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    There had been no doubt about it. His father had known he wasn’t right since the day of his birth. The old doctor had been lucky enough to confirm that suspicion when Ludwig was only three, dressed in a pale blue overcoat his mother would have adored, long, black hair tied into a tight, headache-inducing braid. Archimedes had never been a normal daemon, the silent vermin with the red eyes that followed him into each of his forms. Always birds, always winged, always pulling Ludwig as far away from his father as his metaphorical leash would allow.

    One day he became a dove, a perfectly white thing whose beauty rivalled the Humboldt family's heraldry. And for a single, calm day, Ludwig’s father dared to believe his child would be normal.

    The next day, Archimedes flew off into the forest surrounding their estate, going so far that an ache settled within Ludwig's breast and refused to leave until the evening. The dove returned within minutes, heavenly visage marred by the blood of a rat he carried in his talons.

    Ludwig's father knew that his spawn would not be normal; wishing had never brought his family solace. Devilry ran in their veins, after all. Ancient magics that Germany had long since forgotten. Archimedes was not a cause, but a symptom of a child borne of a curse. He was the reflection of a tainted soul, a spitting image of his mother’s albino peacock. Despised, but never hated.

    When the rat had been dropped at Ludwig's feet, the babe let out a shriek. His father had recognised it as delight, and he had refused to watch as those tiny, chubby hands pulled the vermin apart with a precision that would remain with him for the rest of his life.

    Archimedes watched on, red eyes focused on Ludwig, red spots already blooming on his feathers. Ludwig was three years old when his daemon settled into the form of a dove. But even as he grew, he never quite realised the irony of it.

    A runaway entered university, and a runaway left Germany only a few years later. When he walked into the administration’s office, a dead man’s identification on him, Archimedes was there to charm the sweet, old woman behind the desk. A dove, brilliantly white, could have only been a sign of a pure soul.

    Ludwig went to university as a runaway, a murderer, hiding under someone else’s identity. No one dared to question his white wings.

    When he ran from Germany, followed by a reminder of his genetics, Archimedes soared alongside him. And it was so easy to charm those nice boys in France to let him join. After all, a nurse with a dove was only second best to a nightingale. Healers all had birds, just like soldiers had canines, and officers had big cats. The dove sealed the deal.

    Ludwig left the army with blood on his teeth. Archimedes left with him, stained crimson on his breast. Had his father been right? Ludwig would never know. After all, what was yet another dead fool’s opinion to him? 

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    Boris, his father's daemon, had been a grey wolf. Alina, his mother's, was a stork. There were stories back home, about birds and predators, that many an aunt had shared with him. Mikhail had been too young, at the time, to understand, because his soul preferred the form of a robin.

    Sasha had settled into the form of a giant, shaggy brown bear when Mikhail was only ten years old, already too big for his age. He still remembered the first wails of his baby sister, the shrieking of his pained mother. He could so vividly remember the fear, the shame he felt as he knelt between his mother's legs, young, unscarred hands frigid and tensed as he waiting for Zhanna to drop. He remembered the anger he felt in that moment, the fury at his father for having left them in that situation, for putting the revolution above his family. Maybe that was why Sasha, for the first time in their life, became a predator. No wolf could harm his soul now.

    Sasha was a bear that followed him like death itself. Her lazy, slovenly exterior hid behind it unmatched strength and anger. So much anger. People in his later years did not approach them, the giant and his bear. They did not see the scars hidden beneath fur and clothing, the gun shot wounds and the claw marks. They were not privy to the many harsh winters he spent, curled beneath Sasha’s vast body, barely able to protect them both. They did not remember, as he remembered, the Gulag, the fire, the first taste of blood on his tongue as he bludgeoned a man to death, his brains splattering all over Mikhail’s face.

