The couple days were awash in anticipation as the first hatching was quickly joined by the second – the other one that'd received the special treatments for the cracking – and a few hopeful shifts as the rest of the eggs readied themselves. It seemed the whole crew found some excuse to "drop by," as well as Nyota and Spock peeking in regularly to see if they were needed.

McCoy hadn't necessarily wanted to make a big thing out of it, but news spread like wildfire and everyone wanted to meet the little puffballs. Without Cyg awake and alert to give permission, McCoy sent the majority of the well-wishers off. Good natured grumbling aside, it was getting to be a tad ridiculous.

Thankfully, he was given a reprieve of sorts when Jim found another potential planet.

True to his earlier promise, the doctor told his captain to shove it, in the politest terms possible, and keep his landing parties to himself.

Even Spock, usually the voice of reason and following regulations, told Jim that he intended to remain in sickbay. In case he was needed, of course.

"I think it's the puffballs," Nyota confessed to McCoy while Spock made use of his office to privately confer with Jim over the computer. "I haven't see him gush so much since the tribble incident."

McCoy chuckled. "I'm not going to disagree with you, but not in spitting distance of him. I do not envy the poor bastard who tries to take his daughter to prom some day."

In truth, McCoy hadn't really been the one to send visitors away; it'd mostly been Spock's scary Vulcan glower. Heck, the man hadn't even put down the first-hatched when he went to answer Jim's comm, just rucked her up against his shoulder and told McCoy he'd be making use of his office.

"Yeeeah." Nyota grinned and tickled the tummy of the little boy she'd lifted out of the incubator minutes before. "That evening, when and if it happens, will probably end in a nerve pinch. Maybe incarceration. Possibly crying. Not necessarily from the would-be prom queen, either."

McCoy tapped his PADD and contemplated all of curiosities of multi-species genetics and behavioral patterns. "M'Benga wondering about it earlier. Has a theory that Spock might've gotten a dose of parental instincts the last meld with Cygnus. Again, another thing I'm not bringing up with him. If he wants to come and help babysit, I'm not arguing."

"It's not like they're that difficult!"

McCoy snorted. "Wait until they're all hatched. Right now, what with only two, and them staying awake for a couple minutes at a time between two-to-three hour long sleep cycles? No problem. I can tell you from experience, just one toddler keeping ya up at night can be hell after a month or two. Hell, what'm I sayin'? Give it a couple days."

"Have you started feeding them yet?"

He shook his head. "No, the tricorder's still reading a yoke on the oldest, so I'm not going to wake Cyg up for it. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow. I'd hoped they'd all be out before I had to worry about it."

Like many egg-bearing species back home, these guys sucked the last of the albumen into their body cavity during the hatching process. Unlike the chickens he'd raised as a kid, Cyg's tykes had enough in them to last several days, not just one or two. Another blessing of biology working in his favor. And considering how much growth he'd seen in them already – Number One growing a full two centimeters in length already – the proteins in their eggs must be much more nutritious. Or their biology prepared to make the best use of it.

McCoy's office door opened with a whoosh, Spock stomping out... as much as that feline-descended creature ever could.

"It seems I am required on this landing party," he declared.

"Jim think's it's a good prospect?"

"There is radio signal, evidence of advanced technology, and nuclear radiation close to the polls. Considering Cygnus' previous statements about the space program being a covert one, Jim intends to attempt contact the governments privately."

McCoy looked up at the Vulcan, studying the tense set of his shoulders, the slight furrow in his brow, and the long, expressive fingers cupped against the downy pinkish-white fluff of Number One.

"If ya want, I can write ya a doctor's note."

Spock gave him a perplexed stare.

"And excuse not to go in to work," Uhura explained for him.

Number One squirmed. "Hm? Oh, of course." Spock said, absentmindedly. When McCoy moved to get up and grab the comm to do just that, Spock waved him back down and simply passed him the little girl. "My apologies. I will return when my duties are complete."

McCoy exchanged a confused, blinking glance with the communication's officer after he left.

"What was that about? That seemed a bit out of character."

"Do you think... you know, with the touch-telepathy?" McCoy held the little girl aloft, trying to gauge just how intelligent those eyes seemed already.

"It's possible. I don't know much about Vulcan children. Maybe that's a normal way to communicate with them? Before they have spoken language?"

