Condensation and Irrigation
Elias POV
What a weird dream.
First, I wake up on some island. Then I'm almost executed by a tiger-lady. And then—plants. Plants with eyes.
Yeah. Crazy is definitely the right word.
I lie there for a few blissful seconds, letting the warm rays of morning sunlight hit my face. My body aches, but the light feels… honest, grounding, comforting, even. I breathe in the scent of salt, wood, and soil—foreign but alive.
Then my eyes adjust.
Same wooden walls. Same thatched roof. Same low-lit shack I woke up in before. Except this time, there's company.
Two pots sit neatly on a crate beside the bed. Inside them are—yep, you guessed it—the very same sentient plants from yesterday. The sunflower perks up immediately, petals swaying in greeting, its round face pulling into that same eerie, cheerful grin. The pea plant lifts its head, puffing out its leafy chest before raising a stubby leaf in what looks suspiciously like a salute.
"Uh… hi?" I manage, my voice halfway between politeness and panic.
They respond by tilting slightly toward me, almost proud.
Oh. They're still here. Which means—
"Oh, hell. That wasn't a dream," I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
Right. I almost died yesterday.
Before I can start panicking again or question the laws of botany and magic, two voices cut through the air from the doorway.
"Ah, young man, you have awoken," comes a deep, steady voice—warm but commanding.
"Elias! You're awake!" says another, brighter, and instantly recognizable.
I see Blake Belladonna standing in the doorway, relief flashing in her amber eyes. Beside her looms the large, broad-shouldered man who had stood up for me in the hall yesterday—dark fur-lined coat, calm but firm expression, feline tail swaying behind him.
Blake's father, then. The man who stopped my execution.
Ghira Belladonna.
And judging by the small, knowing smile on his face, I'm not sure whether to thank him… or start apologizing for whatever interdimensional nightmare I dragged into his home.
Blake POV
Relief loosens something in my chest. For a heartbeat, I let myself imagine a future where Elias—if he's honest and not some hidden threat—could be the kind of bridge I've only ever read about in old pamphlets and whispered debates. A human who didn't carry hatred. It would be…something.
I move to his bedside, slow and careful. He looks smaller up close—less like a mystery and more like someone who's been through hell. I offer my hand, a simple, human gesture. "I'm glad you're okay," I say. My voice is soft. It's meant to be calming.
He jerks his hand away before I touch him. Fear flickers across his face so raw it hurts to see. That fear hardens quickly into something else—apprehension, then coldness. He meets my eyes, and I realize he's not looking at me as an ally. He's braced for anything.
"Elias?" I try again, because he shouldn't have to be alone. "Are you—"
His voice cuts through mine like a snap. "What do you want?" No warmth. No gratitude. Only distance.
Before I can answer, Sienna's voice comes, as immaculate and heavy as her presence. "I see the prisoner is awake. Good." She steps into the doorway like a tide, all composed command and coiled muscle.
Elias's face changes in a way that makes something cold settle in my stomach: fear folding into a hard anger. He looks at Sienna like he can smell the edge of a blade.
"Listen well, human," Sienna intones, ceremonial and severe. "You have been given a task. Use whatever gift you possess to feed my people."
It's not a request. It's an offering wrapped in a threat.
He looks down, jaw tight. I watch his fingers flex, knuckles white. Then he answers—slow, deliberate, low. "And pray tell, why in the hell would I do that?"
For one single, perfect second, Sienna's smooth composure flickers. She straightens, putting on the posture of a ruler who must be obeyed. "Your life hangs in the balance. Should you refuse, you will be killed. You will do this and continue as long as we require." Each phrase is a deliberate, measured stone.
Anger blooms in him like a wound. He spits, "Shove it."
The words hit the hall like a thrown stone. Sienna's expression hardens—the mask of leadership snapping into place. "Excuse me?" she snaps, more hiss than word.
