Lexia sits stiffly on her oversized couch, her large brown eyes glued to the bulky television screen, where a Steven C. Gull action flick plays out in exaggerated glory. The air around her is a strange mix of lukewarm warmth and the cool breeze of the air conditioning unit, creating a bizarre clash on her brown and white furred body. The scent of melted butter wafts from the popcorn bowl, and with it comes the occasional munching from Dixie, who is gripping the bowl tightly with her boney fingers and feigning excitement.

  Next to Dixie is her roller travel case. She is hiding her anxiety with smiles, but Lexia can see the tension and how her mother is forcing herself to smile.

  Lexia is also anxious. Her taut muscles are tense beneath her simple tank top, and her brown and white fur catches the sickly yellow glow from the lights above as she shifts her gaze to her mother.

  “Are you okay?” asks Lexia.

  Dixie nods, her smile straining as she focuses intently on Steven C. Gull effortlessly beating up mobsters in a bar.

  “Are you sure?” asks Lexia.

  Dixie nods again, still quiet, but her munching on popcorn becomes rather frantic, leading to crumbs spilling on her sweater vest and skirt.

  "Mom." Lexia reaches over, placing her paw on Dixie's trembling one. The popcorn bowl wobbles dangerously in Dixie's hand. "It's going to be okay."

  Dixie's eyes remain fixed on the TV, watching Steven C. Gull dropkick a weasel in a leather jacket. Tears pool at their corner of her eyes.

  "I don't want to go," whimpers Dixie. "I want to stay here with you. I know you and love you and I can't see you if I'm away. And after what that awful snake did to you, I can't bear thinking about losing you! What if you get hurt again and I'm not there for you?”

  Lexia gently takes the bowl from Dixie and sets it on the coffee table. She turns to face Dixie fully, her mismatched fur catching the light as she moves.

  “I'll be fine. But you need help and Society 318 has the best rehabilitation facility in the country. They will help you, and I can visit you every week.”

  Dixie's ears droop. "But what if I'm different? What if my brain is too far gone? What if this is all a hoax and they'll hurt me?"

  On screen, an explosion rocks a warehouse. The colors flash across Dixie's face, and Lexia notices how her mother's eyes dilate slightly at the bright lights.

  Lexia smiles and hugs Dixie, leading to the older rabbit to return the hug with a tighter grip, her eyes wide and tears dripping down her cheeks.

  “You'll be fine. I promise,” says Lexia.

  Suddenly, the air in the center of the living room pixelates and crackles as the air tears in front of them. The tear expands, the edges becoming more distorted with colorful pixelation.

  Lexia springs to her feet, muscles coiling for a fight.

  Three tall rams in bulky hazmat suits step through the dimensional rift. Their suits are emblazoned with Society 318’s winged DNA logo. Breathing apparatus hiss with each breath they take, their heavy boots thudding against the carpet as they arrange themselves in the cramped living room.

  “So that's how you guys got in to sneak that envelope in my room,” says Lexia.

  “Uh, yeah. How else are we supposed to get in here? Your burrow is literally in another server,” says the lead ram, name Barney Barnabus.

  “World. This is a different world. Like a world below the normal world. Not a server,” says Lexia defensively. “Also, where's my money? Also, you better be nice to my mom. If I find out you are mean to her, I will rip off your horns and turn them into… horns.”

  Barney and Dixie stare at Lexia, and the other two rams look at each other while Lexia's cheeks heat up, despite her hostile expression.

  “The musical horns. The wind instruments that make the sounds,” adds Lexia.

  “We get it,” says Barney.

  He reaches into a compartment in his suit and produces a plastic card plus a brochure for the Renewal Rehabilitation Facility. The card’s surface shimmers with holographic singing flowers that dance and waver depending on the card’s tilt. And the brochure has a happy couple sitting on a bench with visitor hours and other schedules.

