The Cave That Never Sleeps

Crayon Bat Cave smelled like pine sap and old wax.

Deep inside the forest, where Sketch City's glow barely reached the tree line, the cave sat quietly — stalactites dripping in every crayon color imaginable, purple and gold and green, catching the light like something half-dreamed. Most nights, it was peaceful here.

Ms. Crayon Bat liked peaceful.

She was perched upside-down from a high ledge, her wide wings folded around her like a blanket, her blue eyes half-shut. Below her, the supercomputer hummed its usual low, steady hum — the sound she'd fallen asleep to more nights than she could count.

Then the hum changed.

It became something tighter. Sharper. Like a held breath.

One eye opened.

On the massive screen, a single line of data flickered where there had been nothing before. A blinking cursor. A timestamp. And a sender ID that made her sit upright so fast she nearly fell off the ledge.

The Voice That Shouldn't Be

Ms. Crayon Bat dropped from the ledge and landed hard on both boots.

The supercomputer screen was enormous — taller than two doors stacked — and right now it showed a sender ID she hadn't seen in three years.

WREN. W.

She stared at it. Her pointed ears went flat.

Wren Wattson had been a tech engineer, a brilliant one, who'd gone missing during a routine signal survey of the Outer Sketch territories. Search teams found her equipment. They never found her.

Ms. Crayon Bat pulled up the full message. It was short. Forty-one words.

*I'm still here. I can't say where. They're monitoring everything — every tower, every channel. I had to reroute through something they'd never think to check. I don't have long. There are others here. Please. Don't contact the authorities yet.*

The cave went very quiet.

Then, from the small speaker mounted beside the screen, something played on its own.

A lullaby.

Soft. Slow. Seven notes, repeating.

Ms. Crayon Bat had not pressed anything. The speaker button was off. The green indicator light was dark.