He grins—no, it's not a smile. It's a defiant slash. "You're excused," he says, and his tongue lashes like lightning. "I don't think I heard you right—"
Sienna opens her mouth, and he cuts her off, louder, close enough that I can hear the spit of his defiance. "I said—SHOVE. IT."
The room trembles with a dozen minor reactions: a gasp, an indrawn breath, the shifting of boots. Ghira steps forward—not to strike, but because he can't help himself. Even the plants on Elias's cot—absurd as that sounds—tilt as if sizing up the storm.
For a second, I'm frozen between two certainties: the brutal logic Sienna's built her life on, and the raw, dangerous humanity in front of me. I don't know which will win.
And then Sienna speaks, voice low now, almost private, though the whole hall hears it: "You will learn. Or you will not live."
Her gaze pins him—no mercy, only consequence.
"Then do it. Pull the damn trigger, pussy."
The word echoes like a slap across the hall.
Every breath in the room catches. No one moves. Even the air seems to freeze around him.
Elias stands there—half-dressed, pale, shaking—but the fear that clung to him before is gone. In its place burns something rawer, angrier, alive.
For a moment, Sienna's eyes widened—shock flashed behind that perfect mask of control. Then her posture sharpened like a drawn blade.
"You dare," she hisses. "I could kill you where you stand right now!"
He doesn't flinch. "Yeah, so could a lot of people. Doesn't make you special."
The guards bristle; I can almost feel Eve reaching for her weapon. But Sienna holds up a hand, more out of pride than mercy, and Elias keeps talking, voice rising like a storm.
"You know, ever since I got here, people have threatened me. Hell, I actually have a reason to despise you all. My first waking moments were Ms. Blake's girlfriend trying to cut me in half!" He gestures sharply toward Eve, whose tail flicks in restrained fury. "I don't know what humans did to you—or what you've been through—but that doesn't give you the right to do this to me."
"How dare—" Sienna starts, but he cuts her off again, louder.
"I dare because I've been treated like a criminal since I arrived! Condemned to die without doing a damn thing wrong except existing! And now that you find out I've got some weird miracle power, you think that gives you the right to enslave me? Hell no!"
He's on his feet now, face to face with Sienna Khan herself. The room is a tinderbox. Even the plants by his bedside seem to respond—the sunflower straightening, the pea plant twitching, almost listening.
Sienna towers over him, her aura pressing like a weight—but he doesn't back down.
His voice softens, but the words hit harder than any shout.
"My grandpappy used to say something real smart: 'There comes a time in your life where death's all but guaranteed. When that happens, you've got two options—curl up in a puddle of your own piss, or face it head-on.'"
He pauses, eyes steady on hers, then cracks a grim half-smile.
"After almost dying yesterday, I'm fresh outta piss and tears."
Silence follows—thick, heavy, alive.
Sienna doesn't respond right away. Her jaw tightens. His hands clench and unclench, flexing her fingers as I can feel her murderous intent.
I can't decide if Elias Fernwell is the bravest idiot I've ever met… or the idiot who just changed everything.
Elias POV
The words are spilling faster than my brain can filter them. I can feel the blood pounding in my ears, but I don't stop.
"And now that you've found out I have these weird powers, you think that gives you the right to enslave me?!"
Sienna's face darkens, and the stripes along her arms shift with her anger. Her pupils narrow to slits, and her claws extend with a sharp, metallic hiss.
Oh, hell. Maybe I pushed too far—
No. No, screw that. After what she's put me through, after being nearly executed for existing, this is justice.
"I don't think you understand," I say, my voice rough but steady. "You need me. I don't need you. If you kill me—"
My words cut off as her hand shoots out faster than I can blink. Her claws wrap around my throat, lifting me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing.
My feet dangle. The world narrows to her burning amber eyes and the pressure crushing my windpipe.
"You run your mouth," she says, voice low and venomous, "but you forget—you are an auraless human."
