The paste didn't leave his mouth.
It didn't matter how many times Zidane scraped his tongue against his teeth or how many gulps of lukewarm bilge-water he forced down like medicine. The taste stayed—oil and bitter herbs and a faint chemical sweetness like somebody had tried to invent food as a prank.
He crouched by a maintenance grate, fingers hooked through the slats, and spat again.
Nothing came up. Just saliva and pride.
"Okay," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm not dying. I'm not throwing up. I'm not giving Marcus the satisfaction of—"
Quina leaned in beside him and stared into the grate like it was an interesting soup.
"Drink?" Quina asked.
Zidane glanced at the black water below, then at Quina. "No."
Quina blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm trying to stay alive long enough to be exploited properly," Zidane said. Then he winced, because the truth had slipped out sideways. He covered it fast with a grin. "Also it's gross. Even for you."
Quina considered. "Gross is food."
"Gross is sometimes food," Zidane corrected. "Gross is also… what happened to my dignity five minutes ago."
Quina stared at him for a long moment, then patted his knee once, solemn as a priest.
"Strong," Quina said.
Zidane's chest tightened. He hated that part of himself that wanted to lean into it. He hated that Quina could do that with one word.
So he did what he always did when his feelings tried to become real.
He pulled out the coin.
It sat in his palm like a tiny sun, heavy enough to remind him it wasn't imaginary. A real coin. A real job. A real trap.
He flipped it once, caught it on the back of his hand.
Quina's eyes followed the motion with the sharp focus of a predator watching prey.
"Eat?" Quina asked hopefully.
Zidane snorted. "You can't eat money."
Quina tilted its head. "Why?"
"Because—because then how would I buy you food?"
Quina blinked slowly, as if he'd just answered the world's biggest riddle.
"Ah."
Zidane rolled the coin over his knuckles, casual. His fingers were steady even if his stomach wasn't. He made it look like a trick because that was what he was good at—turning panic into performance.
He palmed the coin, let it vanish. Then he snapped his fingers.
One coin became five.
Quina's mouth opened in a silent, reverent little "o."
Zidane grinned, sharp and proud. "See? Magic."
Quina leaned closer, eyes bright.
Zidane spread the five coins in his palm like a fan of cards. The original gold piece sat with four smaller silvers—duller, scuffed, the kind you found in pockets and under crates and in the soft places people forgot to check.
He hadn't found them under crates.
He'd found them in Marcus.
When Marcus had leaned in, when he'd been laughing, when the paste tin had been close enough to smell and Zidane's humiliation had been loud enough to drown out everything else—Zidane's fingers had moved on their own. A reflex. A survival tic.
A little theft to prove he still existed.
He'd stolen the extra coins so cleanly Marcus would never even feel the loss. Not now. Not ever. Marcus would just think he'd spent them already, somewhere, on something stupid.
Zidane closed his fist around the money and held it tight until the edges bit his skin.
"Okay," he whispered, grin still on. "So we're not totally dead yet."
Quina watched him like it understood the part he wasn't saying.
Then it said, very politely, "Friend is sad."
Zidane's grin twitched.
"I'm not sad," he said immediately. Too fast.
Quina blinked. "Friend is mad."
Zidane exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. That one."
He stood, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and started moving, because if he stopped moving, he'd start thinking about the job.
And thinking about the job felt like standing too close to the edge of something high.
They climbed out of the belly and into the backstage corridors where the Prima Vista's theater life lived. The air changed as he walked—less engine heat, more sawdust and sweat and fabric dye. The ship was still breathing, still humming, but the human noise was louder up here, layered like music: boots on wood, a rope squealing, someone cursing about missing makeup.
Zidane slipped past a curtain and nearly collided with a rack of costumes.
A hand caught his shoulder before his head met a metal pole.
"Easy," a voice said, warm and steady. "You trying to knock yourself out before work?"
Zidane looked up.
Blank.
Blank's grin was softer than Marcus's and bigger than Baku's. It was the kind of grin that made you feel like you'd been included in the joke before you even knew what the joke was. His hair was tied back, sleeves rolled, hands stained with paint and rope-burn.
He had the posture of someone who could lift you with one arm and still ask if you were okay.
Zidane forced his grin into place. "Working on my dramatic collapse. It's for the show."
Blank's eyes flicked over Zidane's face, the slight pallor, the way his jaw tightened like he was biting back nausea.
Blank didn't call him out.
He just said, "Cinna's looking for you. Baku too."
Zidane's stomach lurched.
