The young founder of Albert’s Amazing Fruit Baskets was jubilantly gallivanting down the pebbled street when his eyes caught the paper poster stating in grand, bold letters: THE CHOSEN ONES WANTED. Intrigued by the possible profitable prospects, he slowly read the ad: “We are in search of an extra special chosen one or ones for a nearby world rescue mission. Immediate start. Experience not needed. Generous payment upon completion of the quest. Interviews will be held on the night of the full moon, at midnight. For more information, reach out to Greta Green at the Chosen Ones Employment Agency (CEA).”

  Albert, age ten and three-quarters, a rather unassuming boy, held great ambitions in his lithe body. Being parentless, the said ambitions for having a safe place to sleep and a decent meal every few days manifested at a rather young age, or more accurately, since he was honourably discharged from the orphanage at the grand age of seven. When he wasn’t delivering his amazing fruit baskets, he worked as a messenger or a delivery boy running around town while thinking of enterprising endeavours. If he found himself in possession of a few extra coins, he took fighting lessons from Mr Slash, the town’s most prominent sword master, and if he didn’t, he spent his free time in the library. The librarian, Mr Brooks, was very patient with Alby’s studies, always lending him books to read, adamant that they were not magical even though the letters were constantly changing places.

  Several days later, Alby sat in the waiting room of the Chosen Ones Employment Agency (CEA). He was two hours early for his interview, but Greta didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. With the efficiency of someone used to all manner of oddities, she welcomed him with a steaming cup of green tea. “Sencha,” she said, as if that was an actual word, “good for clarity of thought,” and placed a small plate of ginger snaps beside him.

  Her security ghost, Hexengeist, hovered in the far corner, keeping close watch on Alby and the snaps. Alby carefully nibbled on a biscuit, trying not to crumble, and quietly observed the pair.

  Greta was in her middle years and wore an exquisite three-piece men’s suit tailored to perfection in plush, mossy velvet. The suit was paired with an embroidered satin vest blooming with subtle ivy motifs, a high-collared silk blouse with pearl buttons, and knee-high leather boots polished to a mirror shine. Each piece harmonised in shades of green, forest, olive, jade, without becoming monotonous. She had long black-green hair, olive skin and bright green eyes. But it was the tie that captivated Alby. Viridian and tied in a flawless knot, it was secured with a green-gold and emerald pin shaped like a delicate leaf. Hex sported a similar style, except in transparent, monochromatic grey.

  When Alby was younger, he had mistakenly thought clothing was just for the protection of the body from the elements. Over time, he realised his misgivings. Curious about the matter, he consulted Mr Brooks, who introduced him to the ‘Boots and Poverty Theory.’ Alby saw great wisdom in it and had been saving up to buy quality boots ever since. He glanced down at his own worn-out pair, frowning. A single, barely visible hole marred the leather.

  Through his work, Alby had developed some theories of his own, concentrating on the correlation between clothing and status. In addition to the ever-present and practical leather items, the noble ones mostly wore silk, the working ones mostly wore cotton, and the poor ones mostly wore whatever they could find, if anything at all.

  The wealthy women wore elegant, tailor-made dresses with inlaid corsets. Others, well-off, frugal, or simply aspiring to wealth, wore similar dresses but with separate corsets. Those with hand-painted details were really rich. Necklines held their own clues. A revealing neckline suggested generosity. A high-necked design pointed to frugality. While a dress that was both high-necked and hand-painted was most definitely worn by a miser.

  Working men’s outfits (pants with either jackets or vests) offered little insight. Such is the tragedy of men’s fashion. Women’s attire, however, was a tad more telling. The clothing decipher key was hidden in the corsets. Working women typically wore them over blouses and long skirts. The finer and more elaborate the corset, the greater their wealth (or inlaid ambition).

  Alby was currently delving into the mysteries of women’s skirts and trousers and found himself somewhat stuck on the findings. For now, he gathered that women, generally speaking, avoided wearing trousers to prevent being mistaken for witches, and wore floor-length skirts, lest they be confused for prostitutes. Ironically, neither concern made much sense. Witches were unmistakable, and prostitutes, for their part, didn’t seem to care much for skirts at all. He was of the mind that further research needs to be conducted on the matter.

  At midnight, alongside other candidates, Alby was ushered into an interview room. The room was circular, with chairs arranged in a circle around a potted plant of a green, leafy variety. The walls were decorated with motivational posters. Some read, ‘Be your own hero!’ and others proclaimed, ‘The first step of the hero’s journey starts here!’. Greta sat in one of the chairs, while the candidates took their seats in the others. Hex hovered above, under, and around them all, her eyes narrowing suspiciously at each candidate, always scanning the room for potentially problematic problems.

  “All righty! Nice to have you all here tonight. How about we start this interview with introductions?” Greta began. “State your name, abilities, and magical afflictions, if you have any. Fern, the intern here, will take notes.” She gestured to the plant.

  Fern rustled his leaves before clearing his non-visible throat and speaking in a surprisingly deep voice, “I’m ready, you wonderful, wicked witch!”

  One candidate, a bulky teenage boy with shining silver eyes and an unruly mop of black hair with white tips, went down the road of too many questions in rapid succession, “You a witch? Where’s your broom? My ma told me all witches have brooms. Why don’t you have one? Did you lose it? Did someone broomnapped it? Can you even be a witch without a broom?”

