Without a moon above for reference, Shiro found it difficult to judge how much time had passed. Everything looked the same, almost to an eerie degree. Same darkness, same stars, same sleeping teammates. The only way he could tell time was moving at all was by the dwindling pile of firewood he and Pidge had collected earlier. So far, he had thrown in seven logs, which he estimated to be roughly equivalent to four hours.

But they were on an alien planet, so who knew? Maybe campfires worked differently here. Maybe it had only been a matter of minutes.

Shiro yawned, the action both conveniently and frustratingly silent, before looking down at the boy tucked into his side. Keith had fallen asleep almost instantly, about six logs ago, and so far he looked to be sleeping peacefully, although his head had fallen from Shiro's shoulder and now rested on his chest. Shiro had debated shifting it back, but ultimately dismissed the idea, deciding that the risk of a crick was worth a peaceful, uninterrupted rest. He hoped Keith would agree.

A particularly cold wind raked through the campsite, and Shiro clutched Keith closer, trying to gently rub the goosebumps on the kid's upper arm away. Strained neck or no, having his arms bound so tightly behind him for hours on end was going to garner its fair share of aches and pains. Maybe tomorrow Shiro could convince him to be on the receiving end of a circulation-boosting massage, if such a thing could even be managed around the cords winding from wrist to elbow.

But the far more urgent concern was Hunk. The cuts alone demanded immediate and sophisticated medical attention and the many burns dotting his skin only increased the severity. Not to mention an alien jungle wasn't exactly a sterile environment and Shiro shuddered to think what havoc an infection would wreak on Hunk's fragile body.

He had just decided to use this time to brainstorm ways to prevent such a horrific situation when Keith practically flung himself from his arms with a muddled but harsh "Don't touch me!" He scrambled away on his knees, chest heaving with every breath, eyes blown wide.

Shiro started at the unexpected noise, but his alarm quickly melted into concern. He sat forward, once more lamenting his newfound muteness, because he had seen Keith like this before, years ago, and touching him was risky - for the both of them.

But Keith wasn't calming down on his own, like he'd eventually learned to do. No, his breathing was becoming more ragged as his arms flexed behind him, back hunched in the effort. Shiro needed to do something to ground him, to remove him from whatever nightmare he was reliving and reorient him to the here and now.

Taking a deep breath, the man edged closer, his movements slow and careful. The slightest error could push Keith into a full-blown panic attack and Shiro wouldn't forgive himself if he hurt the kid further.

Keith's head popped up at the sound of his approach, dark eyes pained and sharp and hardened. "It's okay," he rasped, although Shiro wasn't sure who he was trying to reassure. "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay."

Despite this assertion, his arms continued their fight with their bonds; Shiro could see the lean muscles straining in the fire light. "I'm sorry," Keith continued between harsh gasps, eyes turning away in embarrassment. "It's just- the way you were h-holding me- too s-sim-similar- too similar to the way h-he-" He hunched over again as a particularly strong spasm cramped his lungs, leaving him struggling for breath.

Shiro's stomach twisted, because not only was Keith apologizing for the trauma he suffered while in the foster system, but it was Shiro who had inadvertently triggered it. Something hard settled in his throat, so large and so solid that Shiro doubted he would've been able to speak past it anyway.

Abandoned by the words he so heavily relied on, Shiro acted on instinct and placed his flesh hand on Keith's shoulder. He kept the touch light, unconfining, and prayed that it didn't trigger anything worse.

Keith's whole body flinched with such violence that it almost resembled a seizure. But then he was leaning into the touch like a seedling to sunlight, and Shiro could finally breathe again.

"I'm okay," he repeated, despite his wide-blown eyes and continued shuddery gasps. Still, Shiro thought, at least this time his voice sounded less like a croak. The muted Paladin rubbed small circles on his shoulder with his fingertips in response. He had known for a while about Keith's...less forgiving experiences in the system, but even with him, Keith was doggedly tight lipped with the details. All he knew, really, is that the abuse happened. And despite Keith's insistence to the contrary, Shiro should've realized that it still haunted him.

Without Shiro to gently prod him, however, there was little chance that Keith would open up now. And without his voice, Shiro wasn't exactly able to prod. All he could do was keep rubbing tiny circles into Keith's shoulder and promise himself he would address the problem as soon as this disastrous mission was over.