"Love that for me," Zidane said quickly. "Big day. Important. Everybody wants Zidane."
Quina peeked out from behind Zidane's leg like a shy animal.
Blank blinked at it. "What is that."
"Friend," Quina said.
Blank laughed. "Alright. Friend." He crouched slightly, offered his hand like you did to a stray cat. "You bite?"
Quina considered the hand like it was evaluating a menu.
Zidane stepped between them on instinct, smile too bright. "It's polite. Mostly. Don't make sudden movements."
Blank straightened, hands up. "Noted."
Then he leaned in just enough to keep his voice private and said, softer, "You okay?"
Zidane's grin faltered for half a beat.
He could have said the truth.
He could have said: Marcus fed me stage glue and Baku smiled like it was love and now I'm being shipped to Alexandria like a crate of props.
Instead, he said, "Yeah. I'm great. Never been better. My stomach's just… full of ambition."
Blank's eyes narrowed the way they did when he didn't believe you but decided not to push because pushing was how you broke people.
"Mm," Blank said. "Well. Don't die. We need you."
Zidane laughed, because that was hilarious. "Sure."
Blank's hand squeezed Zidane's shoulder once—firm, grounding—then he stepped aside.
"Cinna's in the prop bay," he said. "Baku's on the top deck."
Zidane nodded, already moving, because staying near warmth made it harder to accept the cold parts.
The prop bay was chaos in the most theatrical way possible.
Fake swords leaned against real crates. Painted shields stacked like colorful lies. A massive papier-mâché dragon head sat on a bench, mouth open, eyes empty, looking like it was waiting to eat someone whole.
Cinna stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, expression pinched like he was holding back ten different disasters at once. His hands were ink-stained. His apron was smeared with glue and paint.
He saw Zidane and pointed like a judge.
"Where have you been?" Cinna snapped.
Zidane lifted both hands, palms out. "Good morning to you too. I was—"
"Don't," Cinna said, instantly. "I don't want the joke. I want you to do what I asked."
Zidane blinked. "You asked me something?"
Cinna's glare could have cut rope. "You were supposed to bring me the aether-lamps from the storage hatch."
Zidane's stomach sank.
He remembered the cloth bundle in his pocket. The crystal-cell. The little hum of stolen moonlight.
He smiled anyway. "Right. Yeah. The aether-lamps. I was just… testing their security."
Cinna made a sound that wasn't quite a sigh and wasn't quite a threat. "We're moving today. Alexandria. Royal gig. You know what that means?"
Zidane's grin stiffened. "We get paid?"
Cinna leaned closer, voice low. "It means if you screw up, you don't get beaten. You get disappeared."
Zidane's jokes tried to sprint ahead of the fear again.
They tripped.
"Relax," Zidane said quickly. "I'm very… disappear-able."
Cinna stared at him like he'd just said something obscene.
"That's not—" Cinna started, then cut himself off, grinding his teeth. He pointed at a stack of long, thin crates near the back wall. They were stenciled with a stage company mark and the words FIREWORKS / DO NOT DROP.
Zidane eyed them. "Those are fireworks?"
Cinna's mouth tightened. "They're whatever Baku says they are."
Zidane's skin prickled.
Cinna jabbed a finger at him. "You're taking those to the upper cargo hold. Carefully."
Zidane looked at the crates again.
They were too long for fireworks. Too heavy for stage tricks. The wood was reinforced with metal bands. Someone had driven extra nails in like they didn't trust the lid to stay shut.
Zidane's grin came back, automatic. "Carefully. Got it. I'm the picture of careful."
Quina waddled to the nearest crate and sniffed.
Then Quina's head tilted—sharp, sudden. The "conceptual threat" tilt, the one Zidane had noticed even if he didn't have a name for it.
Quina went still.
Zidane's fingers brushed his own wrist without thinking.
"Hey," he murmured, not looking at Quina. "Don't."
Quina blinked once. Stayed still.
Cinna watched the exchange like he'd just glimpsed something he didn't understand.
"What's wrong with your… friend?" Cinna asked.
Zidane's grin sharpened. "It's hungry."
Quina said, very politely, "Wood smells scared."
Cinna's face tightened. "That doesn't mean anything."
Zidane laughed too loud. "Sure it does. Wood's terrified of being nailed. Relatable."
Cinna didn't laugh. "Move the crates."
Zidane grabbed one end of the top crate and nearly swore out loud when the weight hit his arms.
"Okay," he panted, smiling like it was fine. "Definitely fireworks. Fireworks are famously heavy like dying."
