.

🌧️ Scene — Cumulus Does Therapy for Blobie (soft, surreal)

A small fire is ringed by Oliver’s team; Cumulus perches on a low stump like a cloud that forgot how to float away. Blobie sits in the dirt, sticky and still, trying to form a sentence.

Blobie (small, halting): “bottle… wave… friends—gone…”
Cumulus (voice like rain on tin): “You saw things you should never have had to see. I’m sorry.”
Blobie (eyes wide): “Awa—awaken—took—”
Cumulus (gentle): “That was not your fault. None of what you witnessed was your fault.”

She sits close and the box on her face moves — one painted eye winks, the other has a sticky note sad face. She tilts her head so the face on the box is level with Blobie.

Cumulus (softly): “Tell me one small thing. Not a story. One small thing that was kind today.”
Blobie (thinks, voice thin): “Goobert… gave… lollipop.”
Cumulus (bright smile audible): “Hold that. Keep it safe. Repeat it when you feel the fear.”

Oliver watches, hand on his chin. Gerson sits, folding his stick into his palm.

Oliver (low): “You’re good with people.”
Cumulus: “People are weather. You can shelter them. Or you can be the storm — I prefer shelter.”

She hums and it’s not music exactly, but it smooths the edges of Blobie’s breath. Wembry, on the edge of the group, watches — the pebble in her shoe seems heavier somehow, steadier.

Blobie (after a while, softer): “I feel… less loud.”
Cumulus (tucking a soft cloud-hand under his chin): “That’s the start. We’ll teach you small steps.”

This is therapy that looks like kindness — simple, human. Blobie will sleep better tonight than he has in days.

⚡ Scene — King Ping Tries to “Fire” Stormy (absurdity ignites)

Farther down the ridge, where the Fragments once loudly bragged, King Ping paces like a wire-made volcano of ego. He’s playing with electro-balls like a bored god.

King Ping (booming): “I will reorganize this camp. I will centralize efforts. First order: anyone who sasses me is fired!”
He slings the phrase out like a reveal.

A head pokes up from the tree-line: Stormy, who is mid-practice, yawns and blinks slowly.

Stormy (dry): “Uh, who are you again?”
King Ping (pointing, very serious): “YOU— Stormy— you are fired.”

Stormy (blinks): “We literally have never met. You are in my rifle sights and my pistol’s jurisdiction is technologically neutral to your employment status.”
King Ping (offended): “Excuse me? I ALWAYS fire people. It is how I maintain order.”
Stormy (grinning, tail flick): “Buddy, I’m on a different payroll — namely, nobody’s payroll. But if you want to fire me, I’ll give you a receipt.”

Zap (fading voice from a rock): “Fired? I got fired yesterday. It’s not fun.”

King Ping keeps barking orders at thin air and at a cat he’s never introduced himself to. The absurdity is so thick a few nearby tributes — including Goobert and Lazarus — stare and start giggling.

King Ping (irritated): “Correct me and you are electro-plugged!”
Stormy (as he walks off, over his shoulder): “I’m not even in your spreadsheet, pal. Try again.”

It’s petty theater — a boss trying to boss someone in a place without employment law. The moment cracks a little of the King’s aura; he walks off muttering “You’re fired!” at squirrels.

🎪 Scene — Mike Sells Crow Merch (chaotic capitalism)

Near The GREATS’ fire, Mike has a little crate of crudely sewn crow plushies and “Caw-boom” stickers. He hawks them like a carnival barker.

Mike (voice glitching advertising cadence): “LI$TEN—L!$TEN—FRIENDS! BUY CROW—BUY CROW—C@W-B00M MERCH—”
Scampton (clapping): “[MERCH! MERCH!]”
Skrunkly (confused-delighted): “Do they squeak?”
Mike (proudly): “They chirp—then explode—kidding—no exploding.”

He sells one to Scampton, another to Spunch Bob’s memory of fries, and a third to Junkil’s corpse-adjacent nostalgia (well — someone attempts to buy one and it ends up on Golden Freddy as an ironic hat). Mike beams; selling something tangible gives him a crack at feeling useful.

Buyers:
Scampton: “[This will be our new prize for MINIGAMES!]”
The Stranger (tilting head): “A hat for Golden Freddy — yes, that is unsettlingly tasteful.”
Sasha (buying one as a joke): “We need a mascot for the riff.”

Mike pockets coins and looks pleased in a way that isn’t brittle. The merch becomes a tiny economy and Mike’s sparkle softens: he likes the idea that something of his can make someone smile.

🎸 Scene — Lazarus & Sasha Produce More Music (the island’s pulse)

Lazarus and Sasha set up near the oval clearing and start a second, longer set. This time they lean into a heavier sound — low drums, churning riffs, a rhythm people can march by. The band draws crowds: Oliver’s watch, a few Fragments who wandered off, Goobert, even some of The GREATS listening at the edge.

