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One year later.

Axton Manor, December 2014. Seven months before the end of everything.

Kyran is numb and drowning. He's felt immobile from feelings lingering since he lost Zephyr nearly two years ago, and the gravity of his misery descends him deeper toward an abyss he can't swim from.

For the first time, he studies the intricate design of the wallpaper in the halls outside Thaddeus's private study, waiting for a stranger in an expensive ashen suit to summon him into a room he's never been previously allowed into. In the last year, as he's grown more forlorn, his hair has grown down to his shoulders, having long given up trying to maintain appearances. The panther observes a photograph of the Zenith on the wall, one where they're all wearing the last genuine smile on their faces. Kyran remembers that day well, it was the first day he ever wore glasses. He thought he saw the world so clearly then, now he understands how blinded he was, unable to see anything for how it is.

Kyran understood Thaddeus was ill, but he never imagined how quickly his condition would deteriorate. That same summer, their adoptive father led them to believe he was getting better, but they lost him on an icy winter morning when Fletcher found him hunched over in his chair by the roaring fireplace. Kyran wishes it were him who discovered Thaddeus, as he was home.

He's always home.

Kyran can't stop wondering if they're indirectly responsible for Thaddeus's illness by unknowingly poisoning the air with the energy flowing through their veins. He worries if the same energy is gradually killing Aarden. A surge of dread runs through him as his concentration breaks from the photograph. He knows his fear is unfounded, but that's what makes him terrified. He's never allowed his mind to veer from fact, feeling shouldn't come this naturally to him.

Kyran struggles to remember the last time he saw Thaddeus before he died, but he's been unable to keep track of the fading days. Even now, he can't say what the date is, it all feels the same, as if time has no meaning.

The wide door creaks open, and a silver lynx looks down at him behind thick lenses, gesturing for him to follow him into the room.

Kyran enters a disappointingly ordinary room littered with the hastily written pages from hundreds of journals. The views to the grounds and conservatory, however, are breathtaking as the room is bathed in the silver light of a cloudy early morning.

"If you could please be seated sir," the family attorney says, breaking the wax seal from an envelope with his claws.

Kyran leans against a wall lined with the last books in the manor he's yet to read, the dust landing on his inky jacket. Marina Fletcher sits in one of the heavy chairs before the desk. She gestures for him to sit beside her. Kyran does, a warmth radiating deep within him as Fletcher places her hand on his.

"The last will and testament of Thaddeus Quentin Axton, amended January of 2013, reads as followed. I hereby appoint Zephyr Ziegler as the executor to my estate. If Mr. Ziegler precedes me, then I appoint Kyran Khan as his successor. If both Mr. Ziegler and Mr. Khan precede me, or are unable to serve as executors, I hereby relinquish my estate to Marina Fletcher. I declare I'm unmarried and have legal guardianship over six children. I relinquish all my property and assets to my oldest son, Zephyr Ziegler. If he precedes me, the entirety of my estate will go to Kyran Khan. In addition, I leave Kyran Kahn with my ring, as a reminder to never lose sight of what's important in one's search for knowledge."

The lynx hands Kyran a heavy golden ring too large for his thin fingers.

The silence rings in Kyran's ears as the words weigh on him like an anchor. After all these years, and after every blow he's taken with a head held high, Kyran can't remember the last time he felt alive. He places the ring back on the desk.

"That's it? Nothing for the others?" He asks. The lynx clears his throat, reading over the will once over again.

"Initially it was all left for Mr. Zephyr Ziegler, but the will was amended to mention a Mr. Aarden as the latest addition to the family, and of course, to add you as the successor, given the original intended executor has preceded your father. Now, as far as the matter of partial ownership in Zenith Genetics--

"Sell it," Kyran says, the words escaping his lips in a sudden rush of contempt for his adoptive father.

"Kyran, maybe you should think this through, this is a lot of money," Fletcher says patiently. Kyran pulls his hand back from hers and teleports to the other end of the room, causing the attorney to jump.

"Does it ever keep you up at night, Fletcher? Thinking of where all this money comes from? I don't want anything to do with it anymore because I know this money is inked in blood. Every night I wake up with that sickly feeling of my hands drenched with blood, and no matter how hard I scrub, I can still feel it. Sell it all, and that's all I have to say on the matter. The profit, split it. Between Kamala, Phoenix, Indigo and Aarden."

"Kyran!" Fletcher says, rising. She towers over him with the same stern look in her shadowy eyes she gave them when she trained them to defend themselves as children.