He dragged it across the floor, boots squealing, Quina waddling alongside like an escort.
The crate's weight wasn't just physical. It had presence. A low, crystalline hum under the wood, like something inside it wanted to be awake.
Zidane didn't like that kind of hum.
It reminded him of the crystal-cell in his pocket. It reminded him of hunger with teeth.
He hauled the crate up the narrow stairs toward the cargo hold. The ship's corridors pinched and turned, forcing him to tilt the crate sideways, forcing his shoulder into the wall, scraping paint off the wood.
Halfway up, he heard laughter behind him.
Marcus's laughter.
Zidane didn't turn. He didn't have to.
Marcus stepped into the stairwell anyway, leaning against the rail like this was his stage and Zidane was the set.
"Well," Marcus drawled. "Look at you. Working. So proud."
Zidane kept hauling, breath tight. "Go away."
Marcus's grin widened. "That's not how you talk to your seniors."
Zidane huffed. "You're not my senior. You're my… disease."
Marcus laughed, delighted. "Aw. He's got bite today."
Quina stared at Marcus with a calm so absolute it was unsettling.
Marcus noticed.
He glanced at Quina's mouth. The teeth. The way Quina didn't smile like a normal pet. The way it watched like it was waiting for the right moment to decide what Marcus was.
Marcus's grin didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened.
"What did you find?" Marcus asked Zidane, casually. "Down in the hull."
Zidane's heart stuttered.
His jokes accelerated instantly.
"I found a new appreciation for sanitation," Zidane said, too fast. "I found a rat that—"
"Mm," Marcus said, cutting him off. His tone stayed playful. His eyes did not. "You're carrying that like you know what's inside."
Zidane forced a laugh. "Fireworks."
Marcus stepped closer, one hand resting on the crate like an affectionate petting gesture.
The crate hummed under his palm.
Marcus's eyes flicked to Zidane's pocket where the cloth bundle sat.
Zidane's skin went cold.
Marcus leaned in and whispered, almost intimate, "Don't steal from the troupe, kid."
Zidane's grin held. His jaw tightened.
"I would never," he said lightly, and then, because something in him hated being owned, he added, "I steal from individuals. It's more personal."
For a half second, Marcus's grin sharpened into something real.
Then he chuckled and stepped back.
"That's better," Marcus said. "That's you."
Zidane wanted to bite him.
Quina, apparently, agreed.
Quina leaned forward slightly and said, politely, "Man will be eaten."
Marcus blinked.
Zidane's laugh burst out too loud. "It means… it means 'have a nice day.' Quina's from—" He waved vaguely. "Somewhere."
Marcus stared at Quina for a beat too long, then looked back at Zidane and smiled like he'd just found a new game.
"See you in Alexandria," Marcus said pleasantly. "Try not to embarrass us."
Zidane watched him go, chest tight, hands shaking just enough to remind him his body knew danger even when his mouth pretended it didn't.
He dragged the crate the rest of the way up.
The cargo hold was already packed. Costumes. Rigging. Set pieces. Crates of painted masks. The big dragon head lashed down like it was a prisoner.
Baku stood near the open hatch, silhouetted against sky-light, cigar smoke curling around him like a crown.
He didn't look like a man preparing for a play.
He looked like a man preparing for war.
Zidane shoved the crate into the stack with a grunt and wiped his hands on his pants. Grease smears joined paint smears joined sweat.
Baku's voice boomed without turning. "Good. You're here."
Zidane's grin snapped back into place. "Miss me?"
Baku finally looked at him. His smile was big, warm, practiced. Family, like a contract.
"Always," Baku said.
Zidane felt his stomach turn.
Baku nodded toward the crate Zidane had hauled. "You didn't drop it. That's growth."
Zidane shrugged like it was nothing. "I'm evolving."
Baku's smile widened. "Alexandria likes evolving."
Zidane's grin faltered. "Alexandria likes what?"
Baku took a step closer, voice lowering. "Listen, kid. This job? It's delicate."
Zidane's jokes revved. "Delicate. Sure. Like carrying fireworks up stairs while getting threatened by Marcus."
Baku ignored the jab. "We perform. We charm. We take what we came for."
Zidane stared at him. "We're stealing from royalty."
Baku's eyes gleamed. "We're borrowing."
Zidane snorted. "Borrowing forever."
Baku chuckled like that was adorable, then his tone shifted—warmer, gentler, which always meant more dangerous.
"And you," Baku said, "are going to be seen."
Zidane's grin froze.