Lazarus (counts off): “One-two-three—give me a slow stomp.”
Sasha (calls out a riff): “Hold on the third — let it breathe.”
Crowd reaction:
Wembry (sitting, eyes closed): “This is… this makes my legs feel like they know what to do.”
Goobert (mouth full of lollipop): “:3 I feel brave.”

They play until the moon cuts the chord and the forest seems a little less hungry. The music is the one small, shared ritual left that stitches a dozen frayed nerves together. People come back to the camp calmer and quieter.

👻 Scene — A Skeleton Sprints Across the Forest (three seconds that break everyone’s jaw)

Out of nowhere, something white flashes across a dark strip of trees — ribs like a piano, arms outrigged, the suggestion of a grin. It runs like a wrong-time puppet for exactly three seconds and is gone into shadow.

A dozen people see it. A dozen people shout.

Shouts cascade:
“Holy shit guys did you see that 👀”
“Was that… a skeleton?”
“No, no — it was a runner with a white jacket?”
“It moved like— like it shouldn’t — it was all bones.”

Scampton (whoops and claps, then a beat of real fear): “[WE GOT SOME UNDEAD ENERGY—]”
The Stranger (locks eyes, serious): “Keep watch. Don’t be a hero chasing bones.”
Gerson (calm): “If it was a spirit, it wanted to be seen. If it was not, someone’s playing with terror.”

The sighting becomes instant legend; phones — if people had phones — would be full of shaky clips. Instead, Mr AntTenna’s screen-face cycles an emergency alert: “SKELETON SIGHTING — NO CHASING.” The message goes out with a jarring cartoon drum.

The community buzzes for twenty minutes: “Did you see it?” “I saw it too!” “No, you didn’t.” For three seconds the island is united in astonishment.

🪞 Scene — Sector’s Morphing-Ballet vs Biowaffe (the big, brutal, weird showdown)

This is the heart of the night. Heavy dialogue here. Long scene.

Biowaffe-1917 has been a ghost in the night: deliberate, precise, the old soldier with a blade-arm whose motions are more gear than anger. He’s been hunting — and now he moves on a lonely watch-post where Sector was idly glinting.

Sector is small and usually silly — glass, simple words, shapeshifts for jokes. Tonight, Sector is a sentinel. They’ve been practicing the last few days, learning to form complex shapes. They aren’t smart about people, but they’re learning strategy.

Sector (simple, anxious): “glass—watch—ready—”
Biowaffe (in the dark, voice like gravel): “Target: exposure.”
He advances, blade-arm humming.

Sector (to themselves): “protect—others—no one knows—glass—be many.”

They go multi-form: a roll of translucent rope that tangles his boot; then a slick rubber pad that causes him to slip; then a mirrored wall that reflects his blade-angle. Each morph is a tiny trick — Sector is not physically strong, but they are adaptive.

Biowaffe (flat): “Move aside.” He swings. Sector splinters into shards and reforms as a spiral staircase — Biowaffe’s blade slashes the air as the glass stair twirls him off-balance. He’s precise, but Sector’s morphs are disorienting in a way a human jaw can’t plan for.

Sector (calm, higher energy now): “MORPH—ROPE—SHIELD—MIRROR—SPROUT—SMILE—”
They blink out words and images: a fountain, a bubble, a mace, a reflective curtain. They are experimenting, improvising forms as Biowaffe adapts. Sector’s morphs do not cut Biowaffe, but they absorb momentum and redirect force — a living nested trap.

Biowaffe’s blade-arm surges; he expects to cut, to incapacitate — but Sector becomes something else: a hive of forms that endure and redirect. Sector turns into a set of hollow glass tubes and funnels Biowaffe’s swinging motion into an immobilizing coil. His arm gets tangled — not by blade but by elastic motion as Sector reforms into glass bands. He thrashes, the bands hold, and Sector then becomes a glass cage that slips over Biowaffe like a hand snapping a jar lid shut.

Biowaffe (struggling, industrial rasp): “UNSEAT—”
Sector (firm, very brave): “Not—today—protect—others—”

Sector then does something audacious: they shard themselves into a hundred mirrored slivers that float and surround Biowaffe’s head, reflecting his own motion back to him, blurring his sight. He tries to swing; each strike meets a mirrored angle, each blow redirects with centrifugal force back into a locking mechanism Sector has formed. Sector, splintered and reassembled, slides into the coil and tightens like a glass boa constrictor.

Biowaffe (voice losing steadiness): “—system—malfunction—”
His blade hums, then stalls. The machine in him — the soldier in him — tries to correct, tries to cut free; the glass coils hum, the mirrored shards flash light into his gasmask. Sector reforms into a delicate, blunt instrument and presses a final, non-lethal compression that snaps a small gear inside Biowaffe’s arm. The blade immobolizes. His breathing through the fused gasmask becomes a long, thin wheeze.