Her other hand rises, claws poised directly over my heart. Each one gleams razor-sharp in the firelight.
The pea plant's stem quivers beside the bed—it launches, firing a glowing green shot aimed squarely at her. But Sienna moves with predatory precision, twisting me into the line of fire. The pea splatters harmlessly across my shoulder instead.
"For the crime of trespassing on our isle," she snarls, claws ready to strike, "I sentence you to—"
"Sienna!"
A voice booms through the chamber like thunder cracking open the sky.
Sienna's words die in her throat as a massive hand grips her wrist. Black energy—dense, shimmering, almost liquid—coats the newcomer's arms, radiating power that makes the air heavy.
Ghira Belladonna.
"Sienna, unhand him. Now." His tone leaves no room for argument.
For a heartbeat, they glare at each other—leader versus protector, authority versus conscience. Then, with a sharp exhale through bared teeth, Sienna releases me.
I fall hard, hitting the stone on my knees before collapsing onto my side. My lungs seize once, twice, before finally dragging in air again. Each breath burns like fire.
I cough, gasping, vision spinning. The sound of claws retracting echoes above me. The tension in the room feels like it could tear the walls apart.
Ghira stands over me, broad and immovable, his aura still crackling faintly in the torchlight. "This ends now, Sienna," he growls.
Sienna's expression is unreadable—a war between fury and restraint—but she steps back, tail lashing once before stilling.
"Leave!"
The single word cracks through the room like a thunderclap.
Ghira's voice carries a weight that makes even Sienna freeze mid-breath. I swear the torches flicker lower momentarily, as if the air is bowing to him.
"Ghira, you don't—" she begins, anger flashing in her eyes.
"I don't think you remember your station," he cuts her off, the deep rumble in his voice commanding absolute silence. You may lead the White Fang, but I am still the Chief of Menagerie and once held your position. And you are in my home."
His tail lashes once, sharp as punctuation. "You will leave. Now."
Sienna looks ready to argue for half a heartbeat, claws twitching at her sides. But Ghira's steady, ancient, alpha glare snuffs out her defiance like a candle in the wind.
She exhales sharply, masking her retreat with a scowl. "As you wish," she mutters, every word steeped in resentment. With a sharp turn of her tail, she storms out, the heavy doors slamming behind her.
And just like that—Ghira exhales. The fury drains from his frame like water pouring off stone. His shoulders settle. His aura dims. What's left is a mountain of a man with tired eyes and a quiet soul.
He turns to me. "My boy, I'm sorry for such rough treatment," he says gently. His voice is far from the booming roar moments ago—it's softer, almost fatherly.
I'm still on the ground, half-dazed, throat raw from her grip. I try to speak, but the words stumble, incredulous and bitter. "You—you think a sorry makes up for this?"
Ghira doesn't flinch. He kneels slightly, meeting my eye level, his expression heavy with something that looks a lot like shame.
"No," he says quietly. "I don't think any words can make up for what's been done to you. Not after how we treated you. You were wronged, and I will not defend that."
That… stuns me. Honesty wasn't what I expected.
I swallow hard, my anger still smoldering beneath exhaustion. "So what, you gonna try the same shtick as her? Ask me to 'serve the people' or whatever?"
He shakes his head slowly. "No," he says, and his tone shifts again—this time heavy, raw. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances. But you're right. I am asking for your help."
I narrow my eyes. "Asking or telling?"
He sighs, and when he speaks again, the strength in his voice gives way to quiet desperation. "More like… begging."
His ears flatten back, and the admission hangs between us like something fragile and human.
Ghira's voice is as gravity-laden as before. Still, it's laced with something I haven't heard since arriving here—sincerity.
"My people are starving," he begins, his tone even but heavy. "As I'm sure you know, this island is not fertile enough to grow normal crops. We rely on traders from other continents—men who profit from our desperation—to maintain a fragile, unhealthy stability."
