With a snap of their fingers, The Guest summoned a cleaning crew.
They stood in the center of the sidewalk—tall, draped in shimmering dark layers that never touched the ground, as if the fabric feared to wrinkle. Their face was a swirling void, neither male nor female, neither solid nor transparent. Just absence, wrapped in authority. A halo of dissonant chimes circled faintly above their shoulders, pulsing in rhythm with their presence.
Nightingale let out a quiet sigh of relief. "At least we know it's really them."
Sebastian nodded, though he was already groaning under his breath. "We're gonna have to fill out so much paperwork now. We weren't officially cleared to be in The Guest's presence this week."
Still, they were both glad. The Guest's appearance meant stability, accountability—at least someone who could document what just happened. But the shame gnawed at them. Not because Catty had betrayed them—honestly, she could've taken black hole coins from a doom cult and they wouldn't have blinked. No, it was the children. The souls taken on their watch. That hit like rot in the spine.
It made Nightingale want to shave that smug cat-ball bald and drag her tail-first to proper enforcement—maybe even hand her over to the outer patrol division that handled magical containment. Sonsters dealt in soulwork, not catch-and-release nonsense.
And she'd do it with a bow on top. Hell, she'd even call up her home girl Lettie—the one she met at Outer Space Burning Man. Lettie and her husband lived for that chaotic mess, the kind of couple that would jump into a black hole just to 'jump that pussy,' as Lettie once put it with full chest and glitter boots. They'd helped round up the souls of a whole batch of 27s—poor, chaotic souls who stampeded straight into a forgotten realm once full of sentient animals. If anyone knew how to handle Catty-level mess, it was them.
Though Nightingale wasn't about to sign the paperwork for a specific Sonter group to join them—not after last time. Too many rangers, not enough handlers.
Tiny stars spilled from the portal behind them—glowing, twinkling, and wearing miniature utility belts with spell-sanitizers and dimensional sponges. Each one buzzed with faint laughter as they zipped into formation, surrounding Nightingale and Sebastian like a swarm of radiant pixies.
A voice, deep and resonant like cosmic gravel, echoed from the stars in unison: "Please sign the witness and containment documentation for contact with The Guest—section 3, line 7, non-scheduled presence."
Nightingale groaned softly. Sebastian rolled his eyes but reached for the scroll.
They both began to read it thoroughly—eyes moving quickly, mouths grim. The Guest, meanwhile, floated to the side and conjured a full tea set with a snap, steam rising from the cups as they calmly sipped while the paperwork was signed.
The Guest didn't speak. They simply tilted their head.
The stars responded immediately, guiding the two Sonsters toward the same portal they'd just exited.
Nightingale and Sebastian finished signing the last of the paperwork, handing it off with mild exasperation before following. As they stepped toward the portal, they both couldn't help but glance at its shimmer—a polished ripple of light and geometry, swirling in perfect rhythm like a high-end security vault dressed as a piece of art.
"Looks expensive," Sebastian muttered.
"Probably patented," Nightingale replied.
Compared to the jagged, smoldering disaster Catty opened earlier, this was an interdimensional chariot. Catty's had looked off-brand. Nothing wrong with off-brand—unless it's a portal. Then you better hope it's properly warded, keyed, and licensed. Portals were easy to summon but even easier to mess up. And souls wouldn't even know what hit them until they were halfway through an eternity of wrong.
They stepped through. As they did, Nightingale and Sebastian kept trying to wipe the lingering slime off each other, even as it clung stubbornly to their skin and clothes. It had an odd, grape-like scent—somewhere between fermented space fruit and upscale bath bomb. Nightingale paused, sniffed her sleeve, then raised an eyebrow.
"We should bottle this," she muttered.
"Honestly, yeah. It's got some serious glow-up potential," Sebastian said, rubbing his fingers together. "You think AstralBloom would want it?"
AstralBloom—a cosmic makeup and skin-care brand beloved across the Peach Layered Dimensions—was known for harvesting rare anomalies from collapsed realms and forbidden gardens. They'd kill for sap that softened skin and left you smelling like an alien vineyard.
