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By the time Time realises something is wrong, he has already catalogued it in his head three separate times and dismissed it twice out of sheer optimism. It starts with the smell. Campfire smoke, thick and sour, hanging too low in the air like it’s given up on rising. Burnt onions, no, charred onions, layered with something oily and deeply concerning. Beneath that, wet wool. Beneath that, the unmistakable tang of unwashed hero. Time stares into the middle distance and wonders, not for the first time, how many apocalypses he has prevented only to lose a war against basic domestic survival.
Someone laughs too loudly. Something metal clatters. A pot tips, does not fall, and everyone reacts like it personally betrayed them. Time rubs the heel of his palm into his eye.
This is fine, he tells himself. This is manageable. This is just a rough day.
The fire pops aggressively, as if disagreeing. Four is crouched beside it, jaw tight, stirring the pot with the brittle patience of a man who has already restarted dinner twice and knows he will be blamed a third time. Steam billows up in irregular bursts carrying the scent of regret.
“Why is it making that noise?” Wind asks, crouched inches away, eyes bright.
Four does not look at him. “Soup makes noise.”
“This one sounds angry.”
“It is, so am I.” Four says flatly.
Nearby, Wild is rummaging through the supply pile with both hands, humming. He pulls out a sack, peers inside, frowns, then shakes it like the contents might reorganise themselves out of respect. Legend sits against a tree, arms folded so tightly they might fuse, staring at a sock on a branch with a look of pure loathing. The sock twists gently in the breeze, damp and grey and absolutely not his.
Sky is kneeling by the stream, attempting to rinse a cup. The water is cloudy. He winces apologetically at the cup anyway. “I’m sorry.” he murmurs. “We’ll fix this.” The cup does not respond.
Twilight stands at the edge of the clearing, boots planted, shoulders hunched, looking into the woods like he’s mentally measuring how far into the forest he’d have to build a cabin in order to never be disturbed again. Time considers joining him. Warriors is polishing his gauntlet. It is already spotless. He is checking his teeth in the reflection. Hyrule is crouched over a flat stone, scratching careful notes onto a leaf with charcoal, brow furrowed like he’s drafting legislation, Time catches a glimpse of part of it. It is a catalogue of how many rupees he has lifted from Warriors. Time sighs deeply, considers informing Warriors, and then decides against it. Hyrule has two pairs of trousers and one sock. He needs the rupees more.
Time watches all of this.
He watches Wind trip over a bedroll and knock over a stack of bowls.
He watches Wild absentmindedly set a bag directly on top of the tinder pile.
He watches Four flinch as the stew bubbles ominously.
He watches Legend mutter something that sounds like a curse and possibly is one.
Time exhales. Deeply.
Alright, he thinks. That’s enough. I did not survive ganon and an ancient demon just to be taken out by food poisoning tonight.
“Alright.” Time says.
The word lands like a dropped plate. Everyone freezes. Wind is mid-step. Wild has a sack halfway open. Legend’s glare pauses mid-glare. Even the fire seems to settle, offended into silence. Time stands, joints protesting quietly, and steps into the centre of camp. He looks around once, slowly, deliberately, taking in the state of things. The sock. The smoke. The fact that no one knows where the ladle is. Something inside him clicks. Not anger. Something colder. Calmer. Fine, he thinks. We’re doing this the hard way.
“We are implementing structure.” Time says.
Legend squints. “No.”
Time doesn’t look at him. “Yes.”
Wind beams. “Ooooh. Structure.”
“No one enjoys structure.” Legend mutters. “They tolerate it.”
Time reaches into his pouch and pulls out a folded parchment. Already written. Already planned. Hyrule’s eyes widen. Warriors straightens. Twilight’s stomach sinks. Time unfolds the parchment with care, smoothing it flat like this is a sacred text and not a list of chores he is about to weaponise.
“This is a rotating duty roster.” Time says evenly. “Effective immediately.”
Legend opens his mouth. Time continues, merciless. “Hyrule. Cooking.”
The reaction is instant, and explosive.
“No.”
“Absolutely not.”
“TIME?!”
Wild lunges forward. “Wait wait wait—”
Legend is on his feet. “You cannot be serious.”
Warriors actually looks afraid. “Time, clearly you don’t quite understand the ramifications of that particular decision.”
Sky clasps his hands like he’s about to pray. “Time, maybe we should reconsider—”
Hyrule looks up from his leaf, startled. “Cooking? Me?”
Time meets their collective horror with the calm serenity of a man who has already had this argument in his head and won.
“No.” Time says, cutting them off. “I will not reconsider.”
“But the last time—” Wild starts.
“The last time,” Time interrupts mildly, “you cooked, I was unknowingly fed bokoblin guts and chipped my tooth on a lynel horn.”
Silence. Wild slowly presses a hand to his mouth. “I thought that was… crunchier than usual.”
Legend stares at Hyrule like he’s been personally betrayed. “You’re going to kill us.”
Hyrule bristles. “I can cook!”
Four looks at the pot. Looks at Hyrule. Looks back at the pot. “…We’ll supervise.”
“No.” Time says. “You will not interfere.”
Hyrule brightens faintly, already defensive. “I’ll take notes.”
Time moves on before anyone can stage a coup. “Legend. Laundry.”
Legend freezes. The forest seems to lean in.
“…What?” Legend says quietly.
“Laundry.” Time repeats. “Washing, drying, distribution.”
Legend’s face tightens like a man who has just been handed a deeply personal insult.
“I am not—”
“You complain the most about the… smells of everyone.” Time says, carefully not looking at Hyrule.
“That is not—”
“You will also enforce scent standards.”
Legend’s jaw locks. “…Fine.” he says through his teeth. “I hope you’re all prepared to suffer.”
Warriors winces. Sky makes a sympathetic noise. Legend marches toward the river like a man going to war with soap.
“Wild.” Time says.
Wild looks up, hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Inventory.”
Wild’s smile dies.
“Oh.”
“You will track supplies. Quantities. Locations.”
Wild nods slowly. “Okay. I can… I can do that.”
He immediately looks down at the pile at his feet. “Where are the supplies.”
Legend yells from the riverbank, already distant, “YOU’RE STANDING IN THEM.”
“Twilight.” Time continues.
Twilight stiffens.
“Enforcement.”
Twilight blinks. “Enforcement.”
“Yes.”
Twilight looks at Legend. Then at Wild. Then at Wind. “…You’re making me the cop.”
“You are the most intimidating.” Time says.
Twilight looks deeply offended. “I am approachable.”
Legend laughs without humour somewhere down the slope.
Wind glares. “Narc.”
“Sky.” Time says.
Sky straightens instantly. “Yes!”
“Moral support.”
Sky exhales in relief. “Oh. Oh thank goodness.”
Warriors lunges. “WAIT.”
Time does not look at him. Warriors points at himself. “That’s my job.”
Time’s eyes flick briefly to him. “You are not subtle.”
Warriors looks genuinely wounded, like he’s been told his haircut is a crime.
“Wind.” Time says.
Wind vibrates. “Me! Me!”
“Tidy camp.”
Wind’s face drops. “…Tidying?”
“Yes.”
Wind’s smile cracks. “That’s… not very heroic.”
Time looks around the camp: the sock, the bowls, the scattered gear, the suspicious damp patch that has absolutely not been there before. He nods to himself. “…Actually. That’s a two-man job.”
Wind perks up instantly.
“Four. You’re assisting.”
Four sighs like a man sentenced to community service. “Understood.”
Warriors is still standing there, waiting like a man at the gallows hoping for a pardon.
Time looks at him. Really looks. “…Warriors.” he says.
Warriors beams with tragic hope. “Yes, sir!”
“You’re latrine duty.”
The silence is profound. “…I’m sorry?” Warriors says, voice fragile.
“Digging. Maintenance. Hygiene.”
Warriors’ smile shatters like glass. “I beg your pardon—”
“You begged for morale.” Time says mildly. “This will build character.”
Warriors looks like he might actually cry.
Time folds the parchment, tucks it away, and steps back. Watches. Waits. And thinks, with the exhausted satisfaction of a man who knows how this ends, I’m still going to be the one doing all of this by morning. And somehow, that thought hurts more than any monster ever has.
Legend sits on a rock by the river like a man in exile. The water is cold. Not refreshing cold. The kind of cold that creeps into your fingers and makes them ache, even through calluses earned in a hundred dungeons. It flows steadily past, dark and clear and completely indifferent to his suffering.
Legend hates it.
He hates the damp air clinging to his tunic. He hates the soap, faintly floral, like this is some domestic idyll instead of a public humiliation. He hates the way wet cloth drags in his hands, heavy and limp and undignified. Most of all, he hates this stupid quest.
Legend kneels at the riverbank, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt, scrubbing tunics against a flat stone with furious efficiency. He is not bad at this. That makes it worse. Each stroke is sharp. Violent. Like he’s trying to erase the day from existence. “This is degrading.” he mutters, slapping fabric against rock. “This is not hero work.”
The river does not care. A pile of clothes sits beside him, already sorted by colour and fabric despite his insistence that he didn’t sort them. He absolutely did not. The clothes simply… took pity on him and arranged themselves. He grabs the next garment without looking. Boots. Fine. Muddy, manageable. A tunic. Familiar. Sky’s, probably. Clean. Inoffensive. Smells faintly like herbs and apology. Legend scrubs it anyway, out of principle. “Morale support.” he mutters darkly. “What kind of title is that.”
He wrings it out and tosses it onto the rock. Next. A pair of trousers. Legend freezes. Because these trousers are… thick. Not heavy with water. Heavy with presence. He lifts them with two fingers like they might bite him. The smell hits him full in the face. Not sweat. Not dirt. Fermentation. A scent that suggests something has been trapped in cloth and developed opinions.
Legend recoils, gagging. “Oh Hylia—” He turns his head and breathes through his mouth, eyes watering. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
He knows, in his soul, whose these are. He mutters the name like a curse.
“…Hyrule.”
With grim determination, Legend plunges the trousers into the river. The water around them immediately clouds. Legend stares.
“…You have GOT to be kidding me.”
He scrubs. The stone squeaks. The fabric resists. Legend bares his teeth and applies more pressure, grinding the trousers against the rock like he’s trying to erase them from reality.
“This is what happens,” he mutters, furious, “when you don’t judge a guy who has no change of clothes.”
He wrings them out. The smell persists. Legend’s eye twitches. He grabs the soap. This is not a small amount of soap. This is a statement. He lathers the trousers until they vanish beneath froth, scrubbing with the focus he usually reserves for boss fights. The river runs white with suds. He rinses.
The smell does not go away. Legend’s face drains of colour.
“…No, Hylia no.” he whispers.
Slowly, reluctantly, he reaches into the bundle again. And there they are. The socks. Thick. Grey. Still damp. They cling together like they know they’re dangerous. He didn’t even know Hyrule had two socks, last he’d heard it was one. Legend lifts them. Instant regret. The smell is immediate and violent. It is a physical force.