He pauses, glancing around the dim room as if the shadows themselves are listening. Even Blake shifts uneasily beside him, ears flicking downward. She doesn't like hearing this—maybe because it's true.
Ghira continues, voice quieter but sharper, each word a confession he's forced to make. "My daughter has spoken of your… strange arrival. And now, with these unusual abilities you've shown, you've given me something I haven't had in years—hope."
That word hits differently. Hope. Coming from a man like him, it sounds both powerful and tragic.
His expression hardens. "Hope dashed by your treatment, and by our fear."
I stare at him, unsure if this is some new angle or a genuine plea. But then Ghira moves—and the world seems to hold its breath.
He kneels.
This mountain of a man slowly and deliberately lowers himself to the floor. His head bows until his forehead touches the cold ground.
"Please," he says, voice shaking just enough to sound human. "Please, help save my people."
The sight knocks the air out of me. Even Blake gasps softly—her golden eyes wide with disbelief. Her father, the chieftain of Menagerie, bowed before a human.
For a moment, all I can do is stare. I don't know whether to be honored or horrified.
"You're right," I finally manage. "I do have a reason to hate you guys. But right now, I'm pinning all that on Sienna and her White Fang zealots." My voice steadies as I cross my arms, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "Fine. I'll help. But what's in it for me?"
Ghira doesn't rise. "Once our people are self-sufficient," he says, his tone firm even from the ground, "we will pay you—generously—for your services. And if you wish it, I will see that you are provided a bullhead to travel anywhere in Remnant."
He's still bowed, still humbling himself, and it makes me uncomfortable in a way that threats never did. This isn't coercion. It's desperation.
I look over at the two potted plants—my accidental miracles. The sunflower bobs its head, petals swaying as if in agreement. The pea plant stares at me, leaves twitching like an impatient friend waiting for me to make the obvious choice.
Honestly, it's the best deal I will get out of this nightmare.
I take a deep breath. "Swear it," I say, my voice rough.
Ghira presses his fist to his chest. "I swear it—on my life, my ancestors, and before the Akua Holoholona themselves."
The sincerity in his tone hits me harder than I expect.
"Fine," I mutter after a long moment. "Yeah… I'll help. But once I'm done, I'm out of here. Understand?"
Ghira finally raises his head, and the faintest smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. "Understood."
For the first time since I landed on this island, I felt something close to control returning to my hands.
Or as the sunflower leans toward me again, something that looks like control.
XXX
After we sealed the deal with a handshake and more awkward gratitude than I knew what to do with, Ghira led me through the quieter part of town. The further we walked from the main hall, the hum of conversation and the ever-present crash of the sea faded, replaced by the dry rustle of wind through half-dead palms.
We stopped in front of a squat building wedged between two storage sheds. From the outside, it looked like every other structure in Menagerie—patchwork wood, rope-bound joints, and stubborn craftsmanship keeping decay at bay.
"We have set aside this area for you," Ghira said, pushing the door open with a low creak. "You'll have free rein here."
Inside, the air smelled of dust and neglect. Light filtered through narrow windows, cutting golden stripes across the room. Half-cracked from age, clay pots and old buckets were stacked along the wall. Bent metal tubing, wire coils, and fragments of old tools cluttered a worktable that stretched the length of the shack. A wooden stool waited beside it, its legs uneven. Against the far wall, a cot sat draped in a thin blanket that might have once been white.
It wasn't much. But it was mine.
Ghira stepped in behind me, brushing his fingers along one of the shelves. The gesture left a clean streak through the layer of grime coating the surface. "Sorry for the dust," he said. "We weren't expecting guests here, and we've had no use for this place in some time."
I set the two pots—the sunflower and the pea plant—onto the central bench. The sunflower immediately perked toward the light, petals opening wider. At the same time, the pea plant gave a faint shake as if inspecting its new quarters.
"It'll do," I said, half to myself, half to them.