"Makes sense. Biologically speaking. Hell, I'd been wondering how telepathy develops, touch or otherwise, in a sentient race that can talk anyway. It's damn expensive, metabolically, and, well, weird. Not bad weird; it just stands out. In the grand scheme of things. Ya got Trill, who are really only internally telepathic, Betazoids, Vulcans, Romulans – who might as well be Vulcans, as far as my profession is concerned – and who else?"

"Those are the only Federation planets I know with it."

"Exactly. But, if it means a greater chance of survival for the next generation, I guess I can get behind it. What'd ya say, kiddo?" She let out a yawn too massive for her tiny mouth. "My sentiment's exactly. Back ya go. Probably a bit chill anyway, weren't ya? Mean ol' Vulcan with his low body temp."

He ended up tucking both of his current charges away, since the boy in Uhura's arms was already fast asleep.

McCoy had shit all for toys – a project Scotty was working on, of course – so he'd been stuck attempting Uhura's whistles, talking, cuddling, and generally flying by the seat of his pants, as far as stimulating them went.

The one thing he did do, though, every time they woke up, even if it was only for a couple minutes, was tuck them up against Cygnus' side, or in the curve of his palm or the crook of his neck. Uhura sang Cygnus' song for them, so they'd know him once he woke up for good, but McCoy really didn't want them imprinting on a bunch of humans.

"Hopefully this is the right planet this time, hm?"

"Yeah. I'll admit, I'm a bit worried about synthesizing the right food for them. Keeping Cyg on nutrient plasma has been a delicate balancing act. I don't want it to get to the same point with the little ones."

"I'm sure we'll figure something out. Worse comes to worse, we have food cubes."

McCoy grunted. Nutritious, maybe, but that was going to cause some seriously interesting clean ups that he had no doubt whatsoever would be his job.

"That reminds me, how are the nurses doing with those diaper experiments?"

He chuckled. "Kind of a mess. The fluff gets all encrusted and then we have to do bath time and no one likes that. Hate to admit it, but Scotty's idea about having interchangeable paper in the incubator seems to be the best idea for now. Maybe Cyg has an answer for it."

Nyota grinned. "Poor guy. He's going to be a bit overwhelmed when he wakes up to a couple armloads of kids. What'd he say, he had four nest mates?"

"You're the one who recorded it," the doctor said after a moment's contemplation. "But that sounds right."

"And his dad a 'champion hatcher.' Not sure he's really going to be ready for sixteen."

"Don't count them before they hatch," He grinned. "But it is looking fairly good so far. I wonder what's causing such a low hatch rate."

Nyota shrugged. "Maybe it's how clean you keep everything in here."

"Thanks, I suppose. "

"No problem." She plopped down in the chair next to him. "Hopefully Cyg won't mind if we all pitch in to help. Dunno about your nurses, but the communications crew has been practicing Cyg's native language in hopes of currying favor for babysitting duties."

"Ha! Don't think we've been going quite to that extreme, but I'm sure they're ready and raring to hop in. Only Spock's lovely visage has kept most of the dogs at bay so far. Hell, who'm I kidding, eh? Remind me to go over assigning some crew with Jim for twenty-four hour watch with the kids once he gets back. If it was just one or two, we'd be able to work it out between us, but realistically? Once Cyg's up, my mind needs to be on him, not them. And I don't doubt his mind's gonna be on them, not on recovery and PT."

After a few hours without word from the landing party, McCoy finally buckled down and commed up to the bridge to figure out what the good word was.

One of the communications crew he only barely recognized by voice replied with the right kind of vagary that told the doctor that Jim'd found himself in trouble. Again.

"Hey Nyota? Mind busting your underling's butt and getting me some real intel?"

She chuckled and set down the tablet she'd reading aloud from – theoretically children's stories translated into their language. "I'll go get the readings for myself. Knowing Beta shift, they're probably biting their nails already."

The kids settled quickly, without Nyota whistling to them, and decided on a simultaneous nap. Leaving McCoy the usual monstrous load of work that came with his station.

Between updates to Chekov and Cygnus' records, sending off the usual reports to Starfleet Medical, drafting the Thank Yous to the multitude of doctors – and one helpful Ambassador – who'd inputted their data for his surgery, the lone hopeful scan of his own liver to see if he could grab something useful on the rocks, he quickly lost himself, only coming up when the motion sensor Scotty put on the incubator bleeped it's now familiar warning.