  "Mega Helpful Bank gift card and the Renewal Rehabilitation Facility’s brochure for close families of the patients," says Barney, extending the items to Lexia. "The card is pre-loaded with fifty thousand bucks. The remaining one hundred fifty thousand will be deposited in weekly increments of one thousand bucks until the full two hundred thousand is paid."

  Lexia's paw trembles slightly as she takes the card.

  "The facility will include premium care, experimental detox therapy, and neural reconstruction. Dixie Hartwick will receive state-of-the-art rehabilitation at our facility, guaranteed,” continues Barney like an actor for an infomercial. He then looks at Dixie and holds out his hand. “Ma’am, if you will please come with us.”

  Dixie hesitantly rises from the couch, her thin legs wobbling. Then she latches onto Lexia.

  Lexia's throat tightens as Dixie tightens her arms around her in a hug that feels both fragile and desperate. Lexia buries her face in her mother's neck, hugging her tighter.

  “You'll be okay,” says Lexia.

  "Time to depart," says Barney.

  Dixie pulls away, wiping tears from her eyes with shaking paws while the second ram collects Dixie's wheeled carry case. The third moves to Dixie's side, offering an arm for support which she takes after a moment's hesitation.

  "Your mother will be well cared for," assures Barney as they guide Dixie toward the glitching tear in reality.

  Dixie pauses at the threshold of the dimensional rift and looks at Lexia, offering her a tearful and nervous smile. "I love you, Lexia."

  "I love you too, Mom," Lexia manages, her voice catching.

  The rams guide Dixie through the rift. The tear in reality pulses once, twice, then contracts with a sound like air being sucked from the room. Within seconds, the rift is gone, leaving nothing but a faint smell of ozone and a slight indentation in the carpet, and the awful results of Steven C. Gull’s idea of philosophy and great acting.

  Lexia stands alone in her living room, staring at the TV while the movie plays, but not registering any of the motions or words. The gift card feels heavy in her paw. She moves to the spot where the portal closed and touches the air, finding nothing but emptiness.

  She stands there, motionless, just long enough for the TV to throw three more explosions across her face. Lexia’s hand trembles as the final traces of her mother’s scent linger in the air, chamomile overtaken by ozone, and then smothered by the stench of her own sweat and panic. The silence left in the wake of the rams gnaws at her from the inside out.

  Lexia lets herself collapse onto the couch. She stiffly watches Steven C. Gull deliver his monologue about the meaning of justice to a room full of bleeding extras. His words are meant to be uplifting, but she finds herself too numb to care or register the words.

  Lexia drops the gift card on her couch, leans forward, and grips her hair. A shuddering, wet gasp escapes her and her fingers dig in and scratch at her scalp, tearing loose some of her hair as her shoulders buckle from another round of shudders.

  By the time she looks up, the credits are rolling, and Lexia flops sideways on the couch and turns on a recording of Ms. Fritz Bee.

  “Hello everyone. Today we're going to be making a place we can call home,” says Ms. Fritz Bee.

  *****

  Derrick Marlow stares at the ceiling tiles of his hospital room, counting the tiny perforations to pass the time. The sterile white walls seem to close in with each hour, and the steady beep of monitoring equipment punctuates the silence like an electronic heartbeat. His bandaged wing twitches from the pain of fresh stitches, and he adjusts his position, wincing as the movement sends a shock of discomfort through his feathered body.

  "Bridgette, you don't need to stand guard. I'm fine. Go home, get some rest, do whatever or stuff," says Derrick, his voice gravelly and slurred.

  Bridgette Bags stands vigilantly by the door, her white and steel-gray feathers rumpled from a night without rest. Her postal uniform has been exchanged for civilian clothes (including an airman’s jacket), but her posture remains sturdy.

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  “Nope. Today is my day off and I got nothing better to do,” says Bridgette.

  Derrick sighs, and reaches for the water cup on his bedside table, his movements limited by the IV line snaking from his arm.