Baku continued, casual as a man ordering lunch. "You're going to be where you're supposed to be. You're going to do what you always do—slip through places you don't belong—and then you're going to let yourself get caught."
Zidane's mouth went dry.
He tried to laugh. It came out thin. "That's a weird direction."
Baku's smile didn't change. "It's the direction."
Zidane's fingers touched his wrist again without thinking. A tell. A leash. Something in him resisted—some reflexive animal panic at the idea of being trapped on purpose.
"Why?" Zidane asked, voice still light, but the joke was dead now. "Why me."
Baku's eyes softened, and Zidane hated that it worked.
"Because you're good," Baku said warmly. "Because you can handle it. Because you're family."
Zidane flinched internally. Outside, he smiled.
"Family doesn't usually hand you to the guards," he said.
Baku's smile widened like a wound opening. "Guards. Public Safety." He said the words like they were just another stage crew. "They'll rough you up. You'll survive. Then we finish the job."
Zidane's chest tightened.
He saw it suddenly: himself in some Alexandria cell, wrists bound, throat dry, Quina gone. He saw himself being asked questions he couldn't answer without getting someone killed. He saw himself being useful in a way that didn't leave him with anything afterward.
He laughed once, sharp. "You're selling me."
Baku's smile stayed warm. "I'm placing you."
Zidane's grin snapped into something mean. "Same thing."
Baku's eyes hardened. Just slightly. "Watch your tone."
Zidane's voice dropped. Simple. "No."
Baku stared at him.
The cargo hold felt smaller, air thicker. The hum from the long crates vibrated against Zidane's bones like a warning.
Baku took one step closer. His voice stayed friendly. His words did not.
"You want to eat?" Baku asked, as if it was a genuine question. "You want to sleep in warmth and not in the Mist? You want to stay on this ship?"
Zidane didn't answer.
Baku leaned in, cigar smoke curling between them like a veil.
"Then you do what I say," Baku murmured. "Because out there?" He nodded toward the open hatch and the sky beyond it. "Out there doesn't give a damn if you're charming."
Zidane's throat worked.
He wanted to say: I'm not a thing you can trade.
He didn't.
He said, "Where would I even go."
Baku's smile returned full force. "That's my boy."
Zidane's hands clenched.
Quina waddled forward, suddenly between them, looking up at Baku.
Baku blinked. "What's it doing."
Quina stared at him and said, politely, "Big man smells like rope."
Zidane's laugh burst out, sharp and nervous. "It means… you're… reliable."
Baku stared at Quina for a beat, then chuckled.
"Fine," Baku said. "The pet can come."
Zidane's head snapped up. "No."
The word came out before he could sugarcoat it.
Baku's brows lifted. "No?"
Zidane's grin scrambled back into place, but it was cracked now. "I mean—Alexandria's not… pet-friendly."
Baku's smile warmed, dangerous. "You don't get picky."
Zidane's stomach dropped.
Quina looked up at Zidane, blank and patient, like it had already decided the outcome didn't change its loyalty.
Zidane's fingers brushed his pocket where the coins sat. His throat tightened.
He tried a different angle, because humor was the only blade he had that didn't get him killed immediately.
"C'mon," Zidane said, forcing it light. "If Quina eats a noble, I'll never hear the end of it."
Quina nodded. "Will eat noble."
Baku laughed loudly. "See? It's got spirit."
Zidane swallowed his panic and nodded like he'd agreed.
Because he'd lost.
Baku clapped Zidane's shoulder, hard enough to sting. "Get dressed. Get cleaned up. We dock near nightfall."
Zidane's grin stayed. His insides did not.
He turned away before Baku could see his face falter.
He found Blank near the costume racks, tying down a bundle of stage capes like they were lifelines. Zidane hovered at the edge of his space for half a second too long.
Blank looked up.
Zidane tried to speak. Tried to turn it into a joke.
Nothing came out.
Blank's eyes sharpened. "What did he say."
Zidane forced a grin so bright it nearly cracked. "He said I'm special."
Blank's expression went flat. "That's not funny."
Zidane's grin twitched. "Yeah. I know."
Blank stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Are you in trouble."
Zidane opened his mouth.
He could have said: They're going to hand me over.
He could have said: They're going to take Quina.
He didn't.
He heard Baku's voice in his head—family, like a contract—and felt the old, stupid fear of being thrown away if he made himself inconvenient.
So he said, "Just… don't let Marcus near my stuff."
Blank stared at him for a beat too long, then nodded once. "Okay."
