"Maybe that was when

I chose to stay fallen"

~ Mili "Between Two Worlds - Realm of Darkness"

Sylvester, with Junior and Charles' help, finishes preparing the Christmas dinner when the doorbell rings. "I'll get it." He rushes to open the door, and his heart skips a beat.

There, accompanied by Furrball, is a blond cat adorned in purple. Beneath the rim of their pork pie hat, a pair of purple-and-gold eyes stare back. "Merry Christmas, Tiger," the stranger greets him. Before Sylvester can respond, his new guest invites themself in, acting as if they own the place. Taking in the sight of the decorated interior, they sigh nostalgically. "Good to see some things never change. So, where's the kid?"

Peeking in from the entryway leading into the dining space, Junior gasps upon seeing the guest. "Mom?"

The blond cat's ears perk up. "If it ain't my little Sylvie! Come give your ol' mama a hug."

Junior hesitates for a second before approaching them. Then, eyes wet with tears, he wraps them in a warm embrace. "I can't believe it… It's really you. You're alive…!"

"Sorry for not coming back sooner," his mother replies. "Work got complicated, and I couldn't afford transport 'til now." They rustle his hair.

"So you'll be staying? For real?"

"You and Ol' Sylv need me here more than the Alleycats in New York. 'Sides, I miss this place."

After a round of warm greetings, the cats head to the dining area to celebrate proper. While dinner commences, Junior peers at Charles, poking at his food without eating it. He leans over to whisper, "What's wrong, Charlie?"

The young skunk doesn't immediately respond, instead eyeing the adults eating and drinking merrily. "Papa called me earlier. He got a new job recently and won't be coming home tonight." His gaze shifts to Junior's mother, and his hands start shaking. "What if his new job requires him to leave, too? What if he never comes back?"

Junior glances at his dad, whose returning gaze expresses worry. "I don't think that's going to happen. Pepé cares about you a lot, and even if he moves out of Acme City, there's no way he'll leave you behind without a good reason." He pauses to take a bite from the roasted chicken on his plate. "Eat up; it's what he would've wanted."

Encouraged by the kitten's words, Charles follows along, taking small bites until his taste buds become accustomed to the food. But the loneliness still nags at him. His aunt is a wanted criminal who left him behind, and his father is working on Christmas Eve. Even if Junior turns out to be right, it doesn't do much to quell the pain he's feeling right now. When are you coming home, Papa?

The pitter-patter of furry feet echo in the brightly lit halls of ACME Corp's Science Department. Observing the locations of the doors and intersections, as well as the floor number "B2", Pepé slowly comes to the realization that he had never stepped foot in this part of the building. With that comes one filled with dread.

In front of him, the young doe researcher, Fifi, is acting as his guide. "This is where we host our ongoing research. Since Project Acmetropolis is still ongoing, much of our resources have been going towards it."

Project Acmetropolis. The name is a controversial one to bring up in conversations, he learned recently. For every supporter excited at the sci-fi dream of traveling to space and living on a bio-technological Sapient-made colony, there is a detractor criticizing the project as a waste of money and the CEO-slash-mayor candidate should be focusing on fixing the planet they're already living on. Pepé is divided, torn between his ambitions as a scientist and his feelings as an earth denizen. But for the sake of keeping this position–and his one chance to help his son–he will keep mum on the subject.

They pass by a pair of doors distinguished by the red lights glowing above them. The sign on each of them reads, "SUBJECT CONTAINMENT UNIT", followed by the indicators A and B.

Something about those words strikes him with familiarity. They used live subjects when they tested the Illudium back then, both Sapient and primitive. If they're still relying on them, what for? Looking closely at the entrance to Unit A, he notices some damage to the hinges and scratch marks at the door's edges.

"I wouldn't go near it if I were you," a voice warns him. He turns to Fifi. Her countenance is uncharacteristically solemn, the glimmer in her gold eyes gone. "Those rooms are restricted to authorized employees. Entering without permission will lead you to nothing but trouble." Then, as abruptly as it appeared, her expression regains its former levity. "Oh, dear, look at the time! Let's not dawdle, mon ami, or we'll be late for orientation."

Reluctant, he continues onward. He tries to redirect his thoughts, but no matter what they always return to that door. What sorts of subjects are they keeping in there?, he wonders. And what in the hell escaped from that unit?

In the outskirts of Northeast Quarter, the infamous lone wolf of the district's K-9 forces, Diego Villalobos, is on the prowl. The last remaining members of Don Henery's gang run about the streets like a flock of headless chickens, desperate and aimless without a leader. Because of their small numbers and erratic movements, catching them has become increasingly difficult–but tonight he's hit the jackpot.