But as easily as Keith was pegged throughout his life, from the more innocent label of "Emo Kid" to the destructive "problem child," Shiro knew he was actually full of surprises. Like when, instead of burrowing into the reigning silence, he broke it.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, voice thick with evaporating adrenaline and…shame? "It's been a long time since I…since something like this has happened, or I wouldn't've taken you up on your offer in the first place. I…I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Shiro felt his heart shatter just a little bit more, face crumpling. Keith had been flung into a broken system as a child, thrown this way and that, made to suffer and endure and feel less than human. He didn't think he knew anyone who had a rougher childhood than Keith, never mind anyone so bighearted and good. And now he was feeling ashamed because…what exactly? His mind likened the present to a similar, dangerous past? What injury could he have possibly inflicted on Shiro that wouldn't look like a papercut in comparison?

But Keith still wasn't looking at him, couldn't see his expression or read his lips, and he was terrified to encroach any farther into Keith's personal space, at least while he could still feel the tension in his muscles under his hand. But then, to his overwhelming relief, Keith was flicking his eyes to Shiro's face, as if just remembering his inability to answer.

In that moment, there were a lot of things Shiro wanted to say. I'm sorry was definitely at the top, although not just for prompting his flashback. He was sorry for leaving him to go to Kerberos, for abandoning his friend and his brother, who had already gone through way too much in his short life. He was sorry that Keith had to go through any of it in the first place, and that he was made to feel shitty about the damage that had been wrought. He was sorry for convincing himself that Keith was more or less over his past, that by some miracle his year away had translated into a year of healing for the younger boy, much less a year without more damage and relapse into isolation and self-punishment and repression. He was sorry that he'd been acting to save himself instead of to help Keith, to spare himself the pain of truth and guilt, to value convenience over Keith's wellbeing. And he was sorry that he'd come back to Keith as a companion but not his brother, that he'd broken his promise and had given up on the boy, even if through default.

But this damn curse, because it wasn't a "challenge" or a "sacrifice," it was a fucking theft, prevented him from saying any of that, from saying anything at all.

Keith's eyes widened even further in alarm, his own troubles at least momentarily forgotten. He edged forward, uncertain and afraid and clearly, painfully worried, but before another apology could pass his lips, Shiro threw all caution to the wind. Without a word, he swept the younger man into his arms, as if he could squeeze all of his love and pleas for forgiveness into the small frame.

For a horrible, blood curdling moment, Shiro regretted his decision as he felt Keith tense even further. But before his panic could appropriately swell, Keith was melting into the embrace, his mind likely seeing the miles of difference between this hold and the dangerous ones in his past.

And if Shiro cried, he knew Keith couldn't hear it.

OoO

Pidge was the first to wake up, not because she was any sort of morning person but rather because Lance had sleep-kneed her in the chest. Apparently, once the air is forcibly launched from your lungs, sleep is no longer really an option.

At least it was morning, if barely. The planet's sun – which was red, like in Superman, so that was kind of cool – was just over the crest of the horizon, if still mostly blocked by trees. Everything was covered in a light, frosted dew, refreshing for now but promised thick humidity later.

She stretched for a moment, rotating her shoulders and cracking her back and, after taking a moment to look Hunk over (no bleed through, fairly steady pulse, smooth breathing), rose to her feet. Their sudden and alarming discovery of Hunk had derailed their earlier conversation, but Pidge hadn't forgotten about their lack of footwear. Plus, having a problem to fix sounded a hell of a lot better than sitting in silence.

She made brief eye contact with Shiro from across the ash pile that had once been their fire, lifted her foot, and pointed meaningfully at its sole. Shiro's initial confusion was clear, but eventually his furrowed brows smoothed and he nodded in permission, eyes effortlessly conveying what his mouth could not. Be careful. Stay close.

What a freaking space dad, Pidge snorted to herself as she gave a sloppy salute and a skillful eyeroll. She got a snort in return that she was pretty sure would've sounded amused if it had made any sound at all. But it didn't bother her, not Shiro's muteness, not her deafness, not getting stuck on this hellhole of a planet, not any of it, because she was a Paladin of Voltron and not some little kid from Arizona. And Paladins of Voltron weren't so easily shaken.

And so, as a Paladin of Voltron, she set off from their makeshift campsite, scanning the ground for anything that could lend itself to shoe creation. She quickly ruled out the thick vines or leaves that littered the area – anything so cloth-like would be destroyed by the jungle floor in minutes. When she stumbled across some grayish reed-like grass, she briefly considered attempting to weave a shoe, but dismissed the idea a moment later. Even woven, she doubted it would hold up to the harsh terrain. She also didn't know how to weave, which would probably prove problematic.

