat the top and discard the rest, but when she caught his gaze she smiled, and he winked back at her to let her know all was well.

"He's the only one who'd like to see her?" Jason prodded.

Another pause. "Of course, her mother would also be pleased."

It took a certain kind of professionalism to still be talking in the third person like this. "I'll let her know. And would you mind letting me know what this meeting is about?"

"That's confidential."

"Oh, come on, Master. No need to be so cold."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Jason."

With that—click—the call ended. Jason rolled his eyes, smile rueful, then hung up himself. When he turned back to the others, they all looked back at him expectantly, even the hunched-over Malcolm.

"Well," Jason said, lips quirked, "looks like Zel and I are going on a trip."

Red perked up at the word trip. "Where to?"

"Ranger HQ," Jason said. Then, because he knew it would blow Red's mind, he smirked. "It's just, y'know, on a flying island."

It took a moment to register, but when it did Red turned fully around on his seat, grinning wide. "No fucking way, dude."

"Way," Stretch said, pouring himself some coffee. "I've been a couple times. Hard not to when Zelly here owns the thing."

Red turned to Zelda. "You have a flying island?"

"My parents have a flying island," Zelda said, buttering some toast. "It's not mine 'till they die."

For the first time, Red looked at Zelda—really looked—and found he no longer had any idea who exactly he was dealing with here. He'd picked up on the fact she was rich, an easy enough guess judging by how she never seemed to wear the same thing twice and, more importantly, how she always complained about having to in some way pay for all the collateral damage they caused out on jobs. But there was having cash, and then there was having cash, and Red was starting to suspect the annoying blonde he'd been putting up with for the last week fit in with the latter.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"... Who are you?" he asked.

Zelda only rolled her eyes at that, and figuring he wouldn't get his answer from her after all Red turned to Stretch. The other Ranger scratched at his goatee; apparently, the question required some thought.

"Can I see your license real quick?" Stretch finally asked.

Red pulled it out—he always kept it in his pocket, lacking so much as a wallet—and Stretch pointed at the insignia on the card, just to the left of the text that read Ranger Corps. The emblem seemed made of two layered patterns: one a pair of outstretched wings, the other a netted circle as if looking down at a cylindrical bird cage. Both images were made of the same monochromatic blue, so that it was impossible to tell which overlay the other.

"See this?" Stretch asked, and Red nodded because, not knowing how to read, the emblem was just about the only thing on his own license he could make sense of. "That's the RC badge, but it's also the crest of the Debon family." He looked meaningfully at Red now. "Zelly's family. Her dad's the big honcho."

Red blinked, looked down at his license, then up at Zelda. "Oh man, does that mean I've been working for you this whole time?"

His disappointment was palpable, but while Stretch reached over to pat the boy's back Zelda turned to Jason, ready to move on. "When do we have to go? I'll call to get the jet ready."

"We can pack today and leave tomorrow morning," the Captain said. Then, after a moment of thought, "Anyone else wanna come?"

Red just about jumped from his seat, yes ready to explode, but then something stopped him. Flying island, he thought to himself. Flying island. Come on. Gotta see that.

In response came another voice, unbidden in his mind. Jumping into some other adventure just like that? Figures.

He closed his eyes, willing the voice away. Flyingislandflyingislandflyingisland.

Still, despite his best efforts, that same feeling nibbled at the back of his head. It was a strange feeling, entirely alien, but it seemed to sprout like some long-forgotten seed.

Shame.

What must he have seemed like to them? Some kid without a penny to his name, one who hadn't showered in days, saving one of their own by complete chance and using it as an excuse to just... hang around for who knew how long, wild and always hungry like some stray dog. They'd fed him, clothed him, given him a job, given him friendship, and what exactly had he given them in return?

Did Red really deserve their kindness?

Beside him, Stretch had just about finished eating. "I'll stick around. Someone's gotta hold down the fort in case that phone rings while you guys're gone."

By now Jason had walked over to Malcolm and put both hands on his shoulders. "How about you, lil' bro? Wanna come on a vacation?"

Malcolm on vacation seemed an entirely paradoxical concept, but to everyone's surprise the boy raised his head and seemed to consider it. "How long would we be there?"

Jason shrugged. "Could be a couple days. Could be a couple months. You never know with the Chairman."

Malcolm stared ahead, dead-eyed. "I hope it's a couple years. I can never show my face back at school again."

"Ah, the good old 'avoid your problems' tactic," Stretch said, nodding appreciatively. "Tried and true."

"What about you, Red?" Jason asked. "We've got plenty of room."