Legend jerks back so hard he nearly falls into the river, choking. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GOLDEN GODDESSES—”
He drops them. They hit the water with a soft plop. The river bubbles. Legend stares as a faint oily sheen spreads across the surface. Three dead fish rise.
“…They’re killing the river.” he says faintly.
He lunges forward, snatches them back up, and holds them at arm’s length like a bomb.
“HOW are these like this?” he demands of the socks.
The socks do not answer. Legend’s eyes burn. His nose burns. His pride is already long dead.
“This,” he says hoarsely, “is a biohazard.”
He dunks them. The water darkens. He scrubs. The soap vanishes instantly, devoured like tribute. Legend’s breathing turns sharp. He scrubs harder. The stone slips. The sock slaps against the rock with a wet, meaty sound. Legend gags again. “I have fought monsters less offensive than this.”
He scrubs until his knuckles go white. Nothing helps. The smell lingers. Legend stares at the socks, chest heaving, hands trembling. “…I am not paid enough for this.” he whispers.
Then, a horrible thought occurs to him. He sniffs again. Carefully. It’s not just sweat. It’s spices. Burnt herbs. Something charred. Legend’s eyes widen.
“Oh.” he breathes. “Oh no.”
He stares at the socks. Then toward camp. Then back at the socks.
“…He’s been cooking with these.”
Hyrule’s socks are soaked in spilled stew, ash, and whatever crime against nature is currently simmering in that pot. Legend’s eyes are wide, haunted, he’s burdened with knowledge he can never un-know. “Hylia, that’s where Hyrule’s mystery seasoning came from. It’s foot. The taste is foot.”
Legend makes a strangled noise and flings the socks back into the river, soap and all, scrubbing with renewed fury and a steady stream of curses that would make a dark wizard proud. “If I die,” he snarls at the sky, “tell Time I was murdered. And tell Hyrule this is his fault.”
The river keeps flowing. Legend keeps scrubbing. The socks refuse to surrender.
Downhill from camp, Warriors is crying. Not quietly. Not with dignity. He is sobbing in full naval tragedy. The latrine site is tucked behind a cluster of bushes Time had indicated with merciless precision. The ground is damp and stubborn, packed with roots and stones like the earth itself is offended by the idea. Warriors stands ankle-deep in a half-dug trench, sleeves rolled, hands blistered and filthy, hair escaping its usual meticulous style. He is holding a shovel like it is a cursed artefact. “I was born to command armies.” he says, voice breaking, driving the shovel into the dirt again. “I have negotiated ceasefires. I have hosted banquets.”
The shovel strikes a rock and jolts his arms. He yelps. “And now look at me!” he wails. “Carving a poop river!”
He drops the shovel dramatically and sinks to his knees. A small, carefully carved channel snakes away from the pit, sloping toward the river. Warriors has lined part of it with stones to ensure the flow is neat. It curves. It has intent. “I didn’t even get morale.” he sobs, scooping dirt with his hands now, he has turned to face Legend, who is slightly downstream. “Do you know what I’d do with morale, Legend? I’d uplift people. I’d inspire.”
The river murmurs nearby. Legend hears everything. He does not turn around.
“You’re digging a hole.” Legend snaps. “Stop talking about it like it’s art.”
Warriors sniffles. “It’s not a hole. It’s infrastructure.”
Legend wrings out a tunic viciously. “It’s a toilet.”
Warriors makes a wounded noise. “Time didn’t have to say it like that.”
Legend bares his teeth at the socks. “Time absolutely had to say it like that.”
Warriors picks up the shovel again, trembling. “I used to wear gloves. Fine leather gloves.” He stabs at the dirt. “I had a title.” he continues, voice cracking. “People saluted me. I gave speeches.”
The shovel catches on another rock. Warriors stumbles forward and face-plants into the dirt with a soft, tragic thump.
Legend pauses mid-scrub. “…Did you just fall into your own latrine.”
Warriors does not lift his head. “I tripped.”
Legend exhales through his nose. “Get up before Time sees you.”
“I can’t.” Warriors moans. “This is my life now.”
Legend turns slightly, just enough to project his voice. “You know what I’m dealing with right now?”
Warriors lifts his head, dirt smeared across his cheek. “Sock trauma?”
“Hyrule’s socks.” Legend snarls. “I think they’re actively decomposing.”
Warriors lets out a broken laugh that turns into a sob. “Of course they are, besides I thought he only had one.”
Legend presses his lips together in a thin line. “You don’t want to know about the other sock.”
Warriors wipes his face with the back of his hand, smearing mud further, and resumes digging with exaggerated care. “I made the slope gentle.” he says weakly. “So it won’t backflow.”
Legend pauses. “…You’re making a drainage system?”
Warriors nods miserably. “I refuse to do this badly, I have seen what a bad latrine system does. Smelled what it does.”
Legend snorts despite himself, then immediately scowls at the socks again. “If I die of exposure to whatever this is, I’m haunting Time.”
Warriors digs in silence for a few seconds, sniffing. “…Do you think morale would be better if I decorated it?” he asks softly.
Legend does not hesitate. “No.”
Warriors’ shoulders slump. “I miss my scarf, I couldn’t bring myself to wear it doing this. The scarf is a sign of respect. This… this is not a respectful task.”
Legend wrings the socks again. The water turns suspicious. “Warriors,” he says, voice tight, “if you ever speak of this to anyone, I will drown you in the river.”
Warriors gives a watery laugh. “You’d have to get through the poop channel first.”
Legend makes a sound of pure disgust. “Never speak again.”
A smell, hot, oily, sweet in the way rot is sweet, reaches the river and makes even Legend pause. He lifts his head slowly. “…What,” he says aloud, very softly, “is that smell.”
From downhill, Warriors answers miserably, voice carrying through the trees. “It’s Hyrule’s mystery stew, it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
Legend squeezes the socks one last time, watches the river foam in protest, and releases them with grim resignation. He doesn’t need confirmation. Whatever Hyrule is doing is now a regional event.
Back at camp, Hyrule is cooking. He is not panicking. This is the most frightening part. He is following a plan. His notes are spread neatly on a stone, weighed down with pebbles. Leaves labelled. Categorised. Annotated. He stands over the fire like a scholar conducting an experiment that should not be conducted outdoors. “Heat source: stable.” he murmurs, nudging a log by a fraction of an inch. “Liquid volume… acceptable.”
The pot bubbles. Not evenly. In thick, sluggish pulses, like something breathing badly. Hyrule stirs clockwise. Exactly seven rotations. Checks his notes. Then counterclockwise three times because the margin says counteracts over-thickening. The spoon resists. It drags through the stew with a sound that makes Four’s spine itch. Four stands several steps back, arms crossed, boots planted, watching with the intensity of a man supervising a live explosive. Wind hovers behind him, craning his neck.
“…It looks different.” Wind says.
Hyrule frowns slightly. “Of course it does. Cooking is a process.”
The smell rolls outward in another wave and hits Four like a physical force. He exhales slowly. “…What ingredients did you use.”
Hyrule gestures vaguely at the pot. “Available ones.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I categorised them.” Hyrule says, tapping his notes. “Protein. Vegetation. Binder.”
Wind’s eyes widen. “Binder?”
The stew pops. A thick bubble bursts, flicking something dark against the pot.
Four takes an involuntary step back. “That is not how soup behaves.”
Hyrule peers in, genuinely concerned. “It’s reacting more strongly than anticipated.”
Wind squints. “Is it supposed to move like that?”
The stew shifts. Not sloshing. Shifting. Hyrule stirs faster. The spoon scrapes the bottom with a faint screech.
“Okay!” Hyrule says, voice tightening. “So the texture is a little off.”
Four’s jaw tightens. “That is one way to put it.”
Hyrule reaches for a pouch.
Four’s eyes snap to it. “What are you doing.”
“Adjusting seasoning.”
Wind leans closer. “That’s the spicy one.”
“Yes.” Hyrule says. “Balance.”
He tips the pouch in. The pot hisses. Steam erupts upward in a violent plume. The fire flares then gutters as if offended. The stew surges, thick liquid slapping the sides of the pot with wet, meaty sounds. Four throws an arm in front of Wind automatically. “Back.”
Hyrule coughs, eyes watering, staring into the pot. “…That was too much.” he says faintly.
The smell deepens, burnt-sweet, mineral, wrong, like a swamp and a firework had a fistfight.
From the riverbank, Legend’s voice cuts through the trees. “WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE A MISTAKE.”
From downhill, Warriors adds, raw and miserable. “I CAN TASTE IT AND I’M NOT EVEN UP THERE.”
Hyrule swallows. “…That’s unfortunate.”
The stew belches. A thick glob pops out and sizzles on the ground.
Wind screams. “IT SPIT AT ME.”
Four stares at the pot, then at Hyrule. “We are not eating that.”
Hyrule’s hands clench, a small sad frown on his face. “You haven’t tried it.”
Four’s voice is iron. “I do not need to.”
The pot thumps. Not a bubble. A thump.
Hyrule’s eyes widen. “That’s new.”
He reaches for another ingredient.
Four slaps his wrist away without looking. “No.”
“But if I stabilise—”
“No.”
Hyrule’s composure cracks. “We need calories, not cement.”
Four leans in just enough to make his point, eyes never leaving the pot. “We need to survive.”
Somewhere in camp, Sky’s voice floats in, gentle and hopeful: “Is dinner ready?”
Four and Wind answer at the same time. “No.”
The pot gurgles ominously. Hyrule steps back, notes forgotten, staring at the stew like it has personally betrayed him.
Down by the latrine, Warriors’ crying has changed. It is no longer “a man in distress.” It is “a man in the middle of becoming a concept.” He stares at his little drainage channel, hollow-eyed.
“I used to be a symbol.” he whispers.
The earth does not respond. And then he hears it, the slap-scrape of laundry and the furious muttering of Legend. Warriors pushes himself upright on shaking legs and trudges toward the river with the shovel held like a holy relic. Legend doesn’t look up. “Whatever you’re about to say, save it. I’m in the middle of solving a war crime.”
Warriors stops just outside the splash zone, clutching the shovel to his chest like a security blanket. “…Legend.” he says, voice small.
Legend finally glances sideways, takes in the dirt, the wild hair, the tear tracks. “You look terrible.” Legend says flatly.
Warriors laughs. It is not a sane sound. “I am terrible.”
Legend goes back to scrubbing. “Get in line.”
“I can’t do this.” Warriors whispers. “I can’t dig another inch. I can’t look at that pit again. It’s mocking me.”
“Then dig faster.” Legend snaps. “Or Time will notice.”
Warriors stiffens. “…He will?”
“Yes.” Legend says coolly. “And then he’ll send Twilight.”
Warriors goes very, very still. “…Twilight?” he repeats faintly.
“Enforcement.” Legend confirms, grim.