Being so focused on the forest floor, Pidge startled a bit when something wet and heavy plopped onto her head and nestled into her hair. Her hand reached back instinctively, remembering the last time a bird had taken a shit in her hair when she was nine and it had felt exactly like this. Matt had nearly pissed himself laughing. She had headbutted him, poop and all, in sweet retaliation.

Not spying any possible suspects in the branches above her, she turned her attention to the hand. The substance scooped onto her fingers didn't look like any kind of bird poop she'd ever seen …not that she'd seen very much. There were the olive droppings left by Charlie, her uncle's fourteen-year-old parrot. And there were the splatters of white and brown that decorated some windshields before their owners had the time to clean it off. And the owl pellet she picked apart in…sixth grade science?

In any case, this stuff seemed different, alien world or not. It was viscous and sticky, clear but tinted purple in a way that reminded Pidge of lavender hand soap. She took a careful whiff and immediately gagged. Nope, she confirmed as she held the offending goop at arm's length, blinking tears from her eyes. As suspected, it did not smell like crap, but it was still definitely bad. Like a chunk of ham was soaked in milk and left out in the sun for three weeks. And then sprayed by a skunk. Thrice.

But the quick movement of flinging her hand away proved to be more consequential than Pidge expected. In an instant, the goo hardened, creating a violet shell over the pads of her index and ring fingers. In another context, Pidge would've found that nearly instantaneous reaction fascinating. But right now, it didn't strike her as a scientific curiosity; no, it struck her as a solidified stink bomb that was now attached to her body. And that sucked.

Releasing a groan she could not hear, Pidge brought her hand closer once again. Despite her awareness of the stench heightening her senses, the smell was still manageable if she didn't breathe it in too directly.

She discovered rather quickly that the plastic-like casing was not going to simply break off; try as she might to separate her fingers, it was simply not going to happen. But the intense wiggling did create a tiny gap between the skin on the outer-side of her index finger and the coating. Gleefully wedging her sizeable nails into the space – how do ya like my nails now, Allura! – it only took a bit of effort for the shell to separate with a small, satisfying pop!

The released wave of demonic fumes, however, tempered the victory somewhat. Eyes burning, she hastily dropped the offending sheet, more than ready to resume her quest. But then she felt it bounce off her foot, triggering both the worst and best idea she'd had in a while.

Because this place seemed to be a lot like the Amazon back on Earth. And what did the ancient Amazons do for footwear?

They dipped their feet in rubber.

Pidge groaned again. Aw, hell.

OoO

Lance woke up to a firm tapping on his shoulder. He groaned, eyes squeezing shut, because he had just gotten comfortable and surely he'd be forgiven for being a few minutes late to breakfast.

But then he felt the damp moss beneath his cheek and the scratchy cloth wrapped around his body and the dewy grass poking his toes and it was wrong wrong wrong because none of it fit with his room in the Castle of Lions.

He groaned loudly when he remembered. The tapping turned to full-blown shaking.

"These hands better belong to Shiro," Lance growled sleepily into the dirt. "Otherwise I'd much prefer to be asleep when the disembodied Hand Monster eats my face off."

The shaking, mercifully, stopped. He heard shifting beside him – silent laughter? – before the same hand clapped him on the shoulder not currently burrowed in the soil. And despite everything, the nonverbal praise had Lance feeling lighter.

"Come on, Lance, get up," Keith called from a little ways over, somewhere to his left. "Today's not gonna be easy and we'll all need to keep hydrated to get through it. Shiro found some…water."

The pause wasn't long, but it still promised nothing good. Lance, now sitting up, narrowed his eyes in the direction of Keith's voice. "Lemme guess: it's super gross."

"What?" Keith replied, sounding startled. "No, Shiro used his Galra hand to boil it, so it should be clean enough."

Lance frowned, unable to decide if Keith was purposefully evading his question or just honestly misinterpreting it. "That's not what I meant." A small, cylindrical object about the size of one of his skin care bottles – his second favorite face moisturizer that smelled like mint and honey, to be exact - was placed in his hand. Unlike the familiar bottle, however it felt bumpy and weirdly light…some kind of hollowed plant maybe? "On a scale of Hunk's hot chocolate to nunvil, how bad is it?"