"If we filtered out the toxic, if it has any" Nightingale added "this stuff would sell like divine hotcakes."
Sebastian sniffed the residue again, rubbing some between his fingers. "You know," he said, thoughtful now, "this might actually help that one race with the fragile dermal layers—the ones that crack if they sneeze too hard."
The Guest, now seated near the portal with their tea floating serenely, offered a rare comment. Their voice rang low and steady, like velvet soaked in starlight. "That sap would do wonders—if it doesn't end up in the wrong hands. If you're going to offer aid, you must introduce it carefully."
Nightingale nodded, already in planning mode. "We know. Start small. Controlled group. Observe long-term effects. If the side effects are manageable, we greenlight."
Sebastian smirked faintly. "We know, Guest."
The Guest didn't respond—only took a slow sip of tea and watched them like an ancient guardian weighing the futures of their grandkids. Like every cell in their ageless being wanted to protect them from mistakes they hadn't made yet.
With one final glance between them, Nightingale and Sebastian stepped through the portal at The Guest's side. The tea steam curled like ribbons behind them, and the stars that had formed their temporary escort zipped off to finalize the filing. Their footsteps echoed soft but certain, swallowed quickly by the calm hush of the new world awaiting them on the other side.
On the other side was a pristine gated community tucked into a sliver of transdimensional space—accessible only to certified Sonsters. The buildings were smooth and minimal, designed with sleek alien geometry and soft matte colors that shifted ever so slightly under the light. It was more cyberpunk suburb than neon overload, with subtle highlights glowing at the edges of pathways, windows, and doorframes.
The sky above shimmered with layered clouds and drifting moons that didn't belong together, a tapestry of stolen heavens. Beings of all kinds moved with purpose, running errands and completing reports. You could hear filing spells in action, smell fresh ink fused with ionized ozone, and see magical children darting through the community with time-stabilized frisbees and floating backpacks.
But as soon as Nightingale and Sebastian emerged, covered in drying purple goo and half-burnt uniforms, everything stopped.
Every Sonster on the block turned.
There was no shame. No gossip. No questions about failure. Even Sonsters knew not every mission was a success—and sometimes, just surviving meant you had already done better for the realms. As long as they tried, as long as they came back with purpose, they hadn't failed. Not really.
Instead, people ran toward them.
Someone tossed a towel. Another handed Sebastian a hot drink. A spectral chef dropped a lunchbox into Nightingale's arms, and a sentient cloak draped itself around her shoulders. A small flood of kids surrounded them, offering glowing bandages, cookies, and highly suspicious energy drinks. Adults and admin workers joined in soon after, voices overlapping:
"How are you even standing with that much goo on you?"
"Does it sting?"
"Can I smell it?"
"Is it sticky or just wet-sticky?"
"That purple stuff looks like it belongs in a smoothie."
"Wait, is it glowing more now or is that just me?"
"Do you think it's edible?"
"Are you gonna keep some?"
"Can I keep some?!"
It was a chorus of concern and curiosity, a thousand questions being hurled in their direction by well-meaning peers who couldn't help but want the full story. That was, until The Guest snapped their fingers.
The sound was gentle—polite, even—but it cut through the noise like a divine command. Everyone stopped. Heads turned.
The Guest gave Nightingale and Sebastian a subtle look—a gesture more felt than seen. It was permission. A cue.
The crowd fell quiet, waiting for them to speak.
"We're fine, really," Nightingale tried to say, flashing a tired but steady smile. "Catty's on the naughty list now, though. Or as they say on Sector Vru'lok-7, "Klik'than virosh'ta crendt'da," which roughly translates to "cast from the harmony spiral.""
"Yeah, it was just a weird mission," Sebastian added, gently fending off a concerned dog-person trying to shine his boots. "We'll file the paperwork in the morning. You'll see it on the official briefings soon enough."
Eventually, The Guest motioned again, and the crowd parted. The pair were escorted to their home: a small, cozy family house on the outside, tucked beside a glowing mailbox and a garden that looked like it grew spell components.