Warriors’ eyes dart toward the tree line like Twilight might appear on cue with disappointment and authority. Warriors swallows. Then he looks around. At the river. At the trees. At how far away camp suddenly feels. He steps closer to Legend and lowers his voice until it’s barely a breath.
“…What if,” he says carefully, “we didn’t.”
Legend pauses mid-scrub. “…Didn’t what.”
Warriors leans in, eyes wild, dirt-streaked, utterly sincere. “What if,” he whispers, “we unionised.”
Legend turns slowly. Stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “You’re proposing a labour revolt?” Legend says.
“Yes.” Warriors breathes, reverent. “Against Time.”
Legend laughs once. Short. disbelieving. “You’re insane.”
“I knew you’d say that.” Warriors whispers, wounded.
Legend’s scrub slows, thoughtful despite himself. “You think a union is going to stop Time.”
“He coordinated an apocalypse.” Warriors admits quickly, nodding. “But he can’t fight all of us.”
Legend looks at the socks. Looks at the river. Looks back at Warriors. “…Who’s in this union?” he asks slowly.
Warriors swallows. “You. Me. Possibly Wild, if we explain it with pictures.”
Legend exhales. “…If Time finds out, he will bury us.”
Warriors nods solemnly. “But not in a latrine.”
Legend stares at him for a long moment. Then, very quietly. “Finish your hole.”
Warriors’ face falls.
Legend adds, without looking up, “And then we’ll talk.”
Warriors nods, clutches the shovel, turns back like a man reborn. “…Solidarity.” he whispers.
“…Idiot.” Legend mutters.
But he doesn’t say no. Warriors does not return to the latrine. He means to. He really does. He takes three steps toward it with grim resolve and then his brain makes a noise like a snapped bowstring. He turns. Purpose floods him. Feverish. Feral. Unionise, his mind whispers. Organise. Mobilise. Negotiate. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, smearing dirt further across his cheek, and strides toward camp like a man who has discovered a new and terrible calling.
Four is tidying. This alone is unsettling. He is crouched near the edge of camp, methodically stacking cookware into neat, precise piles. Every pan aligned, every bowl cleaned, every item returned to its place with surgical efficiency. Wind flits around him like an anxious bird, holding things, setting them down, picking them up again.
“No, not there.” Four says without looking.
Wind freezes. “Oh. Sorry.”
Four adjusts a pan by a hair’s breadth and exhales. That is when Warriors emerges from the trees. He looks wrong. Hair loose. Eyes too bright. Tunic smeared with dirt. Shovel slung over his shoulder like a weapon.
Wind spots him first. “Captain! Did you finish your—”
Four looks up. Stops. “…Why do you look like that.” Four asks.
Warriors smiles. It is not comforting. It is far from sane. “Four.” Warriors says softly, stepping closer. “May I speak with you. Privately.”
Wind blinks. “Ooo, secrets!”
“Wind.” Four says, deadpan. “Go tidy somewhere else.”
Wind pouts. Four gives him a look. Wind vanishes.
Four turns back. “You have one minute.”
Warriors nods eagerly. Too eagerly. He steps closer, lowering his voice as if Time might be hiding under a pot.
“Four,” he whispers, “how do you feel about labour rights.”
Four stares. “…What.”
Warriors gestures with the shovel like he’s conducting an orchestra of despair. “Fair treatment. Reasonable expectations. The right to not dig a sewage trench while sobbing.”
Four’s mouth twitches with amusement. “You were sobbing?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Get back to your task.” Four says.
Warriors leans in, unblinking. “Do you know what Time did today.”
Four deadpans. “Assigned chores.”
“He weaponised competence.” Warriors hisses. “He punished skill. He saw us as mere tools. Cogs in the machine my friend!”
Four’s jaw tightens despite himself.
Warriors’ words spill faster now. “Legend is fighting socks that could qualify as bioweapons. Wild has lost various parts of the inventory three times and it’s been ten minutes. Hyrule is actively trying to poison us.”
Four glances toward the fire where something hisses ominously. “…That pot is concerning.” he admits.
Warriors seizes the opening like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. “And you,” he says, pointing dramatically, “are being forced to tidy like a janitor when you are clearly meant for higher things.” He observes Four’s height. “Better things.” He amends.
“This is temporary.” Four says, tight, rolling his eyes.
“So was the latrine.” Warriors whispers darkly.
Four sighs. “You are spiralling.”
“Yes, that isn’t in question.” Warriors agrees instantly. “But I am also right.”
Four rubs his temple. “What exactly are you suggesting.”
Warriors straightens, chest heaving, shovel clutched like a sacred blade. “A union.” he says reverently. “A collective. We bargain as one.”
Four laughs once. “Against Time.”
“Yes.”
“He will dismantle you.” Four says flatly.
Warriors’ grin turns feral. “Not if we outnumber him.”
Four stares at him. “You are unwell.” he says.
Warriors steps closer, close enough for Four to see the dirt under his nails, the red rims of his eyes, the manic sincerity blazing. “Four,” Warriors whispers, “if we do nothing, tomorrow he’ll optimise us again.”
Four opens his mouth, Warriors cuts in, voice dropping to a hiss. “Tomorrow it might be you on latrine duty. And it will need emptying.”
Four freezes. Warriors presses. “Or Sky scrubbing armour. Or Twilight supervising bedroll alignment, do you want to go next to Wild? Everyone knows he snores like a chainsaw. This is how it starts.”
The fire pops. Something thumps in the pot.
Four looks away. “…This is ridiculous.” he mutters.
Warriors nods eagerly. “Yes. And that’s why it will work.”
Four looks back at him. Studies him. The state of him.
“…You cannot involve Wind.” Four says finally.
Warriors gasps, offended. “I would never.”
“And this stays quiet.”
Warriors’ grin splits his face. “Solidarity.”
Four closes his eyes like he’s aged ten years. “…I hate this.”
But he doesn’t walk away. Warriors turns, victorious, shovel dragging behind him as he marches toward his next target. Four watches him go. “…He’s completely lost his mind.” he murmurs.
From the fire, something lets out a wet, ominous glorp. Four sighs.
“…Fine.” he mutters. “One meeting.”
And somewhere between the latrine, the river, and the actively hostile stew, the revolution begins.
Warriors does not finish the latrine. Warriors does not return to the latrine. Warriors, in fact, is no longer operating under the same set of laws as everyone else. He moves through camp with the quiet intensity of a man who has stared into the abyss of sanitation work and decided the abyss can file a complaint in writing.His hair is loose. His tunic is dirt-smeared. His eyes have that bright, fixed gleam of someone who has slept zero hours and has instead been sustained by injustice and a single, terrifying idea.
Union.
He has Four. That’s one vote. One reluctant, practical vote, but a vote all the same. It’s enough to make Warriors’ brain start drawing diagrams. Legend is a maybe. He gives it ten more minutes with Hyrule’s socks. He needs Sky next. Sky is the easiest to recruit, in theory. Sky is kind. Sky is agreeable. Sky has a deep and sincere desire for everyone to be okay, and Warriors plans to weaponise that like a naval cannon.
He finds Sky near the stream. Sky is kneeling in the shallows, sleeves rolled neatly, hair tucked behind his ears, hands steady as he rinses cups and bowls one by one. He has arranged them in a line on a flat stone like a tiny altar to domestic peace. The water runs over his fingers and drips off his knuckles, catching the light. He hums quietly under his breath, something soft and simple, the kind of tune that makes you think the world isn’t always terrible.
Warriors steps into view. The stream does not react. Sky does. Sky looks up, sees Warriors’ face, and his expression immediately shifts into concerned angel confronted with a feral raccoon.
“Oh…” Sky says, soft and cautious. “Captain… are you alright?”
Warriors smiles. It is not a comfort smile. It is the smile of a man about to commit organised labour. “Sky.” Warriors says, voice low, reverent. “I need to speak with you.”
Sky glances at the cups, then at Warriors, then at Warriors’ shovel. “…Is that a shovel?” he asks carefully.
Warriors lifts it slightly, as if remembering he’s holding it. “Yes.”
Sky’s brows knit. “Why do you have a shovel.”
Warriors’ stare is unblinking. “It’s symbolic.”
Sky’s concern deepens. “Symbolic of… what.”
Warriors takes one step closer. Then another. Sky doesn’t retreat, but his shoulders rise a fraction, like a bird bracing for a sudden storm. Warriors crouches, fully crouches, so they are at eye level, eyes blazing with exhausted genius. “Sky,” he whispers, “how do you feel about collective bargaining.”
Sky blinks. Once. Twice. “…Collective…” he repeats, uncertain. “Bargaining?”
“Yes.” Warriors says, nodding too fast. “We negotiate as a unit.”
Sky’s hands tighten around the bowl he’s rinsing. “Negotiate… with who.”
Warriors’ smile widens, there are too many teeth. “With Time.”
Sky goes still. So still the stream seems louder. “…With Time?” Sky repeats slowly.
Warriors nods gravely, as if discussing an ancient evil. “He has overstepped.”
Sky opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Time is… trying to help.”
Warriors’ eyes flash. “He is trying to do slavery.”
Sky looks like he doesn’t know how to begin to even address that. Warriors leans in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “He gave you moral support.” he whispers.
Sky’s face warms. “Oh. Well, that’s actually—”
Warriors cuts him off with a sharp, tragic gesture. “It is emotional labour. Unpaid.”
Sky freezes. Warriors presses on, words spilling like a man with a manifesto and no brakes. “He assigned you to soothe. To reassure. To absorb the stress of men who refuse to communicate. That is unpaid work, Sky.”
Sky’s eyes widen. “…I do like helping.” he says weakly.
“And you will continue.” Warriors says immediately. “But under contract. With breaks. With proper acknowledgement.”
Sky looks like he might cry, and not in a bad way. Warriors’ expression softens, just for a second, then hardens again into brilliant madness. “And when you have done your emotional labour,” Warriors continues, “you will stand with us.”
Sky swallows. “Who is ‘us.’”
Warriors straightens slowly, shovel still in hand like a general’s banner. “Me,” he says, ticking off fingers. “Legend. Four.”
Sky’s brows knit. “Legend agreed?”
Warriors pauses for half a beat. “…Legend did not say no.” he says carefully.
Sky’s mouth opens, then shuts. “That sounds like Legend.”
Warriors nods, satisfied. “Exactly. And you, Sky.”
Sky looks down at the stream, then at his neat line of cups, then back at Warriors’ fever-bright eyes.
“Captain,” he says gently, “I’m a little worried about you.”
Warriors’ grin returns, too sharp. “Good.”
Sky blinks. “Good?”
Warriors leans forward again, voice dropping to a whisper so dramatic it’s almost religious. “If you are worried,” he says, “it means you understand the stakes.”
Sky’s expression shifts from concern to deep alarm. “Stakes?” Sky repeats.
Warriors’ eyes shine. “The latrine, Sky.”
