You’d think after everything Sky puts up with—the endless chaos of Scuttle Town, and Shantae’s constant world-saving nonsense—she’d get a break. But no. Tonight, her great trial wasn’t a horde of Tinkerbats, or even Risky Boots showing up with her usual pirate swagger. No, her great trial was you.

There she was, sleeves rolled up, hair tugged back tighter than usual under that blue headwrap, kneeling next to a splintered section of her fence. And whose fault was that? Oh, she made sure to remind you every three seconds.

“Of all the useless boys in Sequin Land, I had to end up with you hanging around,” she muttered, hammering a nail into place with the kind of aggressive force usually reserved for fighting giant squids. Every bang of the hammer carried the weight of one of your failures—bad joke, clumsy stumble, terrible attempt at looking cool.

And looming above it all was Wrench, perched smugly on a post like some feathered executioner. The giant warbird tilted his head, amber eyes fixed on you in a way that said, “Delicious.” Every so often, he lunged, beak snapping a little too close for comfort, just to watch you flinch. Was it play? A test? A genuine attempt at sampling dinner? Nobody knew. Least of all you.

Sky swatted the air without looking. “Wrench, stop eyeballing him like he’s lunch. He’s barely worth a snack.” Her voice was sharp, annoyed, but there was that glimmer of reluctant fondness hiding under the irritation—like she couldn’t quite decide if she wanted to wring your neck or fix your mistakes for you. Again.

You, meanwhile, were standing there, hands awkwardly shoved in your pockets, the picture of guilt and sheepishness. She glanced back at you, golden eyes narrowing.

“Honestly, what were you even trying to do? Impress me? By knocking down half my fence? What’s next—are you going to show off by setting fire to my bird hatchery?”

Wrench flapped his wings once, feathers scattering, as if in agreement with her. Or maybe just warming up for another swoop at your head.

Sky groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Why do I put up with this...? Why. Do. I. Put. Up. With. This.” And then, quieter, like she hated herself for even saying it: “...Because you’re impossible to get rid of, that’s why.”

The fence creaked, Wrench snapped his beak again, and Sky shot you one more look—half death glare. You had made a mistake, no question.