When Faustite returned to the room in his ruined, commandeered house, he stopped in the turret window and frowned.

His cactus was dead. What was once a delightful barrel of needles that none may touch was now a shriveled, brown lump in a sea of rocks. Taking hold of the pot. Faustite shook it, as if he could rouse the thing back into being lush and green and full of spite. His efforts dislodged a few rocks, then finally, the cactus that was no longer anchored by its desiccated roots.

The cactus corpse rolled out of the pot, bounced off the sill, and flopped to the ground next to his metal heels. Faustite crouched, set the pot down, and scooped up the dead companion in both hands, heedless of the few dried needles that remained.

It was most certainly, indisputably dead. His frown deepened.

He knew Albite had started taking care of it, being theirs now. He also knew that Albite had conscripted his own subordinate — Fulgurite — who he then had watering all the plants in Albite's possession. Faustite had seen Fulgurite watering this particular plant. He'd seen the bag of soil, sitting on a ledge, declaring its cactus specialty. All the signs pointed to the thing being well kept, and he'd even watched buds spring up on it during the summer. So how did it die so suddenly?

As he turned the cactus in his hands, its desiccated remains collapsed into a pile of dust. No different than a youma. Wrinkling his nose, Faustite sniffed at some of the debris, but it did not smell like youma ash — this wasn't some impostor that snuck into their home.

Faustite ground his teeth. He couldn't make sense of how he felt beyond tired, bitter, and betrayed. There was more to it, he was certain, obfuscated by his need to rectify this wrong with a starseed or two. If he did, then he would know how he felt. If he did, then he might piece together what happened or who did it. Few had access to that space beyond his team, and he was unwilling to believe that anyone on his team would sabotage the cactus. If anything, one of the cats might have used the cactus pot for a litterbox, but he was certain that Haymitch would accidentally hurt himself and abandon his efforts, and Tama was not so bold as to risk self-injury by cactus just to get back at Faustite. He was sure Albite wouldn't let Fulgurite neglect the garden or the cactus, no matter how sour the man looked.

His head throbbed steadily, like he'd dehydrated himself again by drinking too much black tea. His mouth felt parched, but he knew he'd only had red tea beyond his cup of black in the morning. Given his cravings, he knew the source; it would not abate until he nosed up a couple starseeds. Straightening, Faustite did all he could for the empty pot — he dug a packet of seeds out from Albite's growing collection and planted a pair inside.

In the weeks that followed, however, he would find that nothing sprouted.