Sky flinches. “Oh.”
Warriors continues, dead serious. “They gave me a shovel and called it character development.”
Sky’s hands clasp tighter around the bowl. “That’s… not very nice.”
Warriors nods sharply. “No. It’s not.”
A beat. Sky hesitates. “But… Time is tired. He’s just trying to keep us safe.”
Warriors’ voice drops, deadly calm. “So are we. And yet we are not allowed to rest.”
Sky falters. Warriors places a dirt-smeared hand over his heart like he’s about to swear an oath. “Sky,” he whispers, “join us.”
Sky looks like he wants to. He looks like he’s about to. His whole face is soft with sympathy and worry.
And then he looks at the shovel again. “…Do we have to… have shovels?” he asks.
Warriors glances down at it. Then, solemnly, he lowers the shovel like a sword being knighted. “No.” he says, voice reverent. “But it helps.”
Sky inhales, shaky.
“Captain.” he says, very gently, “I think you might be having a breakdown.”
Warriors’ eyes flicker. Then he smiles again, wide and bright and slightly terrifying. “Yes!” he says. “And I’m using it productively.”
Sky makes a small sound. “Oh dear.”
Warriors nods briskly, as if they have reached agreement. “So you’re in.”
Sky splutters. “I didn’t—”
Warriors grabs his hands, careful not to splash the water, and squeezes like he’s sealing a pact.
“Solidarity, thank you comrade.” Warriors whispers.
Sky looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Warriors with helpless, genuine concern. “…Solidarity.” Sky repeats faintly, like he’s testing the word to see if it bites. Warriors beams, triumphant, and stands. Sky watches him go, still kneeling by the stream, bowl forgotten, whispering to himself in growing horror. “…He’s lost it this time.”
Warriors’ next target is Hyrule. This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Hyrule is currently in charge of cooking, which means he is standing over a pot that is making noises that should require a priest. Steam crawls out of it in thick, resentful coils. The air around the fire tastes faintly metallic. Somewhere in the distance, Wind has started gagging on principle. Warriors approaches anyway, shovel still slung over his shoulder like an emblem of his martyrdom. He has the gait of a man on a mission and the eyes of a man who has not blinked in several minutes. Union, his brain chants. Organise. Mobilise. Negotiate.
As he nears the fire, the smell hits him in full. His face tightens. He swallows. He forces himself forward like a soldier marching into battle.
Hyrule looks up from his notes and brightens. “Captain!” he says, relief blooming across his face. “Good. I was hoping I’d catch you.”
Warriors blinks. He had expected defensiveness. Confusion. Mild offence. He had not expected… eagerness. Hyrule gestures at the flat stone beside him. It is covered in leaves. Not in a forest debris way. In a “somebody has been drafting paperwork” way. Neat lines of charcoal. Headings. Bullet points. Underlined phrases. Some leaves have been pinned down with pebbles to keep them from fluttering.
Warriors’ eyes widen with reverence. “…Hyrule,” he breathes in barely restrained awe, “is that… bureaucracy.”
Hyrule nods briskly. “Formal complaints.”
Warriors takes a step closer, genuinely moved. “You too.”
Hyrule looks offended on his behalf. “Of course. I’ve been assigned cooking under hostile conditions.”
Behind him, the pot emits a wet, ominous glorp. Warriors flinches. Hyrule doesn’t even glance at it.
“It spit earlier.” Hyrule adds, as though discussing the weather.
Warriors presses a hand to his chest. “We’re living in tyranny.”
Hyrule leans in, eyes bright. “I already have a working title.”
Warriors’ voice drops. “For the union?”
“For the grievance dossier.” Hyrule corrects, as if that is obviously the first step. He flips over the top leaf and reveals a second one underneath, labelled in clear block letters.
FORMAL COMPLAINT #3: UNREASONABLE DEPLOYMENT OF HEROIC LABOUR
Warriors makes a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “…I’ve found my people.” he whispers.
Hyrule taps the leaf with charcoal-stained fingers. “I’ve listed offences.”
Warriors leans over it like it’s sacred scripture. “What are we working with?” he murmurs.
Hyrule begins counting on his fingers, calm and precise. “Mandatory labour assignments without prior consultation.”
Warriors nods vigorously. “Yes.”
“Unclear definitions of ‘tidying’ and ‘enforcement.’”
“YES.”
“Insufficient safety gear for sanitation work.”
Warriors’ eyes glaze with trauma. “Oh gods, yes.”
“Hostile work environment.” Hyrule adds, glancing meaningfully at the pot. The pot bubbles as if it heard. Warriors points at it. “That thing is a workplace hazard.”
Hyrule nods. “I’ve already classified it as ‘aggressive cooking incident.’”
Warriors exhales, awed. “You’re incredible.”
Hyrule lifts his chin modestly. “I’m thorough.”
Warriors squints at another leaf. “What’s this one.”
Hyrule slides it forward.
DEMANDS:
- Reasonable rotation schedule
- Breaks
- Hazard pay
- No latrine duty assigned without protective gloves
- No cooking duty assigned to Hyrule under any circumstances
- Moral support to be shared labour, not unpaid emotional servitude
Warriors’ eyes shine. “This,” he whispers, “is a manifesto.”
Hyrule looks pleased. “I also drafted a strike protocol.”
Warriors grips Hyrule’s shoulders abruptly, overcome. “You drafted protocol.”
Hyrule grips back like this is normal. “Of course.”
They stare at each other for half a second, two men aligned by the purest force in Hyrule: paperwork. Then Warriors remembers he is in fact still holding the shovel, the wondrous symbolic shovel. He straightens, clears his throat, attempts to regain some semblance of leadership.
“Alright.” he says, voice low and intense. “We need a plan.”
Hyrule nods immediately. “Agreed.”
Warriors paces once in a tight circle like a general about to storm a fortress. “First,” he says, “we build membership.”
Hyrule nods. “I can get signatures.”
Warriors’ eyes widen. “On the leaves?”
Hyrule’s expression says obviously. Warriors points at him like he’s discovered genius. “Yes. Yes. Everyone signs. We show unity.”
Hyrule flips to another leaf. “I’ve already left blanks at the bottom for names and thumbprints.”
Warriors inhales sharply. “Thumbprints.”
Hyrule nods. “Ink is limited.”
Warriors presses a hand to his forehead. “We are going to win.”
The pot makes a noise like skeptical judgment. Warriors ignores it.
“Second,” Warriors continues, “we need recruitment methods.”
Hyrule’s eyes sharpen. “Inspiration? Speeches?”
Warriors shakes his head slowly. His expression turns darker. More cunning. “No.” he says. “Leverage.”
Hyrule leans closer, intrigued. “Leverage how.”
Warriors gestures toward the fire with the shovel. “That.” Hyrule pauses. Then his mouth opens slightly. “…The soup?”
Warriors nods gravely. “The soup.”
Hyrule looks at the pot, then back at Warriors. “The soup is… not stable.” Hyrule says carefully. “It might not be safe for—”
“I don’t need it safe.” Warriors whispers, eyes glittering. “I need it scary.”
Hyrule’s face brightens with sudden understanding, as if Warriors has just spoken his native language. “Oh.” Hyrule says softly. “For recruitment.”
Warriors points at him. “Exactly.”
Hyrule nods briskly. “Yes. I can supply a sample.”
Warriors steps closer, voice dropping further, conspiratorial. “A small vial.”
Hyrule glances around and reaches under his supplies, pulling out a little glass bottle that used to hold a potion.
Warriors stares. “…You have containers.”
“I have contingencies, always.” Hyrule says simply.
The pot bubbles ominously. Hyrule ladles a small amount into the bottle. It goes in thick. Too thick. It slides like it’s reluctant. Warriors watches, mesmerised and vaguely horrified. When Hyrule caps it, the bottle emits a faint tap from within, like something knocked gently against the glass.
Warriors’ eyes widen. “It’s alive.”
Hyrule says, calmly, “It’s spirited.”
Warriors clutches it like a holy relic. “This will change everything.”
Hyrule nods, satisfied. “Good.”
Warriors glances at the stack of leaf complaints again. “Now. We need delivery.”
Hyrule straightens with the solemnity of someone being entrusted with a sacred task. “I can deliver the formal complaints to Time.” he says.
Warriors grips his shoulder. “Are you prepared for that kind of danger.”
Hyrule looks almost insulted. “I’m polite.”
Warriors’ voice turns reverent. “A true martyr.”
Hyrule gathers the leaves carefully, stacking them, weighing them down with a flat stone to keep them from blowing away mid-revolution. He taps the top leaf into alignment. Warriors watches, impressed all over again.
“Remember,” Warriors says, intense, “we are not asking.”
Hyrule nods. “We are demanding.”
Warriors points at the leaves. “We are not begging.”
Hyrule grins. “We are documenting.”
Warriors lifts the bottle of soup slightly, eyes wild. “And we are recruiting.”
Hyrule smiles, sharp and bright. “We are organising.”
Hyrule approaches Time like a man delivering a thesis. He has cleaned his hands. This is deliberate. There is charcoal still under his nails, but the worst of the stew residue has been scrubbed away, and he has taken the time to straighten his tunic. The leaves are stacked neatly, corners aligned, weighted with care so none of them flutter. It is, objectively, an impressive packet of dissent. Time is sitting on a log near the edge of camp, sharpening a blade. He looks tired. Not the dramatic, battle-worn kind of tired. The quieter one. The kind that settles into the bones after years of responsibility and never quite leaves. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, tracking everything, the fire, the stew that keeps making noises, the way Wind is pretending not to listen, the fact that Warriors is absolutely hiding behind a tree.
Time looks up as Hyrule stops in front of him. “Yes?” Time says mildly.
Hyrule inclines his head, polite as anything. “Time.”
Time glances at the stack of leaves. “…What’s that.”
Hyrule lifts them slightly. “Formal complaints.”
Time blinks once. “…Plural.”
“Yes.”
Time sets the blade aside and folds his hands over his knee. “Go on.”
Hyrule takes a breath. This is the moment. He has rehearsed this. He has bullet points. “These are collective grievances.” Hyrule says evenly. “Regarding labour distribution, safety standards, and emotional workload.”
Time’s eyebrow lifts. Just a fraction.
Hyrule presses on. “We believe the current system is unsustainable and lacks adequate consultation.”
Time hums. “Mm.”
Hyrule places the stack of leaves gently into Time’s hands. Time looks down at them. Reads the top heading. Reads the subheading. Skims. Skims faster. His mouth twitches once. Then, without changing expression, Time folds the entire stack neatly in half. And tears it. Clean. Efficient. Down the centre. Hyrule freezes. Time tears it again. And again. Until the leaves are reduced to a tidy pile of strips, which he sets calmly beside him on the log.
Silence.
The fire pops.
Somewhere, Warriors makes a strangled noise and is immediately shushed by Legend. Hyrule stares at the shredded remains of his work. Then slowly looks up at Time. “…You tore them.” Hyrule says.
