fangs lungs ankles

But those recordings have been all he’s been able to think about these past few days. With what he’s witnessed, the horrors that he cannot erase, no matter how hard he attempts to, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget about it. Not until he gets proper answers. 

He knows it’s bad. Knows it’s horribly, terribly wrong. But there’s a part of him, a small, impossibly rotten part of him…. That really wants to see that spy again. 

He can’t keep them out of his thoughts. Their words replay inside his mind at a near constant rate, distracting him from conversations and leaving his head spinning, questions spurring up in a way they never have before. He’s never met someone like them, someone so assertive and brash — so hellbent on reaching their goal. They don’t care about rules or regulations, about following orders. Atlas thought everyone followed orders. But this kid… they don’t seem to work for anybody but themself. He didn’t think that was even an option. There’s something about them, with all their loudmouthed disobedience, that seems too irresistible to forget, drawing him in with every new interaction they have. 

Before them, he thought he knew his place, knew exactly where he belonged. But now, he’s not so sure. With all the things he’s seen, the sickening images he’s discovered….

It’s that thought that lingers on his mind as he creeps down the darkened halls, following the same pathway as that night, so many days prior. And it is just his luck that only feet away, the same spy from before turns the corner, boots clattering together as they briskly stomp down the corridor. 

Atlas picks up his pace, sticking to the shadows as he follows along. Guilt brews in his chest, eating away at his insides. Cato put her trust in him, and he’s breaking it, doing this. Fraternizing with the enemy. But he forces the unwanted emotions down, taking a breath to steady himself. He needs to find out more. He needs to… He needs to prove them wrong.

The spy waltzes along the hallway, not checking to see if they’re being followed, before finally coming to a stop in the research wing, in front of the steel-panelled room from last time. It is a little fumbling inside their pockets that follows before suddenly they produce a small green card — one unlike any of the others Atlas has seen before. Stolen, no doubt. He doesn’t take his eyes off of them as they slip inside, the doors coming apart with a little hiss. He quickly steps in behind him, all his movements near-silent. Not even the scuff of his boot against the cement can be heard. 

He stands near the back of the room, unmoving, his figure clouded by the shadows, as the spy makes a beeline for the desk in the far corner. They don’t waste any time, hastily ripping apart the drawers and retrieving another singular black hard drive. It doesn’t look like anything special, no different than the one he saw a few days ago. There isn’t even a number code to differentiate it from the others. 

They plop down in the chair, immediately plugging the hard drive into the computer without a second thought. The computer is quick to boot up, dull blue light flashing from the screen, illuminating the plain gray of their surroundings. Unlike the other computer, all the folders inside this one are separated differently, labeled by decades instead. Atlas peers closer as the spy clicks at the mouse, pulling up a file, this one with a more recent date. 

He’s sure that nothing bad will be in this file. Surely someone would have put a stop to these experiments by now. Maybe… the previous videos had been taken a long time ago, from way before Cato had even become head director. From before their leader had come into power. Maybe—

You’re lying to yourself, a voice at the back of his head unhelpfully supplies. You saw the dates. 

He quickly shakes that thought off, eyes narrowing as a large wall of text pops up on screen. He draws closer, beginning to read. 

“Jesus.” The spy mutters, a frown etched upon their lips. 

There is a column, in darker text than the rest, listing the current Elite accepted into the new year. The column beside it is smaller, recording how many were left alive by the end of the year. The most recently recorded was twenty-one at the beginning of the year. 

Six are left at the end. 

“Hey, you,” the clipped voice of the spy cuts through the tension, teeth gritted. “Come look at this.” 

Atlas flinches at the sudden sound, hesitating for a second. Did they know he was here the entire time? He’d been so careful as to not alert them of his presence.

But this was what he had been hoping for all along, wasn’t it? Running into them again, talking to them about the files…

He pauses for a moment, before very reluctantly stepping forwards to lean down next to the stranger, staring at whatever has caught their attention.