  Greta fixed him with a sharp glare, and green smoke started to coil around her fingers. “Am I being interviewed here, or are you, howling one?” she growled. “Why don’t you start, since you already started?”

  Fern moaned in complete ecstasy at Greta’s display of power. Meanwhile, Hex emerged from the floor, hovering just a hair’s breadth away from the boy’s face, her expression a mix of curiosity and menace.

  The boy, oblivious to the mounting tension, smiled widely and began to introduce himself. “Hi everyone! Me name’s Snow-Covered Tail, but everyone just calls me Tits. I’m a wolf shifter from the Bang Bang clan. So, I can, um, shift into a wolf, yeah? And, you know, I’m good at sniffing stuff and shit. Yeah? Yeah!”

  “A truly remarkable ability,” Greta remarked in a voice still tinged with irritation. She shifted her gaze to the petite girl next to Tits. The girl had untamed pink curls and big lilac eyes, and was wrapped in an abundance of brightly coloured knitwear.

  “Oké. My name is Laine Vicugna Pacos. I’m a wool magician from a family of the wool magicians,” she said proudly, straightening up in her seat. “When I knit the wool, like in a sweater or a scarf, I can imbue it with the spells of the protection. But I can do other spells as well.” She looked down to scold her finger for twirling around a loose scarf thread. “I knit with spanking speed and accuracy, and I’m proficient at the danse des aiguilles.” Glancing around at the other candidates, she added, “It’s a fighting technique with the knitting needles.”

  “Oh, I would just love some spanking!” Fern said wistfully.

  “Uh la la!” Tits winked and gave her a playful smile. Three of the other candidates snorted and rolled their eyes.

  “Oh la la, indeed. Both the stabbing and throwing parts of the danse des aiguilles?” Greta leaned slightly forward in her chair.

  Laine’s posture shifted with pride. “Yes, both. My throws land with the high accuracy up to twenty paces with the small needles, and up to fifty paces with the large ones.”

  Alby didn’t know how impressive that was, but Greta’s nods suggested it was quite a skill.

  He was next in line, or rather in the circle, and he felt every gaze turn toward him. Taking a deep breath, he quickly nicked Laine’s move and set up a bit straighter. Just as he was about to speak, Hex popped up right in front of him, her grin widening mischievously.

  Alby hesitated for a moment, startled by her sudden appearance. “Good evening. My name is Albert, or Alby if you prefer,” his voice was quieter than he intended. Clenching his hands, he braved on, “I don’t have any magical affections, but I run a lot, and I’m studying letters and numbers. I also take lessons from Mr Slash when I can.” A small, uncertain smile was the last nail in the coffin of his introduction.

  The laughter of the three remaining candidates echoed through the room. Alby’s heart hammered harder in his chest, and his cheeks flushed slightly.

  The thin girl with the long brown hair smirked, shaking her head as she scoffed, “Oh, come on! What is this? An amateur hour?”

  Alby glanced at her. She was dressed in a simple yet elegant blue silk dress, without an inlaid corset. There was no denying the sharpness in her eyes. Her posture, rigid and defiant, made her seem every bit as haughty as the other two. The other two were striking, no doubt, both of them, male and female versions of the same look. Long rose blonde hair, black eyes, and the kind of one-sided smirk that screamed confidence, something Alby found currently lacking. They wore matching burgundy leather pants and cinchers tightly around their waists, and frilly white shirts.

  The blonde boy, a smirk plastered on his face, leaned towards the girl and sneered. “I am not sure it is even that! A dumbass wolf from a clan most renowned for fucking orgies, a dumbass sheep mage, and a dumbass delivery boy, who doesn’t understand words! But he is learning.”

  The third girl added with a sweet voice, “Aww! Those big words are righty mighty hardy. I know! They should team up. Gooo, Team Dumbass!”

  “That is enough!” Greta snapped. The green smoke that curled around her fingers seemed to flare up in response. “You can continue the interview or piss off, but I will not allow mockery in my house!”

  Hex, who had been floating near the ceiling, seemed to materialise above Greta with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

  Fern let out a long, enthusiastic moan. “Ooooh, yes! Give it to them, baby! Ahhhh, yes! My vicious, wicked wildcat!”

  The brunette didn’t even flinch at the reprimand. Instead, she smirked again, leaning back in her chair like the entire scene was nothing short of amusing. “Sure. Whatever. It’s not like they are going to get the job.”

  Her smirk widened, realising it’s her turn, “As you all surely know,” she said with exaggerated grace, “I am Winifred Serpentes of the famous Serpentes family. The strongest poison mage of my generation. And of several other generations.” She raised her chin higher. “I was born to be a hero, we all are,” she said, gesturing to the other two. “We are the ultimate chosen ones.”

  “Of course you are,” Greta replied dryly.

  “I’m Lordling Hymen Hirudinea,” the male candidate said, his voice deep, dripping with arrogance and rolling r’s. “The apex predator, the master vampire. My speed, strength, and stamina are unmatched by anyone except my most precious, dearest sister.” He shared a proud glance at the identically looking girl sitting next to him, who Alby noticed had a similar look of smugness. “My-”

  Tits, who had been leaning back in his chair, burst into loud laughter. “And my clan is obsessed with sex?! Lemme guess, you’ve got a sister named Connie Lingus!”