  Bridgette moves swiftly to give him the cup before he spilled it. She steps back quickly, smoothing her feathers in a nervous gesture that she immediately tries to disguise as professional adjustment.

  “Thanks… But you should still be somewhere else,” says Derrick.

  “Like where?” asks Bridgette.

  “The Eagle Enclave Community Center. It's bingo night.”

  “I hate bingo.”

  “Shooting range.”

  “I hate the shooting range.”

  “Going to the bar for a one night stand with some loser.”

  Bridgette scoffs. “Wow. Harsh. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Yes.”

  Bridgette raises a brow, a small frown hooking on her beak’s edge. “Is there a reason why?”

  “Because I’m a bad person. I killed … a lot of people.”

  Bridgette’s expression softens, and she pulls a chair closer to the bed while Derrick stares ahead, unable to look at her.

  “Are you talking about the Toxic War?” asks Bridgette.

  Derrick keeps staring, his eyes shining like wet stone. He remains silent, holding his water without drinking, his breathing struggling to stay steady.

  Bridgette puts her hand on his arm. “Derrick…”

  “Yes,” says Derrick, forcing the word out of his mouth. “The war. And more.”

  “Are you talking about recently at the safe house?”

  Derrick nods. “More than that, though. There's also Ramsey. I ain't ever seen anything like that before. An abomination. That's another reason why I don't want you near me. I’m a killer, Bridgette, and if I am getting roped into killing more things like Ramsey, then there's a good chance you'll get hurt. I don't want that to happen.”

  Bridgette's grip on Derrick’s arm tightens. She sits there in silence, her feathers twitching in the hospital gloom and her breath coming uneven through her beak. Derrick doesn’t meet her gaze. He stares ahead at the hospital door.

  The heart monitor beep-beep-beeps on, matching his steady beats, and Bridgette sighs and briefly looks down before tilting Derrick's head to her.

  “If you keep pushing everyone away, you’ll just end up alone,” says Bridgette sternly.

  “Yeah. That’s the idea,” says Derrick.

  Bridgette stiffens, but before she can offer a rebuttal, the door swings open, causing her’s and Derrick's feathers to fluff up in alarm, and Derrick’s vitals spike with a shrill whine. A well-dressed male ram waltzes into the room, his polished designer shoes clicking against the floor. He carries a sleek leather suitcase that matches his tailored suit, his black hair and white fur is groomed, and his light brown eyes appear bright in the hospital light.

  "Mr. Marlow!" bellows the ram theatrically. “I am Augustus Clementine, Esquire. I represent Mr. Trafford Augustine."

  “Oh no… You're insane just like Trafford,” says Derrick, his vitals calming down.

  Augustus points at Derrick. “Not even close! Trafford’s insanity far surpasses mine! But that said, Trafford is fair and a ram of his word. In my possession is the first fifty thousand bucks owed to you.”

  Augustus places his suitcase on the rolling tray table and clicks it open.

  Derrick and Bridgette’s brains blank out at the sight of a Mega Helpful Bank gift card sitting snuggly in a foam bed. The card's surface glitters with animated holographic scene of a beach with soft waves, white sands, swaying palm trees, and a sun on the cracked sky. The scene shifts slightly with the angle it is viewed, and while Derrick stares at the card with some suspicion, Bridgette shifted her position left and right, watching the scene change.

  "This card contains fifty thousand bucks. The remaining one hundred fifty thousand will be deposited in weekly increments of one thousand bucks until the debt is settled. And now I bid you adieu,” says Augustus.

  Augustus twists sharply on his heels and walks out of the room, leaving the suitcase and bank card for Derrick to keep. There is a tense silence in the room that is only broken by the steady beeping of the monitoring equipment.

  Derrick reaches for the gift card, turning it over in his feathered fingers. The hospital lights catch on the holographic imagery, making the waves move and the palm leaves sway.