Stretch nudged the boy, eyebrows wagging, while Zelda groaned at the thought of bringing him along. Red looked at them, at the expectant Column brothers, at the scraps of breakfast food left on the table. He thought about the flying island again, imagined it in a passing daydream, then Kitty's voice slipped through one last time and he wanted to hit something.

"I'm... gonna stay too," Red said, hating every word, hating that he hated every word, fighting with himself the whole time because, god, what the hell was happening to him? "And... I think... I should start looking for an apartment..."

Everyone stared at him. Malcolm, Stretch, Zelda, and even Jason who hadn't known him for longer than two days yet had picked up just fine on the idea that Red saying anything even remotely like this was supposed to be impossible.

"Are... Are you sure?" Jason asked.

Fuck no.

"I'll stay," Red forced himself to say. "And… I'll get a wallet. And," he looked down at himself, "I'll get my own clothes so I can stop borrowing from Four-Eyes. A whole closet of clothes. And!" Now he felt himself fall into the momentum of it. The possibilities suddenly swirled into infinity, and Red got so heated up over it that the others could only listen, too taken aback to respond. "And I'll get my own phone, and learn how to read so I can actually use it! And I'll... I dunno, I'll start paying taxes! Yeah! I'll pay taxes and I'll get my own Netflix account! And I'll learn how to cook, and get my own plates, and a dishwasher so I don't actually have to deal with 'em! And I'll get a sick guitar and totally blast the goddamn shit out of it!"

It was a fight now, Red realized. A fight between him and this new thing he felt, that shame, and most of all Kitty's insistent voice that finally seemed to quiet as he kept listing off all the great responsible things he would do. And it felt good, so good that the hangover practically melted off him, because Red while might not have known much, the one thing he did know was how to fight.

We'll see who's the deadbeat.

"So you guys go to that flying island," Red said, arms crossed, and his grin came true and wide. "I'll stick around here and get a sweet pad. Then, when you come back, you're all invited to the best breakfast ever."

He left a bout of silence in his wake. Then, Zelda broke it.

"Any breakfast you make would definitely make me gag," she said. Still, something about her eyes, always blue and cold, seemed now strangely appraising.

It was the same with Malcolm, who didn't say anything, though it was hard to tell if he wasn't just still hung over. Jason just smiled, bemused by all the sudden excitement over something like getting a dishwasher.

Stretch was the only one to unrepentantly share in Red's enthusiasm. "Sounds like a plan, man," he said, holding his hand up for a high-five. But when Red slapped it, he quirked a brow. "Okay, so, how much money do you have saved up, exactly?"

Red, still grinning, tilted his head. "Money?"

"Yeah, y'know, to afford doing all that."

"... Afford?"

Well, progress was progress.

- - - — MKII — - - -

Kitty wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but a fancy bistro in the middle of downtown wasn't exactly it. A tastefully rustic wood sign hung outside the door, the name Passerelle carved in cursive lettering, and when she went in a waiter already stood to greet her. He wore a white button-up under a maroon vest and seemed entirely unperturbed by the sight of an unaccompanied minor entering what must've been at least a four-star restaurant in a tank top and jeans.

"Mademoiselle Thorne, I presume?" the waiter asked. Though balding, he featured a thick mustache that curved up at its ends. "You are just in time. Follow me to your table, please."

She did follow, and all the while her hand was ready beside the hoodie she'd tied to her waist. Under it, she could feel the reassuring heft of the knife strapped to her thigh. Even better was the ring in her pocket, ready to come out in case of any real emergency.

The restaurant contained one room, its ceiling hanging two stories up and giving it a feel far more spacious than it otherwise deserved. Square tables wrapped around in a spiral, split by a raised platform at the edges so that those tables on the periphery could look down at those sitting at the center.

It would've felt imposing if it wasn't for the large glass windows filling the whole place with light. Plus, all the people sitting down, eating, chatting amicably, glancing up at the passing Kitty for only the briefest seconds before turning back to their company. The whole place filled with the sound of their chatter, their scraping plates, their murmured orders to the wait staff.

Kitty got taken down this spiral and, as it soon became clear, their destination was that table smack dab in the middle of the whole place. Scarlet sat there, batting her eyes prettily at the girl as she watched her come, far too amused already. She donned no disguise, comfortable in the same redheaded form Kitty remembered from the previous night, though now she also wore a tight red dress under a fluffy white scarf.

