Buster was horizontal on his lashed-together beds, looking up at the too-low ceiling with deep resentment. Having to stoop down to walk left his back aching after only a few minutes. If they expected him to live in here, he wouldn't be good for much except sleeping and being grumpy.

Zed Steadman's holding cells were meant to accommodate uncooperative patients and prisoners of war who were being treated after battles. They were more like hospital rooms with reinforced doors than traditional prison cells. If he were a human, he could have a nice life here.

He wasn't a human. He loved and admired so much about them. But he was a panda, he loved being a panda, and being a panda was all he knew. He had lost weight, the fire inside him had cooled, but in spite of everything he was still himself.

It was humiliating. For all his knowledge and experience, he had been laid low by a few inches of ceiling.

When the panda finally drifted to sleep, it was a fitful and dreamless slumber. Buster didn't dream, or at least didn't remember his dreams often. Petro told him that this was a blessing.

In the morning he was awoken by one of the orderlies loudly rapping at his door. "Visitors."

He didn't imagine that he would be allowed visitors.

Petro wheeled in to the room, the familiar whirr of his wheelchair's electric motor making the panda's round ears perk up even before he saw his friend. "Buddy! Hey!" Buster greeted him in surprise, trying to stand up and bumping the back of his head on the ceiling. He roared out in stunned discomfort, but Petro only laughed with good humor.

"How many degrees do you have, again?" Petro teased his friend, the panda rubbing the back of his head with one paw as he winced and let the stars and black rainbows fade from his vision.

"Petro! It's good to see you, sorry I didn't get to make you coffee this morning. I didn't think they would let me have visitors." the panda almost cooed. He was obviously deeply protective of his friend. It was one of the qualities that made him a good caretaker.

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"We weren't, I organized this." said Sophear as she followed behind Petro, "The board is going to let you evacuate to Martenwol, but I knew Petro would want to say goodbye first."

Say goodbye. There was a finality to that, perhaps unintentional but undeniable. He had known he might not see his friend ever again after this, but it was another thing entirely to actually have to confront that.

"Thank you." Buster said simply, appreciating the kindness.

He knelt down in front of Petro's wheelchair and wrapped his arms around the small human as he leaned in for a hug. Those arms had been strong enough to wield the active disassembler on that fateful day, and had only grown stronger in the intervening six months. But they were still soft beneath that coarse bristly fur, and as they enveloped Petro he never felt safer or more secure.

This was why Sophear had stood up for Buster. She spent all day struggling to have medical professionals empathize with the people in their care, and here was a man of a completely different species who had learned to understand another's needs and help them out of friendship. It seemed like it should be the least anyone could do, but so many struggled with it even at Zed Steadman.

You couldn't fake this kind of compassion. She had seen a lot of people try and do it unsuccessfully. If Buster was insincere it would show, and Petro was good at reading people and using his words. She was still annoyed at her peer for not respecting Petro's autonomy and competence, even if the suspicion of Buster's motives was admittedly not undeserved.

After all, Buster had fooled her. She had totally believed him when he was trembling and sputtering, covered in soot and reeking of chemical fumes in the aftermath of his showdown with Lance.

"I know whatever nurse they get to replace me isn't going to be as good, but try not to be too hard on them." Buster teased his friend.

"Come back from this, Buster. We've still got a lot of steps to build." Petro said back, resting his head on the panda's chest and hearing the thud of his elevated heartbeat.

Buster was glad that his friend couldn't see him tearing up.

He had once told Petro about the story that meant so much to him. Petro had in turn told him of a story from human culture.

It was a story about a magic bird that died in fire and was born anew in the process. A Phoenix. Petro had told his friend that he didn't think of him as an Obrigar, he thought of him as a Phoenix. That the old him was long gone and the new him was becoming a magnificent bird indeed.

Rather than making Buster happy (as Petro's stories often did), the story of the Phoenix mad him sad. Because it reminded him of Mirabelle, and her unfortunate habit of setting things on fire.