Apocalypse Reset: My Crab Can Heal the World!

Barns sucks in a deep breath, clenches his core, and dives.

The water is cool, weightless, and starting to become utterly infuriating.

His lungs burn within seconds. Too soon. Again.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to focus.

'Think like a crab. Think like a crab.'

But Clancy's 'advice' is so vague it might as well have come from a fortune cookie.

Steel lungs, imagine air bubbles, harden insides - it sounds like good advice, but does any of it even make sense?

A bubble escapes from his lips, and just like that - his body betrays him. He kicks off the bottom of the pool and bursts to the surface, sucking in air like a man who just barely survived drowning.

Clancy clicks his claws excitedly from the poolside. "TWENTY-THREE SECONDS! RECORD BROKEN!"

Barns groans, running a hand through his sopping wet hair to push it out of his face. "Twenty-three seconds? That's it? I was over a minute last time!"

"RECORD FOR BIGGEST FAILURE!"

Barns glowers. He swipes his arm across the pool's surface, sending a wave of water splashing up at Clancy. It does nothing, of course - the mighty crab is impervious to petty revenge.

From the shade of a beach chair, Eldrie snorts. "This is honestly the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen."

Barns rolls his eyes. "Says the guy who's camping out for some girl."

Eldrie blushes. "Hey! Jordan and I agreed to meet here today, I'll have you know! We got dinner last night. It was nice."

Barns sinks lower into the water, shoulders slumping. He hates this. In his first life, learning new abilities and the Secret Arts came to him naturally. He doesn't have the patience to sit around meditating on 'intent' or 'form.' He learns in battle. In motion. When his life is on the line.

But Bubble Breath? There's no enemy to punch. Just him, the water, and his damn stubbornness.

"I can see if Jessica's around, maybe give you some encouragement?"

"Shut up," Barns huffs. "The last thing I need is a distraction.

'I need something to push me over the edge,' Barns thinks grimly, kicking off the pool wall for another dive.

As he drifts to the bottom of the pool, he looks up at the surface, catching the flickering morning light. He knows he doesn't have forever to learn this technique. Sooner or later, the Sentinels would attack again.

He needs Clancy to take him to the Underwater Kingdom. It's his best chance at getting stronger.

If only he could master this damn technique.

…

Elsewhere, in the castle…

Absalom stares at his hands.

They shouldn't be his hands.

The fingers twitch, the flesh sallow, pale—but not rotting. He lifts them to his face, studies them, searching for something familiar.

Nothing.

His memories are fractured, like glass shattered and barely pieced back together. He remembers being in the horde. He remembers hunger. A need to consume, destroy, multiply. And yet - there was something beyond it. A voice. A presence that guided him, through those dark days. The voice of something beyond him.

He closes his eyes, whispering.

"I remember... something... The First was watching. The First was always watching."

A knock at the door. Soft. Hesitant.

Absalom tilts his head. "Enter."

Roscoe steps inside, carrying a tray of food. His posture is stiff, like he's mentally preparing himself for the worst.

"I, uh..." Roscoe clears his throat. "Figured you might be hungry."

Absalom watches him, unmoving. "I don't need food."

Roscoe hesitates. "...Yeah, but like. Do you eat?"

A pause.

Absalom lifts the tray, examining the meal like an alien specimen. A bowl of stew. A plate of bread. The smell is... nice. Not rotten.

He dips a single finger into the broth. It doesn't burn. That's new.

"I…don't know," he says honestly. "But I suppose…I will find out."

For what it was worth, the mind-shattering pain that afflicted the zombie yesterday has mostly dissipated. Though Absalom is still weak and slow, he's starting to feel somewhat alive and grounded.

Roscoe shifts awkwardly. He's trying so hard not to be afraid. But Absalom sees it. Feels it. The boy's heart beats a little too fast, his eyes dart a little too quickly around the room.

"...Do I frighten you?" Absalom asks.

Roscoe blinks. "I mean. Kind of? No offense."

"None…taken."

Silence lingers between them. Not quite hostile, but not comfortable either.

Then Roscoe mutters, "Barns says you don't have any bloodlust, though. So I mean, I guess it's more of an irrational fear."

"Barns is correct…I never had a love…of fighting…"

Another pause.

Roscoe nods, satisfied, and turns to leave. "Well. Guess that's good enough for now."

Absalom watches him go.

He waits until the door clicks shut before looking down at his hands again.

They still don't feel like his own.

The rest of the day happens without much incident - Absalom keeps to himself, Barns continues his training, and Eldrie gets a second date with Jordan, the hot-blooded, sun-drenched policewoman of his dreams.

But something does occur. Just past midnight.

Barns is lying in bed, half-asleep, his lungs sore from hours of training. His mind drifts, caught between exhaustion and that frustrating feeling of being on the cusp of something but not quite grasping it.

And then -

A scent.

Floral. Faint. But unmistakable.

His eyes snap open.

The room is dark, but there's a shadow at the window. The air shifts, and suddenly, she's inside.

Francois stands at the edge of his room, her kimono unmoved by the breeze, her red eyes glowing softly in the dim light.

"Didn't know you were doing house visits now," Barns mutters, sitting up.

Francois doesn't smile.

Something is wrong.

"I did not come here to play games, little Barnacles," she says. Her voice is smoother than silk but heavier than the grave.

Barns immediately sits up straighter. "That bad, huh?"

Francois steps closer. She looks... different. Tense. And Francois is never tense.

"Your recruitment of a Zombie Lord has caught unwanted attention."

Barns feels his stomach drop.

He doesn't move. He barely breathes. But every fiber of his being tells him to listen. Not that he could resist - Francois' allure is as captivating as ever.

Francois folds her hands, her crimson gaze like frozen embers.

"Tell me, Barnacles. You handled a horde of two thousand. But can you handle thirty?"

"Thirty zombies?"

"Thirty thousand."