  Laine hid her giggles behind her hand, her shoulders shaking as she stifled the laughter. Alby didn’t get what others seemed to find hilarious.

  Hymen lunged at Tits with a growl, his vampire speed a blur as he pinned him by the neck against the wall. “Don’t talk about my sister, you unworthy piece of dog shit!” Hymen’s voice was low and dangerous, his eyes glowing with fury.

  Tits gasped for air, found it missing, his face turned pale as he struggled to break free. Hex appeared in a flash, grabbed Hymen by the back of his neck, and dragged him back to his seat, holding him there with a firm grip. Hymen snarled, gearing for a second go at Tits, but Hex kept him pinned down.

  Laine quickly moved to Tits’ side, gently helping him back into his chair. She wrapped one of her purple scarves around him and fondly scratched him behind his ear.

  Greta was not amused, “I am not fucking amused!”

  Fern let out a pleased moan. “Oooh, yes! That’s the spirit, wicked one! Yes! More! Ahhh!”

  The blond girl narrowed her eyes and hissed at Tits in a voice filled with venom and slithering s’s. “Stay away from my brother! I will eat your cock!”

  Greta let out a long, weary sigh, massaging her temples. “Fuck my life,” she muttered under her breath.

  The girl stopped hissing, abruptly changed into a poster child of perfect poise. Smoothly and cheerfully, she introduced herself. “I’m Areola Hirudinea. Also, an apex predator and a master vampire like my most precious, dearest brother. Together, we are unstoppable. A feisty, ferocious force to be reckoned with,” she said, flashing a smile at her friends.

  Tits, ever the curious one, asked, “Unstoppable? How you gonna do questing in the daylight? My ma said sunlight burns vamps to a crisp. You gonna carry evil-looking parasols? Or walk in threatening tents?”

  “There is a tea for that,” Laine whispered to him, and the vamps scoffed.

  Winifred stood up to wrap things up with a flourish. “As you can certainly tell, the three of us are an obvious choice, not this misinformed mass of misfits. We were born as chosen ones,” she said, her voice dripping with pride. She turned to her companions, and they all clapped and cheered, “Team Ch-ch-ch-ch-chosen ones!”.

  “Fucking teenagers! I can’t deal with your crap! I get migraines. Mighty migraines!” Greta glared at them, her nostrils flaring as green smoke poured from her nose and ears. “You know what? I’ll just pay whoever solves the fucking Shadepuff problem first. Hex will give you the information package. There, now fuck off you fucking nitwits!” She stood up abruptly, motioning for Hex to follow her.

  Fern moaned in delight. “Oh, yeah! You tell them, my mischievous mistress of misfortune! Spank them naughty ones! Smite them mouthy ones! Oh, yesss! Ahhh!”

  ***

  “Oké. Team Misinformed Mass of Misfits!” Laine declared with a grin. “Or perhaps we shall call ourselves Team Mmm, for short? Tea and lunessants at Sparkle’s? We need the plan for the action, no?” Tits and Alby nodded their agreement, relieved that at least one of them was not rattled by the Team Chosen Ones and still had their shit together.

  They settled at one of the corner tables in Sparkle’s Café of Wonders, a colourful and comfortable establishment that smelled of cardamom, citrus peel, and had faint traces of glitter on everything. The walls were painted in dreamy gradients of coral, adorned with floating, mismatched multicoloured lanterns that bobbed gently just beneath the ceiling. The furniture was a hodgepodge of velvet-cushioned chairs, lopsided tables, and tufted settees.

  Laine immediately ordered a round of refreshments like she had been here a hundred times before, her voice cutting through the gentle din of conversation. Soon, the passion fruit tea and a selection of lunessants with jams arrived. Tits, not missing a beat, took charge of serving the tea. He moved with the confidence of a seasoned butler, managing the delicate porcelain like fragile dolls and somehow pouring each cup without spilling a single drop, despite the slight tilt of the table.

  “So, what do we know about Shadepuffs?” Tits asked, finally breaking the silence. He wiped the mango jam from his mouth with the back of his hand before chewing on another lunessant. “We got a magic map to their location, so I can get us there, but how do we save the world?"

  Laine tapped her chin thoughtfully, swirling her tea before taking a sip. “And how do we do that before the Team Twats?”

  “Well, I say you’re right, Laine, we need a plan of action. First, we must find out what in the hell Shadepuffs are, then how to radicalise them, and then we, er… just do it?” Alby suggested.

  “Eradicate,” Laine corrected him. “Oké, yes, agreed. A nice and simple three-step plan. We do not run before we can walk, no? Titties?”

  “I’m just the mighty muscle baby, and sniffer of stuff and shit. I say fuck Team Chosen Cunts. My ma always says that we only compete with ourselves, not others. We can do this. Yeah? Yeah!”

  ***

  The team’s search for information on Shadepuffs eventually led them to the library. As they stood before Mr Brooks, the librarian’s usual warm demeanour had shifted into a scowl.

  “You know,” he began, shaking his head in disbelief, “you could have simply refused the call to action. Then, you wouldn’t be in over your heads now.” He tapped his feet thoughtfully on the wooden floor, his eyes narrowing. “Very well, if this is your choice, I shall do what I can to assist you. But do be warned, the path of a hero is a dangerous one. Now, let us find you a quiet room, and I shall get you the research materials you need.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Or maybe you can just tell us what to do? You sorely know of them?” Alby asked hopefully.