    People did not see the gentle way Sasha would often lean down, letting three young girls climb onto her back as Mikhail walked with them through the forests of his adulthood. People never saw the ways his giant fingers closed delicately around soft, white feathers, another's soul seeking him out in the dead of night. To touch another’s daemon was an unforgivable slight, so Mikhail allowed it readily, gladly. For how else would people know that no harm would come to the smallest of them all, how else would his family remember to trust him in a way that he could never trust the wolf.

    There was a reason bears were symbols of family and rage. There was a reason why Mikhail and Sasha had stood before armies of men and robots alike, bodies torn apart by bullets. Most people would never get to see it, would never know. But Mikhail remembered. He always remembered.

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    She could not breathe fire. That didn't stop Her, however. It had never stopped Pyro before.

    Their parents had agreed, early on, that Pyro was a danger. Why should a child so small require a daemon so monstrous? But She had always been the perfect size, the perfect fit. Her scales glistened in the light of the campfire, Her tail lashing all who dared to get too close. And acidic spit burned all who dared tell them that She was no dragon.

    She was the perfect companion.

    So they muzzled Her, and they bound them, and they tried to keep them away from a world not yet blessed by their flames. But the doctors in the pretty, white coats had forgotten that there was no way to contain fire. They had forgotten that it wasn’t the dragon being kept locked up in the tower, but the princess that She would be guarding.

    The man with the blue eyes and the white bird was kind enough to remind them both.

    Acid burned not dissimilarly to a fire. It left bubbling, purulent wounds on the doctors who stood in their way, and Her teeth left them unrecognisable. They moved thorough the asylum like an inferno, Her at their feet, Her where She was most needed.

    And when they stepped outside of their tower, their dragon at their side, it wasn’t knights and little men in lab coats that awaited them.

    It was the man with the white bird, and the woman with the snake around her neck.

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    Sierżant could not remember his first name. He, much like Jane, didn't know if he ever had a first name. The roll of Jane's tongue as he said his name was so familiar, so comfortable, that he never wanted to remember what came before Mann Co., what came before Europe. He was Sierżant, the big bully of a daemon who barked at Reds and Nazis alike.

    Jane remembered what came before Europe. He remembered it in bits and pieces, overshadowed by the war. That first war he was a part of, then became overshadowed by another war, and then another, until Jane no longer remembered the man he was when he travelled to Europe.

    His friends often told him that he hadn’t fought in The War, that there had not been any blood on his hands until his employment by the Manns. But Sierżant knew better, that old dog remembering more than Jane ever could. And when Jane complained of the taste of lead on his tongue, Sierżant was there to remind him of the good times, of all those great things they had done together.

    What Sierżant had been called before The War didn’t matter. Who Jane was before The War mattered even less. Their memories were complete without the times before Soldier and Sierżant, and both of them preferred for it to stay that way.

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    Jenevieve prided herself on being the most venomous snake known to man. She took pride in it in a way that Flo couldn't, that Flo never considered.

    She hadn’t settled until Mann Co., until Helen and the Mann brothers and Flo’s own involvement in TF industries. A snake had been a shock to everyone, even to Flo herself. When her soul had always been flighty, hidden and swift, a snake made no sense. When messenger pidgeons and swifts and sparrows dominated her childhood, why had Jenevieve chosen a snake? When field mice and rabbits had been easy, a snake was difficult. She lounged around Flo’s shoulders, sleeping. She never watched, never commented. Jenevieve acted like she wasn’t even there, so Flo treated her the same way.

    Flo didn’t understand until the W.A.R. She didn’t understand until Grey Mann, and the Australium crisis, and she didn’t understand until the very last minute. She didn’t understand until she saw the way Helen’s own serpentine soul watched the half dead man suspended in hell above them. Zephaniah Mann had no soul left, although rumors had said his had been a mole.

    Jenevieve had curled around Sebastian as both he and Helen turned to dust, and in that moment Flo had understood. When Dell had taken them to the furthest edges of the ocean, and Jenevieve spoke for the first time in decades, Flo Pauling finally understood.

    “We are safe, now.”