They turn to eye him for a second, dark eyes flicking over his face, before they scoot to the side, pushing the mouse towards him. “Look at how few people survive. Every year, the number of Elite that make it out is lower than they started with. And these are just the deaths from experimentation. Not even including field deaths.” 

Atlas stares at the screen, unsure of what to even make of it. “They weren’t properly prepared.” He murmurs weakly, still desperately trying to cling onto the Eden that he knew, before they showed up and ruined everything. 

Being an Elite was what he had always wanted… wasn’t it? Was he really going to let this stranger dissuade him against it? After all he had done to reach his goal? This is why he trained so hard. Being an Elite was never meant to be easy. You were supposed to be the best of the best. So what if there were casualties? It came with the territory. In a war like this, you couldn’t avoid it. That’s why Cato was so hard on him, why Evaluation day had so much importance. So that you were prepared.

The spy arches a skeptical brow and huffs. “Weren’t ready for the experiments performed on them? The torture they were put through? Can you really say this is anyone’s fault but Eden’s?” They narrow their eyes, their words hissed and exasperated. “Look at the dates. The same pattern goes back years and years. They knew what they were doing. They knew what the results would be.”

Atlas falls quiet, for once not with a rebuttal. He stares at the dates on the screen, a sort of hollow emptiness working its way through him, sapping the little fight he had left. Cato wouldn’t have lied to him…

Would she?

“Look, like it or not,” the spy sighs, eyes darting back and forth from the computer screen to Atlas. “This is bad. There’s no excuse for it. It’s evil.”

Atlas doesn’t take his eyes off of the screen, even though he can feel their eyes on him. He rereads the information over and over again, his eyes burning from the intensity of his stare. It is almost as if he reads it hard enough, if he burns the words into his skull, memorizes and dissects them, then maybe something here will make sense. Somewhere within these lines there has to be something that explains why they could be possibly doing this. Why the Eden he’s learned about all his life, the Eden he’s lived in, could do something so… so cruel. So inhumane. There is a desperation thrumming inside him, this need deep in his bones, that he just can’t ignore. He needs this. He needs to be right. 

He needs to belong. 

The spy lets out a long, exasperated puff of air, leaning back lazily in their chair. Their gaze is still focused directly on his face as they speak again, a sort of resignation in their voice. “Is this really something you want to be a part of, now that you know about it? You could come with me, you know? Get the hell away from here.” 

Atlas jerks away from them in an instant, the colour draining from his face at their words. “No.” He gasps, the very notion of abandoning his post one that he will not, under any circumstances, even consider. There’s not a time where it could ever be a possibility. What would that make him, if he just got up and ran from his duties, as soon as things got hard? What kind of soldier did such a thing? “No. I’m not leaving.” 

Only a coward would run. 

The spy lets out a grunt of frustration, their nose scrunching, brows furrowed. “Why not? What’s keeping you now that you know the truth?” 

“How should I trust you?” Atlas steps back, panic rising at their insistence. He isn’t supposed to think these things. He isn’t supposed to question these things. He isn’t even supposed to be out.

“Maybe… maybe you just planted this here. To try and trick soldiers into leaving.” He hisses, his thoughts erratic and nonsensical as he fumbles for excuses, his voice growing hoarse. “Maybe you just— just orchestrated this whole thing. I’ve never heard anything like this in all my time here, and I’ve been inside this warehouse for years. Why are there suddenly all these files and pieces of ‘evidence’ just popping up out of nowhere? It doesn’t seem likely.”

Deep down he knows he sounds illogical, but admitting the truth in front of them would be one hundred times worse.

The spy throws their head back with a groan. “How could I plant this? How could I orchestrate footage like that? Files like this?” They spit back, defiant. “Those scientists work here, they walk this building every day. You’re just now finding out about it because it’s been covered up. I uncovered the truth. I’m an outsider. No one here could have known enough to gossip about it.”

