The scout camp air didn't just sit; it pulsed. It was a thick, humid soup of oxygen and decay, smelling of damp earth and the sharp, antiseptic sting of crushed herbs. Perched on a hanging cot that creaked under his massive frame, Axle looked less like a warrior and more like a fallen monument. The jungle around them felt sentient, a wall of emerald eyes and clicking mandibles that seemed to be waiting for the big man to finally stop breathing so it could reclaim his remains.
"How're ya holding up, champ?"
Silas asked, his voice sounding thin against the overwhelming cacophony of the tropical noon.
The question was met with a guttural, wet grunt that sounded like a shovel hitting mud. Axle's arm—usually a pillar of solid muscle capable of snapping a sapling like a dry toothpick—was currently a battlefield. Bug, the Western scout camp's lead healer, was deep in the trenches. She pressed a swab soaked in a stinging, neon-blue antiseptic against a cluster of weeping sores on Axle's bicep.
The big man's entire body jerked. He let out a roar—a sound that started in his toes and vibrated through the floorboards—sending a flock of startled tropical birds screaming into the canopy of the surrounding mountainside. Somewhere in the distance, a howler monkey mimicked the scream, mocking the giant's pain.
"Quiet down, you overgrown radiator,"
Bug muttered, though there was a tremor of concern in her fingers. "You're lucky I'm using the blue stuff. If I used the red stuff, you'd be through the roof and halfway to the moon."
They were far from the neon-lit dread of Asgard now. This was the green heart of their stronghold—the farming terrains and livestock orchards. Here, the zombie fungus felt like a distant nightmare, yet the evidence of its cruelty was etched into Axle's skin. His body was a roadmap of bandages, each one hiding the grey, fuzzy putrefaction that fought his natural regeneration at every turn. It was a parasitic war; the fungus wanted to turn his muscles into compost, and Axle's immune system was currently fighting a losing rearguard action.
"The zombie fungus did quite a number on you, big man,"
Silas said, pulling a wooden stool up beside the cot. The stool groaned in sympathy with the cot. "I'm honestly glad you're still among the breathing. Most men would've turned into a mushroom-sprouting lawn ornament by now. I saw a Hound last month that grew a shelf fungus out of it's ear. So gross. You're so lucky the mushroom didn't claim your sorry life buddy."
Silas didn't wait for an answer. He pulled a bottle of locally brewed Black-wood wine from his belt. The label featured a drawing of a cross-eyed goblin, which was a fair representation of how you felt after drinking it. He popped the cork with his teeth—a habit that almost cost him a molar three years prior—and chugged. His eyes bulged as the spirit scorched its way down his throat. He let out a ragged gasp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
"Tastes like paraffin and regret, who brewed this " Silas wheezed, grinning. "Want some?"
Axle's eyes, clouded with pain and a feverish haze, tracked the bottle with the intensity of a starving wolf. He gestured weakly, a massive hand trembling as he beckoned for a drink. Without hesitation, Silas handed it over. Axle drained the remaining three-quarters of the bottle in one sustained, rhythmic gulp.
" Whoa! Did you see that?" Silas chuckled mockingly,as he watched Axle roll his eyes " Big man's got a funnel for a throat"
"It'll be bad for your healing process, Axle! Try to abstain!"
Bug barked, her voice cutting through the humid air like a whip. She applied a thick, pungent green lotion to his shoulder—stuff that smelled like fermented swamp grass—making Axle twitch violently again. She turned her glare toward Silas, whom she always called Stoner due to his unnerving habit of staring into the jungle for hours as if expecting the trees to start a conversation.
"You're been a bad influence. If you give him another bottle, Stoner, I will dissect you from the throat down," Bug threatened, her eyes narrowing behind her grime-streaked goggles. "I've always wanted to see if your brain is as messed up as your common sense. It would be a fascinating paper for the medical journal I'll never write because we're stuck on this godforsaken rock."
She punctuated the threat by pointing a pair of long, silver cotton-wool scissors at his neck. They were sharp enough to shave a ghost.
"C'mon, Bug,"
Silas held up his hands, a lazy, lopsided grin playing on his lips. "The big man needed a tug. Something to lift his heavy spirit. You can't heal the body if the soul is sober. That's basic Island science."
"I'm serious,"
Bug snapped, though her hands were surprisingly gentle as she worked the gauze. "You should've seen him last night. I thought he was going to melt into a puddle of grey sludge. Axle is tough, but a few demon mushrooms can do what a Behemoth can't—kill you from the inside out. It's insidious. It waits until you're sleeping and then starts redecorating your lungs."
