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  Saturday, October 22nd, 2253 — 11:30am

  The Mystical Menagerie

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  One week later, Market Street thrummed with a kind of life rarely felt in the Outskirts.

  Bright awnings flapped in the wind, spilling colors across the wet cobblestones where vendors shouted over one another for attention. Steam hissed from food carts; the air was thick with roasted meat, sugar glaze, and the faint tang of fried oil. Strings of faded paper lanterns swayed between the upper floors of the old buildings, their painted faces grinning down on the crowd below. Music leaked from somewhere near the central intersection that gave the district its name — a battered speaker blasting half-static rhythms that somehow fit the chaos.

  Even the weather had relented. The gray sky still hung heavy, but the autumn rain had broken into nothing more than a cool mist that clung to every surface.

  Dozens of stalls crowded the thoroughfare, hawking everything from hand-stitched scarves to cheap polished beetle carvings, their sellers shouting deals at anyone who slowed long enough to listen. Children darted between legs clutching sweet bread or skewers of grilled fruit. Here and there, rough-looking men and women leaned against lampposts in mismatched body armor, the faint glint of metal plates visible under worn jackets. Their clubs hung from straps at their hips — Kindergarten muscle, keeping the peace by their mere presence.

  Every few minutes, a scuffle broke out somewhere along the street — a raised voice, a bump too hard, an accusation shouted over the crowd — but each flare died just as quickly, drowned beneath laughter and the pull of celebration.

  High above it all, floating just out of reach, dozens of screens hung suspended in the air as if by magic. Each displayed the same glowing countdown timer: 29:47… 29:46… 29:45…

  Market Street had never looked more alive.

  At the corner near Sally’s Market, the flow of people thickened where the alley broke off toward the Mystical Menagerie. The usually quiet lane was unrecognizable, lined now with makeshift booths selling trinkets and food.

  Someone had strung banners between the lampposts, crude letters scrawled in bright paint: “CROSSROADS COLEOPTERA BATTLE LEAGUE — DISTRICT OPENER!”

  The scent of cocoa and roasted beans bled into the street every time the Menagerie’s door opened. The shop’s fa?ade, freshly scrubbed and polished, gleamed beneath strings of hanging charms.

  Inside, the noise rose and fell like waves — laughter, chatter, the scrape of chairs against tile, the occasional bark from an excited puppy, all blending together into a warm chaos.

  Jeremiah leaned against the front desk, palms pressed to the polished wood as if steadying himself against a current only he could feel. This was by far the largest crowd the Mystical Menagerie had ever seen, even if it had only been open a couple of weeks.

  The sleeves of his Shopkeeper’s Regalia were pushed past his elbows, the fabric as spotless as if it had just been pressed, though his hair had long since given up any pretense of order.

  His register gave a soft chime as he closed it. The latest customer — a wide-eyed man still muttering about registration forms — vanished into the tide of the crowd, leaving behind a rare moment of quiet. Jeremiah let it linger, drawing in a breath. Then he lifted his gaze, scanning the shop to see what fires still needed putting out.

  Every table in the café was filled. Nic sat toward the back booth like a queen holding court, one arm draped along the seat while a cluster of sharp-dressed business owners leaned in close around her. A cup of untouched tea cooled at her elbow. Every so often she murmured something that made the group laugh a little too loud.

  Her two guards stood by the entrance, silent pillars in dark jackets. They didn’t need to move much — just a slow turn of the head, a shift in stance. Still, every time the Twin Boundaries shimmered to life at the door, one of them reached out, plucking a startled would-be thief out of the air like catching a stray cat. They gave no words, simply shifting through pockets for whatever smuggled item had caught on the barrier, then — sometimes literally — tossing the perp back into the streets.

  Behind the pastry counter, Alan moved with crisp precision. The boy’s black suit was perfectly pressed, tie pinned neatly in place. Yet his hands flew, pouring tea, sliding cups across the counter, plating pastries, and handing them off without missing a beat. The customers adored him — polite nods, murmured thank-yous, and the occasional tip slipped across the counter that he accepted with practiced grace.

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  On the far side of the shop, Lewis hustled between aisles, his usual groundskeeper’s uniform traded for a gray suit that strained slightly at the shoulders. His tie hung crooked, but he didn’t seem to notice. Every few steps someone waved him down with a question: what kind of food this was for, whether the terrarium fog was normal, what a particular magical toy did. He answered each one with the patient exhaustion of a man herding too many children at once, muttering under his breath as he went.

  The air itself felt charged with excitement and anticipation as the timer on the wall behind Jeremiah — just under the plaque with his shop’s registration on it — slowly counted down to the start of the event.

  Mero whistled low, a thin note that cut through the hum of voices. When Jeremiah glanced up, the fairy was perched on the counter as if he’d been there the whole time. Knowing him, he might have been.

  “Well,” Mero said, surveying the room with exaggerated slowness. “This is quite the crowd you’ve managed to drag in, shopkeep.”

  Jeremiah exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. He didn’t bother to look up from the mess of papers he was reorganizing. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s something.”