A pause.

"I'd take it like a shot if I were you."

Lance's frown deepened as unseeing eyes glared at the offending object in his hand. "That's not reassuring," he sighed at last, feeling resentment mount within him. This sucked. He didn't want to drink the stupid jungle water. Or be in this stupid jungle to begin with. And above all, he didn't want to be fumbling around here like a freaking idiot because the Onomatopoeia-whatever-assholes got their jollies by taking his sight away. He never really signed up to be a Paladin in the first place, but if he had, he still wouldn't have signed up for this.

But then those eyes were lighting up, because if there was one thing that would never fail to brighten his mood, it was a chance to make fun of the Red Paladin. "Oh my God, Keith, you don't have any hands!" he exclaimed, grinning. "Shiro had to hold your glass for you, didn't he?" Just the mental picture sent his shoulders shaking with mirth. He moaned dramatically, feigning distress, although the giggles peppered throughout dampened the effect somewhat. "Oh man, of all the times to go blind!"

But apparently Shiro (or the disembodied Hand Monster) hadn't yet moved away, as Lance learned when the back of a hand cuffed the back of his head. It wasn't anything damaging – obviously - but it still triggered a decent, if momentary, pang.

"Ouch, Shiro, I was just kidding around!" Lance most certainly did not whine, lifting his free hand to guard his head from any additional attacks. "Jeez, who whudda thought going mute would make you so mean?"

But despite his dramatics, Lance's anxiety had begun to fester. Given Shiro's involuntary silence and Lance's inability to see, the younger boy had no idea how disappointed (i.e. adultese for angry) his leader was. The hit hadn't been hard, but even a raging Shiro wouldn't aim to actually hurt one of his team. Lance doubted he would have swatted him at all, except that the only way he could communicate to Lance was through touch.

Lance's grip tightened around the bottle-ish container. He had only been teasing, like he and Keith always did. Well, he teased Keith, at least. Keith's retorts were usually more like barks - or silent, like "accidently" tripping him during training.

Lance worried his bottom lip in the silence. He hadn't meant anything by it, but could the comment have actually gone too far? Keith was clearly so independent and self-sufficient that such a jab should've only caused some light embarrassment, and Lance hadn't even thought it would stir up that much. But what if he had accidently struck some kind of previously hidden sore spot? What if Keith was actually hurt? What if-

"Stop that," Keith snapped, suddenly sounding a lot closer, as if he were leaning over Lance's face. "You've already got a big mouth and chewing your lip off will only make it bigger."

Relief flooded through Lance, although he sucked in an offended gasp for appearance's sake. After all, he had an image to maintain. "You're just jealous of my effortless charm, Mullet!" He huffed in what was hopefully the right direction. Then he shot an expectant look to his right, where he estimated Shiro (or, again, the Hand Monster, because nothing had really been confirmed on that front), pointing an accusatory finger at (fingers crossed) Keith. "And where exactly is his clap upside the head, oh wise, impartial Leader?"

Keith (who Lance suspected had walked away at this point) was apparently not in the mood to narrate, so all he got in response was a gentle squeeze of his bicep, but Lance thought he could sense a smile from the man. He hoped he wasn't just imagining it. Then the sound of Shiro raising, leaves rustling in his wake, before a finger tapped pointedly on his water "glass."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled affectionately, waving the hand away. "Hydration is important, I get it. Man, I bet you were a boy scout all the way through high school."

Keith snorted, but Lance was distracted by a warm hand descending on his head, praying that his startled flinch went unnoticed. He loved physical affection, just as much as he liked laughter and encouragement and even, on occasion, comfortable silences. But having the touches come out of nowhere made him uneasy. Shiro ruffled his hair once, probably only worsening the epic case of bedhead he was sure to already be sporting, and padded away.

Lance eyed (out of habit he supposed) the water in his hand, debating the best way of going about it. Taking a precautionary sniff or sip could help lessen his fears, although if the taste was actually as bad as he expected that would only make things worse. His throat urged him to just get on with it, suddenly having no qualms about alerting Lance to his incredible thirst.

So he decided to take both Keith's and his throat's advice, bringing the maybe-plant to his lips and tipping it back in one fell swoop.

That was when Lance learned why shots were so small. Any bigger than a roll of quarters and the contents couldn't be swallowed in one go, turning what was supposed to be a swift glass-to-throat transfer into something between chugging and drowning with far, far too much time on the tongue.

