“If you could search for such and keep the watch as well… that would be extremely helpful right now. Would you not agree, Gregor?” Miss Sword remarked before looking to Mister Snail.

Mischief turned her avatar to him as well, eager to have a task set for herself. Even as her new leader considered Miss Sword’s suggestion, Mischief began to spread out and plot how to accomplish it. The city was great, and canvassing it—turning over every stone, exploring each of its many nooks and crannies—would be a gargantuan task even when limited to where her many selves were. Smell would be integral. Food, both good and bad alike, had distinct odors that Mischief knew well from her time with the Blinds.

Sadness swelled up in Mischief as she thought of the beast that tore open Esel’s chest, cutting off their means of escape. Of how Cistern and Claymore gave their lives to hold them at bay while Tint and Mischief tried to lead Fifi, Big Jim, and the rest of their unpowered to safety. Of Tint’s black blood mixing with the red of the others’.

“Please see it done, Mischief,” Mister Snail spoke, drawing Mischief from her spiraling thoughts. She saw no sense in adding to the despair that hung thick over her company, so she made her avatar salute and reply, “Already on it!” with a cheerful affectation. The sorrow that had bloomed was forced upon her other selves instead. She would smile even as she sobbed elsewhere. She was many.

And as she maneuvered her avatar into the kitchen to take stock of the food immediately available, the balance of the many—of the whole—shifted. Some of Mischief’s selves happened to pass near rats who then became part of the whole and in turn left Mischief no longer quite feeling like a ‘she.’ They did not pause in their hunt for food, far too inoculated to their shifting sense of self. Masculine or feminine, more selves or less… to them, these were no different than becoming hungry—ephemeral feelings that invariably changed.

Miss Sword and Mister Snail spoke then she left down the hall while he left with Miss Rinth to a different room. Mischief tracked them all with some of their selves just as they had done with Newter and Miss Fire, effortlessly splitting their attention between all of them and the task Mister Snail had tasked Mischief. Granted, it meant they had less bodies to comb for food, but some things were more important—no one should be alone now of all times.

Though following and understanding all the input from each of their many selves was facile, their expanded awareness of the world was not proof against being caught unawares. It was neither an attack nor an ambush nor even an accident. Hot on the trail of scent they had tentatively pegged as abandoned pizza, one of their selves found it down in the sewer. A ‘B’ circumscribed and bisected by a line, etched into the wall just inside of a branching tunnel’s entrance. A mark to guide those who slept in the depths—a blind.

“Can you believe she—?” | Oh, that smelled heavenly! Mischief wanted that for dinner! | “That was awesome! I think tha— Ugh!! Goddamn rats!” | “¿Hernando? ¿Jorge? ¿Que pasa?” | Cat! RUN! | The orange boy hunting them bound along the sewer, never missing a landing. Mischief let his self’s instinct take over to mask his control | Who throws away a half eaten chocolate bar? Well, more food for Mischief | “Pizza goin’ out. C’mooon!” | “Goddammit, Jay—what am I supposed to do now?!” | Esel stepped forward out of shadows as Mischief signaled with his avatar, pointing to the batch of bread on top of the dumpster | “Tint, sir! The orange boy is coming! Esel—” | A sound like nails on a chalkboard tore through the air. Unnatural—what? The ground shook as—

“Mischief?”

It took Mischief several moments to parse sensations, to push aside the thick haze laid over her and smell and see and hear again. Thick and cloyingly sweet like the strangest honey, Mischief knew Newter’s scent. Distinct. Inviting. Dangerous. He was there with their self, but not with the self inside with Miss Fire with her too, too loud noise clasped around her ears. They knew they had diverted others to follow when he climbed through the window, but the memory was separate—distant.

“Are you okay, dude? You’re shaking.”

They were? They were. It was almost autonomous how they quashed the unconscious reaction into a myriad pieces to distribute amongst themself, but they failed. In the dark depths and under the morning sun, all of Mischief’s selves sobbed and shook, too enveloped in their own sadness to take more.

Bright orange gently settled down next to one of their selves. “I, uh, can’t exactly— y’know, touch you, but I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.”

They wept, and he stayed. It helped.