  “Surely. Yes, I could tell you all you need to know, and much more. But then, how would you learn?” Mr Brooks’ smile curled into something a bit more devious than the situation warranted.

  The three of them followed Mr Brooks through the vast library. Alby, despite his frequent visits, was always captivated by the space. The library, while often referred to as the town’s, was technically Mr Brooks’ private collection that he generously opened to the townies. It was a magnificent four-storey building situated in the fifth circle of the town, a short distance from the Red 9 Gate (that would be the one with the depiction of a spring meadow with vivid red poppies). Inside, the library was a labyrinth of bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes on every conceivable subject. There were ladders and staircases connecting the floors, various nooks and crannies for quiet reading, and plush carpets scattered throughout. The place was more a haven for study than a library in the traditional sense. There were work tables of all sizes, comfortable armchairs, and enormous floor cushions for lounging.

  Alby and Laine spent their entire free time in the library, where Mr Brooks (or one of his eager assistants) kept mercilessly burying them in countless books on the supernatural. Tits joined them each day after his graveyard shift at the graveyard to help with the research. His help mostly consisted of ensuring that everyone was properly fed and hydrated.

  Tits’ ma accompanied him when she heard about the quest and donated a blackboard to their cause. The board was accompanied by a two-hour lecture on orgy organisation that she insisted would be invaluable if applied to their team formation and plan making. Mr Brooks wholeheartedly agreed with her, emphasising the importance of balanced placement of the individuals in group activities. He even insisted that she give a similar lecture, open to the public.

  It wasn’t until two weeks later, however, that their main breakthrough came. One afternoon, while the group was gathered at the library, Tits spilled a cup of tea onto one of the smaller books on the table. Wurm, the library’s resident gargoyle, was hovering nearby. The sight of such vile mishap was simply too much for his sensitive nature. He fainted, crumbling into a stone heap with a dramatic thud.

  While Laine tended to the gargoyle, Tits scrambled to dry the book and noticed a curious passage about Shadepuffs eating disorders. The blackboard was put to good use, and when the plan was finally crafted, the group called Mr Brooks in for a not-peer review. He nodded approvingly as he scanned the intricate web of ideas drawn on the blackboard, a wicked smile creeping up his face. The librarian wished them good luck and added some parting gifts: a set of black knitting needles and black yarn for Laine, who took them with a grateful nod. Alby received a pair of black binoculars, and Tits, of course, got a box of black tea.

  ***

  Equipped with backpacks which contained everything they needed (plus some other stuff and shit) and wrapped tightly in multicoloured protection scarves that Laine made them, the trio set off on their journey, diligently following the magical map.

  The map showed the location of the Shadepuffs as a dark, ominous ink drop that grew and shrank as if it had a life of its own. Their progress was marked by a ticking red heart, while Team Chosen Ones was represented by a sparkling gold star. They were glad to see that the other team seemed to be stuck, hovering near the Shadepuff settlement, apparently not making any significant progress.

  On the first night, as they gathered around a crackling campfire with steaming mugs of hot chocolate, Laine made a fascinating discovery. She could change the symbols on the map. After a brief discussion and a quick vote, they changed the Team Twats’ symbol to a sparkling gold turd.

  By the third day, they had made their way to Hartwood Forest, a vast, ancient woodland that blanketed the land like a stormy sea. The map indicated they needed to reach a clearing further in the woods, so they bravely ventured where many had gone missing before.

  Hartwood Forest, like any famous forest, had something of a bad reputation. The rumours that spread covered everything from the disappearing folks and changing paths to shy fairies and mischievous sprites. Whatever the truth, it was a different world, one ruled by shady shadows and trickster trees, and the deeper they ventured in, the quieter the world became. Birdsong gave way to the occasional rustle of the unseen ones and the creaking of trees. Gnarled roots twisted across the forest floor, determined to make sure someone breaks their nose, or at least a wrist, and strange mushrooms that bloomed everywhere were making pspspsps noises at them.

  They set up camp in a hidden spot, out of sight, and went out for a quick exploration of the surroundings. After a short hike, they found the perfect vantage point: a small hill overlooking the clearing and the forest. Alby, eager to use his new black binoculars, scanned the area. He spotted Team Chosen Ones. Their camp was extravagant, with luxurious tents, servants bustling about, and guards standing at attention.

  Few hundred steps from the twats’ camp, at the treeline was the shady Shadepuffs settlement.

  As it was, Shadepuffs were notorious little fiends. Tiny, fluffy shadows were suspected of being undercover agents of chaos. These invasive creatures had a knack for nibbling on trees and turning them into twisted, shadowy husks, spreading their malevolent influence and disturbing the natural balance of the entire ecosystem. If left unchecked, their darkness would slowly but surely consume the forest.

  “Looks like they’re gearing up for an attack,” Tits observed, narrowing his eyes as he watched the Chosen Ones approach the Shadepuffs. The two vampires flanked Winifred, their movements coordinated and deadly.

  “Oké, let’s see what they’ve got, no? If they can back up their big words with the intricacies of their knitting patterns,” Laine mused, her eyes scanning the scene with a critical gaze.