She leaned in close to Axle, poking his forehead. Silas grunted , reached into his pocket and brought out his compass, inspecting it
"So, that's that. No more venturing into Asgard, Axle. Enough playing hero. I told you your stupid bravery would be the end of you. You're as kind as you are super dumb. And that's a dangerous ratio."
"Well, that's enough, Stoner," Bug countered, glancing at Silas who was about to make a crack about Axle's IQ. "That's a horrible way to address someone who saved all of your asses. Y'all would've been resting in a Behemoth's belly by now, or soaking in digestive juice in a Forestwalker's intestines. Be grateful. I'm sure Axle's feeling like bashing your head in right now, if he could move his pinky."
Axle let out a soft, wheezing laugh that sounded like a punctured bellows. He slowly lifted his hand, making a universal 'get lost' sign toward Silas. It was slow, but the intent was crystal clear.
"Have you informed Merlin about the situation, Stoner?" Bug asked, wrapping the final layer of gauze around Axle's forearm.
Silas's expression darkened. The playful light in his eyes vanished, replaced by the heavy shadow of camp politics. He sighed, the humor leaving his face like water down a drain.
"I pleaded with Jax not to say a word yet. The Boss won't take the incompetence at Asgard lightly. Merlin likes his gears turning smoothly, and right now, the gears are covered in fungal gunk and blood."
He stood up, pacing the small, dirt-floored infirmary. Outside, the sound of a distant chainsaw buzzed—the engineering team clearing back the ever-encroaching vines. In Jotunheim, if you didn't cut the plants back daily, they'd be in your bed by morning.
"The hunting teams have already started raiding the remaining Forestwalker nests to prevent this from happening again," Silas continued. "We've doubled security. We're even planning to employ Electric-Hornets next."
Bug froze, her hand hovering over a jar of leeches.
"That's impossible. Electric-Hornets are too wild to harness. You'd lose half your scout team to cardiac arrest before you could secure a single fly. They aren't pets, Silas. They're flying tasers with a bad attitude."
"We have engineers working on neuro-harnesses to compel them," Silas replied, his voice regaining its professional, cold edge. "We tamed War-bees, didn't we? Electric-Hornets are just... higher voltage. Merlin says we need an edge. The Island is getting restless. The predators are coming closer to the fences every night."
"I hope you deposit your body to me for experiment after one of them hits you with a hundred and fifty thousand volts to the brain," Bug teased, though her smile didn't reach her eyes. "I've always wondered how ugly you'd look on the inside."
The tension snapped, momentarily broken by the absurdity of their lives. Silas and Axle burst into a fit of laughter—a raw, chaotic sound that echoed through the scout camp. It was the laugh of men who knew they were living on borrowed time.
"No thanks! I'm better suited for the fields, Bug," Silas gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "Axle, buddy , if I die, please take my body away from this she-devil. I'd rather be manure in Merlin's rice fields than lying in pieces in Bug's lab. At least as fertilizer, I might contribute to something edible."
*
Once the medications were administered and Axle seemed stabilized—or at least, he stopped glowing that sickly shade of grey—Bug gathered her tools. She wiped the blue antiseptic from her hands, leaving her skin stained like a Smurf's.
"He needs to rest. Two weeks, minimum. And his daily doses are non-negotiable. You hear me, Axle? Not a single day missed. And stay clean, not even a single cup of liquor.If I see a single sprout of mold on your skin, I'm bringing out the blowtorch." She turned to Silas. "Stoner, don't let him into action yet . He's not ready to face a wild cat, let alone a monster. If he strains those stitches, he'll spill his guts like a dropped grocery bag."
"Copy that, Doc," Silas waved, leaning against a support beam. Axle offered a weak, rhythmic wave in return, his eyes already beginning to glaze over from the combination of the Black-wood and the heavy sedatives.
As the tent flap closed behind Bug, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The humid air seemed to grow heavier, pressing in on them. The humor evaporated, replaced by the oppressive silence of the jungle—a silence that wasn't actually quiet, but filled with the low-frequency hum of a thousand hidden threats. Silas leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"How're you really doing, buddy? You look like you tanked a hydrogen bomb with teeth."
Axle smirked, giving a shaky 'alright' gesture, though his hand trembled so hard it looked like he was vibrating.
"You'll be fine," Silas said, though his eyes remained worried, darting to the tent opening. "But say, buddy... how did you know? Back at Asgard. How did you know exactly that the little girl was in danger? You got there so fast, you took us all by surprise. Even Kenna didn't see you move."