He rubbed his face, snagged a passing nurse, asked him to grab a glass of orange juice, and headed off to assist the hatching.

The little ones were up, bouncing little balls of fluff, watching while he scrubbed and wheeled the cart over.

"Someone get Uhura on the comm, hm?"

He had the whole moistening and positioning bit down pat at this point. Under the heat lamp, but away from the fans, seemed to be the trick, along with the occasional jostle or rotation to hurry them along if they seemed to be taking too long and potentially having issues.

This one, however, already had a massive split.

"She sends her regrets-"

"Regrets?" McCoy nearly shrieked before he checked himself. "What in tarnation is happening up there!"

"The line went dead just wh-"

A massive shake rocked the ship, tumbling several of the eggs loose and knocked the currently active egg right into his knuckle, collapsing a weak bit of the shell in onto the poor creature.

Any recrimination or curses were lost, quickly, as his adrenaline spiked and he had to salvage the situation. Without expert voices calling the chick to push from the inside, and untold hemorrhaging taking place just a few millimeters away, McCoy took a chance and started pealing back the shards as carefully, and quickly, as he could manage.

He didn't have time to spare wondering who the hell was firing on them, why the comm lines went down, or if Scotty had it all under control until the last of the micro tears in the albumen had been cauterized and a weak, exhausted lump of avian curled up in his hands.

"Is he going to be okay, doctor?"

"Damn well hope so. Anyone got some answers yet? 'Cause I'm about to go take a few inoculations up and administer them. The old fashioned way."

The rest of the kids were squeaking for attention as he teased the wet clumps of fluff apart for the blower to get everything dried up.

Within minutes the little one's eyes drifted closed and a nurse popped up with a scanner to insure he'd simply fallen asleep. A quick smile and nod reassured the doctor. He cupped the little boy in his palms, lifted him from the egg incubator and set him in the other, where his more active siblings instantly wiggled over and plopped on top of his damp self.

Number Three had just enough energy for an indignant squeak and a glare before falling back asleep, but Number One and Two were refreshed from their naps and too excited to calm down.

"Come here, you two." McCoy scooped them both up. "He needs sleep. You'll just have to keep me company while I find out what in tarnation they're up to up there."

For the first time in three days, the two little ones weren't passive passengers; it took McCoy a few minutes of rushing from one sparking terminal to the next to realize they were snicked firmly onto his uniform.

He tried to flip them from one forearm to the other – of course he picked them up with his dominant arm! - only to find tiny, apparently strong, little digits at the end of their puffball excuses for arms. McCoy blew gently into the downy feathers until he revealed a bare thumb and pair of fingers on each hand, the others apparently encased in soft skin and feathers, each grasping the pale blue fabric of his surgical scrub as if their lives depended on it.

"Interesting that ya start this up now... reaction to my stress level, or you've just got old enough to give it a try?"

With vague recollections of opossums back home, and no way to pry them off without causing major damage or just plain taking too long, he accepted his new barnacles and called for a nurse to act as his typing hand and get the blasted communications systems online again.

Not-so-surprisingly, the ship did not stop shaking, just because he yelled at it to. Nor did it stop when he kicked in a console panel, or when he scared off a couple young ensigns who didn't have the brains to understand that space is a walking death trap waiting to happen. If he let it, that is.

When Nyota finally called down to let them know a rescue party was on the way, McCoy had just about had it.

"Have we tried, oh, I don't know, just beaming them up off the fucking planet?"

"We tried."

"...Should I even ask what came up?"

"The phasors and communicators made it back in one piece. Well, more than one piece, since everyone had a set but-"

"Brilliant. Just... damnit. Just tell me they're alive somewhere so I'll have the visceral enjoyment of killing them myself?"

"Radiation's making the transporter signal a wee bit wonky," Scotty's voice burbled in some distance behind Uhura. So, on the bridge, at least, if not by her side. "I'm thinking sending a shuttle might be the best bet at this point."

"Gee, you think?"

"Leonard..."

"I know, I know." McCoy let out a huff of air. "Just get those two imbeciles back in one piece, would you? You know how I hate paperwork. Requisitioning a new captain and first officer this far into the mission will be a pain in my keister."

"No problem there, lad. I'm in complete agreement."

"Especially seeing as you'd be doing the signing of said paperwork," Nyota said, a teasing lilt to her voice for the third-in-command.