  After several hours of observing the twats trying and failing, they concluded that Team Turd was using brute force only. Basically, they had one attack played on repeat that consisted of Winifred having a throwing temper tantrum with glass orbs containing aerosol poisons while the vamps were cutting down shadows around her, in what was, admittedly, a remarkable display of skill and agility.

  The Team Mmm returned to their camp, feeling confident that Team Twats wasn’t going to be much of a problem, if they could outsmart them. Tits, the self-appointed master of refreshments, prepared a magnificent dinner of roasted lamb and potatoes, its origins mysterious but delicious. As he chewed on a lamb leg, Tits let out a frustrated grumble. “Guys, I’m not sure they’re going to let us go through with our plan without fucking with us.”

  “They will if we fuck them up first with a primitive stick,” Alby suggested.

  “Pre-emptive strike. I suggest the three-step plan.” Laine counted each step on her fingers. “One, disable the mages. We have a few options for that. Two, we deal with the Shadepuffs following the five-step plan. And three, we save the world and get paid,” Laine said. Both boys nodded approvingly.

  “Good. Now, eat your supper and go to sleep. We have a big day ahead of us,” Tits ordered, and his team followed the instructions to the z.

  The first step of their three-step plan, which was to be followed by a five-step plan, began much earlier in the morning than their young souls felt comfortable with. If Tits hadn’t made them a hearty breakfast of fruitcakes paired with the strong black tea Mr Brooks so kindly provided, they would have been stumbling and slumbering through the quest. Thankfully, it was the Time to Slay, Sleeping Boss-Beauty, blend.

  Laine and Tits made their way to the enemy camp at a slow, cautious pace, while Alby kept watch from a nearby tree, using his fine binoculars to keep an eye on both the enemy camp and his teammates’ movements. Just in case, they also had a set of bird calls Alby had learned, which could convey messages about movement or danger if needed.

  It was a rather simple plan, playing to their respective strengths. First, Tits crept up on the camp guards and knocked them out quietly. Laine followed up by putting enchanted beanies on them, lulling them into sweet wet dreams to keep them out of commission. Once the guards were dealt with, Tits kept a close watch while Laine moved from tent to tent, casting powerful sleeping spells on the wool blankets covering the still-sleeping slimeballs and their entourage.

  “Oké, we’ve got about three hours before they wake up with wicked wool heads,” Laine reminded the group as they made their way toward the Shadepuffs.

  The second step of their three-step plan and the first step of the five-step plan for dealing with the Shadepuffs involved Tits serenading the little monsters with gentle lullabies. Their research had shown that singing had a calming, pacifying effect on the creatures. Tits’ ma always bragged that he had a lovely panty dropping baritone, and he did. Though given the seriousness of the situation and short time frame for execution, everyone kept their panties firmly in place. As the team approached, the Shadepuffs began to stir and form battle formations, but the lullaby worked like a charm. Soon, the Shadepuffs were humming in sync with Tits and gently swaying to the rhythm.

  While Tits serenaded the Shadepuffs, Alby began step two of the plan: planting the pumpkins. Tits had discovered during the infamous tea-spilling incident that the Shadepuffs are prone to develop severe pumpkin addiction. Since pumpkins were technically a fruit and Alby knew a fruit mage extraordinaire, they had no trouble acquiring the instant-growth juice for pumpkin seeds. However, the pumpkins presented their own set of challenges because, pumpkins.

  Alby dug small holes around the Shadepuffs’ settlement and planted the pumpkin seeds, while Laine followed closely behind, activating the instant growth with a drop of the magical mixture the fruit mage had provided them. In no time, the settlement was filled with hundreds of big, juicy pumpkins in all colours imaginable.

  Step three depended entirely on Laine’s mad knitting skills. Ensuring the pumpkin drug den was self-sustainable was the crucial part of the plan. The Shadepuffs needed to be constantly tripping their arses off for the plan to work, which meant the pumpkins had to regenerate fast.

  While experimenting with sustainable pumpkin knitwear, they discovered that pumpkins were incredibly picky and vain fruitcakes who refused to share anything. Mr Brooks was ecstatic about the discovery. The team, not so much.

  Each pumpkin had to have knitwear made especially for them, and in front of them, or they adamantly refused to wear it. Some of them were even so stubborn about it that they chose to explode rather than wear another pumpkin’s knitwear. All of that meant that Laine needed to knit like a maniac. She was using her new black knitting needles and the black wool frantically knitting in blurry motion, little hats and scarves were flying around her while Alby was paying close attention to which pumpkin which accessory was intended for and placing them on the pumpkins.

  When all the pumpkins were looking fancy in their fashionable black knitwear, and none had exploded out of spite, the team started to slowly backstep away from the settlement, or step four if you will. As Tits’ song grew quieter, more and more of the Shadepuffs went to sniff and fly around the newly grown pumpkins. They were obviously drawn to them, but there was a noticeable lack of pumpkin-eating. The team exchanged worried glances, unsure of what had gone wrong.

  Then, suddenly, a high-pitched giggle sounded from one of the Shadepuffs. The giggle was followed by an excited mass response, and the voracious shadows descended on the pumpkins with vigour.

  The team stared in complete shock at the frenzied pumpkin carnage. It took a minute for the realisation of success to sink in, and then they started jumping up and down with happiness, hugging each other. A last glance at the gorging Shadepuffs confirmed that Laine’s knitwear was doing its job, and the pumpkins were quickly regenerating.