Ghira inclined his head, satisfied. "Then I will leave you to it. If you require anything, just let me or my family know. We'll do our best to accommodate you."
He paused at the door, giving the little plants one last, curious look before entering the sunlight.
For a moment, silence settled over the room. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams of light. I dragged a sleeve across the workbench, clearing a space wide enough to work.
"Well," I muttered, glancing at my two leafy companions. "Guess it's time to see what we can do."
The sunflower turned toward me and seemed—just faintly—to nod.
After clearing the worst grime, I finally test whatever weird miracle I've been saddled with. The place looks decent now—tools lined up, floor swept, dust clouds evicted. It's not a lab, but it'll do.
I pat my pockets, searching for the starter kit every gardener needs. Nothing.
No seeds. No soil packets. Not even a forgotten granule of fertilizer.
"Shit," I mutter. "How the hell am I supposed to grow anything without seeds?"
As if the universe—or whatever cosmic prankster dropped me here—heard me, the sunflower started humming. It's not just movement this time, but a sound—a low, melodic vibration that builds in pitch until my skin prickles. The air itself seems to shimmer around its petals.
Every hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. "Oh, no. I know that look."
Last time a plant of mine started glowing, it launched a cannonball.
I drop to the floor, arms over my head, bracing for a pot-shattering explosion.
Instead…
Ding~
A gentle, crystalline tone fills the shack—like someone plucked the metal tines of a kalimba. Another note joins it, then another, until the air hums with soft, layered music. It's haunting, beautiful, and utterly alien.
When I lift my head, my workspace glows with gold.
Three small orbs hover above the bench, each no bigger than a marble. They float lazily, trailing faint, spiky wisps of light like tiny flares. Their centers pulse with steady radiance—soft, warm, and alive.
They look like miniature suns.
"A… sun," I breathe, stepping closer. Their warmth isn't harsh or burning—the gentle heat seeps into your bones after a long winter. Comforting. Inviting.
The sunflower watches me expectantly, its leafy face curved in what can only be described as pride.
Then, clear as day, a whisper curls through the air.
"Touch~"
I freeze. "What the hell?" My voice echoes against the walls. I look around—no one's here. Blake's not at the door. Ghira's long gone.
I glance back at the plants, but they're silent. Innocent. Waiting.
Every instinct screams at me not to. But curiosity wins—as it always does.
Slowly, I reach out, gloved fingers trembling. The light ripples as I make contact.
When my hand brushes one, all three orbs snap toward each other, merging into a single point of blinding brilliance. The glow shifts from gold to deep crimson, compressing tighter and tighter until it's a single heartbeat of red energy.
Then—clink.
A small, smooth object drops onto the workbench. The light fades, leaving behind a single orb the size of a large marble. It's red, faintly translucent, and pulses with an inner glow like a living ember.
Before I can say anything, the whisper returns—closer this time, almost teasing.
"Seed~"
I stare down at it, stunned.
A sunflower that makes suns, suns that make seeds, and a voice that sounds like it's laughing at me.
"Well," I murmur, picking up the orb, "guess we're skipping straight to the weird part of science today."
The red orb sits heavy in my hand, glowing faintly like a coal that refuses to die out. I enter the warm Menagerie air, the sand-dirt mixture crunching under my boots. The land stretches out around me—dry, brittle, stubborn. Every inch of it screams that it hasn't seen rain in months.
Kneeling, I dig a small hole with my trowel, the metal scraping against packed earth. "Alright," I mutter, holding the seed to the light. "Let's see what you've got."
I drop it gently into the hole and cover it with soil, patting the top smooth with my gloved hand. Then I wait.
A minute passes.
Then another.
No glow. No hum. No cosmic orchestra. Just the whisper of the wind and the faint rustle of palm leaves.
"Come on," I mumble. "You're supposed to do… something."
Nothing.
I think back to the sunflower, to the first time this insanity started—how it had reacted when I was crying. How it responded to… emotion.