“I suppose I did.” Time replies pleasantly.
Hyrule’s eyes narrow. “Those were documented grievances.”
“Yes.”
“Filed in good faith.”
“Yes.”
“Organised. Categorised.”
“Yes.” Time meets his gaze, unblinking. “Still torn.”
Something in Hyrule snaps. Not loudly. Not messily. It’s the sound of a man who has tried civility and found it wanting. “…This.” Hyrule says quietly, “means war.”
A hush ripples through camp. Time’s mouth curves, not quite a smile. His eyes narrow. “Does it?” he says.
Hyrule straightens, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. “You have dismissed our concerns.”
Time tilts his head. “I listened.”
“You destroyed them.”
“I recycled them.” Time corrects mildly.
Hyrule scoffs. “You are an autocrat.”
Time chuckles, low and soft. “I am tired.”
Hyrule leans in just enough to be unmistakably threatening in the most polite way possible. “You underestimate us.”
Time looks past him, briefly, at the camp. At the sock still hanging from the branch. At the stew that has thumped again. At Wind peeking from behind Four. At Warriors’ shovel sticking out from behind a tree like a guilty thought. Then he looks back at Hyrule. Eyes sharp now.
“Try me.” Time says. The words are calm. Almost gentle. They are also a challenge.
Hyrule inhales slowly. “…Very well.” he says. “We will escalate.”
Time nods once. “I assumed you would.”
Hyrule turns on his heel and walks back toward camp, posture rigid with righteous fury.
Behind the tree, Warriors’ eyes shine with glee. “Guerrilla warfare!”
Legend whispers, “Oh no.”
Sky clasps his hands to his mouth. “Oh dear.”
Four rubs his temples. “This is going to get worse.”
Time watches Hyrule go, then picks up the torn strips of leaf and feeds them into the fire one by one. They burn quickly. Neatly. Time exhales, long and slow.
“I told myself,” he mutters, “that if I gave them structure, they’d calm down.”
The stew belches in response. Time closes his eyes. “…I am surrounded by idiots.” he says fondly.
And somewhere in camp, Warriors grips his shovel, lifts the bottle of soup like a sacred weapon, and whispers.
“Phase two.”
Time finds Twilight where he knew he would be. At the edge of camp. Half in the trees. Arms crossed. Weight shifted just enough that he could leave at a moment’s notice if the world asked too much of him. Twilight is doing enforcement without meaning to, watching, listening, quietly cataloguing who is slacking and who looks like they might cry if asked to do one more thing. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are tense. He looks like a man holding a line no one officially drew.
Time approaches softly. Not sneaking. Just… present. “Twilight.” he says.
Twilight startles anyway. “Time! Sorry. I was just—”
“I know.” Time says gently.
Twilight relaxes immediately. As Time suspected he would. Time stands beside him, hands folded behind his back, gazing out at the chaos like it’s a familiar battlefield. The soup hisses. Wind aggressively tidies. Warriors’ shovel glints ominously from behind a tree. Legend is yelling at fabric.
Time sighs. “You’re doing well.” he says.
Twilight blinks. “I—what?”
Time turns to look at him fully now. His expression is calm. Warm. The face of a man who has survived centuries and chosen kindness as his weapon of choice. “You always do.” Time continues. “You don’t complain. You don’t panic. You just… shoulder it.”
Twilight’s ears go red instantly. “I mean—someone’s gotta—”
“You’re reliable.” Time says. “Steady. When things fall apart, you’re there.”
Twilight swallows. Time lets the silence sit. Lets it work. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this,” Time adds, quieter now, “but I’m very proud of you.”
Twilight’s brain short-circuits. “You—” he chokes. “You are?”
Time nods. “Of course.”
Twilight stares at him like he’s just been handed the Triforce of Validation.
“You remind me of… well,” Time smiles faintly, “of family.”
Twilight’s heart explodes. Time places a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re like a son to me.”
Twilight is gone. Starry-eyed. Gone. His spine straightens. His chest puffs up. His soul ascends.
“I—Time—I—” he stammers. “I won’t let you down.”
Time’s thumb gives his shoulder the gentlest squeeze. “I know you won’t.”
He waits exactly one beat. Then… “Would you mind doing me a favour?”
Twilight nods immediately. Violently. “Anything.”
Time gestures vaguely toward camp. “Just… make sure the chores are completed.”
Twilight turns, eyes blazing with purpose. “Yes sir.”
Time adds, softly, “No mercy.”
Twilight bares his teeth. “Understood.”
He strides back into camp like the wrath of Hylia personified.
Warriors freezes mid-whisper. Legend looks up, alarmed. Sky gasps. Wind drops a bowl. Hyrule senses a disturbance in the force. Twilight plants himself dead centre and crosses his arms.
“Alright!” he says, voice low and final. “Let’s refocus.”
Warriors whispers, already slinking away. “We need more bodies, he’s got Twi.”
Legend mutters, “He’s activated.”
Sky clasps his hands. “Oh dear.”
From the edge of camp, Time watches it all unfold. He exhales. Smooths his sleeve.
And thinks, with the cold satisfaction of a master strategist. Parenthood is an art.
Warriors finds Wild squatting in the dirt with the inventory. Which is to say: Wild is surrounded by piles of items that were, at some point, organised, and are now spiritually vibes-based. He has laid everything out in loose circles. Weapons in one pile. Food in another. “Shiny” in a third. There is a fourth pile that appears to be “things I found again.” Wild is chewing on a blade of grass and frowning at a notebook that is definitely upside down. “…Okay.” he mutters to himself. “I swear there were more arrows than this. Unless—oh.” He brightens. “Unless I counted rocks again.”
Warriors emerges from behind a tree like a prophet descending a mountain. He is filthy. His hair is loose. His eyes are bright with feverish conviction. He still has the shovel, but now it’s tucked under his arm like an accessory, not a tool. “Hello, Wild.” Warriors says, a mad glint in his eye.
Wild looks up. “Oh hey, Captain! Did you know we have ten spoons but only one fork?”
Warriors drops to a crouch in front of him. Hard.
Wild startles. “—Whoa, careful with all that motion Captain.”
“Wild.” Warriors says intensely, eyes wide, he grips Wild’s shoulders, “I need to talk to you about something very important.”
Wild blinks. “…Okay?”
Warriors glances around quickly, then lowers his voice. “We’re unionising.”
Wild’s brow furrows. “…We’re doing what to onions.”
“No.” Warriors says patiently. “Union.”
“Oh.” Wild nods. “Is that like… a dungeon?”
Warriors’ smile twitches. “No.”
“Is it a weapon.”
“No.”
“A cooking thing?”
Warriors takes a slow, steady breath through his nose. “No.”
Wild tilts his head. “Okay. What is it.”
Warriors stares at him for a second, then looks down at the dirt between them like it has personally betrayed him. “…Alright.” he mutters. “We’re starting simple.”
He grabs a stick and begins drawing. Wild leans forward immediately, delighted. “Ooooh. Pictures.”
Warriors draws a small circle. “This,” he says, tapping it, “is you.”
Wild grins. “Nice.”
Warriors draws another circle. “This is me.”
Another. “Legend.”
Another. “Sky.”
Another, slightly bigger. “Four.”
Wild watches intently. “Why is Four bigger.”
“Don’t question my motion Wild.” Warriors says darkly.
Wild nods, accepting this without question. Warriors draws a large, looming square off to the side. “This,” he says, voice lowering, “is Time.”
Wild squints. “…Why is he a box.”
“He’s inflexible.”
Wild considers this. “Yeah okay.”
Warriors draws arrows from the small circles to the square.
“These arrows,” he explains, “are chores, these are bad.”
Wild gasps. “Oh no.”
“Yes.” Warriors says gravely. “They point one way.”
Wild’s eyes widen. “That’s bad, I hate set directions. I need motion.”
“Exactly.” Warriors has zero clue what exactly Wild means with all of the motion talk, only that clearly it speaks to him.
Warriors then draws a big circle around all the smaller circles. “This,” he says, tapping the ring, “is the union.”
Wild blinks. “…Is it a fence?”
“It’s solidarity, brotherhood.” Warriors corrects.
“Oh.” Wild nods slowly. “Is it like when we all push a really big rock together.”
Warriors’ eyes light up. “YES.”
Wild beams. “Oh I’m really good at that.”
Warriors draws arrows pointing back from the big circle to the square. “When we stand together,” Warriors says, voice trembling with passion, “the arrows go both ways, there’s motion, Wild.”
Wild stares at the drawing. Then at Warriors. Then back at the dirt.
“…So.” he says slowly, “this means Time can’t just make us do stuff without asking, there’s communication there, boundaries, even?”
Warriors points at him like he’s just cracked an ancient code. “YES.”
Wild’s mouth drops open. “That’s amazing.”
Warriors nods fervently. “It’s called collective bargaining.”
Wild squints. “Do we get snacks.”
Warriors hesitates. “…Eventually, I’ll get Hyrule to work that in.”
Wild slaps the ground. “I’m in.”
Warriors freezes. “You… you are?”
“Yeah!” Wild says cheerfully. “I don’t really get it but it sounds like teamwork and also less latrines.”
Warriors grabs his shoulders. “Wild, you beautiful disaster.”
Wild grins. “Do I have to sign something.”
“Yes.” Warriors says immediately. “Hyrule has leaves.”
“Oh cool.” Wild brightens. “Can I draw on mine.”
“…Preferably your name.”
Wild nods solemnly. “I’ll do both.”
A shadow falls over them. They both look up. Twilight is standing there. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. Aura activated. “…What are you two doing?” Twilight asks.
Warriors shoves the stick behind his back.
Wild smiles brightly. “Motion.”
Twilight’s eyes narrow. Warriors sweats.
“…Right, whatever that means.” Twilight says slowly. “Finish your tasks.”
“Yes sir.” Wild chirps.
Twilight turns and walks away. Wild waits three seconds, then leans back toward Warriors and whispers loudly. “So when do we overthrow him.”
Warriors’ eyes shine. “Soon.” he whispers back.
Warriors waits until Twilight is alone. This is deliberate. Twilight has gone fully operational. He stands near the centre of camp now, arms crossed, posture squared, eyes tracking movement with quiet authority. Chaos bends around him. Wind lowers his voice when Twilight passes. Wild suddenly remembers where he put things. Even the soup has stopped thumping quite so loudly. Warriors watches him from the tree-line, chest tight. This isn’t recruitment. This is a last stand. He steps out. “Twilight.”
Twilight turns immediately. “Captain.”
His tone is neutral. Respectful. Closed. Warriors walks up to him, stopping just outside arm’s reach. He looks rough, dirt-smudged, hair loose, eyes bright with too much emotion and not enough sleep.
“Don’t do this.” Warriors says.
Twilight doesn’t blink. “…Do what?”