"This is the last I want to hear about this!" Kyran shouts, unafraid of her as he leaps away.

***

His polished shoes land on the dirt road leading down to the small town at the base of the hill the massive manor stands on. In the silence of a bank surrounding a sea of redwoods, Kyran screams his anger into himself as the first cold drops of early morning rain create spots in his vision when they dot his glasses.

The panther paces along a never-ending wooden fence lining the prison he calls home. Along it are tributes to Zephyr, shells of balloons having long lost their air, dusty candles that haven't seen a flame in years. Kyran tries to decipher words from the blotchy ink on paper weathered by rain and snow. He glances at photographs of his brother he's never seen before, from a time he can't remember anymore.

Kyran's tears fall onto the pages, running fresh ink down at his feet like black rain as he reads a single line written over a blurry photograph of his brother.

He was no different than the rest of us, we all hide monsters within.

***

Axton Manor, 2007. Eight years before the end of everything.

Indigo drowns in menacing red eyes, convinced they're experiencing the last moments of their short life. Dagger-like incisors lunge toward their neck, inching closer as the small rabbit loses the strength in their arms to keep the hungry werewolf from tearing into their throat and satisfying his primal craving to kill.

"That's enough!" A deep voice roars, and the nightmare ends.

A seventeen year old Zephyr recoils to the corner of the gilded ballroom as Thaddeus Axton sounds a whistle only his eldest son can hear from deep within the beast. A fifteen year old Indigo scampers, their bare feet sliding on the smooth vinyl padding doing nothing to soften the impact of the hundreds of times they've been thrown to the ground. Thaddeus seizes them by the waist, pulling them down before they can run away.

"How can you expect to contribute to the team if you won't learn to defend yourself," Thaddeus says, moving his thick white mane from his eyes as he allows a growl to escape through gritted teeth.

"I'm trying," Indigo says, wrestling free from Thaddeus's grasp. At this point in time, Indigo is still small, a whole two feet shorter than Zephyr as he normally stands, and they're unsure if they will grow much more. They've tried to make up for it by wearing Kamala's heels, but Thaddeus only allows them to wear the same, pointy, uncomfortable shoes he makes Zephyr and Kyran wear.

"The team is only as strong as its weakest member! If Zephyr, or Kyran, or even Kamala must spend every moment on the battlefield looking after you, then you shouldn't be there to begin with, Indigo!"

The rabbit's nose twitches as they stifle tears. They rise, dusting off a blue uniform with the number five stitched over their heart. Thaddeus explained once long ago that their Zenith number was an indication of oldest to youngest, but Indigo never saw it that way, they saw it as a ranking from most to least wanted, or most to least useful, and they were always Zenith 5.

"Answer me, boy!" Thaddeus demands. Indigo blinks, having not heard a single word Thaddeus just screamed at them. They're getting so used to blocking his inner voice, they're starting to do it to his speaking voice as well.

"Well?"

"I'm not a boy."

Confusion comes across Thaddeus's face. He paces the room until he stumbles upon decorative sabers on the wall beside their portraits. He grips one, launching it at Indigo. The rabbit allows it to clang to the ground to avoid catching the blade with their bare hands. Zephyr's heavy breathing fills the air as Thaddeus stares down at the smallest member of his team with contempt, unaware of how powerful they are.

"Pick it up! If you won't defend yourself with your adaptation, or can't use your speed to your advantage, then you'll learn to properly wield that saber to defend yourself. Fletcher will train you, every night for a year if she must, because the next time you look into a predators' eyes like that, he's going to break your neck, do you understand me?"

Indigo clutches the handle of the surprisingly lightweight sword. If Thaddeus could read their mind for a change, he'd never hand them something so sharp. Thaddeus storms out of the room, Zephyr at his heel behind him, reverting to his normal self. To his youngest sibling, however, Zephyr's normal self is a terrifying werewolf who haunts their nightmares when the voices are silent enough to sleep.

Indigo doesn't need to read their father's thoughts to know how disappointed he is to be stuck with them, or how ashamed he's of them, and it's not just because they're a rabbit.

Indigo swings the saber, listening to the way it slices the air. They spend the rest of the evening fighting invisible enemies who all look like Thaddeus, determined to never quit. In the forest outside, Kyran and Kamala spar in the fresh snowfall. Wanting more than anything to belong, Indigo wishes they could venture outside and join them, but everything within pushes them to keep training, because if they don't, then they'll never make it back home alive as the missions become deadlier and more dangerous.