"Alright, Elias," I mutter, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Think sad thoughts. You're in an unfamiliar world. No phone. No greenhouse. No Netflix. And you're probably never going home."
I wait for that telltale sting in my eyes. Nothing.
"I know I said I was out of tears," I sigh, staring at the dirt, "but I didn't mean it literally."
I sit back on my heels, brain spinning for another idea. "Okay, what do plants need? Water, light, nutrients…" My gaze drifts toward the nearby bucket and then down to myself.
A truly vile idea hits me.
"Ugh, no. No way. Too gross." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Especially since it'll probably end up sentient."
Another, slightly less revolting thought forms. It's not dignified—but it might work.
"…Guess we're going with sweat."
I look down at the freshly buried seed and sigh. "I'm so sorry, little one."
4 Hours Later
Four hours later, I'm drenched. My arms ache, my legs feel like overcooked noodles, and my shirt looks like it just came out of a washing machine made of misery. But hey, I've collected roughly three liters of sweat, and nothing does if that doesn't make me dedicated.
The sun's setting, painting the sky with hues of amber and violet. The world looks calmer than I feel.
"Sorry, little one," I mutter again, voice rough. "Dinner's served."
I pour the contents of my makeshift sweat collection into the watering can and drizzle it over the buried seed.
The ground shudders.
Instantly, the air ripples with heat. The soil splits open as roots—dark brown, thick as cables—burrow into the earth, spreading outward in jagged lines. A bark ring rises from the dirt, twisting into a sturdy cylinder. The smell of sap and ash fills the air as the bark blackens and hardens like charcoal.
Then, with a low, muffled whump, a burst of orange flame erupts from the center. The heat rushes outward, curling the air. The ring of wood flexes, reshaping itself into a stump with a face carved into its surface—two hollow eyes glowing with ember light, a broad, determined grin cut into the grain.
The fire flares brighter, reaching nearly six feet high, and the creature lifts its gaze to me. The flickering light dances across its bark-skin, making it look alive.
The fiery stump tilts its head slightly, the flame atop it crackling like laughter.
The sunflower waves proudly from its pot, as if showing off a sibling, and the pea plant pumps its little leaves in triumph.
And I just stand there, covered in sweat, staring at a living, breathing bonfire that's somehow happy to see me.
"Right," I breathe, dragging a hand down my face. "Sweat magic. That's a new one for the résumé."
XXX
I sit cross-legged in the dirt, surrounded by the strangest trio of plants the world—or whatever world this is—has ever seen. The air hums faintly with warmth and the soft crackle of Ignivar's fire. For the first time since waking up here, the silence feels peaceful instead of suffocating.
I glance between them, rubbing my hands together. "Alright," I say, "we've been through a lot, and I just realized I've been calling you all 'hey you' or 'plant thing.' That's just rude. If we're gonna keep working together, you deserve names."
The pea plant perks up first, its little leaves twitching with energy. I grin. "Okay, green friend, you're a pea plant that shoots peas. That's straightforward enough. So, scientifically speaking, you'd be something like… Pisum iaculator. Sounds fancy, right?"
It gives a proud little bounce, the tip of its stem nodding in approval.
"Right, but you also need an actual name." I tap my chin. "Hmm. Peatunia?"
The plant immediately folds its leaves across its chest, or whatever counts as one, and uses its tip to scrape a small symbol into the dirt. It's rough, but recognizable—the symbol for man.
"Oh," I blink. "You're a boy. My bad." I hold up my hands. "First time holding a conversation with sentient vegetation. Still learning the etiquette."
The plant waves it off with a lazy leaf flick. I can almost hear the plant version of a sigh.
"Okay, okay, no Peatunia. How about…" I snap my fingers. "Pip! Short, simple, friendly. Rolls off the tongue."
The pea shooter—Pip now—bobs his head happily, leaves rustling like applause.