That was all Blank gave him. Not a promise. Not a speech. Just a simple acknowledgement like a hand on the back of his neck.
It almost broke Zidane.
He turned away fast.
—
The Prima Vista cut through the night like a stolen thought.
Wind screamed past the rigging. Moonlight turned the sails pale and ghostly. Below them, the Mist roiled like a living bruise—thick bands of gray-white cloud, faintly luminous, pulsing in slow breaths.
Zidane hated looking at it too long.
The Mist felt like a memory you weren't supposed to touch.
He lay curled between crates in the cargo hold, the dragon head looming above him like a judgemental god. Quina sat beside him, perfectly content, gnawing on a piece of rope like it was dinner.
Zidane watched Quina chew and tried not to think about teeth.
The ship rocked gently. Somewhere above, laughter rose and fell—tantalus banter, performer energy, "we're family" jokes stacked like cards.
Zidane didn't feel like laughing.
He still tasted paste when he swallowed.
He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tried to scrape it away.
Quina paused chewing and stared at him.
"Friend hurts," Quina said.
Zidane's grin tried to appear. It failed halfway.
"I'm fine," he said, automatic.
Quina blinked. "Friend lies."
Zidane huffed a laugh. "You can't just say that."
Quina tilted its head. "Why?"
"Because—" Zidane started, then stopped because the answer was stupid. Because if Quina said it out loud, it became real. And Zidane didn't want real. Real got you sold.
He breathed out slowly and leaned his head back against a crate.
"Okay," he muttered. "Okay. Listen. We're gonna go to Alexandria. We're gonna do the job. We're gonna get paid. We're gonna not die. Easy."
Quina nodded solemnly. "Easy."
Zidane stared at it. "You don't know what easy means."
Quina blinked. "Hungry means hungry."
Zidane laughed, too quiet. "Yeah."
He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the coins. Warm. Sharp. Proof he still had hands.
He wasn't sure what he was doing. He just… needed something to do with his hands.
He flipped one silver coin to Quina.
Quina caught it in both hands and stared at it like it had been gifted a moon.
Then Quina opened its mouth.
Zidane sat up so fast he almost cracked his head on the dragon jaw.
"NO," he hissed.
Quina froze, coin halfway to its mouth.
Zidane's voice softened quickly, because he hated how harsh he'd sounded. "No. Don't. That's… food. For later."
Quina blinked slowly, then—very carefully—closed its mouth and held the coin out to Zidane.
"Friend needs," Quina said.
Zidane's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
He took the coin back with shaking fingers and shoved it into his pocket like it was dangerous.
"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Okay. Thanks. You're… you're good."
Quina's mouth curved faintly. "Good."
Zidane leaned forward and rested his forehead against Quina's hat for one second—a ridiculous little touch, like pressing his head against a warm animal to prove it existed.
Then he pulled back immediately, embarrassed by his own softness, and stared up at the cargo hatch.
"Do you think," he whispered, "they'll take you."
Quina blinked, calm.
Then it said, like weather, "Friend stays."
Zidane swallowed.
He wanted to believe that.
The ship suddenly shuddered.
Not the gentle rocking of wind. A hard jolt. Metal groaning. The sails snapping like someone had yanked them.
Voices rose above-deck—shouts, sudden and sharp, the rhythm of surprise.
Zidane sat up, heart punching his ribs. His jokes tried to sprint back into his mouth.
They died there.
A red lantern flared on outside the cargo hatch—emergency light, the kind used when the ship wanted you to know: pay attention or die.
Boots thundered overhead. Not troupe boots. He knew troupe boots. Troupe boots were chaotic.
These were measured.
Intentional.
The cargo hatch clanged.
A voice cut through the wood, amplified by something aetheric—metallic, authoritative, too clean to be crew.
"PRIMA VISTA," it barked. "THIS IS ALEXANDRIA PUBLIC SAFETY. CUT POWER AND PREPARE FOR INSPECTION."
Zidane's stomach turned to ice.
Quina went still beside him, head tilting as if tasting the word Public Safety.
Zidane's fingers flew to his wrist again, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing like he could erase the feeling of being trapped by friction.
He heard Baku's laugh in his head. They'll rough you up. You'll survive.
He heard Marcus's voice, cheerful. See you in Alexandria.
The hatch began to open.
Light spilled through the seams—white and cold, like a spotlight.
Zidane's breath caught.
And in the instant before the latch fully gave, before the ship's belly was exposed to the world above, he realized—
This wasn't docking.
This was being collected.