Outside the abandoned toy factory, four birds meet, the contents of their carrier bags chiming with each rousing movement. They whisper and nod at each other, then enter the building. Diego, lurking in the shadows, follows them inside, down a series of rusted steps into the basement floor. He stops before the final door, opting to peer in through its tiny window.

The room past the door is dimly lit by candles, revealing walls decorated with banners bearing occult symbols. In the center, a large flock of birds gather, many in hooded cloaks uncharacteristic of any gang in the city. Surrounded by the makeshift altar, theater curtains obscure the entire back wall, from which one can hear low, heaving growls and the click-clack of claws against concrete.

The four birds empty their bags, distributing empty glass vials. A pair of hooded avians, carrying large pitchers, pour liquid night skies into the smaller containers. Most vials are set aside for trade, the rest reserved for personal consumption.

Diego's ears pull back, a heavy pit of dread welling in his gut. In his years spent in Acme City's criminal justice system, he has met his fair share of cults and fringe groups. Drug trades, human trafficking, even blood sacrifices, he's seen it all. In most cases, he can easily dispose of them just as he did with Acme Underground's black market.

But something about this one feels… off somehow. When the hooded servants pull back the curtains, he witnesses a horrific event that will remain ingrained in his mind until the day he dies.

Revealed is a cage housing a massive monstrosity of yellow feathers. Piercing blue eyes of various sizes staring in every direction. A beak full of rows of sharp, jagged teeth. Multitudes of bloodstained talons and wings, many of them in places that make no logical sense. It shifts about in its confines, exposing even more eyes and beaks and wings and limbs. Despite its mutated state, however, the monster appears content, even prideful of its loyal following.

The cult's leader, clad in elaborate robes, stands before the beast to face their audience. "Since the loss of our leader Don Henery, we have struggled to regain our former glory. Then Tweety, our former rival, has graced us with his presence. No longer a mere Sapient, but a god among mortals, now he has come to offer us that same godhood. Through his immortal form, we will ascend and rule this city–nay, the world! Alas, with great power must come great sacrifice, so he hunts for blood to sustain him. We, blessed by Tears of Isis, will satiate him and ensure our survival for ages to come. Now, witness in awe of our new lord's might!"

What follows is an even more grotesque sight. Two larger cultists grab hold of one of the unclad avians and toss them into the cage. The monster grabs hold of them with one of its fore-talons and tears into their flesh. What remains is a barely-recognizable mess of viscera. One that resembles the cannibalized body the mercenary duo discovered last month.

Diego's heart starts to palpitate. There's no way…! That's Tweety? But how…? Recalling the information he's been given about the Tears of Isis, he can speculate their intentions. In small quantities, the substance can restore one's health of any ailments and wounds, extending their life. In greater, concentrated quantities, one can gain powers and become immortal–if their bodies can withstand its extensive effects on their physiology. If that monster was made from the Tears, then…

He flees from the vicinity, too terrified to entertain that thought.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello, everyone! I'm sorry for taking so long, despite stating otherwise last chapter. Things have gotten busy on my end, and with my LT hyperfixation waning so, too, has my motivation to work on this story.

If I can be 100% honest, there is one other reason.

This fic involves a lot of deities/folk heroes (or false ones, rather), which includes those from Native American beliefs. Because of how much of a touchy subject it is when it comes to non-Indigenous peoples using Native American stories and traditions in their fiction, I keep worrying about whether my treatment of it will be considered problematic and–as my stupid, anxious, neurodivergent brain warps it–I start worrying about people saying I'm a terrible, no-good, overall morally inferior person. Because of this issue and much more, this fic has become a bit too loaded and stressful and increasingly less worth the effort of trying to finish it.

Whether I will resume or not I cannot say with certainty. I just wanted to lay out some of the bigger stressors I've had surrounding this fic the past few months. And honestly, the idea of being seen as a terrible person and treated like a pariah is a huge demotivator for me in many creative endeavors and even in my personal life. Maybe I'll get over my irrational fears and learn to enjoy creating again, or maybe I won't. All I want is to enjoy doing things again.

Sorry this AN is such a downer. Writing it got me a bit emotionally roused. If you managed to read this far into the story, thank you so much. People who enjoy my work–whether it be writing or art–make the process worthwhile. I know having an audience isn't the be-all end-all, but as someone who doesn't really have anyone to casually infodump about my special interests, let alone my creative ideas, it's important to me.

So, uh, thanks for hearing me out, and I hope we can meet again sometime.