And you did not what this stuff anywhere near your tongue, Lance decided. It was thicker and grainier than water had any right to be, tasting somewhere between iron-saturated well water and old pickle juice. It was warm too, almost hot, which Lance supposed was just the cherry on top of this shit sundae.

The Blue Paladin's eyes teared as he sputtered when the flood finally ended, gagging and wiping any wayward droplets from his mouth with the back of his hand. God, now he realized it stunk too! Grimacing, Lance made sure to flick the moisture away before he could find out any more.

Having somewhat recovered, Lance could now feel someone patting his back, hard claps between his shoulder blades that were probably doing more to reassure him than anything directly helpful. Given how Hunk was still no doubt out of commission and Keith was incapable due to his sacrifice, Lance determined that it must be Shiro again. The hands were way too broad to belong to Pidge.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Lance reassured, reaching out an arm to pat Shiro's shoulder. Well, seeing how he was blind and still very much choking, it was honestly more like a flail, but still.

Setting the empty vessel in his lap, Lance fumbled to find Hunk. Guilt and worry were suddenly warring in his stomach; here he had been making jokes while who knew what condition his best friend was in?

Despite falling asleep with his back up against his friend's side, it took a minute of blind fumbling for his fingertips to locate the other boy, clutching what Lance guessed to be his coarse shirt. He must have shimmied away in his sleep, and the thought delivered a fresh pang of guilt to his already burdened conscious. What if Hunk had woken up in the middle of the night, alone and disoriented and in pain?

Lance heard Keith returning, perhaps summoned by another one of Shiro's silent signals. There was a small thunk in front of him and a little to his left, so that the three younger boys made a small triangle with their positions. "Hunk's doing okay," Keith murmured, and Lance thought he could make out a softness unrelated to his quiet tone.

Lance's face crumpled despite the relief washing over him. Hunk was okay, thank God, but he could have just as easily been dead. As far as Lance had known, he could have been sitting there cracking jokes, pouting over stinky water, next to the corpse of his best friend because he hadn't spared a moment to ask about him.

To his alarm and utter shame, Lance felt his eyes begin to sting, lips already trembling. He blinked rapidly, sniffling, desperate to keep the tears at bay. This wasn't about him, couldn't by any stretch be about him, and he wasn't about to selfishly make himself the center of attention - not now, when Hunk was so badly injured.

Not like you always do, a quiet, cruel voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Lance gulped, trying to banish that thought back to whatever dark corner it had come from. Truth or not, it was not helping him in the fight against a very public meltdown, and avoiding that was priority number one.

Lance twisted toward his best friend and shifted a bit closer, so that he could more easily reach Hunk's head to card his fingers through his hair. A heavy arm fell across his shoulders, drawing him sideways to his left and into a broad chest. Lance hiccupped, knowing it was selfish but unable to turn away from the comfort Shiro provided.

"Bleed-through?" he managed to ask, taking deep breaths despite their shudders.

Keith was quiet for a moment, presumably checking the best he was able. "Not that I can see," he said at last. "Shiro looked him over about an hour ago, and there wasn't much then, not nearly enough to make it through his shirt. Given the extent of his injuries, that's a good sign."

The arm around his shoulder squeezed for a second in reassurance.

"Has he woken up?" Lance asked, and he could hear the some of the reclaimed steadiness in his voice. Thank God, his pride might just be able to limp out of this yet.

"Just long enough to drink some water," Keith answered. "He wasn't any happier about it, though. Personally, I think I'd prefer spoiled milk."

Lance's lips twitched at that, not because the comment was particularly funny, but because Keith was trying to cheer him up. "Or even that space lemonade Shiro tried to make, when he used salt instead of sugar?"

Keith actually laughed at that, and the sound brightened Lance's mood even more. Shiro, meanwhile, was tilting away from him, as if the verbal jab had somehow turned physical. Which it did, in a way, because he was suddenly using his free hand to ruthlessly dig a finger into Lance's vulnerable side.

"Hey!" Lance yelped, attempting to squirm away from the familiar tickle-pain combo that brought memories of middle school "tazerings" to the surface of his mind. Shiro's arm, still wrapped around his shoulders, however, locked him mercilessly in place. "I'm unarmed! This is abuse! I-" His objections were stopped short as he laughed loudly, out of both joy and because he was honestly ticklish, a fact he had not known Shiro was privy to.