  The fairy tilted his head. “Something? It's packed shoulder-to-shoulder in here, lad. You’ve not seen Market Street, but its almost as bad. I’d not be surprised if half the Crossroads turned up for this shindig. Even the gangs are behaving.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes traced over the crowd.

  “I wasn’t expecting people to make such a big deal out of it. Not with only a week’s notice.” Jeremiah admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured a few dozen would show — enough to fill the brackets. Not…” He gestured toward the window, where the muffled roar of the festival pressed against the glass like a living tide. “Not whatever this turned into.”

  Mero grinned, all teeth and mischief. “Careful what you wish for, Jerry-boy. Places like this never turn down a chance to drink and get a little rowdy. Doesn’t matter if its a holiday or beetles, a party’s a party.”

  A light laugh cut through the din, warm and familiar. “He’s not wrong,” Sam said, slipping through the bustle with practiced ease, ducking around chairs and weaving past customers without missing a step. Gone was her usual weathered jacket and poofy sweater. In its place, she wore a dark green apron and a fitted black uniform — sharp like Alan’s, though the pleated skirt lent it a trace of elegance. A loose strand of hair escaped the large bun on her head, brushing her cheek as she balanced a serving tray in one hand.

  She set the tray down on the counter and extended a steaming cup toward him. “Doesn’t matter if half the people out there don’t even know what a Coleoptera Battle League is,” she said, smirking faintly. “But life out here’s rough. The Outskirts don’t get many excuses to celebrate, so they take what they can. You should’ve seen the party after the restorations were finished. That was something special.”

  Jeremiah took the cup, letting the heat sink into his palms. The bitter-sweet scent of coffee curled upward, grounding him amid the chaos. “Guess I underestimated what ‘community spirit’ really means,” he said, voice softer now, a hint of wonder threaded through the words.

  Sam leaned against the counter beside him, the smell of roasted beans and rain still clinging to her clothes. The noise of the café swelled and broke around them, yet her tone carried easily through it. “You really did,” she said, lips quirking in amusement as her eyes flicked toward the window. “But you’ll get used to it.”

  He hesitated, then offered her a small smile. “Thanks, by the way. For setting up the screens. And helping out. You didn’t have to. I know you probably have a hundred other things you could be doing right now.”

  She rolled her eyes and waved a hand, brushing off the gratitude. “Please. The screens were nothing fancy — standard stuff, just needed a bit of rewiring to talk to your shiny arena system. As for the rest?” She shrugged. “You forget, I used to bust my back hauling supplies long before Sarah found me. A little café work’s a nice change of pace.”

  Then, with a quick grin, she straightened and gave a half spin, apron fluttering. “Besides,” she said, cocking a hip, “don’t I look good in uniform?”

  Jeremiah blinked, caught off guard, then laughed softly. “I—uh—yeah. You pull it off.”

  Her grin turned smug, but before he could add anything more, a second tray landed on the counter with a sharp thunk.

  Amani stood at the counter, tray in hand, wearing the same uniform as Sam, though she’d stubbornly pulled her gray hoodie over it, the hood half-up to shadow her face. The fabric hung awkwardly over the apron strings, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

  She glared up at Jeremiah, eyes flicking once toward Sam before snapping back. “I’m taking a break,” she declared flatly.

  Without waiting for a reply — or caring whether he had one — Amani turned on her heel. The hood slipped a little as she walked, revealing the faint glint of the horn ring near her temple before she yanked it back into place.

  Jeremiah blinked after her. “...Right. Enjoy your break, then.”

  The door shut behind her, muffling the hum of the main room for a heartbeat before the noise returned. Jeremiah blew out a breath, shaking his head. “I’m honestly surprised you got her to agree to this at all.”

  Sam’s smile softened as she watched the door swing closed. “That wasn’t me. That was Ulrick. He’s got a way with people. She’s a good kid, just…” She tilted her head, searching for the word. “A little lost, maybe. Needs a direction to push toward.”

  Jeremiah leaned his elbows on the counter, giving her a sidelong look. “You can tell that after a few days?”

  Her eyes sparkled, that teasing smirk returning. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.”

  He chuckled, low and genuine this time. “So I’m learning.”

  Sam lifted both trays, balancing them with practiced ease. “Try not to overthink things, Jerry. Today’s supposed to be fun, remember?” She nudged his arm with one elbow as she turned to go, already sliding back into the swirl of customers.

  Jeremiah watched her weave through the tables, green apron flashing in and out of view amid the crowd. Mero, still perched on the counter, gave a low whistle. “Woman of many talents, huh?”

  Jeremiah shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

  Mero grinned, wings flicking with amusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But you might wanna get ready, ” he gestured toward the courtyard windows, where a large group of people were gathering under the central tree. “I think it’s about to start.”

  Jeremiah took another sip of coffee, the warmth grounding him against the rising buzz of voices, and set the cup down beside the register. “Yeah,” he murmured, half to himself, as the noise outside swelled into something like a cheer. “Looks like it.”