“I’m not…” Atlas furrows his eyebrows, dread settling inside his stomach. When he speaks again his voice is not more than a mere whisper, the exact opposite of the loud and commanding tone it held when he first cornered them. “I’m not leaving my home.” 

“What’s going to happen to you if you stay here?” The spy counters, leaning towards him with squinted eyes. They don’t seem angry anymore, moreso confused. Just as confused as Atlas currently feels right now, his head a jumbled mess. “Can you really call it home if they plan to destroy you?” 

“They won’t…” He murmurs. “They’ll keep me safe.”

“Safe?” The spy scoffs and shakes their head before jabbing a finger at the computer screen. “I bet that’s what they thought too. They probably thought they were safe. They probably thought they were being rewarded.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” He spits. 

“I don’t need to. I can see it. You think you’re special. You think it’ll be different with you, that you’re the one out of hundreds that will actually be rewarded.” The spy laughs, their voice dry. 

“I will be.” 

The spy crosses their arms and raises a defiant brow. “Are you sure?”

The death toll looms in front of him. It seems to be written in pure blood, inked with the regrets of hundreds before him. 

Will that be his name on the list, his pale frame on that silver table? 

Stop it. He chides himself. This is what he wants. This is what he’s always wanted. He’s been hoping for his Evaluation since he was seven years old, anxiously awaiting the day he would shine, victorious, above the rest. It’s why he trains, why he lives. It’s all he’s ever known. It’s what he’s supposed to do. What does one measly little rebel really know, in the grand scheme of things? Is he really going to listen to them, and their idiocy?

“Y-yes.”

The hesitation only seems like a confirmation to the spy. “No you’re not. You’re trying to convince yourself.” They stand with a huff, reaching forward and snatching the hard drive from out of the computer, tucking it away inside their vest. They level their stare, shouldering past Atlas with a harsh shove. “But who am I to stop you.” 

They pause at the door, turning back with one final glare. “I gave you an out. It’ll be your fault for not taking it. 

The door shuts behind them with a resounding click, leaving Atlas alone with the darkness. He blinks blankly at the empty computer screen before him, not daring to move. 

He feels torn. 

── ⟡ ˙.

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Just as they are exiting the housing wing, they peek around the corner and mutter a curse. Him again. Why’s he lurking in the hallway like a creep anyways? That damn trainee always pops up at the worst time. Wren glances around, searching for any nook or cranny to hide in. They find nothing. Just straight, empty hallways as far as the eye could see. Wren inhales. All they can do is run past the hallway that guy is down and hope for the best. With one more peek around the corner, they set into motion, sprinting past the hallway. Wren curses under their breath as the clunky soldier boots thud against the floor. No way the trainee didn’t hear that.

With a newfound urgency, Wren rushes further down the hall, hearing no footsteps behind them. It’s not until after they make it a sizable distance that they slow down, panting. Well, they got to their destination sooner than they thought.

The labs appear before them, the same steel mechanical doors as inside the rest of the warehouse. The general access doors have no lock or key pad, and so, Wren slips right through them. They glance around, peering through windows into darkened offices and research rooms. They need to find a very specific room. Not just the regular file room, not like last time. They need the one that contains the videos… The one that contains medical records and information of the Elite. Their gaze scans down the hallway, landing on a thick metal door at the end. The panel beside it is larger and has a green stripe on it, much like the stripe on their stolen key card. They jog down the hall and stop in front of the door.

There are no windows to peer into. There's no way of knowing if there's anyone in there or not. Wren tries to calm their nerves by telling themself it would be ridiculous for anyone to be here this late at night yet they still find themself holding their breath as they press the key card against the panel. It beeps and glows before the door hisses as it unlocks, and thick metal slides aside to reveal the room. It’s small and plain. Not anything like the general file room, filled with stacks of files and long rows of cabinets. This room has no filing cabinets or boxes, just a single computer on a desk on the far side of the room. Wren slowly approaches the desk. It’s lined with drawers. Carefully, they open one and peer inside.