“Don’t sell us out.” Warriors says, voice sharp with urgency. “Don’t turn your back on us.”
Twilight exhales slowly through his nose. “I’m not. Hylia you guys always do this. It’s chores, Wars. Not life or death!”
“You’re enforcing!” Warriors snaps. “You’re taking away our liberties.”
“I’m keeping things from falling apart.” Twilight says evenly. “Time asked me to.”
“And you said yes.” Warriors presses. “Because he told you he was proud of you.”
Twilight’s jaw tightens. “…So what if he did?” he says.
Warriors steps closer. “He’s manipulating you.”
Twilight’s eyes harden. “Careful.”
“I’ve led men!” Warriors says fiercely. “I know what it looks like when someone gives you praise and then asks you to carry their weight. He’s using you.”
Twilight shakes his head once. “No. He trusted me.”
“He made you his enforcer!” Warriors insists. “He turned you against us. Your brothers.”
Twilight’s voice drops, steady and unyielding. “I am not against you.”
“Then why are you standing in our way?”
Silence stretches. Twilight straightens, shoulders squaring like armour locking into place. “Because someone has to, or Hyrule won’t wash his sock.” he says.
Warriors stares at him. “And that is his choice!”
“We’re spiralling.” Twilight continues. “You’re talking about unions and revolts. Hyrule is drafting manifestos. Wild thinks this is a game. The camp is one bad decision away from real trouble. And no one is doing chores!”
“We’re tired!” Warriors says. “We’re being pushed.”
“And Time is trying to keep us alive.” Twilight shoots back. “Fed. Organised. Functional.”
“At what cost.” Warriors demands.
Twilight meets his gaze, unflinching. “At the cost of fifteen minutes of your time.” he says dryly. “Not your freedom.”
Warriors’ voice cracks. “We’re your brothers, stop falling for autocratic lies.”
Twilight pinches his nose with his forefinger and thumb.
“Don’t do this.” Warriors pleads. “Don’t be the one who enforces it. Don’t turn your back on us for Hylia’s sake.”
Twilight exhales. Long. Measured. Then he says, firmly, “I’m not turning my back on anyone.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice so only Warriors can hear. “I am standing with Time. This is ridiculous, had you just been doing your jobs this would be over by now.”
The words hit harder than a blow. Warriors reels back slightly. “…You’re choosing him.”
“I’m choosing common sense.” Twilight says.
“He tore up our grievances.”
Twilight nods. “Because they were incredibly stupid, and a waste of time.”
Warriors laughs bitterly. “There’s never a time, is there.”
Twilight doesn’t argue. Something in Warriors’ chest collapses. “…So that’s it.”
“That’s it.” Twilight confirms.
They stand there, the space between them suddenly heavy with everything they’ve survived together. Twilight’s voice softens, just a fraction. “Finish your task, Captain. Don’t make this worse than it has to be.”
Warriors stares at him. Then nods once. Sharp. Final. “…Tyrant scum.” he grumbles.
Twilight holds his gaze, brow raised. Warriors turns away. As he walks back into the trees, his shoulders are tight, not broken, but burning with resolve. Twilight watches him go. Then turns back toward camp. Toward Time.
Somewhere behind a tree, Legend mutters, “Oh, this is going to end badly.”
And Warriors, gripping his shovel like a standard, whispers to himself as he disappears into the shadows, dramatic and ominous. “Then we escalate, Twilight will join us.”
Twilight realises something is wrong when the river is too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Not end of shift, sun dipping low quiet. Wrong quiet. He stands at the bank with his arms crossed, boots planted in damp earth, watching the water slide past stones with lazy indifference. The air smells faintly of soap, river weed, and, disturbingly, something charred drifting down from camp.
Legend should be here. Legend is never not here when laundry is involved, if only to loudly resent it. Warriors should be downhill, theatrically over-engineering sanitation. Sky should be hovering nearby, apologising to inanimate objects. None of them are. Twilight sighs sufferingly. He turns slightly, scanning the tree line.
“Alright.” he calls out, voice carrying. “This isn’t funny.”
The river answers by continuing to exist. Twilight takes a step back from the bank. That’s when it happens. A shout tears through the trees.
“NOW!” Warriors bursts out of the underbrush like a man leading a cavalry charge. Hair wild. Tunic filthy. Eyes alight with revolutionary fervour. He is brandishing absolutely nothing useful, but the energy is there.
Twilight barely has time to register the betrayal before the ground beneath his feet moves. Something snaps tight around his ankles. Then his wrists. Then his torso. Twilight yelps as he’s yanked backward, hitting the dirt hard, arms pinned, legs tangled, the world suddenly a blur of rope, roots, and very competent engineering.
“What the—?!”
Four steps out from behind a tree, calm as ever, holding the other end of a taut rope system that definitely did not exist five seconds ago. “I’m sorry.” Four says flatly. “This was the least violent option.”
Twilight struggles once. The trap holds.
“…Four!” Twilight says sharply. “Unhand me.”
Four tilts his head. “Can’t do that, sorry.”
Legend emerges next, stepping out from the trees with soap-stained sleeves and the expression of a man who has snapped. “Don’t bother fighting it.” Legend says. “He tested it on a log. And then on Wild. Twice.”
Wild beams. “It hurt less the second time.”
Sky steps out last. Hands clasped nervously in front of him. Smile apologetic. Eyes resolute. Twilight goes still.
“…Sky, no.” he says quietly.
Sky winces. “Hi, Twilight.”
“You don’t want to be standing there.” Twilight says.
Sky swallows. “…I do.”
Twilight’s gaze flicks between them, all of them. Warriors vibrating with zeal. Legend grim and satisfied. Four steady and unflinching. This is organised. This is coordinated. Hylia even Wind and Hyrule are present.
“This is a mutiny.” Twilight says coldly.
Warriors points at him triumphantly. “See? He gets it.”
“Shut up.” Legend snaps. “Let him talk.”
Twilight’s eyes lock on Warriors. “Untie me. Now.”
Warriors takes a step forward. “Can’t do that.”
“Do not make me escalate.” Twilight warns.
Legend snorts. “Buddy, you’re already horizontal.”
Twilight turns his head toward Sky again, disbelief creeping into his voice. “Sky. Surely not you.”
Sky flinches. Then straightens. “…I believe unions are a good thing, Warriors is very convincing. I wish I had a union when I was adventuring.” Sky says defensively.
The world tilts. Twilight stares at him. “You… what.”
“They protect people.” Sky continues, voice firm. “They give everyone a voice. They keep power from pooling too much in one place.”
Twilight’s lip curls. “You’re repeating his talking points.”
Warriors grins. “They’re great talking points.”
Twilight bares his teeth. “You’re a populist!” he snarls at Warriors. “A demagogue stirring unrest because you can’t handle responsibility.”
Warriors spreads his arms wide. “Or…” he says brightly, “I’m a man who refuses to dig another metre of poop trench without representation.”
Legend crosses his arms. “I nearly died to socks.”
“That was an act of war.” Warriors adds solemnly.
Twilight struggles again, rope biting into his arms. “You think this is funny?”
“No!” Sky says quickly. “We think it’s necessary.”
Twilight snaps his gaze back to him. “Sky, you hate conflict.”
Sky nods. “I do.”
“Then why are you here.”
Sky takes a breath. “…Because… because Warriors is convincing!”
Silence stretches. The river keeps flowing.
Twilight looks at Four. “You too.”
Four shrugs. “I object to inefficiency.”
“You built a trap.”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“You’re very competent.” Four says mildly. “It seemed wise.”
Twilight exhales sharply through his nose. “This won’t end well.” he says. “Time will shut this down.”
Warriors’ smile sharpens. “That’s the idea.”
Legend leans in. “You’re not the enemy, Twi. But you’re in the way.”
Twilight’s eyes burn. “I stood by Time because someone had to.”
“And now,” Warriors says gently, “we’re standing by each other.”
Twilight laughs once. Harsh. Disbelieving. “You think this is solidarity!” he says. “This is chaos.” The rope creaks softly as the river breeze shifts. “…Untie me.” Twilight says again. “Or this becomes something worse.”
Warriors tilts his head. “You’re right.”
Twilight’s jaw tightens. Warriors raises his voice. “Alright.” he declares. “Agenda item one: we relocate Twilight to a neutral holding position.”
Legend blinks. “You mean—”
“The log.” Warriors says.
Four nods. “The log.”
Sky winces. “The log.”
Twilight’s eyes widen. “You will not put me on the log.”
Warriors grins. “Too late, Enforcement.”
They lift him. The river flows on. They tie Twilight to the log. Not roughly, this is important, but thoroughly. Four knots. Practical knots. Knots that say you are not getting out of this unless we want you to. Twilight glares up at the canopy, jaw clenched so tight it might crack. Bark presses uncomfortably into his back. Rope bites into his wrists. Humiliation simmers hot and sharp under his ribs.
“This is insane.” he growls. “Untie me. Right now.”
“No!” Legend says, standing just out of kicking range. “You break logs when you kick. We tested that.”
Twilight’s head snaps toward him. “You tested that?”
Legend shrugs. “Different log.”
Sky hovers nearby, wringing his hands. “I’m so sorry. This is very… dramatic.”
Wild is sitting on a rock a little ways away, knees pulled to his chest, eyes wide. “I don’t like this part.” he mutters.
Warriors steps into Twilight’s line of sight. He stands at the head of the log like a general before a battlefield execution. Hair wild. Tunic filthy. Eyes shining with terrible, righteous purpose.
“Twilight.” he says solemnly.
Twilight sneers. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Possibly.” Warriors concedes. “But history will vindicate me.”
Footsteps crunch through the leaves. All heads turn. Hyrule approaches. Slow. Measured. Solemn. He holds a ladle. The ladle is full. Steam curls up from it in lazy, malevolent spirals. The smell hits immediately, burnt, metallic, spiced wrong. Something deep in Twilight’s instincts screams poison, curse, final boss. Hyrule’s expression is unreadable. Calm. Focused. Like a man about to pull a lever in a dungeon. Twilight’s blood runs cold. “…Hyrule.” he says carefully. “You don’t have to do this.”
Hyrule stops a few feet away. “Yes.” he says quietly. “I do. We must purge the tyranny from your heart.”
Twilight swallows. “This isn’t you.”
Hyrule looks down at the ladle. “He tore up my demands.”
Warriors lifts a hand. “Hyrule.” he says, reverent. “Are you prepared.”
Hyrule nods once. “The soup is… ready.”
Wild makes a distressed noise and turns his face away, hands over his eyes. “I can’t watch. I can’t. Tell me when it’s over.”
Sky whispers, horrified, “Is this ethical?”
Legend answers flatly, “No.”
Warriors looks down at Twilight. “Unionise, and we will spare you.” he demands.
Twilight bares his teeth. “Never.”
Warriors’ face hardens. He nods once. “Hyrule.” he says softly. “Do it.”
Hyrule steps forward.