"Tell me we've at least stopped rocking. I had to stick foam insulation between the eggs to keep them banging into each other."

"Oh aye, that's part of the problem. Moved out of the range of the planet's defenses and now we can't get a lock on the lads."

"Wonderful. Look, I've got wounded coming in. Uhura, if you can't get down here to help with the kids, send someone who can get that song done, would you? Nearly lost the last one."

A telling bit of silence meant she probably had her hand over the mic so she could confer with the commander.

"I'll be down in a minute."

"No rush," McCoy grumbled. Only half joking.

Number One and Two showed no signs of releasing his shirt-front, so he had to balance the two of them and his tricorder while scanning incoming wounded from across the ship.

Nothing major, thankfully, just bumps and bruises from falls. A couple fractures from engineering, of course.

Doctors, nurses and lab techs rolled in without being ordered. The routine of the ship's usual emergency care altering only to accommodate his new role as triage nurse.

A couple folks offered to take the chicks off of his hands, but the more hustle and bustle around them, the tighter those little fingers gripped.

They silently watched with wide eyes as crewmen were bustled in and out. Their slight weight barely distinguishable from his clothes; McCoy fisted a handful of his own shirtfront to keep himself from thoughtlessly reaching out with his arm and dropping them.

"Ack!" McCoy spun at Nyota's distressed squawk. "Why do you have them out!"

"It's this or they're flopping over Number Three."

"Let me take them at least-"

"Only if they'll let you."

Her patient fingers gently wedged Number Two loose, but the moment she cradled him to her shoulder he latched on again. She blinked and tried to pull him away, only to find her uniform coming up with him.

"Yeah. There's that issue too."

Without her brother taking up half his arm, Number One wasn't quite so awkward to deal with, so he let her be at the crook of his elbow. After a bit, he was awkwardly leaning over a plasma burn patient with the best of them, trying his best to convince himself that he'd been keeping the kids sterile enough he didn't have to worry about covering them in scrubs.

A sharp shout from Nyota a couple hours in drew his attention.

"We've got another hatcher!"

"Great. Lovely. Youseff? Can you step in here?"

She plucked his tools without protest and swept in to take over.

Uhura was already singing in Cygnus' little fabric cubicle by the time McCoy scrubbed as much as he could reach.

"Let me get the-"

"Not enough time!" she quipped between stanzas.

He bit back a curse when he finally caught sight of the chipped shell disintegrating through her fingertips.

"Pause the song?" he suggested as he reached in to help moisten, and soften, the shell before it cut something important.

"Wish I could," she said at the next pause. "Don't know how long she's been fussing while all this chaos's been going on."

McCoy fretted at Uhura's side, feeling a tad useless as the more normal course of the hatching process took over.

But it wasn't normal.

At least, not like the first two.

Number One had been stressful until they got detailed instructions from Cyg, then everything went smooth. Two was about exciting as watching paint try; he pipped a neat little circle around the narrow side of his egg, gave it a little crack, then a good shove and the thing opened up like a oyster to reveal the wriggling pearl within.

This one... was disorganized. Pipping here, then shaking a bit, repositioning, then poking a new hole a little to the left, right, above. No organized line, or even organized cluster. Small chunks of shell that flaked away, revealing the usual wet feathers within, then ignored in favor of poking yet more holes.

"Wait," McCoy finally bid. The egg wriggled to a stop alongside Uhura's song.

He reached for the tricorder, fearing what he'd find. What unknown data – with no guarantee Cyg could decipher, even if he was awake – the medical scanner might reveal.

Stress hormones high – not unexpected, considering. BP and heart rate elevated. He read aloud without a thought, checking off one things after another. Oxygen saturation, organ functionality, albumen location...

Working from the outside in, until he saw the problem.

The little girl couldn't wriggle in a straight line to get that seam she'd been genetically programmed to cut through. The most efficient seam for a little life to cut to remove herself from her support structure. Her protection from the world. Her little prison.

"See if you can get Number One, would you?" He murmured absently to Uhura.

"...what's wrong? The numbers sounded... well, not good, but similar to Number Two."

"Yeah. Please? Take her?"

Number One wriggled and whimpered as Nyota pried her loose. Once she was given a spot next to her younger brother, she latched comfortably enough, dragging the collar of Uhura's uniform even lower with her weight.