***

Las Vegas, March 2015. Four months before the end of everything.

Indigo jolts awake from a sleep deeper than death as the chemicals swimming in their bloodstream run their course and fade, causing them to plummet back down to earth from bad dreams. They pull pillowy covers over themselves on an overcrowded bed as loud knocking echoes from the doors to the rooftop suite, exacerbating their throbbing headache. Despite everything in the large suite being misplaced, Indigo is exactly where they want to be, alone in a room full of beautiful strangers.

"Is anyone going to get that?" They demand to the unconscious crowd sleeping soundly on the cold marble floor. Worlds apart from who they once were, Indigo is now twenty-three and free to do as they please as the same pitfalls of fame they experienced when they were younger resurface in their newfound independence.

The rabbit covers their naked body in red velvet as they tumble off the bed and onto the cold slab of a makeshift dance floor as they maneuver gracefully to a song blaring from the radio, unable to tell if the room is spinning from inebriation or illusion. The blue rabbit hobbles on one heel toward the knocking, slipping into a skirt they're certain isn't theirs, nearly tripping over a snoring zebra as they hunt for their clothes.

Booming voices shout commands, nearly tearing the doors off their hinges with every knock. Indigo presses their ear against the shattering wood and their knee against the seat of the chair barricading the heavy doors.

"I think you have the wrong room! No one here ordered any room service, and the party's on their way out now," Indigo teases, stepping back to meet the many eyes they will need to manipulate to escape.

They're immediately surrounded by a dozen heavily armored officers as they storm into the room. Heavy blinds are torn open, causing the strangers to stir as the sunlight burns stronger than the doses in their systems. Tan patches of desert and the glass an neon skyline of the Las Vegas Strip come into view as Indigo is forced onto the ground.

"Don't be too hard on them, all they wanted was a good time. As for me, I've got a show tonight, so I should be going now," Indigo says, picking up a pair of tinted sunglasses, their vision transforming into the bottle of rose champagne they drowned in the previous night.

Indigo is heading toward the hallway when they feel a powerful arm pull them back. Their stubby muzzle crashes into the chest of a colossal eagle, whose beak presses against their nose.

"Is there something I can help you with, handsome?" Indigo asks, confused as to whether they should be aroused or frightened.

"You're under arrest too bunny. I don't care if your cute face is on every taxi from here to the station, someone is going to pay for this room."

Indigo stares deeply into his hazel eyes and concentrates, tapping into the magic within them, but the eagle only blinks lazily as he slaps cold handcuffs onto their delicate wrists. Indigo closes their eyes, trying to focus on any thoughts in the room.

Their heart plummets when they hear nothing at all.

***

Hours later, Indigo shuts their eyes, trying to see through the fog obscuring their brain as their body gradually sweats out the toxins tampering with their ability to project illusion. Not used to their world being so quiet, they tap on the iron bars of a holding cell with sharp acrylic nails to fill their ears with sound, unable to fall back to sleep.

Opening their eyes, Indigo tests their abilities from within the holding cell, trying to coax the guard into releasing them, but they're not strong enough to persuade, let alone command anyone. Hours pass by in the small, cramped room before an officer unlocks the heavy door with a click.

"Indigo Knight, you're free to go," a voice calls from the end of the hall. Indigo rises, gently pushing the door to their cell, swinging it open to finally make the ferret behind the desk rise.

"What? Don't tell me you're surprised a magician can pick a lock," Indigo says, waving goodbye to their guests from the wild night they're starting to piece together. They wave back, disorientated but pleased as their night with the enigmatic rabbit fades into focus in their spinning minds.

"You'll forward my other shoe to my address, right?" Indigo asks the officer, who laughs to herself as she holds the door open.

"I remember you. You were the little one in that group of magic kids. The fall from grace is a tough one, isn't it bunny?" the ferret asks, her gaze focused onto the wall as she was warned not to stare into their eyes.

"Honey, you don't even know the half of it. So, the shoe?"

"Not my problem, dear."

"Fuck it. Keep this one then," Indigo says, tossing a magenta shoe over their shoulder before meeting Orson Flores in the blinding afternoon sunlight. The imposing buck slams the door furiously behind Indigo as they drive away from the police station and toward their personal oasis in the sprawling desert suburbs.

