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Back in the disposal room, they ate a quick breakfast — mess hall bread, a ladle of thick morning stew, and two apples they saved for later. Fizz tried to steal half of John's apple, failed, and declared that not stealing made it taste better anyway.
They opened the storage door and went back to work.
What had felt like a mountain the night before felt like a long hill now. Crates that had loomed became items. Labels that had been threats became lists. John ran the void-mill on a steady cycle — feed, grind, pause, breathe — the egg humming faintly against his sternum between rounds like a small drum in a far room.
[System: Hatch Progress: 18% → 20% → 22% → 24%. Mana 58% → 46% → 39% → 35%.]
Fizz kept the ledger like a tiny tyrant. He wrote real words for once. He added little drawings of a happy egg in the margins and then crossed them out because the ledger felt like it would frown. He sang two new songs, both short, both loud.
March of the Mighty Mop-
