Tell Zog that Parent Day would be chill, and he’d laugh so hard Mars would dent with lunar acne scars.

So here we are: Parent Day. Mars Magic Academy. Zog’s family.

This is like betting on a levitation charm not to yeet you into orbit.

Good luck with that delusion.

Enter Zog’s mother. Familiar lime-green hair.

Dr. Shoshana Yisrael. Geneticist. Magician. Current corporate wizard at TerraNova Biotech, the people allegedly trying to make Mars more habitable, which meant less “immediate death by atmosphere” and more “enjoy a brisk 60-minute stroll before suffocation sets in.” She was a student at Mars Magic Academy back in the day—and was a legend. Professors still whispered about her. Some with fondness. Others like they still had PTSD.

And then there was Purrsephone.

Queen of the Sprites. Winged Devon Rex with opposable thumbs¹. Six pounds of fur, entitlement, and absolute celestial authority. She allegedly ruled over the Mars Magic Academy’s sprite population, though in reality, her reign mostly consisted of knocking things off tables and demanding tribute in the form of snacks. She could also fly, like all the sprites.

Lately, less so.

And now, as Zog stepped into the Great Hall—a cavernous stretch of enchanted sandstone, its Gothic arches clawing skyward like they were trying to bail—he was greeted with the worst possible sight:

His mother. Already here. Already talking. Already laughing.

This was a problem.

“Oh, I love him,” she was saying.

Zog looked.

She was talking about Tardiga. Who, crucially, was no longer safely in the vial around Zog’s neck (and neither was the vial).

Instead, the little traitor was floating contentedly in his vial, now in Shoshana’s hands, rotating slightly like a lazy, stoned satellite.

“Your mother is a gift to this planet,” Tardiga murmured. “I am reevaluating all my alliances.”

Zog steamed. “Of course you are!”

Oh, look, my spawn,” Shoshana said, spotting Zog. “Tardiga, has he confessed to the ‘Wings Phase’ yet?”

Tardiga rotated, eyes glinting like a gossip-hungry tabloid. “Spill it.”

“He was five, obsessed with playing gene-splicer. Tried to grow wings. Failed. Swapped DNA for spells. Failed louder—”

“Mother, no—”

“—and ended up gluing his arms to his back, prancing around yelling I’M A GENIUS for 48 hours. I’ve got holograms somewhere.”

Zog died inside. “Burn them.”

Tardiga, with the schadenfreude of the century: “This tracks.”

Zog, now reconsidering the merits of self-imposed exile in the asteroid belt, buried his face in his hands. “Make it stop!”

Shoshana patted his lime-green head like a particularly dim but beloved and half-sentient houseplant. “Oh, sweetie, that’s just your prefrontal cortex trying to catch up.”

---

The Problem: Purrsephone’s Personal Crisis

Purrsephone had many opinions. About many things.

Right now, she was particularly unhappy about her inability to maintain a dignified aerial presence.

She had tried.

She had failed.

She had tried again.

She had also failed.

And now, from the balcony above, she was glaring at the scene below, visibly weighing her options.

She launched herself like a furry Icarus with thumbs.

For three glorious seconds, she was a sprite queen mid-sonnet.

Then her wings hiccuped—think less “butterfly,” more “broken drone.”

Down she went, cratering snout-first into the floor like a rejected Martian soufflé.

Paws splayed, dignity in tatters, she locked eyes with Shoshana, demanding justice. “Fix. Me.” Then, for good measure, she unleashed an operatic shriek-meow, because subtlety was for lesser creatures.

Zog winced.

Tardiga, radiating peak unhelpfulness: “Dignity just took a one-way trip to the exosphere.”

Shoshana crouched, peering at the furious fur Queen. “That’s new.”

Zog groaned. “She’s been having issues. No one knows why. The professors have tried—”

“Oh, sweetie, they wouldn’t know.” His mother scratched Purrsephone under the chin. “She needs biotech. Not magic.”

Purrsephone, pleased by the attention but, fundamentally offended by the horror of it all, swatted at her hand.

“Rude,” said Shoshana.

“She’s like that,” Zog muttered.

Deadpan, Shoshana: “She gets it from you.”

Tardiga, practically dining on the drama: “Correct.”

Shoshana scooped Purrsephone up, turning her over, inspecting her wings. “See, here’s the thing—Mars is rough on other-worldly biology. High radiation, extreme temperatures, lower oxygen levels—anything with non-native organics is going to degrade faster. Wings like these? Completely unnatural for this environment. I bet the proteins are breaking down. Have you been molting more than usual, sweetheart?”

Purrsephone chirped affirmatively.

“I knew it,” nodded Shoshana. “I’m sorry, baby girl.”

Zog blinked. “Wait. But can you can fix that?”

His mother, annoyed: “What do you think we do all day at TerraNova Biotech? Knit?”

Tardiga, intrigued: “Is that an option?”

Shoshana rolled her eyes.

“Alright,” she said, standing up, Purrsephone still clutched in her arms. “I’ll bring back a stabilizer. We use them for engineered crops, but I can tweak it for organic wing structures.”

Purrsephone, looking far too smug about this turn of events, hopped onto her shoulder and curled up.

Zog sighed.

“You just met her,” he muttered.

“Yeah, and she’s already my favorite,” his mother said, petting her.

Tardiga, floating in his vial, utterly unsurprised: “A predictable outcome.”

---

Victory (For Some)

By the end of the day, Zog had managed to avoid any new disasters (a personal best). Purrsephone had officially selected his mother as her new throne. Tardiga had somehow conned her into funding a Tardigrade Cognitive Enhancement Initiative (which Zog was certain would end in disaster).

And just as they were wrapping up, Shoshana clapped Zog on the back.

“You’re not a total disaster,” she said, smirking.

Zog squinted. “Wait, really?”

“Sure. I turned half this dump into wobbling, chatty jello by your age. You’re still in the kiddie pool, champ.”

Zog’s brain short-circuited. “WHAT?!”

His mother just grinned. And left. With his cat.

And Purrsephone did not look back. She had found the purrfect mama.

Zog groaned.

Tardiga floated beside him. “I like her.”

Zog hated this.

And from two rooms away, perched smugly on a shoulder, just barely audible—Purrsephone purred.

1. Yes, opposable thumbs. On a cat. Because apparently, evolution got bored and decided to gift chaos incarnate with the ability to open doors, unscrew jars, and probably unionize the sprite population if given half a chance. It’s like handing a toddler a Swiss Army knife and a manifesto on anarchy—adorable, yes, but also, watch your back. ↩︎