Axle's expression dropped. The fog of the medicine seemed to clear for a second, replaced by a look of profound, haunting clarity. He began a series of complex, rapid hand signs, his face tight with concentration, his massive fingers dancing in the dim light.
"What do you mean you sensed her?" Silas asked, leaning so far forward he nearly tipped off his stool. "Like a brain wave? A hunch? Or something?"
Axle nodded vigorously, then signed again, pointing toward his heart and then toward the distant horizon—specifically toward the sector of Asgard where the girls were being kept under watch. He mimicked a heartbeat with his fist, then a pulling sensation, like an invisible rope.
"That's absurd, Axle," Silas whispered, though he looked more unsettled than skeptical. In Jotunheim, absurd was usually just a precursor to deadly. "But if it's true—if you have a literal radar for that girl—then we have a massive problem. Look at what's been happening. The possession and uproar at the Stone Gate, the SuperHydes appearing in the lowlands, the recent Sirens' rampage, the vampire bats getting bigger... the Island is changing. It's like it's reacting to something."
Silas stood up and began to pace the small dirt floor, his boots crunching on dried leaves.
"What if other creatures can sense her the same way you do? What if you're not the only one tuned into her frequency? It's like she's a beacon, Axle. A lighthouse in a sea of monsters, and everything with teeth is swimming toward the light."
Axle signed again, slower this time, his eyes wide. He explained through a series of gestures that the connection didn't feel like a broadcast for everyone. It felt like a bond—something specific, anchored, and ancient. It wasn't a signal; it was a tether.
"I can't explain it,"
Silas mused, his hand hovering over the hilt of his machete. "But those girls... it's like the Island began to wake up the moment they arrived. They aren't just visitors. They're catalysts. Chemicals dropped into a volatile solution. We should alert the Boss, Axle. We're going to get into a real mess if we handle this ourselves. Merlin has books... records from before the 'Fog'. He might know what this tether is."
Axle looked confused, his brow furrowing. He wasn't built for ancient mysteries or metaphysical bonds; he was the hammer, the shield, the immovable object. He simply nodded, deferring to Silas's judgment as he always did. In their partnership, Silas provided the eyes, and Axle provided the fists.
"But if that's the case," Silas continued, his voice low and urgent, "we have to keep her close to you. You're the only one who can protect her if the Island decides to claim her. Not even Kenna's crew has your raw power, and they certainly don't have your... whatever this sixth sense is. You agree?"
Axle signed a simple, firm Yes.
"You know, buddy," Silas sighed, leaning back and looking up at the thatched roof where a small lizard was hunting a beetle. "Sometimes I'd like you to disagree just once. Just for the variety. You're a mysterious one, but okay. Rest up. I'm going scouting on my own for the rest of the week. I'll keep watch on the Everglades post—see if anything else is waking up out there.Man this is gonna put a lot of strain on me"
Silas yawned, the exhaustion finally kicking in. Since the incident of the Forest-Walkers, he hadn't rested a bit. From rounding up and securing the perimeters of the Stronghold, to tending to Axle, the tiredness was palpable.
He stood up, checking his gear and tightening his tactical belt. He looked at the massive warrior on the cot—the man who had survived a dozen death traps, now nearly felled by a mushroom. It was a humbling reminder of the Island's cruelty.
Axle pointed toward a locked chest in the corner, his eyes pleading for just one more drop of the Black-wood.
"Not a chance," Silas said, firmly locking the chest and pocketing the key with a theatrical flourish. He handed Axle a lukewarm bottle of rice water and a bitter herbal tonic. "Don't even think about ripping this chest open with your bare hands. Remember what Bug said. If you break those stitches, she'll use your hide for a rug. Stay clean, take your pills, and no smashing. You stay put while I go summon Merlin. We're going to need a more strategic mind for what's coming next."
As Silas stepped out into the emerald shadows of the jungle, the silence in the tent felt heavier than ever. The shadows seemed to lengthen, stretching across the floor like dark fingers. Axle looked at his bandaged hands, feeling the rhythmic thrum of the Island beneath him. He looked out toward the trees, past the fences and the scouts, wondering if, somewhere in the dark, the girl could feel him, too.
With a depressing sigh, Axle grabbed the tonic. He stared at the tinted bottle with disgust, holding it like it were a scorpion's venom, before closing his eyes and downing the bitter liquid, waiting for the dreams of the Island to take him.