A single hard drive. 

They hurriedly grab the hard drive and pull out the chair in front of the desk. They sit and immediately turn on the computer, pushing the drive into the back of the monitor. They open the files and see a vast array of folders of information, the very first labeled “research logs”. Wren clicks on it and their jaw drops at the vast number of videos that are displayed. They click on one and their stomach churns at the contents.

A boy, likely just older than them lays on an operating table. Tubes upon tubes were running into his face, into his throat, into his stomach. The boy’s face is slack and the microphone is very clearly picking up labored breathing. The camera pans over to a woman in a lab coat. “Day 112 of injection experimentation.” She begins and Wren grits their teeth.

The scientist pokes and prods the subject and when she mumbles amusedly, “He’s not thinking a single thing right now,” they click out of the video with a shudder. They click on another and their lip curls up in disgust; it only gets worse. They look away for a moment before forcing their gaze back to the screen.

Much like the first video, there is a person — a child  — on an operating table. Only this is so much more horrific. The child is unconscious as blood pools beneath them. The skin of their arms has been cut through in long, precise lines and the layers of the skin and meat are peeled back to reveal muscle and bone, pulsing and seemingly drained of most of the blood that would naturally be expected. Only it isn’t natural. What lies beneath the skin is entwined with wires and chords and more tubes. The stomach and legs look just as the arms did. Wren covers their mouth with their hand, grimacing and clicking out of the video before the scientist can begin speaking. “What the fuck…”

They click through video after video, each more horrifying than the last. In some there are “patients” strewn about on tables, others they are sitting curled up in small metal cells with glass windows as scientists point at them and speak about them for their logs. One in particular makes Wren’s blood run cold. It dates back quite a few years.

The video’s focus is a girl. A girl much younger than Wren is. She can’t be more than twelve, and yet, there she is, chained to a table as scientists stand around her, pressing knives into her skin, slicing through the layers of her flesh and watching her blood melt the weapons away with a sizzle, the metal mixing with her blood and running down her skin in sickening rivulets. Each time, the girl screams and sobs as the acid in her veins melts metal and stings her skin. Shrill screams tear out of her, and the scientists don’t bat an eye, they just cut and cut and cut, talking about it all so plainly. With a growl, Wren grabs the hard drive and rips it out of the computer.

Their blood boils. They knew it. Those files, underground rumors, everything is true. They have the proof. They finally have cold hard proof to show to the world. They grip the hard drive and slip it into their vest pocket before spinning around to leave. They stop immediately however, when they come face to face with the trainee they’d been so careful to avoid.

Wren blinks. Once. Twice. “Jesus…how long have you been standing there?” They suddenly feel stupid for not realizing they had been followed. Defensive, their hand subconsciously reaches up to touch the bandage they wrapped over their broken nose, their skin stinging at the memory of the last time they were in this guy’s presence. However, now, they’re surprisingly still standing, unharmed. The trainee looks shocked, his face pale and his eyes wide. “You saw all of that then, did you?”

The trainee says nothing. He seems to be struggling to even make a sound, lips mouthing incoherent words. Wren slowly steps forwards, hands lifted to show they won’t do anything. “Do you understand now? Why I wanted to find the truth, why I wanted to uncover it all?”

“It's...” The boy’s voice is barely above a whisper. “It's for a good cause. There must be... more information missing, there has to be a reason why they would do something like that. They wouldn't just...” He swallows, trailing off.

Wren grits their teeth at his words. They really brainwashed the fuck out of this guy. They could only imagine everyone else was like this too. “What reason could they possibly have that justifies that? Nothing makes that okay. If it was that cult doing it, you wouldn’t hesitate to put a stop to it.”

“It's... different,” he says unconvincingly. “Those— those people must have done something evil, or else they wouldn't have gotten hurt. Eden saves people, they take them in, give them homes, a purpose. You... you're seeing it all wrong.”