"Leonard... what's wrong?"

"Get them out of the room. And call in M'Benga. Or Youseff. Anderson. Who ever's free."

He silently turned the tricorder's readings over to the growing cluster around him. Others pulled out their own scanners, looking for better news. Turning the spinning wands against the others still sleeping in their shells and finding the same issue in several others. All the females. Over half of the males.

"What do we do?"

McCoy sighed and traced the ruptured shell before him with the pad of his thumb.

"We do the best we can. There might not be hope for this one, but get some of the lab techs on the others. I want options and I want them now."

Within moments a surgical team flooded the small space.

Blood oxygenation rates dropped through the floor in the precious few moments they had.

McCoy cursed under his breath and pulled the little one from the incubator. Without better sterile space available, he set the half-shattered shell right on top of Cyg's cloth-covered stomach.

Laser scalpels appeared. More hands than space for them quickly snipped at the remaining calcium. The charred scent of a dentist's office filled the room as they gently released Number Four.

"Two CCs Tri-ox. Point four adrenaline. Let's get her heart going again."

With her feathers wet and matted, they had trouble disentangling her limbs from their twisted, curled-in position. Each movement a minor heart-attack waiting on behalf of her doctors, the bare knowledge of the species a gaping hole filled with questions. The chief of which being, what happened to her bones?

Somehow, within the past week, while their shells had hardened and the calcium and residual radiation had scrambled a good portion of their scans, her bones had decalcified. The structure still there, but gone as soft and flexible as tendons.

When the adrenaline did little but spark the neurons, McCoy chanced a gentle massage of her ribcage.

Her body gave. Her organs offering as much resistance as her bones. Perhaps more, since the air in her lungs at least had pressure.

He swallowed down the taste of bile in his mouth and rolled his fingertips in a precise small circle, watching the offered tricorder.

"You've got it," the nurse reassured, the moment the valves and his fingers found a good rhythm between them.

"Ideas, people. The connective tissue isn't going to be able to take this amount of pressure for long."

Silence answered his order. Even from his own brain.

Even the injured crewmen on the other side of the curtain seemed to be holding their breath.

"I think I remember reading about this... somewhere," someone whispered.

"Then get on the records and find it, damnit."

"Yes sir."

The doctor disappeared, cursed as he tripped over some unseen obstacle, and clambered on with a rough pounding of feet.

"How bad are the rest of them?" McCoy glared around him, when no one answered. "Come on. I need data, people. What the fuck am I looking at?"

"All of them, to some extent. It looks like the shells are leaching the bone away," one doctor suggested into the quiet.

"Then why the fuck did One and Two not have this issue?" McCoy snapped. A kaleidoscope of responses tumbled out from all quarters of the room.

"They were both cracked."

"Additional radiation exposure?"

"They all got a dose."

"Slower rotations for those two..."

"Hot spot in the incubator?"

"Maybe that radiation rinse? Longer exposure to the cleaning agents?"

"Or less?"

"Genetic aberration?"

"One and two didn't show it."

"All the females show extreme decalcification, while the males do not to the same extent... sex-linked chromosomal deficiency?"

"Number One is fine!"

"Someone call up the damn records," McCoy ordered. "No, not on the Starfleet database, the Denobulan one. My office. Or ambassador Selek might've written about it. Something about it."

"What about the cracks?"

"... what, the damage helped them?"

"We hit them with the dermal regenerator."

"...no. It wasn't the dermal regenerator. Not for the shells. You used the bone knitter. Must have. I'm certain about it. Better at the calcium mesh."

"So, what it hardened the shell?"

"That might be it, exactly." Intuition turned on a bright red fucking neon sign pointed right at the regenerators. "Damnit. The shells are semi-porous. They've been leaching calcium molecules the whole time. On a radiation rich planet, they'd be rebuilding their cell structure as it was burned away. That's why One and Two have so much protein in their yokes. We sealed up their shells, so they weren't reabsorbing the calcium."

"So... what does that mean?"

McCoy touched his spare forearm to his temple. "Hell if I know. I'm just shitting in the dark as it is. Anyone find anything yet?" he shouted into the quiet.

"Your computer's down!"

"Fucking wonderful. Call up Scotty. I don't care if he's still searching for the captain. I want him down here and that terminal working five minutes ago!"