Biowaffe (flat, final): “Objective—failed.”
He goes still.

Sector, exhausted, remolds into a single, gently sparkling figure and collapses onto the ground, hands trembling.

Scampton (sobbing, praise and horror): “[OH—OH MY GOD—SECTOR—]”
Goobert (wide, small voice): “:3 you did it—”
Cassie (kneeling, whispering a ritual): “You did not have to die. You just had to outsmart him. Thank you.”

Sector coughs, a tiny glass chiming noise. Their voice is small and proud.

Sector (simple, amazed): “glass—help—friends—safe—”
Oliver (tears, low): “You saved more than one life. You saved a future.”

Reaction ripple:

Grimm (applauding slow, a performance critic with heart): “A beautiful maneuver.”

Mr AntTenna (face flicker, stunned): “That was… theatre.”

King Ping (silent, calculating): “A new variable.”

Springtrap (if he were here, he would note the tactic) — absent — the field is quieter for now.

Sector didn’t just endure — they improvised, learned, and won.

.

🌪️ Scene — Skrunkly’s Arc Begins (trauma, then small steps)

Skrunkly, who used to be manic and hyper, had been unnerved by Puppet’s death, by the flurry of violence, by Junkil’s fall. Tonight she witnesses Sector’s fight and its cost. She trembles.

Skrunkly (voice high and frayed): “I— I— I thought it was just games— I thought—”
She bites a bell until it squeaks.

Scampton wraps a tentacle of his cape around her; he tries to make a joke but the edges are raw. She hides in a corner, shaking.

Lazarus (soft voice): “Breathe. One beat. Hold it.” He taps the vibraphone slowly. Sasha plays a single calming chord.

Sasha (quiet): “We’ll play it out. You don’t have to do anything. Just listen.”
Scampton (gently for once): “[YOU’RE SAFE—NO MINIGAMES—JUST BREATH—]”

Skrunkly breathes. It’s small. It’s a start. She looks at Sector, who is resting and glowing faintly.

Skrunkly (murmur): “I can’t— I can’t—be funny right now.”
Scampton (soft): “[Then we’ll be quiet.]”

Over the next hours, she sits near the fire, and Sasha strums lullaby lines that are not for performance but for healing. Skrunkly’s arc is beginning: from manic show-off to someone who must learn to be still and to let others hold her. Trauma reshapes her; survival requires steadiness. She takes her first, very human step by letting someone else lead the breathing exercise, and that night she sleeps.

🗣️ Aftermath — Reactions, Whispered Plans, and Character Movement

The forest hums with commentary:

Goobert (to Sector, tiny voice): “:3 are you okay? You were shiny.”
Sector (fragile smile): “glass—tired—help—”
Oliver (firm): “We bury him at dawn. We set a watch. Sector, you rest. You earned it.”
Gerson (to Wembry, quietly): “You saw them improvise. That’s a lesson in craft.”
Wembry (soft): “I saw. I’ll try not to be small tonight.”

Mike (to Scampton, pocket full of coins from merch-sells): “You saw that, right? I can make a—like a commemorative crow plush — ‘Sector Saves’ edition!”
Scampton (breathing shallow): “[NO MERCH—JUST A MOMENT—]”

King Ping recalculates. He mutters the phrase “YOU’RE FIRED” into the dark, thinking of Vendettas. His tyranny makes some face away from him. He is powerful and now more dangerous — he will tighten control of the Fragments’ remaining resources.

Middle Finger Cat moves through the aftermath and pads up to Meowl with compacted efficiency, sharing a cache of high-branch fruit. The cat's arc continues: he’s colder but now more reliably useful — not a friend, but a dependable ally.

⚖️ Night’s Close — Sober, Fragile Hope

Sector has moved from comic relief to battlefield anchor. Their arc is a phenomenal pivot: small words, huge action. They will be treated differently now — with respect and fear and thanks.

Skrunkly begins a quieter, inward arc: trauma, breathing, small kindnesses. She’s starting therapy by music and presence.

Blobie sleeps wrapped in Cumulus’s cloud-skin, less loud, fewer tremors.

Mike pockets coins and some clapping; his need for audience is soothed, for now, by selling merch.

Middle Finger Cat is a soft protector: gruff, survivalist, useful.

Wembry learns from Gerson and Sector; she is less likely to meaning-fall into panic.

Biowaffe is gone — his death is quiet, mechanical, morally ambiguous: he was hunting, he was a weapon, and now he is a corpse-in-the-shadow that people must bury before dawn.

Final notes (dialogue snippets as people file out):

Scampton (barely holding it together): “[WE PERFORMED SOMETHING. IT WAS NOT MEANT TO BE A SHOW—]”
Sasha (pack up, voice low): “We play for them tomorrow. For the ones who can’t stand.”
Sector (small, to Oliver): “I will rest. I will learn more shapes.”
Oliver (soft): “You already learnt the most important one — how to keep others alive.”