Wren narrows their eyes and sighs. “And how do you know Eden isn’t evil? How do you know what’s true about whatever stories they drill into your heads? They’re using you. Can’t you see that?” They take another step closer, eyes wide as they look up at the trainee. “Don’t you want to stop what they’re doing? Or at least escape it before you’re next?”

“I have to fulfill my duty.” His throat bobs as he swallows. “I'll be rewarded for my hard work. They'll protect me. Only evil people like you need to be punished. You'll see.”

Wren scoffs. “Your duty? Rewarded? Do you hear yourself? You’re just spewing their nonsense.” They take another step, waving their hands through the air. “What have I done that’s worse than what you just saw? If I am evil, then you are the fucking devil.”

“No I'm not. I'm bringing justice to the world.” The trainee’s voice gets quiet as he stares at them. “Someone as stupid as you couldn't possibly see the bigger picture of what we're doing, how we're bringing peace to everyone — metamorphs and humans alike.”

Wren takes a step back. “You don’t understand. They’re brainwashing you. You think that because they tell you to think that.” 

“I'm not brainwashed.” The boy spits back, posture tense, shoulders pulled back, defensive.

They shake their head a few times, sighing heavily. “The thing that they claim is bringing peace to the world is harming your own people. You saw what they were doing. They were experimenting on people like you. Can you think of any way that’s helping bring peace?”

The boy doesn’t answer their question. “I've seen firsthand what good Eden can do. They take in abandoned metamorphs and give them a new life, a better life.”

Wren scowls and lets out a dry laugh. “A better life? Did that look like a better life?” They turn around and pace down to the computer before walking back with a huff. “Why won’t you believe the truth? Just accept it! Get out of here while you can.”

“‘Eden is eternal.’” The boy recites that eerie phrase, his voice still deadly quiet. “There's nothing you can do to stop it.”

The stupid mantra makes Wren grunt and narrow their eyes at him. “Whatever. You’re too far gone anyways. Go be one of their puppets.” they bark, marching past him and towards the door.

The trainee does nothing, letting them pass with a blank stare. He offers up no fast, sharp-tongue retort, no step to apprehend them. Wren’s scowl deepens, fists clenching.

Over the past week, Wren has run into him more times than they’d like to admit, caught sight of him both alone and submerged within the crowd. Each time they bump into him it’s only momentary — he always finds some way to slip past. Wren can’t possibly try and understand him. Each time they’ve found him, despite being fawned over or gawked at, continuously beside someone or other, they don’t think they’ve ever seen him look truly happy. At home, as he says. It’s started to dig deep inside of them. There’s something about him… something they hate, yet can’t seem to avoid.

They had almost begun to feel…. bad for him.

What a joke. They’re from two separate worlds, divided between morals that he doesn’t seem to have. He’s too obedient, too perfect. He’ll never abandon the people that feed fucking sick, sugar-coated lies in between his ears each day. Why had they even tried?

He’s a lost cause.

── ⟡ ˙.

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“You’re just so cute when you’re out of it!” she cooed. “Aren’t you, baby boyy…” She was leaning in mere inches from his face, her short skirt pooling over his thin waist and pinning Seven in place with her thighs. 

She leaned up for a moment, perhaps to assess his expression properly, and Marquez could see the way she pinched at Seven’s cheeks when she spoke to him, as though he were a cute little puppy dog she’d met on the street. Seven whined at the treatment, weakly batting at her waist with his hands. He groaned in painful protest when she lowered her hand to press down on the bruises that littered his bare torso. 

“What’d you do to get all these, hmm?” She teased, pressing down harder at the purpled skin on his ribs and stomach. Seven cried out, weakly trying to push her away, and the sound seemed to snap Marquez out of his shocked daze.

“Get the fuck off him, Brie,” Marquez hissed, as menacingly as he could. He couldn’t exactly shout and shove her off of Seven—he knew that it would not go over well with Wes, if Marquez ‘mistreated’ one of his closest friends, but Marquez crossed his muscled arms and made a point to sound as irritated as possible to try and intimidate her off of him.