Next to her, though, was the man Kitty had come to see. Black and severe and clothed in a full three-piece suit, he stared at the coming girl with baggy eyes and large hands folded before him on the table. There was nothing terribly dangerous about him from what Kitty could see, only a sort of resigned exhaustion, like he'd stayed up working all night and had at some point abandoned any hope for rest.

Once they reached the table, the waiter bowed slightly. "Monsieur, your guest."

The man nodded, and the waiter took that as his cue to leave. "Take a seat," he said, gesturing Kitty towards the sole remaining seat. "And please, help yourself."

As she sat, Kitty noted that they'd taken the liberty of ordering for her. A mouth-watering omelet to match Scarlet's, perfectly golden and fluffy, paired with a streak of ebony caviar and an opposing streak of sour cream. The man's plate, half-eaten already, contained a rainbow assortment of ratatouille, and even now he gingerly plucked some with his fork and stuck them in his mouth, his chewing slow and deliberate as he watched her.

Kitty ignored the food. "Tell me about the job," she said, matching his stare.

She was close enough to reach him, Kitty knew. He probably knew it too, which might be why he didn't let go of his knife even when he wasn't using it. Now that it would matter much.

"What'd I tell you?" Scarlet said, giggling into her next bite, and when she next talked she did it between bites. "She's not just some kid. Pretty sure she already came up with a couple good ways to kill ya if things go south. I say she's perfect."

"I trust your word," the man said. "But not as much as I trust my own eyes and ears. So, girl, you're one of these..." he waved a careless hand. "These Magicians, are you?"

"And you're not," Kitty stated flatly, and when the man shook his head she glanced at Scarlet. "What exactly are you doing working for some normal civvy?"

Scarlet's grin widened, turning somewhat wild, and the man chuckled. "Oh dear," he said. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. I'm no Magician, but I wouldn't call myself normal either. In fact—"

Here the man raised a hand and snapped his fingers. At once, the whole restaurant stopped. Conversations stopped, some mid-sentence, falling into a deadly silence. The passing waiters, a few still holding plates, all paused.

Every single eye in this new quiet turned now to Kitty. Judging by their expressions, stern yet nervous, it was clear they weren't being manipulated in some way. She hadn't felt any big pulse of Spirit either. These people, all of them, worked for Roman. They’d been made ready for her.

The weight of her knife now seemed more of a lifeline. Kitty had gotten a sense of the space and, most importantly, the exits—aside from the entrance she'd come in through there was the kitchen and one emergency door at the other end of the room. And there were always the windows. She now strategized, counting the people between her and these places of escape, judging how many of them she could avoid and how many she'd simply have to cut her way through.

The man held up a pacifying hand towards her now. With his other hand he waved at the rest of the room, and after a few hesitant moments everyone started up their talk again, going back to their food. Soon the restaurant sprang back to life, though now Kitty noticed well how the other guests shot minute glances her way, always leaning more on one leg than another. She wondered how many had knives hidden away like her, and how many had guns.

"I hate having to do that," the man said, and surprisingly he did seem to mean it. The whole thing seemed to have tired him out even more, and he looked down at his food, plucking some of it up with his fork, clearly discomforted. "In my position, sometimes it's necessary to engage in some showmanship. I hope that was enough to impress you."

Impress, or intimidate? Either way, it was plenty. "Message received," Kitty said, and it was really starting to annoy her how little Scarlet had warned her before she came here. Then again, she hadn't exactly been in the most receptive state the last time they talked. "So, who are you, then? And what do you want?"

For the first time, the man smiled, though it lacked any warmth. "My name is Roman, a Captain of the Volante Syndicate. And what I want is for you to help us with what Scarlet tells me is a... mutual problem."

"Define mutual."

Scarlet jumped in. "The other night, another Captain got killed along with a few of his men. A survivor came back to let everyone know what happened." Her eyes, usually bent with casual mirth, grew a peculiar weight. "He said it all happened in a second. That the men were killed by moving shadows."

Kitty felt the ground shift beneath her, and this time it wasn't due to alcohol. She was able to contain the nausea, though only barely.

"Scarlet tells me you both know this... shadow weaver," Roman said, the words coming hesitantly. It took effort to say something so ridiculous with the apparent severity it demanded.

"Oh, we know her, alright," Scarlet said, and now her smile turned grim. "After all, we did grow up together. Isn't that right, sis?"

Yes. Those dark memories rose to the surface in all their violent fury; tiptoeing through shadowed halls, a long and quiet table, hopeful whispers in the dead of night. They had known each other very well. And now, Kitty thought, she'd have to somehow survive the family reunion.