"What were you thinking?" Orson demands, looking at Indigo's exhausted eyes in the rear-view mirror to avoid having to look directly into them. He straightens his back, his golden antlers brushing against the thin padding of the rooftop.

"I wasn't thinking, I was celebrating," Indigo says, reclining their seat and closing their aching eyes before staring out at the endless row of identical tan-colored homes.

"Celebrating what exactly?" Orson asks, nearly crushing the steering wheel with his grip.

"Being able to slip out of the house without you demanding where I was going, or who I was seeing. And I thought you were the socialite."

"I never said I was a socialite. I'm your talent agent, my job is to make sure you show up for the five shows a week you signed up to perform, sober. That's all I am, a talent agent," Orson says, pain swimming in his voice.

"Well, you were just a talent agent until you decided you wanted to sleep with me. I'm sure most talent doesn't sleep in the same bed as their agent," Indigo says with an air of sarcasm as they place their bare feet on the dashboard.

"When are you ever in our bed?" Orson mutters under his breath. The rest of the drive is silent until they reach a long driveway to a modern construction in the edge of the desert.

Indigo hops up the glass staircase and slips into a hot shower in their shared bedroom, disregarding every word Orson calls out behind them. As they wash away the previous night from their mind and body in the steamy escape, soft whispers begin to blossom in their inner ear, signaling the return of their chemically subdued adaptation.

It's impossible for Indigo to describe what it's like to read someone's thoughts, and no one else on the planet has yet to help them piece the words together.

"It's like seeing vivid images in a dream without using your eyes."

That's the closest they've been able to describe it. Then again, everything about them is indescribable, why shouldn't their adaptation be as well.

Orson's actual voice cuts through the unsaid as Indigo steps out of the shower and into the comfort of a warm towel.

"Indy, I need to know something," Orson says sitting at the edge of their large bed, his anger fading away as he glares out at glass doors into his meticulously kept desert garden outside.

"Not this again," Indigo says, their dark blue hair cascading before their stunning eyes, tickling the nose at the end of their short snout as they dry it with a towel, "and please don't call me Indy."

"I'm serious this time, and don't beat me to it by reading my mind, or whatever it is you do."

"I wouldn't worry about that right now."

"Who are you really?" Orson asks, avoiding their eyes.

"What do you mean?" Indigo asks cautiously, as if Orson could read their mind for a change. He grips their hand tightly, as if afraid of letting them go when the truth inevitably comes forward.

"Every time I ask, you run away. I know we've had this conversation before, even if I can't remember it, because I can still feel how it tears my heart apart. We all have a past we'd rather stay buried, but I feel like after all this time, you'd tell me naturally without me having to corner you. I'm tired of being angry at you without remembering what I'm so upset about. Please don't do this to me," Orson says, begging as he avoids his rabbit's wild wisteria eyes.

"Do what to you?"

Orson's eyes focus intensely on the emptiness before him.

"Don't make me forget again, because I remember that I keep forgetting."

Orson sighs and places his cellphone into Indigo's trembling hands. Archives of a time they want buried stare back at them, blossoming like toxic flowers from the depths of their memories. A single image takes Indigo back to a place they don't want to return to. A team of four whose lives were taken from them cry out behind handsome smiles.

"Phoenix isn't far away," Orson says.

Indigo's eyes pool with tears, and the short fur on their body rises away from the ice running through their veins as they break their gaze from the image depicting themselves, Zephyr, Kyran and Kamala.

"Phoenix?"

"Yes, you mention it in your sleep. Is that where they are? Arizona isn't far away from here, if you're willing to take me to meet them. Is that what you're hiding?"

Indigo places their hands gently on Orson's handsome face and kisses him deeply, their desperate desire for him to see them as anyone else but themselves burning through.

The buck closes his golden eyes to rub his hands over Indigo's silky periwinkle fur. Then he opens them, drowning in pools of amethyst, forgetting everything as he desperately swims to break the surface of his obliterated memory.

Orson blinks. A single unexpected tear runs down his face as he wakes up with the understanding he's lost something. He wipes away a singlet tear, surprised to see Indigo standing before them. He's elated to see them, as he was expecting to wake to an empty home yet again.

"You're soaking wet," Orson says curiously, his heart beating heavily in his wide chest as he glances at the heart shaped pattern on the fur under Indigo's fluffy cyan tail.

"I was just washing up after a quick dip in the pool, darling. How was your morning?"