Inside, it was enormous—cathedral ceilings, multi-story bookshelves, floating stairs, personalized biomes, and a singing pantry that restocked itself.
They stepped in and, without missing a beat, closed the door in The Guest's face.
Then opened it slowly again.
"Please come in, dear Guest," Nightingale said, deadpan.
It wasn't personal. It was protocol.
A recent comic-book incursion had left several Sonsters shaken after shapeshifting entities began impersonating The Guest to break into private homes. To be safe, The Guest had even called one of their siblings—What—to make sure the shapeshifters weren't pulling tricks in real time. Now, even if it was The Guest, a verbal invitation was required—at least on evening days of the week, when protocol grew tighter due to cross-realm distortions and shapeshifter activity.
Nightingale looked down, her voice quieter this time. "Boundaries," she muttered, a flicker of sadness behind her eyes. It wasn't easy having to report on someone they trusted—someone who had once done so much for them.
The Guest gave a slow swirl, a gesture of approval, reading the heaviness in the room with something like understanding.
"House rules," Sebastian added, already unlacing his boots and trying to peel off a goop-stained jacket that clung to him like regret. He moved toward the kitchen. "I'll start the tea."
The Guest's voice shimmered into the space. "I'll prepare a meal. Get ready. Clean yourselves up. And bag the remaining goo before you forget—it may be useful later."
The Guest, faceless and silent, stepped through with a grace that defied physics.
Nightingale and Sebastian began to get ready. Nightingale paused by the small crib tucked near the bookshelf—just a moment too long—her eyes soft, unreadable. Then she turned and followed Sebastian into the adjacent room.
Inside, they activated a wall console, and a hologram burst to life. It was a fox—sleek, stylized, and glowing faintly in warm tones. The fox chirped in a friendly tone, "Bag and clean today."
"Sí," Sebastian replied, already moving to collect supplies.
They worked quietly but efficiently, scooping the purple sap into containment bags and scrubbing down equipment. As they wiped the last of it from the walls, The Guest drifted past the open door, setting out a collection of dishes with ceremonial care.
They handed the guest their bags full of evidence, and The Guest's swirling face began to accelerate, colors and symbols flashing rapidly as they processed. "The souls have been located," The Guest finally said, their voice like a calm thunderclap. "All fifty are accounted for. They've dispersed across realms that are aware of the others—meaning they won't need to hide who they are."
Nightingale's face lit up, and in a bright alien chirp, she exclaimed something untranslatable but clearly joyful. "I can full-on alien!" she beamed.
Sebastian let out a laugh, wiping his hands clean. "Less paperwork, and we don't have to pretend anymore. I just hope those children landed in kind realms."
The Guest shrugged with timeless neutrality. "Fifty-fifty odds."
They all sat around the meal, laughter bubbling up as they recalled the chaos, failures, and weird little victories of the mission. But as they passed around a bowl of something glowing and sweet, The Guest's tone shifted.
"Would you like to talk about children?"
The room went still. Nightingale and Sebastian paused, their hands reaching for each other instinctively. The Guest turned their head toward Sebastian.
"I assume you've told your wife what the other soulworkers found out? About your core? That your own soul wasn't fully stable... yet it's fused now. Which makes adoption rights the best path for you."
Sebastian nodded slowly, his voice thick. "Yeah. We talked."
The Guest continued, voice soft but certain. "One of the Twelve Sisters reached out. Said she found a soul that doesn't belong to them. It's already begun forming around you both—rooted, anchored, and fusing. And though traditional birthing isn't an option for both ya. Sebatian's soul has already taken shape into something whole. One of my stars will deliver the child, when the time comes."
Nightingale's eyes watered slightly. "They're returning?"
"In a sense," The Guest confirmed. "You'll need rest. After this mission, your due for time off. And the rescued children... are you still planning to raise some of them?"
Both nodded. "Absolutely."
"Then it's settled."The Guest clapped once—dishes vanished, scrubbed clean with starlight. As they rose, Sebastian and Nightingale spoke in sync.
"Don't get excited."
But they were smiling.