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    A family as old as the DeGroots was loath to forget tradition. For better or for worse, some things were as deeply ingrained in their genes as the colour of their skin.

    McTavish was a good name, his father had told him. It symbolised the connection between human and daemon, reminding them both of who the soul was, and who the master. The ram was as much a part of Tavish as he was a son, a lesser creature that he had reign over. He had full control over what McTavish would become, because he had control over who he himself would become. Breaking from tradition had never seemed like an option.

    Rams were not uncommon amongst the DeGroots. McTavish, however, was never quite right. The one-eyed goat was smaller, more fluffy than many of the rams Tavish had seen in his youth. He was something between the vicious goats of the Scottish mountains, and the docile sheep that filled their pastures.

    When they joined Mann Co., Tavish began to call him Torcall. His father, bless his explosive soul, had been laid to rest many years ago, and his mam couldn’t touch him so far away in the desert. Torcall wouldn’t respond to his name, but Tavish at least felt better about it.

    Then he had met the elder Doe brother, the suspicious, shellshocked John with his vicious, slobbering pittbull. Torcall was like a lamb around Konrad, as if all those years in Scotland, all those years of alcoholism, never existed. That was the first time he ever responded to his name.

    To be betrayed for a pair of boots was a tragedy.

    To feel like he and his daemon were no longer one, hurt so much more.

    To lose your own daemon’s company to depression was a fate worse than death.

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    Taylor’s favourite forms were rabbits, hares, cats. Sometimes she would be falcons and hawks and sparrows. His brothers always teased him, said she would end up settling as a little bunny rabbit, and wouldn’t that just be an embarrassment? Baby Jeremy with his baby bunny, while the other seven sported their guard dogs and snakes and Kai’s boxer of a kangaroo.

    His ma always told him not to worry about it, that even a bunny had its place in nature, just as her baby Jeremy had a place in the family. But it was easy for her to say, because swans were at least known for being assholes.

    Taylor settled into a long-limbed, bug-eyed hare the day Jeremy left home. Jeremy had worried she would never settle at all, and he couldn’t quite figure out if that would have been worse. Of course, the men he worked with didn’t make fun of him. They were professionals.

    But they treated him accordingly. The Support trio with their birds would gossip, Taylor heard it all. They would treat him like a child, like something to watch over, something that needed protection. The Defenses weren’t much better, with their giants. A bear outweighed most rams, but even a little cow stood taller than the swivelling ears of a leporid.

    A lizard and a dog exemplified the Offense classes. Both mean motherfuckers, and the lizard could even spit acid. And there Baby Jeremy was, with his Baby Bunny. There was little Taylor, with her buck teeth to match his, and her long legs to match his, and those ears that heard everything, and those eyes that saw everything.

    And it was Taylor who kicked the BLU Soldier’s dog so hard his ribs broke, and it was Taylor who ripped the eye of the BLU Spy’s fox, with her teeth able to cut through barbed wire.

    It was Baby Jeremy who saved the big guy from an ambush, and it was his Baby Bunny that heard the sneak approaching before he managed to kill their sniper. And maybe they weren’t the strongest pair, but not even the sniper owls could catch up with them as they soared through the air, jumping off walls and down corridors.

    Everything had its place in nature, and Jeremy had his place on the team. After all, hares made for phenomenal Scouts.

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    Mick was not supposed to have a bird. Who in their right mind thought an Australian would have a bird?

    Harriet picked an owl the day Mick left home. Suddenly, calling her Harriet felt wrong, so small for her species that she was. Hattie didn’t mind the change, she was too busy using his hat as a nest.

    Australians didn’t get birds. Everyone knew that they didn’t. Hattie’s silence foretold of her deadliness, but how often was Mick to come across a rat daemon in Australia? Australians get bulls, after all. They get bears, and kangaroos, and a million other big, mean, motherfucker-like animals. Even his old father had a moose, and his mother a big, furry haifer. There was nothing silent about an Australian, and Mick wasn’t supposed to have a bird.

