“Fox, do you think there is a place beyond these fields?” the phantom had asked one day, a time long before Reapers had dominated the Golden Fields.

“I’ve spent my entire life here and haven’t found an edge,” the fox had answered, eyes glinting with something sharp and unreadable. “Why do you ask, Reaper? Bored of this conquest already?”

“Maybe,” the phantom had replied frankly, oblivious to Caliban’s tone. They had been somewhere in their own mind, watching the horizon as if in a trance.

“I looked into a dream,” they had continued, their voice filling with awe. “I saw a place beyond here, filled with curious beings and their creations. I told myself I would find that place, make my home there, and create, just like them.” The phantom had looked to the fox then. “Perhaps you could visit me, Caliban.”

The fox’s tail had flicked with distaste — towards what, the phantom had not known then.

“I’ll stay where I’m at, actually,” the fox had huffed. “Need to stay far away from you lot since you seem to be nothing but trouble.”

The phantom had smiled at this. Although sincere, on their face the expression had seemed grotesque. “Trouble, you say? A proper name for me, I think.”

"That's not what I-" Caliban had stopped himself. "Never mind."