  As they turned to start the ultimate step of their three and five-step plans (aka get the hell away from there and collect the prize money), they were faced with a very irritating, very irritated poisons mage and her two apex pet predators.

  “Look, it’s Team Dumbass!” Areola exclaimed in a voice dripping with mockery.

  “Well, well, fancy meeting you here,” Hymen grinned.

  Winifred scowled, her eyes shifting to the Shadepuffs scattered around the settlement, mostly lying flat, burping, snoring, or humming softly. “What exactly have you done to them?”

  “We handled the problem,” Tits said, stepping protectively in front of Laine and Alby. “And we’ll be the ones collecting the reward.”

  “Aww, silly-willy-wolfy!” Areola beamed, her fangs elongating as her grin grew more predatory. “Didn’t I promise to eat your cock?” With a gleeful laugh, she leaped at him, moving with blinding speed. As she landed, Tits transformed into a massive black wolf, his white tail and ear tips flashing as they both began snapping and rolling in the dirt.

  Without hesitation, Laine began throwing small, sharp knitting needles at Hymen, who was charging toward her. Her aim was precise, but the needles barely slowed him down.

  Meanwhile, Alby was left facing off against Winifred. He clenched his fists, steadying himself as he circled her, careful of his footing. She stood still, her calculating smile never wavering. When he finally lunged at her, she simply stepped back, effortlessly crushing a small glass orb in her hands. Thick red smoke poured from it, surrounding Alby. As the smoke cleared, he realised with growing horror that his muscles and bones had locked up. He could see, hear, and feel everything, but he was completely immobile.

  Winifred grabbed Alby, turned him, and pulled him against her chest, his back leaning on her. With one arm circling his waist, she used the other to tilt his head so he could watch the fights. Ever the accommodating lady, she thoughtfully adjusted his position so he could witness both of the battling pairs.

  Laine was holding her ground valiantly. Hymen was stronger and faster, but she was relentless, blocking his attacks and poking at him with her knitting needles whenever she found an opportunity. Hymen’s body was dotted with puncture marks, smaller needles sticking out of him like he was a seamstress’ favourite pincushion.

  Tits and Areola continued their fierce struggle on the ground, locked in a fight for dominance. Areola was lightning-fast in her strikes, but Tits had the advantage of size and strength. Since he couldn’t match her speed, every punch, slash of his claws, and bite he managed to land was delivered with excruciating force. They were both covered in bites and blood, though Areola looked much worse for wear. True to her earlier promise, she was focused on one thing: biting off his cock. Tits, being rather fond of his nether regions, was determined to protect them, focusing his attacks on trying to bite her pretty little head off.

  After she took a particularly nasty bite out of his tail, Tits slashed her across the chest with his back paw, knocking her off him. Seizing the opportunity, he pinned her to the ground, his strong jaw locking firmly onto her throat.

  In Tits’ world, that meant he’d won. The fight was over. But Areola wasn’t a wolf, and he couldn’t afford to gamble on whether she’d accept defeat honourably. Tits knew he was a good wolf, maybe a little too much of a momma’s boy, and perhaps a bit too focused on making sure everyone in his pack was safe and well. He could feel in his bones, though, that he had bitten off more than he could chew. It didn’t help that he wasn’t an alpha, not yet, anyway, and was more accustomed to following orders than making life-and-death decisions on the fly. He’d never killed anyone before, and he kind of hoped he never would have to. Tits wasn’t entirely sure if the right course of action was to kill her. His gaze flickered to his friends for some kind of guidance, but Laine was too busy with Hymen, and Alby was half-dead, firmly held in Winifred’s grip. Tits’ train of thoughts got derailed by Hymen’s high-pitched hiss of horror.

  Tits shifted his gaze to where Laine and Hymen were locked in battle. Winifred followed his line of sight, turning Alby’s head as she let go of his waist, somehow still holding him upright with a firm grip on his jaw. She hurled one of the glass orbs at Laine. When the blue smoke cleared, Laine was lying in the dirt, twitching and thrashing, white foam pouring from her mouth.

  Another turn of Alby’s head followed, this time following as Hymen used his superior speed to tackle Tits off Areola. Tits let out a sharp whine as he got thrown to the side, Areola’s neck still locked in his jaws. He landed hard on Hymen, who was still firmly gripping his body, while the rolling momentum had Areola flying like a rag doll above them. Hymen, taking advantage of the position and Tits’ exposed back, bumped his sister’s head out of the way and sunk his fangs deep into Tits’ neck, quickly ripping out his jugular. The shock of pain caused Tits to release his grip on Areola’s neck. Skidding away a short distance, she wasted no time and deftly jumped back to her feet, hissed at the wolf, and completely ignoring the raw wounds and the strips of skin dangling from her neck, lunged for Tits, aiming for his most vulnerable area.

  Hymen, not done with the wolf that dared to defeat his sister, turned him over and clawed at Tits’ chest until he tore his heart out. The last thing Tits saw was the master vampire licking the blood off his still-throbbing heart, his psychotic smile wide and manic.

  When they’d had their fill of the wolf, Hymen and Areola turned their attention to the still twitching Laine. Winifred, of course, followed their movement, turning Alby’s head so he wouldn’t miss a thing. Casually approaching Laine, the vampires knelt down next to her and leisurely feasted on her blood, Hymen opting for his all-time favourite femoral vein, while Areola took the less desirable brachial vein.