"Uneventful, I think? How are you feeling about tonight's show?" Orson asks, trying to shake the fog in his head. He struggles to remember what he did that morning as Indigo's adaptation pieces together false memories for him.

"I feel as prepared as I always am to entertain a bunch of drunks," Indigo responds from deep within their shared closet. "You know, I had a whole lot more fun dancing," they say as they slip into black silk.

"Well, there wasn't much money to be made by dancing, was there? You haven't seen my phone, have you?" Orson calls out as Indigo remembers what happened to their favorite pair of shoes.

"Check the bottom of the pool later, dear," Indigo says under their breath, wrapping Orson's phone in a satin scarf.

***

Axton Manor, March 2015.

Kyran fades deeper into the depths of crystal clear water, allowing the darkness within to consume his every thought as he sinks deeper and deeper under the surface. He waits until he can feel the bottom of the artificial lake with his tail before opening his eyes to float back up to the sounds of harmonies far above him.

Sweeping strings and mighty horns blare from speakers over the roar of a cascading waterfall, bouncing off the tall walls of the manor's conservatory. The massive glass and steel structure is climate controlled to nourish the jungle life, with heavy palm trees leaning over the waters of the deep artificial lake. The music explodes to life when Kyran's ears break the silvery surface to breathe humid air into his lungs.

In the years since Zephyr's death, the melancholy drowning Kyran has only gotten worse. No matter how hard he tries to soar above it, an anchor of his own design keeps him sinking toward a depth even he can't swim away from. He doesn't want to admit he's given up, but only existing in his inheritance and drowning in his grief does little to convince him otherwise.

The panther wades idly, sunlight devoid of any warmth hitting his face as his head crashes into the stones at the edge of the waterfall. When he opens his amber eyes, Marina Fletcher is staring down at him with a concerned expression on her face.

"What now?" Kyran asks, climbing out of the pool, the water beading off his velvet coat of fur.

"It was your father's dying wish you lead and take care of things around your home. I can't do it alone," Fletcher says, her white feathers glittering in the sunlight spilling through the glass ceiling.

"What do you want me to do?" Kyran asks, running his fingers through a long wavy mane that's grown untidy over the years.

"I want you to know that I'm here to help you piece it all back together," Fletcher says as they make their way down a paved path toward the center of the conservatory where a towering tree offers shade.

"I appreciate it, and normally I'd tell you I can handle it on my own, but I'm not sure I can lie to you like that for much longer. At first, I thought it was necessary, a temporary way of coping with my pain, but I've done it so often that there's nothing left," Kyran says, leaning against the base of the tree as he slips back into his pants.

"They both meant so much to me. I don't think either of them would want to see you this way. I want to help you, but I need your help with something first," the peacock says, brushing her hair aside as the humidity causes her to sweat.

"What's that?"

A muffled explosion shakes through the room, shifting water out of a pond of lotus flowers. Kyran leaps toward the calamity, reappearing in the wine cellar of the manor.

"With that," Fletcher responds to a cloud of obsidian air as the warm water soaks her favorite pair of socks.

In the cellar, Aarden swipes at heavy clouds as dust fills his lungs, causing him to cough until his vision is full of shining stars. He shakes debris off his rusty fur as daylight seeps through the makeshift window he accidentally created.

A sullen shadow looms in the corner by a pillar supporting the vaulted ceiling, waiting for the air to clear.

"What are you hiding behind your back?" Kyran asks calmly.

"Nothing!" Aarden says, smiling nervously. Kyran cuts through the cover of dust and looks at the red panda, realizing only now how much he's grown as he stares into guilty green eyes that are level with his.

"Aarden, don't lie to me," Kyran says, shaking away the dust clinging to his wet hair.

"I'm not lying, I was--

"Fletcher's going to kill you when she sees that hole," Phoenix's deep voice says as the lion pushes past shattered brick to open the door to Aarden's bedroom.

"Not unless I get him first. When did you get home?" Kyran asks.

"This morning," the lion responds, scratching his stomach as he kicks aside the shattered bricks with his boots.

"How the fuck did you do this?" Phoenix asks, peering outside the hole to see the manor's driveway.

"Did what, exactly?" Aarden asks.

Kyran teleports behind Aarden and seizes the weighty silver cylinder from his grasp. It's scorching to the touch, with an opening at the top large enough to slip an arm through.

"What's this?" Kyran asks, setting the silver plated weapon down on Aarden's long work bench.

"You wouldn't understand," the red panda says dismissively, gathering papers that were scattered in the blast.