I chuckle and turn toward the sunflower. It's leaning toward me, golden petals glowing faintly in the dusk. "You, my sunny friend. Scientific name: Helianthus annuus. Classic. But for an actual name…" I think for a moment, then smile. "How about Quetz? After Quetzalcoatl, the sun deity from Mesoamerican mythology. Feels fitting for a little ray of sunshine like you."
The sunflower sways gracefully, radiating approval, petals fluttering as if basking in its new identity.
Finally, I look toward the Torchwood—the living bonfire, the guardian stump with fire for hair. Its flame flickers higher, almost expectant.
"You," I say, standing. "You're a tough one. Constantly on fire, made of wood, and definitely not something you want to meet in a dry forest. So, in proper formality, I'd call your species Torchwood, fax lignorum. Sounds scholarly enough."
The Torchwood tilts its fiery head, the flame crackling softly.
"But for a name…" I pause, letting the warmth wash over me. "Ignivar. From the Latin roots ignis for fire and varus for bearer. The one who carries fire."
The Torchwood's flames flare bright and proud, casting golden light across the clearing. Pip cheers with a puff of green air, and Quetz sways in time with the flicker, a soft hum rising from its petals.
I look at all three of them—the little green fighter, the radiant sunflower, the smoldering guardian—and for the first time since being dragged into this world, I feel something that isn't fear or frustration.
I feel… home.
"Alright then," I say, smiling despite myself. "Pip, Quetz, and Ignivar. Let's see what kind of miracle we can make from this mess."
XXX
"Alright… so our biggest limit is water," I mutter, pacing in a circle, hands on my hips. The three plants track me—Pip with eager little leaf tilts, Quetz with gentle sways, and Ignivar with crackling flames that flare with every pass.
And not just any water. Fresh water. Clean water. I don't have to squeeze water out of my pores like some deranged human sponge.
I stop in my tracks. "No way am I using bodily fluids every time you three need a drink." I shudder. "We're not doing… that again. Ever."
I press my hands to my temples. "Come on, Elias. Think. You're a graduate in agricultural science. Six years. You have to be capable of more than sweat farming."
I look at my plants. Then, there is dry earth, salty wind, and sun overhead at the island stretching beyond. The answer hangs right there, and for a moment, my brain just doesn't connect the dots.
Then—
"Wait. Island."
Freshwater is limited… but saltwater? We're surrounded by it.
My gaze snaps to Ignivar. A living bonfire whose flame hasn't dimmed once. My mind starts to race—steam, condensation, distillation…
I bolt toward the shack. Inside, I scan the shelves—pots, clay buckets, rusted tools—and there, half-buried under a tarp: metal tubing. A little bent, but workable. Some scrap metal sheets. A few nails. Just enough to rig something up.
"I think I have an idea!" I say, excitement rising in my chest like a spark catching dry tinder.
I haul the buckets, the bent tubes, and whatever metal scraps I can salvage outside. Quetz watches curiously, petals angled like little satellite dishes. Pip hops along the bench, eager to see what I'm doing. Ignivar crackles in what I swear is anticipation.
I get to work.
It's messy. The metal tubing needs hammering into shape, the joints leak steam, and one of my first attempts ends with a hiss of vapor blasting me in the face like a sauna punch. But little by little, I bend, seal, and adjust.
Hours pass. My hands smell like warm metal, charred wood, and ocean air. Sweat beads on my brow—not as a crop-starter this time, but the sweat of actual progress.
Finally, I stand back.
It's ugly. It looks like something built by a drunken blacksmith on a budget—but it's mine. It's a makeshift distiller: a saltwater bucket suspended above Ignivar's flame, a metal tube leading to a second bucket where condensation drips as fresh water if the science gods are kind.
Moment of truth.
I grab one bucket and trek to the shoreline. Under the afternoon sun, the ocean stretches endlessly and glitteringly, waves hissing against the jagged rocks. I kneel, scoop saltwater, and haul the sloshing bucket back across the sand.