  “What’s with you two always playing with your food?” Winifred asked with a feigned scowl.

  Areola hissed at Hymen when he clawed out Laine’s heart, wiggling her fingers like a greedy child. “Mine! Mine! Mine! You ate the wolfy! It’s my turn!” she cried, snatching the heart from him. Hymen only smiled proudly as Areola sat down in the dirt, casually munching on the heart, her pinkie raised in an exaggerated gesture of refinement.

  “Make sure you do not gorge yourself on the appetisers, darling. We do still have an entire camp to eat,” Hymen fondly warned, turning his head to Winifred for confirmation.

  “Well, as your mum likes to point out, the dead hardly ever tattletale,” she agreed. Turning Alby around to face her, she pursed her lips. “Now, what should we do about you?”

  “Oh, I know! Nothing. Because that’s exactly what you are.” Laughing at her own wit, Winifred brushed her fingers over his face and closed his eyes, released her grip, letting him tumble to the ground, stepped over him, and walked away.

  Alby lay sideways on the ground, desperately trying to move. He couldn’t see, but he could hear the terrified screams and cries for mercy as the trio made their way through the camp, their laughter and cheers ringing out, “Team Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-chosen ones!”

  His thoughts drifted from the carnage unfolding around him to what was and what could have been. He called to mind Mrs Baker’s face, fondly remembering her lessons in negotiation.

  It was the first winter after he left the orphanage. Doing odd jobs for food or a few coins wherever he could find them, he spent most of his days sitting in the streets, watching for anyone who might need his help. After a few weeks of living on his own, he stumbled across an abandoned, overgrown chicken coop. The spiders and rats didn’t seem to mind his presence. If anything, the rats even started huddling close to him as the weather grew colder. The spiders, however, kept to themselves.

  The first snow of the year had fallen when he got turned around in the first ring he usually stayed in, and found himself in front of a bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread was intoxicating. When Mrs Baker opened the shop, he offered to clear the snow for stale bread or a few coins, hoping for a bit of generosity on a wintry morning. After he was done, she showcased her negotiating skills, and they settled on him getting a bath (and continuing to do so regularly) in exchange for her paying him to deliver her goods, of course, on a probationary basis.

  As winter fully set in and Mrs Baker discovered that he was living in the chicken coop, she insisted on moving him into her storage room right next to the ovens. On the first evening, as he settled away from the flour sacks, Mrs Baker came to wish him good night with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. It became a nightly tradition. That night, enveloped in the scorching heat of the still-smouldering ovens, was the first time in his life Alby slept without waking until morning.

  Soon, they developed a rhythm. Each morning, they would dip freshly baked bread into sweet coffee with milk, or, more accurately, sweet milk with a dash of coffee, while planning the day’s deliveries. As Mrs Baker noticed improvement in his negotiation skills, she began recommending him to her customers. His business steadily grew, and after a couple of years, once it fully flourished, he rented his own room. It wasn’t nearly as warm as Mrs Baker’s storage room, and there were no nightly hot chocolates, but it was his, and it was safe.

  Thinking of Mrs Baker and the safety she had provided, Alby’s thoughts wandered to Mr Slash. Most of the unwanted ones, after leaving the orphanage, found themselves wandering the streets. Some tried to join one of the guilds, others honed their skills in pick-pocketing or providing pleasure, and some just prowled the streets for easy pickings.

  After being mugged a few times, Alby quickly realised that that was not good for his budding business. So, he sought out fighting lessons from Mr Slash. The famed sword master, despite living a life of obvious luxury, surprised Alby by being remarkably bad with money. Mr Slash’s lessons were always longer than Alby paid, and the swordsman always declined to accept additional money Alby always offered.

  In a similar manner, Alby found himself in Mr Brooks’ library one day. He got confused about delivery addresses and payments a few times since he wasn’t particularly good with letters and numbers, and once again concluded that that was not good for his budding business.

  Mr Brooks greeted him with warmth and unwavering patience, which Alby came to appreciate. No matter how slow his progress was, Mr Brooks was always there, offering support without judgment. Alby quickly found himself enjoying the time spent in the library. Sometimes he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr Brooks was not a man to be trifled with, despite his consistently composed and often convivial attitude, and not just because of his unquenching thirst for knowledge. But ultimately, he didn’t mind or pry. Everyone should be allowed their secrets. He learned quickly that if you treated Mr Brooks with respect, he would counter in kind, and you could always count on him for help.

  Alby’s thoughts eventually wandered to Ash. The fruit mage was his best friend, one he had stumbled upon by sheer accident in the posh part of town. Ash, the lost-and-found mage, was a complete and utter mess, and though Alby was usually very cautious when it came to helping the wandering youth (not that he was unwilling, he simply learned the broken bones way to be exceptionally careful), something about Ash felt different.

  Even though it didn’t make sense to Alby, after all, one rarely finds a friend in a pile of rubbish, he trusted his gut and decided to help. After pulling Ash from the gutter, the two simply stuck together. They spent days and nights talking, getting to know each other, until they eventually partnered up to create Albert’s Amazing Fruit Baskets.