Twilight thrashes against the ropes. “Wait—WAIT—this is barbaric—!”
The ladle tilts. The soup hits his mouth. It is… Indescribable. Hot, but not comforting. Thick, but wrong. It coats his tongue like regret and immediately assaults every sense at once. Bitter. Metallic. Sweet in a way that should never exist. Something crunchy brushes his teeth and moves. Twilight makes a noise that should not come from a hero. “G—GODS—!”
Hyrule is relentless. He pours. Twilight chokes, coughs, sputters, eyes watering violently as the taste blooms into full horror. His stomach revolts. His soul attempts to leave his body.
Legend winces. “Oh that’s bad.”
Sky claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh Hylia—”
Wild curls into a ball, muffled. “I told you I couldn’t watch.”
Warriors watches with rapt attention. Finally, mercifully, the ladle empties. Hyrule steps back. The steam fades. Twilight hangs there, panting, gagging, eyes glassy. His voice is hoarse. Broken. “…What,” he croaks, “…was that.”
Hyrule considers. “Trial batch.”
Warriors leans down until his face fills Twilight’s vision. “Unionise.” he says again, quietly now.
Twilight is still bound to the log, chest heaving, eyes watering, dignity in shambles. His tongue feels like it has been cursed. His stomach is making choices he does not approve of. Somewhere deep inside him, his ancestors are judging him. He swallows hard. Warriors watches him with grave patience, hands clasped behind his back like this is a tribunal and not an ambush by lunatics.
“Unionise.” Warriors says.
Twilight’s eyes snap open. “No!”
Hyrule lifts the ladle again. Steam curls upward, thicker now, angrier. The soup has settled. This is worse.
“No!” Twilight says again, panic bleeding through his voice. “No no no, listen to me—”
Hyrule steps forward anyway. Twilight thrashes against the ropes. “WAIT—I DIDN’T MEAN IT—”
Legend winces. “Oh gods, it smells stronger.”
Sky is actively praying. “Hylia please let this end.”
Wild has turned fully away, hands over his ears now. “I CAN STILL HEAR IT.”
Warriors raises a hand. “Proceed.”
“NO!” Twilight shouts.
The ladle reaches his lips again. The second taste is worse. There is a depth to it now. A richness that implies intent. Whatever faint hope Twilight had that the first mouthful was an anomaly dies instantly. It’s thicker. Hotter, yet somehow also cold. Something gelatinous slides past his teeth. Twilight breaks.
“STOP—STOP—I’LL DO IT—!”
Hyrule freezes mid-pour.
Warriors’ eyes gleam. “Clarify.”
Twilight coughs, gagging, voice cracking. “I’LL UNIONISE—I’LL SUPPORT IT—I’LL BACK YOU—I’LL LOOK THE OTHER WAY—I’LL DO ENFORCEMENT FOR YOU—JUST—JUST NO MORE STEW—!”
The ladle halts. Steam curls. Silence crashes down like a dropped shield. Hyrule slowly lowers the ladle.
Sky gasps in relief. “Oh thank Hylia. Twilight, you did the right thing.”
Wild collapses forward onto the ground. “I thought we lost him.”
Legend wipes his brow. “That was… excessive.”
Warriors steps forward, reverent. “You unionise?” he says softly.
Twilight nods frantically, hair plastered to his forehead. “Yes. Yes. Whatever you want. Demands. Reforms. Meetings. Charters. I’ll sign in blood if you want—JUST KEEP THAT POT AWAY FROM ME.”
Warriors smiles. Not feral. Satisfied. “Untie him.” he says with a gracious wave of his hand.
Four kneels and starts working the knots. “For the record,” he says to Twilight, “this was very effective.”
Twilight groans as circulation returns to his wrists. “I hate all of you.”
Legend smirks. “Solidarity baby.”
Hyrule steps back, cradling the ladle like a sacred relic. “For the record,” he says mildly, “I had a third batch planned.”
Twilight turns green.
“No.” Warriors says quickly. “No need. He is one of us now.”
Hyrule looks… disappointed. Twilight is helped upright, barely steady on his feet. Sky supports him immediately, murmuring apologies. Wild offers him water with shaking hands.
Twilight takes it, gulps, then looks up at Warriors with haunted eyes. “You are a monster.” he rasps.
Warriors clasps his shoulder solemnly. “I am a leader.”
Twilight stares at the soup pot across the clearing.
“…Burn it.” he whispers, eyes glazed over.
Warriors follows his gaze. Then nods. “Yes.” he agrees. “After negotiations.”
Now? The revolution has teeth.
“It’s over.” Sky whispers urgently. “You’re safe. No more stew.”
Twilight makes a broken sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. His hands are shaking. His face is pale. His eyes are unfocused in the way of a man who has stared into an abyss and found it seasoned.
Warriors steps forward. He is radiant. Absolutely glowing with victory, dirt-streaked and wild-haired and smiling like a man who has just rewritten history.
He claps Twilight on the shoulder, firm, friendly. “Welcome to the revolution.”
Twilight flinches so hard Sky almost drops him. “Do not touch me.” Twilight croaks.
Warriors blinks. “Ah. Post-traumatic stew response. Understandable.”
Twilight slowly lifts his head. His eyes lock onto Warriors with pure, unfiltered horror. “You,” he says hoarsely, “are a psychopath.”
Legend snorts. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Warriors presses a hand to his chest, wounded. “That’s unfair.”
“You weaponised soup.” Twilight snaps. “You staged a coup. You tied me to a log.”
Warriors nods proudly. “All excellent tactics.”
Twilight’s voice cracks. “There was something alive in that ladle.”
Hyrule clears his throat. “Texturally adventurous.”
Twilight whirls on him. “You are banned from kitchens.”
Hyrule frowns. “I feel that’s retaliatory.”
Sky tightens his grip around Twilight protectively. “Please don’t yell. He’s still processing.”
Wild peeks out from behind a tree. “…Is he mad at us.”
Twilight points weakly at Warriors. “I will never forgive him.”
Warriors smiles brighter. “You don’t have to forgive me. You just have to stand with us.”
Twilight drags a hand down his face. “…I hate this camp.”
Legend claps him on the back. “Welcome to solidarity.”
Twilight groans. “If Time asks, I was kidnapped.”
Warriors nods immediately. “Heroically.”
Twilight leans heavily into Sky, exhausted beyond words.
“…If anyone ever lets you cook again,” he mutters faintly, “I will personally defect to the villains.”
Hyrule looks thoughtful. “Noted.”
Warriors turns toward camp, eyes alight, already planning, clapping his hands together. “Alright!” he announces. “Next step: demands.”
Twilight squeezes his eyes shut. The soup bubbles in the distance. Hungry. Waiting.
Hyrule steps forward. This is new. Not the stepping forward, he’s always done that, but the energy behind it. His shoulders are squared. His grip on the stack of leaves in his hands is firm. His eyes burn with the quiet, terrifying light of a man who has tasted failure and decided to respond with paperwork and chemical warfare. He clears his throat. Everyone turns. Even the soup seems to listen.
“Friends, Hylians, countrymen, we cannot stop here.” Hyrule says solemnly. Twilight, still half-supported by Sky and vibrating faintly with trauma, croaks, “We absolutely can.”
Hyrule does not look at him. “I have drafted additional demands. We stand in a place of power.” Hyrule continues, lifting the leaves. There are many leaves. Charcoal scratches cover them in dense, precise handwriting. Bullet points. Subclauses. One of them has a diagram.
Legend squints. “Is that… an appendix.”
“Yes.” Hyrule says. “For grievances.”
Warriors’ eyes shine. “Magnificent.”
Sky raises a timid hand. “Hyrule… maybe we should rest first?”
“No,” Hyrule says quietly. “Now we confront the evil one.”
Twilight groans. “Please don’t call him that.”
“The tyrant.” Hyrule corrects.
“That’s worse.”
Hyrule gestures sharply toward camp, toward the faint figure visible between the trees, the calm silhouette of Time moving among the chaos like it is all exactly as expected.
“He believes himself untouchable.” Hyrule says. “He tore up our demands.”
Warriors nods grimly. “A classic tyrant move.”
Legend folds his arms. “We knock him down a peg or two, I say.”
Twilight shakes his head in disbelief. Hyrule turns. And behind him, oh gods, is the pot. The stew. The weapon. It sits by the fire, still steaming faintly, thick surface shifting in ways stew should not shift. The ladle rests inside it like a threat. Hyrule places a hand on the rim of the pot.
“We go to him.” he says. “Together.”
Wild makes a small distressed noise. “Do we… do we need the soup.”
Warriors looks at the pot. Then at Time. Then back at the pot. “…It would be irresponsible not to bring leverage.”
Sky pales. “We’re not… we’re not feeding him that, are we?”
Hyrule considers. “Ideally no.”
Legend snorts. “Ideally.”
Twilight finally forces himself upright, shaky but determined, eyes haunted. “You are all insane.” he says hoarsely. “He will kill us.”
Warriors claps his shoulder again, more gently this time. “Relax. He’s a reasonable man.”
Twilight stares at him. “You are genuinely unwell.”
Hyrule lifts the pot with both hands. Steam curls upward, ominous and resolute. “I will carry it, my child of unholy destruction.” he says.
Wild immediately backs up. “I will walk behind the soup.”
Sky nods. “Yes. Behind is good.”
Legend sighs. “I can’t believe I’m about to confront Time with a biohazard.”
Warriors straightens, eyes blazing with revolutionary purpose. “Brothers.” he says. “We march.”
Twilight mutters, “I survived a ganon for this.”
They move. Together. Toward camp. Toward Time. Toward destiny. And as they emerge from the trees, leaves fluttering, stew steaming, morale weaponised, Time looks up. Takes them in. The dirt. The glint in their eyes. The pot. He blinks once. Slowly.
“…I knew.” he says mildly, “I shouldn’t have optimised morale.”
The stew bubbles. Hyrule steps forward. “We have demands.” he says.
Warriors grins. Sky breathes deeply. Legend cracks his knuckles. Twilight whispers, fervent and terrified, “Hylia forgive us.”
And Time, ancient and tired and suddenly very alert, smiles. “Hello, boys. Twilight.”
They stop a few paces from Time, Twilight visibly deflates. The stew hisses softly, like it knows it’s finally relevant. Time doesn’t move at first. He just looks at them, really looks. Dirt-smudged faces. Charcoal-stained fingers. Rope burns on Twilight’s wrists. Warriors standing a little too straight. Hyrule gripping his stack of leaves like sacred law. Then his gaze settles on Twilight.
“…I’m disappointed in you.” Time says quietly.
Twilight stiffens like he’s been struck. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Time steps closer, voice calm, controlled, devastating. “I trusted you. I asked you to keep things from collapsing, and instead…” His eyes flick to the rope marks. “…you allowed yourself to be dragged into this.”
Twilight swallows. “I—”
“You didn’t even come to me.” Time continues. “You let yourself be handled.”