I hook the bucket over Ignivar's flame. "Alright, buddy—light 'em up."
Ignivar gives a proud WHOOOSH of flame, heating the bucket swiftly. A thin veil of steam curls from the rim, wafting upward into the tubing. I crouch beside the collection bucket, hands clasped, breath held like I'm waiting for a soufflé not to collapse.
Minutes crawl. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
Then—
Drop.
One clear bead of water falls into the empty bucket.
Then another.
Then another.
My heart leaps into my throat. "YES! YES!" I throw my fist into the air. "Distilled water, baby! SCIENCE WINS!"
Pip pumps his legs like he's cheering. Quetz beams—literally—adding a soft golden glow to the moment. Ignivar's flame crackles in triumphant approval.
For the first time in this world, I feel a spark of the person I was before the vortex—
Not a prisoner.
Not a victim.
But a scientist. A grower. A creator.
And damn, it feels good.
With the water situation finally handled—well, started—my next priority hits me square in the gut. Literally. Food. If I want to live long enough to help anyone, I need calories, and ideally something that doesn't come with emotional trauma attached.
I push myself back up and saunter over to Pip, who perks up immediately when I kneel beside him. "Alright, buddy," I say, trying for gentle encouragement. Do you think you could, uh… gently lob out some peas? Like… roll them out instead of firing them?"
Pip nods, focuses, and produces a single pea with a bit of shimmy of his leafy body—rolling it forward like a bowling ball.
And the thing is enormous.
Not "garden pea" huge. Oh no. This is the size of a softball—smooth, plump, and bright green like a jewel fresh from a fairy tale.
"Holy—It's huge!" I gape, holding it in both hands. Pip crosses his legs smugly and makes a series of victorious squeaks that can only mean, "That's right. Be impressed."
I bite, half expecting it to taste weird, magical, or radioactive. Instead, the flavor hits me like a childhood summer—vibrant, fresh, sweet, and bursting with life. It leaves store-bought peas back home tasting like cardboard.
"This is incredible…" I murmur around a mouthful. "Can you make more of these?"
Pip rolls his eyes—yes, plants can roll their eyes, apparently—and concentrates. It takes a minute before another pea plops, slightly smaller but still massive.
"Okay. So there's a cooldown. Makes sense." I pat his leaf. "No plant produces nonstop."
The next few hours dissolve into simple, productive work. Pip and I develop a rhythm: produce, collect, store. By the end, we've gathered enough giant peas to feed a small family for a day.
Meanwhile, Quetz hums softly beside us, and by nightfall, it produces two more miniature suns. I fuse them as before, forming a new seed—this one glowing green instead of red. Promising.
Between tending Ignivar's steady flame, collecting distilled water drip by drip, harvesting peas, and guarding that green seed like a precious gem, exhaustion settles into my bones like wet cement.
My body is done by the time the stars rise and the air cools. Absolutely done.
The adrenaline that kept me running through insanity and invention finally drains away, leaving me hollow and wobbling on my feet.
My muscles tremble, and my eyelids feel like sandpaper. My brain has checked out and left a "back soon" sign on the door.
I stretch and release a yawn so big it might have cracked my jaw. "Ignivar… keep it going, okay? Just a few more hours." I drag myself toward my cot. "Good night, y'all…"
Ignivar dips its flame respectfully—almost like a knight bowing. Pip raises a leaf in a tiny salute. Quetz lowers its bloom, petals folding like a blanket around itself.
Their quiet companionship hits me harder than I expect. Enough to soften the panic of a foreign world into something… survivable.
I collapse into the cot—boots still on, clothes still damp with sweat and salt. The wooden frame creaks, the thin blanket scratches my cheek, and I couldn't care less.
Within moments, the warm crackle of Ignivar's flame and the soft, rhythmic drip… drip… drip of fresh water lull me under. I sink into a sleep deep enough to forget, for one night, that I'm stranded in a world not my own