  As Derrick inspects the card, the door bursts open again, slamming against the stop with a sharp crash. Bridgette jerks to her feet, feathers flaring wildly. Derrick’s heart monitor shrieks and Augustus slides back into the room, eyes flashing and shoes squeaking on the tile

  “One more thing!” bellows Augustus, making both eagles twitch.

  He slaps a bundle of papers onto the end of Derrick’s bed, grinning like an snake oil salesman.

  “I can't believe I almost forgot this, but as part of the deal, Society 318 wiped you. Erased everything. You? No longer exist. Not in any official capacity. No army file, no police investigation, no record at all tracing back to Artemis Hartwick, nothing in the banks, nothing in the city’s systems. Nothing in this fine nation's computers. You’re a ghost. Clean slate. Immaculate, baby! Even the hospital doesn’t know you’re here. Well, except for the people who saw you, but system wise, you’re not here. All of your subscriptions are gone, all of your bank debts are gone. You. Are. Invisible~”

  Augustus finishes with waving his hands in an a dramatic flare, his bleached teeth fully exposed from his toothy grin, and his eyebrows raised to tight arcs. Derrick and Bridgette stare at him with confused sneers, completely silent as Augustus waits for their verbal responses, nostrils flaring and smile straining

  Derrick blinks, and Augustus drops his hands and grin.

  “Alright, I'm outta here,” says Augustus.

  The ram speed walks out of the room and slams the door shut, leaving Bridgette and Derrick to stare at the door, dumbfounded. The seconds tick by, the machine beeps as the vital measurements hop up and down, and Bridgette looks at Derrick.

  “Do you want some coffee?” asks Bridgette swiftly.

  “Yes please,” says Derrick just as fast.

  *****

  Jayson sits cross-legged on the packed dirt floor of his decayed burrow, ears drooping and nose clogged with stale, damp air as he flips through the aged pages of his high school yearbook. The flickering light from a small lantern casts dancing shadows across the weakened walls, illuminating the sparse furnishings he's managed to scavenge. His white fur is dingy with ground in dirt, grime, and left over blood, a stark contrast to the clean, hopeful rabbit smiling from the yearbook photos.

  Jayson traces a finger over the laminated page. His thick brown hair is matted now, nothing like the styled locks of his teenage self.

  He turns another page and his breath catches. Lexanne Haunt stares back at him, her dark-rimmed eyes playful, her gothic dress adorned with white spiderwebs. The yearbook caption reads "Most Likely to Open a Haunted Bakery".

  Jayson gently closes the yearbook, his paws trembling. He glances toward the small fire pit where embers still glow from his evening meal. Amid the ashes, the Ouija board he had thrown into the flames sits completely untouched, its wood unmarred, the letters and symbols still clearly visible.

  Then his ears twitch at the sound of approaching footsteps. The steps are heavy, measured steps, yet make no effort to be quiet. Whoever it is wants him to know they are here. Jayson instinctively reaches for his cosmic weapon, propped against the crate he's next to.

  A polite knock sounds at his makeshift door.

  "Mr. Hopper, we know you're in there. We come with payment, not problems," says a gruff voice.

  Jayson's whiskers twitch with suspicion, and he clutches his weapon as he inches toward the entrance of his burrow. He peeks out and sees four rams in tactical camouflage standing in a semicircle around his hidden doorway, each bearing the subtle insignia of Society 318 on their shoulder patches. The leader, distinguished by red markings on his vest, steps forward when he sees Jayson's face.

  "Mr. Hopper, may we enter? Our business is brief on behalf of Trafford Augustine and Society 318," says the ram.

  Jayson hesitates, then steps back, pulling the door wider.

  The four rams file into the burrow, their large forms making the space feel suddenly cramped. Their gear rustles as they take up positions around the small room, eyes scanning the damaged walls and meager possessions. The leader remains standing while the others secure the area, checking the corners with professional thoroughness.