The shame burns hot and immediate. Twilight looks down, fists clenched, shoulders tight. Warriors inhales sharply but Hyrule steps forward first. Deliberate. Unflinching.
“No.” Hyrule says.
Time turns his head slowly. “…Excuse me.”
Hyrule lifts the leaves. They rustle like dry fire. “You will not speak to a member of the brotherhood like that.” Hyrule says, voice steady, righteous. “Twilight upheld the will of the people until it became untenable.”
Legend mutters, “Is this going too far?” Twilight stares blankly at Legend, speaking emphatically, “Yes.”
Hyrule continues, eyes locked on Time. “He was coerced. He was overburdened. And when he objected, he was met with structural imbalance.”
Time blinks. Once. “…You tied him to a log.”
Hyrule nods. “Correct.”
Sky whispers, “Please stop saying that out loud, I feel like a bad guy.”
Hyrule doesn’t break eye contact. “And yet he resisted longer than anyone reasonably could.”
Twilight looks up, stunned. “…You think that?”
Hyrule turns just enough to meet his eyes. “You showed admirable resilience.”
Twilight’s eyes go glassy. Time exhales slowly. “This is absurd.”
“No.” Warriors says, stepping forward at last. “This is leadership.”
Now that gets Time’s full attention. The camp seems to hush around them, as if instinctively clearing space. Warriors stands tall, muddy boots, filthy tunic, eyes sharp and alive. Gone is the frantic edge. Gone is the breakdown. This is the Captain.
“You gave orders.” Warriors says evenly. “You didn’t listen.”
“I kept you alive.” Time replies coolly.
“You kept us compliant.”
Time smiles faintly. “Efficiency requires discipline.”
Warriors nods. “And discipline without consent becomes tyranny.”
A murmur ripples through the group. Legend folds his arms. Sky holds his breath. Twilight watches like a man seeing two storms collide. “You think this,” Time says, gesturing at the leaves, the stew, the vibe, “is governance?”
“I think,” Warriors says, “that you forgot we are not your soldiers.”
Time’s eyes harden. “I have buried armies.”
“And yet we are not an army.” Warriors snaps back. “We are allies.”
Silence. Legend exhales quietly, he whispers to Wild. “This is going further than I thought it would.” Wild nods, whispering back. “Yeah, what is actually happening.”
The stew bubbles louder.
“You optimise.” Warriors continues, voice rising with controlled fire. “You plan, you assign, you decide. But you don’t ask.”
Time steps closer. “Because hesitation means Hyrule’s sock doesn’t get washed, and tasks build.”
“And so does resentment!” Warriors shoots back. “You can’t command loyalty. You earn it.”
Time studies him for a long moment. “…You’re playing at revolution.” he says softly.
Warriors’ smile is sharp. “No. I’m negotiating.”
Hyrule lifts the ladle. Just a little. Steam curls upward. Time’s gaze flicks to it despite himself.
“…Is that the soup?” he asks.
“Yes.” Hyrule says serenely. “It represents our leverage.”
Twilight shudders visibly.
Sky whispers, “Please don’t make him taste it.”
Legend mutters, “I want him to taste it.”
Time sighs. Deep. Ancient. Tired. “This is what you’ve come to?” he says. “Threats.”
Warriors spreads his hands. “Demands.”
Time’s eyes meet his. Leader to leader.
“You will lose.” Time says.
“Maybe,” Warriors replies. “But you’ll have to listen first.”
Another pause. Then Time chuckles. Amused “…Very well.” he says. “Speak.”
Hyrule steps forward, papers at the ready. Warriors straightens. Twilight exhales. The stew simmers. The battle of wits begins. Warriors doesn’t even look at the leaves himself. He turns, sweeping one arm out with ceremonial gravity.
“Hyrule!” he says. “Read the demands.”
Hyrule steps forward like a cleric approaching an altar. He clears his throat. Unfolds the first leaf. Time folds his arms, expression neutral, already bracing. Hyrule begins.
“Demand One: All camp duties shall be assigned by rotation with consent, barring emergencies, divine intervention, or Wild touching something glowing.”
Wild raises a hand. “That’s fair.”
Time exhales slowly. “Continue.”
“Demand Two: No individual shall be assigned the same task more than two days consecutively unless they explicitly volunteer or are biologically immune to my sock.”
Legend nods sharply. “Good rule.”
Time’s eye twitches. Barely. Hyrule flips the leaf.
“Demand Three: Any stew produced must be approved by a minimum of two tasters not myself.”
Sky whispers, “Thank you.”
Twilight mutters, “Mercy.”
Hyrule pauses, then adds, “This is non-negotiable.”
Time blinks. “…I assumed.”
Warriors nods encouragingly. “Next.”
Hyrule flips another leaf, he reads this one with meaning and mild offence.
“Demand Four: The right to formally lodge complaints without said complaints being torn up, burned, mocked, or described as ‘inefficient.’”
Time’s gaze sharpens. “I never mocked—”
“You sighed.” Warriors says. “Aggressively. It felt hostile.”
Hyrule continues.
“Demand Five: Charcoal, leaves, and flat stones shall be provided on request for the drafting of grievances, addendums, diagrams, footnotes, and rebuttals.”
Legend squints. “Why are there footnotes.”
Hyrule doesn’t look at him. “Because references matter.”
Time looks suspicious now. “How many leaves are there.”
Hyrule flips another.
“Demand Six: Hyrule is to retain full creative autonomy in the kitchen every second Sunday, including, but not limited to, ingredient sourcing, experimental batches, and ‘textural exploration.’”
Twilight makes a strangled noise. “ABSOLUTELY NOT—”
Warriors lifts a finger. “We agreed to let him read.”
Time stares at Hyrule. “That’s… generous.”
Hyrule inclines his head.
“Demand Seven: Any criticism of said cooking must be delivered constructively, in writing, and not while gagging.”
Wild nods solemnly. “That’s just polite.”
Legend points. “That’s just for you.”
“Yes,” Hyrule says calmly.
Warriors beams.
“Demand Eight: Wild gets snacks.”
Wild grins.
Time’s mouth tightens.
“Demand Nine: Sky is entitled to hazard pay.”
Sky blinks. “I am?”
“Yes.” Hyrule says. “Emotional hazard.”
Sky looks like he might cry.
“Demand Ten: Latrine duty shall never again be framed as ‘character building.’”
Warriors wipes at his eye. “For the record, thank you.”
Hyrule flips another leaf.
“Demand Eleven: Any soup used as leverage is to be acknowledged as a war crime.”
Time looks at the pot. “…Agreed.”
Legend mutters, “Weak.”
Hyrule clears his throat again.
“Demand Twelve: Hyrule shall receive first right of reply in all disputes involving food, labour, or stew-adjacent trauma.”
Twilight groans. “You’re embedding yourself in the constitution.”
Hyrule shrugs. “Someone has to.”
Time exhales, long and slow.
“…Are there more?”
Hyrule flips the last leaf.
“Yes.”
Everyone leans in.
“Final Demand: Time must admit, publicly, that while his intentions were sound, his execution lacked empathy.”
Silence. The camp holds its breath. Time stares at the leaf. Then at Warriors. Then at the others.
“…That,” Time says quietly, “is the real demand.”
Warriors meets his gaze without flinching. “Yes.”
Another pause. The stew bubbles. Time closes his eyes. Just for a moment. “…You drive a hard bargain.” he says.
Hyrule tightens his grip on the ladle.
Warriors smiles, slow, victorious, terrifying. “Solidarity.” he says.
And somewhere in the forest, a bird wisely chooses to leave. Time sighs. Not a dramatic sigh. Not an angry one. A long, ancient, soul-deep sigh, the kind that sounds like it’s echoing off ruined temples and bad decisions made centuries ago. Then he sighs again. Louder. Longer.
“…Fine.” Time says.
The word lands like a dropped sword. Everyone freezes.
Warriors blinks. “Wait—”
“I agree.” Time continues, rubbing his temples. “Rotation with consent. Formal grievances. No more ‘character-building’ latrines. Soup oversight.” His eye flicks to the pot. “Extensive soup oversight.”
Hyrule lowers the ladle a fraction, satisfied.
Time opens his eyes and looks directly at them. “My execution,” he says carefully, “lacked empathy. I’m sorry.”
Warriors stiffens.
Time exhales. “…I should have spoken to you all first.”
Hyrule swallows. “…Thank you.”
Time nods once. It is done. Silence stretches. Then Warriors deflates. Not subtly.
“Oh.” he says.
Legend squints at him. “Oh?”
Warriors’ shoulders slump. “That’s it?”
Sky tilts his head. “Isn’t that… good?”
“Yes.” Warriors says mournfully. “But I was prepared for war.”
Hyrule blinks. “We won.”
“I know,” Warriors says. “I just thought there’d be… more speeches.”
Time gives him a flat look. “Absolutely not.”
Warriors sighs, dramatic and wounded. “So I don’t get to be the face of the revolution.”
“No.” Time says immediately.
Warriors looks genuinely crestfallen. “Not even a little.”
“Especially not a little.”
Warriors turns to Hyrule. “We don’t need the posters.”
Hyrule hesitates. “…I already made them.”
Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hylia, I posed and everything.”
“They’re very motivating.”
Legend frowns. “Please tell me they’re subtle.”
Hyrule unfolds one of the leaves. It is… not subtle. Charcoal sketch. Shockingly detailed. Warriors stands atop a heroic mound of symbolic debris, a broken ladle, a shovel, a sock, cape billowing dramatically despite the fact he has never owned a cape. His jaw is set. His eyes stare nobly into the middle distance.
Above him, in careful block letters.
SOLIDARITY IS BUILT BY THOSE WILLING TO DIG.
Below that, smaller text.
—Captain Warriors
Warriors stares at it. “…Hylia damn it all, it’s great. And wasted.”
Hyrule looks pleased. “Symbolism.”
Legend snorts. “You look like you’re about to sell us a course.”
Sky peers at it. “It’s very… inspiring.”
Time closes his eyes again. “Burn it.”
Hyrule sighs. “I’ll archive it.”
Warriors groans. “I didn’t even get to give a rousing final address.”
“You tied someone to a log and force-fed him stew.” Time says. “You’re done addressing.”
Twilight mutters, “Thank Hylia.”
Warriors straightens a little, trying to salvage dignity. “…So we’re just… going back to chores.”
“Yes.” Time says.
Warriors exhales. “With dignity.”
“With consent.” Time corrects.
Warriors nods solemnly. “Fine.”
He pauses. “…Can I keep the stick I drew the union with. It’s a historical relic.”
Time waves a hand. “Keep your relics.”
Warriors smiles, small and genuine this time. Hyrule carefully stacks his leaves. Sky relaxes. Legend uncrosses his arms. Twilight sits down heavily like a man released from war. The stew bubbles. Time eyes it.
“…We are never speaking of this again.”