Without research, or the time to get it, McCoy followed his instincts and called for an array of hypos and tools. He continued to massage her heart, keeping blood flowing, while he orchestrated his staff around him.

"Next time we're at space dock, I'm getting Jim to recruit a neonatal specialist."

Someone chuckled sadly, while double checking his calculations for a body with a barely discernible mass. "Other than Cyg's case, when else would we need a specialist like that?"

McCoy sighed. He didn't need to agree out loud, they already knew. The 'Fleet may supply them, more than adequately, but at the end of the day they'd need to have a good reason to pay the salaries.

The doctor took a moment to synchronize the swirl of his left hand with his right before switching hands.

"Cramping?"

He frowned at M'Benga's question and flexed his fatigued knuckles. "No. Just not used to repetitive motion like this."

"You can't do this indefinitely, you know," M'Benga whispered.

"As long as I'm getting blood to her brain-"

"You're risking rupturing her internal organs. You're fracturing what little bone mass she possesses."

"It's decalcified. It'll just flex and-" McCoy stopped at Doctor M'Benga's scowl. "I know. I'm still causing damage. But it gives us time."

You know what needs doing.

McCoy closed his eyes for a long moment, focusing on the perfect tempo of the roll of his fingers.

"Someone get me meds to wake up Cyg. He might not have long with his second daughter, but we can give him a little time."

Without Spock there to guide the avian's return to consciousness, McCoy settled on the next-best solution: the heaviest doctors, nurses, and a couple redshirted security personnel pinning him down at shoulder, hip, elbow and knee to keep the thrashing at a minimum.

The moment Cygnus woke up enough to understand the shouting around him, he stilled. Muscled vibrated with random neural firing, his teeth clenched tight enough McCoy heard the creaking in his jaw, and every breath was a short pant as he fought against the pain.

"Something's gone wrong with her, Cyg," McCoy explained. "Someone get him upright, would ya?"

A hasty bit of shuffling got several pillows under his twitching torso.

When he finally unclenched his eyes against the internal horrors of his own body, they fell onto the wet lump McCoy still massaged, still curled up against her father's stomach.

"Number One, Two, and Three hatched without a hitch," McCoy quickly explained, promising himself he'd get around to mentioning the issues Three once everything else calmed down. "But this one didn't come out right. We've been working on her since, but every minute that passes her O2 levels are dropping, even with the tri-ox compound, and I'm afraid that..."

Cygnus' hand lifted. Even with the uncoordinated twitching of his fingers, the touch he laid against the back of McCoy's circling hand was gentle. Tender.

"Pipping was jumbled? Her body... soft?"

McCoy blew out a breath of relief. He knows about it then. "Yes, that's exactly what happened. What do we do?"

Those long fingers clenched around his own, putting enough pressure on him to stop the chest compressions.

"We let her rest."

Once again, silence filled the room. Cygnus' short, gasping breath and the computer's endless readout blips rang in the doctor's ears.

"Rest?" M'Benga exclaimed. "Alright, so we let her rest, but we need to ready the next treatment! What do we do?"

The last little breath slipped out from between McCoy's fingers. Without him holding the tempo, the tiny heart gave up within moments.

"There is no treatment, Doctor. When they pip like that, we know what awaits within. It is... easier... to let them... sleep in the egg."

"Your people have no treatment? No cure?"

Those pain-filled yellow eyes turned on him. "None."

And just like that, a room full of doctors, nurses, and passing volunteers had nothing to do but share in the grief of the little girl's passing.

A/N: Sorry this was a bit later than anticipated. I went from "Yey! Life is awesome! Getting distracted by an awesome person and wanting to making them pretty things 'cause they're pretty" (yes, I know, I'm a girly guy) to "OMFG why is my computer broken AAAGH!" and then the laptop got sent off to Apple for replacement parts to the tune of half of the value of the laptop. Thank the gods for AppleCare.

I have the next few chapters hand written, thanks to some lost data and rewrites while I had no computer. Debated for a while of holding off on this one until the next one was more ready, but you guys left me some awesome reviews... so I reward them with sadness cliffhangers. I guess I'm not a very good person, huh? I'm going to try my hardest to get the next chapter ready for my usual Friday-ish update, but it may be late again.

Anyway. Bones will figure something out, I'm sure. In the mean time, I need help coming up with names for all these cute puffballs! If you've go some ideas pleasetoss them into the reviews. I'm drawing such a blank!