    The other mercenaries did not question it. He was a silent killer, staying out of sight. An owlet fit him like the glove he wore. The birds of the other Supports were similarly treated, like such obvious choices. No one expected of the German to have a shepherding dog, vicious and intelligent. No one expected a frog of the Frenchman, even as a joke, or a bird bigger and more proud than the little thing following their spook around.

    Supports had birds, and that seemed so obvious. Silent killers, underhanded rogues, maniacs who used their smarts and the bodies of other people to protect themselves, to fight the war from the side lines, where no one saw just how much they were doing. Mick had a bird, an owlet that soared through the skies on silent wings, and weren’t they just the perfect team?

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    Étienne had not settled. He had simply forgotten how to switch, one day. He had sat upon his master’s (what name was he on, by then? Marcus? Emanuel? Laurent? He couldn’t quite remember) shoulder, watching the boy, barely fifteen, smoke a cigarette.

    He and Étienne got into the Spy business early, a pair of poor, dirty boys with nary a distant cousin to care for them. They relied on their own wits to get them through the days, so Étienne chose the crow to steal food for the young boy who didn’t remember his own name. There had always been a plan for ‘something more’, for a ‘better time’, so Étienne promised he wasn’t settling. His master saw crows as useful, but ultimately not suited to the finer life. They deserved better than that, the both of them. A peacock was worthy of them, maybe some golden furred little thing, like a monkey, to show their status. A crow was only temporary.

    Étienne forgot what it felt like to switch, the twist and snap of his body as he morphed into yet another form. He simply existed too long in this form to get a choice. So, Étienne and (at the time) Elijah left France in the back of a horse drawn cart, hidden. There was nothing left for them in France, and the country had hurt them too much to stay.

    By the time the war broke out, Étienne was as skilled at killing as any owl or hawk, and his master wore as many different faces as a chameleon. Many things could be said about the pair of them, but no one could claim they were not resourceful.

    Maybe a crow was not worthy of them, of the dreams they decided early on that they deserved. But there was nothing better to gain them the riches they had always been entitled to.

    And, in the end, Étienne wouldn’t have changed his form for anything. Not even to a swan, unless he was as dark as Elspeth adored. It was the crow that gave his master a chance at love, not a peacock, not a swan.

    It was the crow that made her say, “Jacques LaCroix, let’s get married.”

    And it was her swan that made them both agree.

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    Dell and Lena were the classic Southerner duo. He was a little Texan cowboy, and his daemon loved nothing better than to be his steed. When she settled, one day, for a giant, fuzzy cow instead, Dell almost burst into tears. There was a thing people used to say about cow daemons: people never leave their homes on a cow, but on a horse. And Dell, above all else, just wanted to leave.

    For years, leaving Beecave felt like a fluke. Old Helen could have very well chosen his brother for the role, and Dell didn’t understand for the longest time why she had refused to have his father work on her. What was it that grampa Radigan could see, that Fred Conagher could not? And what was it that attracted Dell to her instead?

    There was one thing that could be said about cow daemons, they were loyal. Maybe it was the fault of the horses, free spirited mustangs, that put Helen off. Because Lena not once argued with Dell, not once thought they could be somewhere better. He left Beecave, he left Texas, and she just trotted after him without a word of protest. She curled around him on cold nights, and let him up onto her back when he tired.

    Whether by boat, by plane, by truck or car, Lena followed faithfully. She followed him to Mann Co. headquarters, she followed him to RED, to Tuefort, to the men he ended up spending the next five years fighting alongside. She played nice with his coworkers, she treated the smaller souls like her own calves.

    And when night fell over the desert, and it was just him and her out there, she frolicked through the battlefields like she was young again. She tossed her great, big head, and kicked up bloodied sand with her old, worn hooves, and she always looked the happiest then. And maybe horses were the best for long treks away from home, but cows loved being just as free as their equine brethren.