  "Cozy," says one of the rams, eyeing the fire pit and the untouched Ouija board with visible unease.

  The lead ram, Clive Morris, steps forward, reaching into a pocket on his tactical vest and produces a Mega Helpful Bank gift card. The card's surface gleams in the lantern light, holographic singing flowers dancing across its plastic face.

  "Payment for services rendered. Society 318 appreciates your assistance,” says the leader. "Fifty thousand bucks is on the card, with an additional one hundred fifty thousand to be deposited in weekly increments of one thousand bucks until everything is paid in full."

  Jayson stiffly takes the card. “Thanks… But there was another thing Trafford Augustine promised.”

  Clive produces a crisp folder from his vest. He holds it out, arm steady in the flickering light. When Jayson doesn’t take it, he snaps it open and fans out forms stamped with dense blocks of black and red.

  “Society 318 standardizes their wipe,” says Clive. “You no longer exist in the system. No legal papers, no school transcripts, no criminal record, no debts. Not even a traffic ticket. Zero trace. Have a look for yourself.”

  Jayson hesitantly takes the folder and goes near the lantern to read the contents. His eyes flick side to side, absorbing every line of words and numbers on every page. It’s all official. Layers of signatures, system IDs, and stamp after stamp: VOID, DELETED, NULL. Page after page after page of erasure right in front of his very eyes.

  His stomach lurches as he flips through the pages, sometimes flipping back to reread the information. He has been thoroughly erased from very institution in the country he has been connected to. He has even been removed from the history of subscription services and grocery memberships.

  No birth certificate.

  No clinic visits.

  No Jayson Hopper.

  Every trace leads nowhere.

  Then he sees another page, and his insides twist. Lexanne Haunt. Her records, her yearbook photo, her death certificate. All gone. Erased. No record of her ever existing in the world. No body, no obituary, no crime, no digital ghost. Just blank space.

  Jayson breathes out. He feels the cold sweat run down the back of his neck. He turns away from the lantern, the dark shadows masking a large portion of his face as he stares at the Society 318 rams, holding the file tight.

  “Why is Lexanne Haunt erased?” asks Jayson.

  “You were investigated for her death. By removing her, we severed the last trace you had to this server. Trafford offered you money and erasure in exchange for your services, and you agreed to the terms. This is the outcome of the terms,” says Clive.

  Jayson stares at the folder. The weight of the card and those words fuses into something dense and ugly in his chest. His breathing becomes ragged, his fingers clamp so hard on the folder that the paper starts to tear. Irritation tingles through his fur, up his neck, behind his eyes. He’s dizzy, sweat crawling along his spine.

  He looks at the rams, blinking away the tunnel vision trying to consume the world. “I didn’t agree to Lexanne being erased.”

  “Well, that’s what happened as per the terms. She’ll live on in your memory, but as far as this server is concerned, she’s gone. Just like you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’ve got other places to be. You were just a pit stop,” says Clive.

  The rams quietly leave after that, leaving Jayson to stiffly watch them, his breathing heavy and eyes smoldering. Clive stops by the door and looks at Jayson.

  “Before I go, and this is out of professional, I’d recommend getting rid of the Ouija board properly. Some doors shouldn't be left open,” says Clive.

  Jayson holds his glare, and Clive leaves, pulling the door shut when he is outside, leaving Jayson alone in his dim burrow. A few seconds later, Jayson stares at the gift card glinting in the lantern light. He slips it in his pocket, tosses the folder on a milk crate, and sits in front of the lantern to read through his yearbook again.

  the dirty wall, tightly clutching his cosmic wood sword, and he closes his eyes. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sounds of Bliss Town's traffic filtering down from above. The shadows darken around him, and even though his eyes are closed, he can still see the white void eyes of the demon playing as his dead wife.

  The records have been erased of him and Lexanne, but the burden stays strong, and until Mama Bear is defeated, the weight will remain.