It began at night. The shadows had been long and cold, creeping into her room like unwelcome guests. The Child had been lying in her bed, clutching a stuffed tooka her mother had sewn for her. She heard the muffled voices from the other room, her father's sharp tone, her mother's soft but insistent pleas. Then came the loud crash—the door splitting apart—and the strangers who poured into their home like a black tide.

Her mother's arms were around her before The Child could scream. She was shushed, cradled against a chest that rose and fell too fast. "Stay quiet," her mother whispered, the words trembling. "Stay very quiet, darling."

But no matter how quiet she was, they found her.

The strangers tore her from her mother's grasp. The Child screamed, kicking and flailing as the stuffed tooka fell from her hands. She didn't understand why her father's voice turned desperate, why her mother's cries were so broken. She only understood that she was being taken somewhere, somewhere her parents couldn't follow.

The fortress was gray and cold. Everything smelled like metal and something sour. The Child didn't know where she was or why the tall, sharp-eyed people kept staring at her like she was something strange and fascinating. They said words she didn't understand, though some of them were loud and angry. Others were quiet, like they were hiding secrets just for themselves.

And then there were the tests.

They sat her in rooms that were too bright and prodded her with needles that pinched and burned. They put strange helmets on her head that made her skin itch and her thoughts feel fuzzy. They held objects in front of her—shiny things, heavy things—and told her to move them without touching them. The Child didn't understand why they got so angry when nothing happened at first.

Sometimes she did manage to make something happen. The shiny things would wobble, the heavy things would slide an inch. But every time she succeeded, the tall people would take notes and talk to each other with quick, eager voices. Their eyes would light up in a way that made The Child's skin crawl. It wasn't happiness—it was hunger.

She learned not to try so hard after that. She learned that failing made them less interested in her, less cruel.

She was always tired. They gave her food, but it tasted strange, and there was never enough. Her body felt small and heavy, and she cried herself to sleep most nights. She dreamed of her mother's lullabies, of her father's rough but steady hands lifting her high into the air. She dreamed of the smell of their home, of safety, of love.

But when she woke up, the cold walls were still there.

One night, the fortress shook. The Child woke to the sound of shouting, the ground rumbling beneath her. She huddled in the corner of her small, hard bed, covering her ears as strange noises filled the air. Bright flashes lit up the tiny window—blues, reds, and whites that danced like angry fireflies.

The door to her room burst open, and she screamed. But it wasn't one of the sharp-eyed people. It was a man she didn't recognize, his face dirty and his clothes torn. He knelt in front of her, his voice hurried but soft. "We're getting you out of here, little one. Your parents are waiting for you."

Parents. The word cut through the fear, and The Child clung to it like a lifeline.

The man scooped her up and carried her through the chaos. The fortress was loud and smoky, filled with strangers shouting and fighting. The Child buried her face in the man's shoulder, too scared to look, too overwhelmed to cry.

And then she saw them.

Her mother's arms wrapped around her the moment the man set her down. Her father's voice murmured something she couldn't hear over her own sobs. They held her so tightly that she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. She wanted to stay there forever, safe and whole.

But it didn't last.

Another stranger approached, a woman with tired eyes and a calm voice. She spoke to The Child's parents, her words urgent. Her mother cried again, shaking her head, but her father nodded, his face grim. The Child didn't understand. Why were they still talking? Why weren't they leaving together?

Her mother knelt in front of her, brushing The Child's hair away from her face. "You're going on a little trip, darling," she said, her voice breaking. "Just for a while. You'll be safe, I promise. So safe."

"No!" The Child cried, clinging to her mother's tunic. "No, stay!"

Her father's hands pulled her away gently but firmly. "You have to be brave, sweetheart," he said, his voice rough. "You have to go. We'll see you again. I swear it."

The woman took The Child's hand. The Child screamed and kicked, fighting with everything she had, but it was no use. The woman carried her away, her parents growing smaller and smaller until they were gone.

By the time they reached the ship, The Child was too tired to fight it any longer. Her small body, weary from days of fear and uncertainty, finally gave in. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she passed out from exhaustion as they carried her through the cold, sterile corridors of the underground fortress.

The rebel that had freed her from the Nightvale Syndicate's clutches moved quickly, barely sparing a glance behind him as he made his way to the ship. The Child's body was limp in his arms, her tiny head resting against his chest. The tightness in her chest and the ache in her limbs were the only signs of life—her breath coming in shallow, irregular patterns.

Once aboard the ship, they moved quickly to a small cargo hold where they placed her into a crate, just large enough to fit her curled-up body. She didn't stir as the lid was gently placed over her, the only sound in the darkness the faint creaking of the wood and the quiet hum of the ship's systems. Inside, the crate smelled of old cloth—thick folds of fabric that she could no longer recognize as comforting. The blanket that had been placed with her was rough and unfamiliar. She didn't have the strength to protest or even notice.

The ship's engine rumbled to life, and the stars outside began to blur as the ship took off into space. The Child lay still in the crate, her small hands clutching the blanket loosely as she drifted further into unconsciousness. The chaos of the past few days—being taken, the strange people in the fortress, the cold metal walls, and the loud voices—had left her empty. Her mind, too tired to process the confusion and fear, simply shut down, seeking the only rest it could find.

The ship continued its journey, leaving behind the life The Child once knew, as she slept soundly, unaware of the vastness of space or the uncertainty of her future.

She had no idea where she was going or what would happen next. All she knew was that the world she had known was gone, and the small, fragile part of her that had clung to the love of her parents was now lost in the shadows of sleep, adrift in the unknown.

The soft hum of the engines was the only sound in the empty cargo hold, and The Child lay there, oblivious, waiting for whatever would come next.