"Try me," Kyran says, daring him as he looks around the room. The last time he set foot in the wine cellar was when he discovered Thaddeus's journal, now the space is barely recognizable as Aarden established it as his bedroom and work studio. It took some time, but he's happy the accidental Zenith amongst them established a place for himself within the manor.

"I broke into Mr. Axton's study one night, and within his initial writings on your adaptations, I rediscovered his original hypothesis on Kamala's adaptation, in which he concludes her power must've derived from the self-regenerating Zenith Crown energy that accidentally latched onto her as the result of a failed experiment. The test subject, known at the time as only Zenith 3, could manipulate the energy surrounding her into a sort of kinetic plasma, producing the kind of energy that could keep a major city's lights on for a decade. I read it, and--

"You're mimicking her adaptation?" Kyran says, reading over his notes.

"I'm perfecting them," Aarden says.

"She's not going to like that," Phoenix says, whistling as he squats with his powerful legs to pick up bricks.

"Well, she's not around much anymore, is she?" Kyran says, unable to contain just how impressed he is with the device.

"How powerful is it?"

"The core isn't as stable as I'd like it to be. Mr. Axton never said what happened to the actual Zenith Crown, the source of your powers, but I say it's almost as powerful as the real thing, but there's no way to know for sure without a way to compare."

"You know about the Zenith Crown?"

"Of course, I do, it's all there in his journal," Aarden says.

Kyran teleports and reaches desperately for the journal on Aarden's narrow bed.

"All my life I've wanted to go in there and get my hands on something like this, and you just waltz in and take it? Even now that he's gone, I can't get myself to go in there. Did you get this before or after?"

"A little bit before," Aarden says, his ears pushing back into his bright blond hair, "but I had to do something to pass the time."

"I understand. So instead of the Zenith Crown, you synthesized a similar energy source?" Kyran asks, trying to change the subject.

Aarden nods. "It wasn't easy. The equipment was all here somewhere behind those crates of wine bottles. Finding it, fixing it and testing it was the hard part."

"And you did it all by yourself?" Kyran asks, pain in his voice. Aarden smiles slightly, helping Phoenix with the rest of the red brick.

"Was I that far gone?" Kyran asks himself, getting a glimpse of Aarden's brilliant mind as he flips through his journals.

Aarden doesn't say anything, and Phoenix averts his eyes entirely as he brushes the dust off his hands.

"Show me," Kyran demands, taking the cannon and teleporting to the top of the stairwell while Phoenix and Aarden climb up to follow.

***

In a clearing by the tranquil lake, the first signs of spring ride along the gentle breeze as Aarden focuses on his target with trembling hands, his fingertips brushing against the trigger within the cannon. He steadies himself and fires, the powerful jet of vivid jade energy exploding from his hands like electricity, shooting in all directions. Phoenix and Kyran leap for cover as the stone wall in Aarden's sight is pulverized to dust, sending debris into the garden behind them.

Kyran is too shocked to teleport, throwing his hands over his head as Phoenix instinctively pulls him into an embrace, shielding him from the remains of the wall as the stone bounces off broad shoulders under the lions' jet black jacket.

Kyran peers over Phoenix's shoulders to see Aarden rising and rubbing his aching back at the base of a large redwood.

"Unstable was an understatement, but it's definitely impressive. Useful even, with modification," Kyran says, helping Aarden rise.

"I get to keep it?" Aarden asks, cooling his burning hand.

"Just don't blow up any more holes in your room," Kyran says, smiling slightly.

"Or blow yourself up!" Phoenix calls out as Aarden runs excitedly back toward the manor.

Kyran sits on the wet grass, pressing his palms against the warm earth as he enjoys the silence of the forest for the first time in what feels like forever.

"He made something impressive there," Phoenix says, sitting beside him and filling the air with the scents of cigarettes and cheap whiskey.

"It almost gives me hope," the lion says, lying flat against the grass and swaying his tail.

"Hope for what?"

"That we may just be a team again."

Kyran scoffs.

"What happened to being a team of one?"

Before them, Aarden stops in the center of a garden that's gradually being nourished back to its former glory. There, in the center is a large slab of glistening white marble.

"It works," Aarden whispers to Thaddeus's gravestone in the heart of the garden, running his hand over the smooth marble that reads:

THADDEUS QUENTIN AXTON

DECEMBER 1ST 1960 - DECEMBER 21ST 2014

FATHER OF SIX