  When the weight of remembering those he held dear became unbearable, Alby made a decisive detour from his memories. His hunger, thirst, and now a mind clouded by delirium, made imagining and dreaming easier than reminiscing. The boy began spinning stories, stories where Tits and Laine would have loved Ash, and the four of them would become an unorthodox team of wandering problem solvers. The idea of it brought him comfort, a fleeting escape into a world where everything was still possible, and they were all together.

  ***

  Greta was catching up on her correspondence when a loud banging on her door interrupted her fragile focus. Reluctantly, she opened it to find the obnoxious trio of the posh ones standing in her doorway. They pushed their way inside with all the arrogance of people who believed they owned the place, and Hex immediately sprang up from the floor, positioning herself protectively in front of Greta.

  “As I am sure you have heard by now, it is the talk of the town, after all, we have settled the Shadepuffs’ problem,” Winifred announced with a smug smile. “Quite ingeniously, if I may add. Everyone is praising our heroic deeds. The bards are already singing praises about our quest, and rumour has it, a reputable theatre is even planning a performance based on our magnificent endeavours.”

  Greta raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you now, smug ones? Praise, do tell, how you came up with such an ingenious plan.”

  Hymen stepped closer, getting in her face, but before he could say anything, Hex shoved him back with a vicious push, glaring at him for his audacity. “Are you doubting our honour?” Hymen asked, glaring at Greta through Hex.

  “I have absolutely no doubt about your honour,” Greta replied smoothly, her voice a calm contrast to the tension in the room. A disarming smile curled on her lips as tendrils of green smoke slithered from her fingers. “You’ll get what you are owed.”

  Unhurriedly, she turned back to her desk, retrieved a pouch of gold, and tossed it toward the trio. It landed in Winifred’s hands with a soft thud.

  Upon slamming the agency door, Greta slammed her head against it a few times for good measure. Hex floated so close to her that their noses were nearly touching. “How long do you think you can keep up this green smoke and mirrors shitshow before someone challenges you and realises you’ve lost your powers, wickedless one?”

  “Fuck,” Greta sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I tried, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know where my broom is, and it’s not answering my fucking summons. What do you want me to do?”

  “Try fucking harder!” Hex screamed in her face, so fierce that it felt like a gust of wind smacked her.

  Fern started to moan, but quickly stopped with a gulp when Greta and Hex looked at him with murder in their eyes. “Please accept my sincere apologies, my luscious lunatic lovelies,” he stammered. “Would you like to spank me for my digressions?”

  ***

  Mr Brooks, Greta, and Hex took a coach to the Shadepuffs’ settlement. The infestation was still successfully contained by the pumpkin plan, and that was the only positive thing to be found.

  The bodies of the servants and guards were rotting across the nobleman’s campsite, the pungent smell of decay making even Hex gag. The noble ones claimed crazed Shadepuffs viciously murdered their entourage before they managed to contain the fiends with their masterful mastermind plan in an unfortunately unwitnessed display of heroism, which included (but is, of course, not limited to) tossing to the wind any regard for their own safety. A novel about their heroic deeds will be available soon.

  The group found Alby’s, Tits’, and Laine’s bodies about a hundred steps from the Shadepuffs’ settlement. What remained of Tits and Laine was barely recognisable. Alby’s body, however, was intact. Greta and Mr Brooks carefully examined him, concluding there were no signs of life.

  “Winifred must have used a poison so deadly that even decay avoids it,” Greta remarked with a sad shake of her head.

  “I agree. We can look into it, but in the meantime, do not accuse them publicly. I shall bury them.” Mr Brooks surveyed the area as if he were trying to find a suitable place for a grave, not trying to hide the tears welling up in his eyes.

  The uncontrollable movement of his body snapped Alby back into reality, and relief flooded through him when he recognised the voice. It was Mr Brooks. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating again, he’d got used to drifting in and out of consciousness, tormented by never-ending thirst and hunger. It was Mr Brooks, and he would figure it out. Alby was sure.

  When he heard Mr Brooks speaking over Laine and Tits’ graves, delivering an eloquent eulogy, panic gripped Alby. No, no, no! he shouted, thrashing in his mind, using the last of his strength, but neither Mr Brooks nor Greta reacted. Not even Hex.

  Alby desperately tried to blink, to twitch, to do anything to show them he was still alive. After a while he realised all he could do was listen, utterly helpless, as Mr Brooks’ sorrowful words wove into a last farewell for Laine and Tits.

  And then it was his turn.

  Panic settled in once again, suffocating him. Alby yelled, screamed, wailed, trashed, flailed, writhed, and fought them with everything he had.

  In his mind.

  Mr Brooks’ soothing voice and the beauty of his eulogy began to blur, melting with Alby’s terror and fading memories. As he drifted away, the dark fog, tinged with the scent of fresh soil, swallowed him, ever so slowly.

  The scent of soil dwindled and gave way to the aroma of freshly baked bread and hot chocolate. Alby could feel the heat of the smouldering ovens on his skin, taste the deliciously sweet blueberry tarts, hear Mrs Baker’s kind voice echoing in his mind, telling him he was safe.

  Perfect white clouds dotted the blue sky, bright sun peeked through the trees, its golden rays gently touching the graves of the three brave (and perhaps slightly foolish) ones. When the moon rose, a long, mournful wolf howl echoed through the woods. A last goodbye to a fallen son… and many more howls followed in the nights to come.