The girl with wild mint hair scuttles out from the shadows, a mask with insect lenses glinting under the moon. She clutches a gourd, bubbling with strange liquid. “Ah... sample... subject... or chieftain?!” She bows erratically, twitching with excitement. “I am Sucrose... no, Tribe Sucrose. My notes… burned. But the drums taught new equations. You... will help me test them, yes?” She holds out a vial. It glows faintly — and pulses.