And despite Pidge having been the only one whose hearing had been taken, his cries nevertheless fell on deaf ears.

Still, Lance decided as he tried (and failed) to coordinate his arms into a counterattack, he couldn't say he minded.

OoO

After the nastiest round of trial and error she had ever conducted (and this was very much including the time Matt volunteered her for one of their mother's manure analyses), Pidge finally had an acceptable product.

There had been two key hurdles: first, the shoe needed to be multiuse, which included easy removal. Otherwise their feet would, following the accumulation of inevitable sweat, grow all sorts of gross fungi and bacteria – and that was the freaking last thing they needed. But that had meant the simplest solution of just slathering their feet with goo was out.

The second requirement was for it to have at least some degree of flexibility. As Pidge had experienced years ago during her family's one and only ski trip, clomping around in rigid metal boots was not only annoying but also burdensome and exhausting. Having her feet limited like that had been trying enough at a ski lodge; Pidge had absolutely no desire to try it in an alien jungle.

It took some time, but eventually she'd succeeded. It was basic in design – just two halves connected with twine-like reeds – but Pidge liked to think that added to its charm. Plus, the way the small gap that circled the arch of her foot like a rubber band had resolved both key issues was pretty clever and making sure the four holes for the reeds (one on each side of each piece, right on the edge) hadn't filled during the drying process had taken some patience. So she was pretty sure she had earned a good pat on the back.

After that she simply had to knock down another couple goo-fruits (grapefruit looking things that, when cracked, freaking oozed the stuff) collect a few more reeds, and make her way back to camp. As she walked, she evaluated the "shoe" on her left foot (she'd decided to just wait and make its mate with the others). Yeah, it was a little clunky and yeah, the smell wafted up with every step, but all in all it was working. And she could live with that.

She arrived back at camp to the sight of…well, she wasn't exactly sure what. By the looks of it, Shiro was gleefully tickle and/or stabbing Lance in the side, who Pidge guessed to be laughing, although his squirming prevented an accurate read. Keith, meanwhile, silently watched on not a foot away, confusion and amusement warring openly on his face. As she approached, he turned the odd expression toward her, and Pidge was struck by how seldom Keith's face looked that unguarded. The thought was unnerving, and she shook it away. There'd be time to dwell on that after they were all safe and sound in the Castle.

"Cool, I didn't know we could torture Lance now!" she offered cheerfully, relishing in the rarity of her being the one to loom above the others.

Shiro jumped in response, her arrival clearly catching him by surprise, and Lance took the opportunity for all it was worth. He scooted from underneath Shiro's momentarily lax arm - and would have dived straight into Pidge's shins if she hadn't stumbled out of the way just in time. As it was, he ended up sitting right beside her, fingers curling unnecessarily into the hem of her skirt like a shy child might with his mother.

"Pidge!" he panted, clearly winded from his recent torment and escape. "Thank God you're here! I don't know what I would have- holy cheese, what stinks?"

"That would be our footwear," she answered blandly, extending her covered foot slightly so that the other two paladins could get a better look.

Keith and Shiro leaned over to inspect her creation in unison, both clearly intrigued, before tilting away just as fast. Shiro's nose was scrunched in displeasure while Keith had been launched into a coughing fit, eyes watering.

"Freaking great!" Lance moaned, shifting away as the smell no doubt assaulted his nostrils. "Does anything on this planet not stink?"

AN: Sorry for the late(ish) update! My life has been busy lately, and, despite having unusually high motivation over the weekend, I was separated from my laptop.
A big thank you to all who reviewed! I felt so inspired to write/finish this chapter, and the reviews I got were a HUGE reason for that. I'd love to see some responses to this chapter as well, particularly because it helps me write, which in turn gets the story out there quicker. Everyone wins!
On that note, I actually have a request from all of you. I forgot to mention it last time, but part of the reason I sat on this fic for so long is that I was afraid it would seem...ableist, to be frank. What I hope to portray is how people without these particular qualities (muteness, deafness, blindness...no arms?) would respond to their sudden appearance, in a very stressful and trying environment, no less. But if it comes off as insulting or ignorant, (1) I'm super sorry and (2) I'd really appreciate a heads up and perhaps some suggestions so that I can remedy it.
With all that said, I hope you enjoyed! If you have the time, please post a quick review - your favorite scene, piece of dialogue, or just something that popped out would be incredibly helpful! Criticism is also welcome!