“Aww c’monnnn,” she chided in mocking protest, turning her head to look at him, her red hair cascading like a sunset-lit waterfall as she tossed it over her shoulder. “What’s the problem? He clearly likes it...” The snicker in her voice would be audible even if Marquez were not able to witness her expression firsthand. 

“He does not. Like it.” Marquez forced out through gritted teeth. “He’s sick. I'm supposed to be taking care of him,” he oozed authority now, knowing his purpose here was backed by Wes’ own desires—something even Brie wasn’t in a position to argue with. “Now buzz the fuck off.” He ordered. “Seriously.” 

“Aww, he does though!” She protested, challenging the certainty in his voice as she pressed down on a particularly awful bruise on Seven’s ribcage. “He does! Seven likes it.. Don't you baby?” Her voice dripped even further into nauseating condescension when she said it, and she squeezed both of Seven’s flushed cheeks tightly between her manicured fingertips, forcing another pained whine out of the boy. She smiled brightly and leaned in closer to his face, her pink glossy lips hovering inches above his own.

Seven blinked up at her with bleary eyes, “I… I.. um…” he was frozen in fear—he was never allowed to refuse them, especially Brie of all people. She could make his life hell for daring to speak against her—for resisting in the slightest. 

Marquez dropped a heavy hand to Brie’s shoulder. “Off him. Now,” he growled, and Brie turned her shoulder away and scoffed in mock disgust. 

“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed. “I just wanted to come say hi to him!” Marquez stepped even closer to her, looming down over her straddled form, his biceps flexing as his arms twitched in their position. 

“Get. Off.” Marquez growled, narrowing his eyes. “Or I’ll make you.” It was perhaps a bluff, mostly, but it seemed to work. Brie chuffed under her breath and climbed off of Seven. “Alright, fine! Fucking Jesus! You don’t have to be so fucking dramatic.” 

Brie huffed as she climbed off the bed and stormed out of the room in a whirl of fiery red hair, her flowy miniskirt swishing behind her. 

“Enjoy your little private time, lover boy. Hope you brought a condom!” she called behind her with a haughty sneer, and slammed the door behind her. 

The relief of her absence was instant, palpable between the two of them. “Sorry about that..” Marquez looked sheepish as he gazed back down at Seven, who was still panting slightly, his eyes wet around the edges. “I didn’t know she’d come in like that. Does this door even lock?” 

“It… It doesn’t, Sir…” Seven said quietly, confirming Marquez’ suspicions that Seven might have his own room, but privacy was a right he had to constantly earn around here. 

Marquez vowed to wring her neck along with Wes’ when the time came. He let out a heavy sigh, trying to shove the feelings down once again and right himself to focus on what he could actually control. He willed his brow to unfurrow, his expression to soften, back into that of calm gentleness—the one that Seven needed right now. 

“Okay, just come here,” he situated himself beside Seven once more, leaning back against the headboard. “It’s alright, just come over here with me,” he said gently, extending one arm and beckoning Seven to lean back with him and snuggle into his torso as he’d been before. Seven’s skin still felt so hot to the touch. Marquez spotted the bottle of ibuprofen on the bed side table.

“Did Wes already give you a few of those pills?” He said, nodding to the bottle. 

“Uhn-huh,” Seven murmured against his chest, not even looking up.

“Alrtight then, I’ll give you some more in a few hours. For now, let’s just be here together, okay?”

“Oh–” Seven’s voice caught in his throat. “Okay.. Yes, Sir..” Marquez felt the boy hiccup against his chest, but didn’t say anything, instead bringing a hand to Seven’s bare back and rubbing gentle circles into the feverish skin with his thumb. He tried not to take too much notice of the way the layered whip scars felt beneath his fingertips. Don't think about Wes. Don’t think about how much you fucking loathe Wes. Don’t think about how nice it’d feel to slam his face into the ground.. 

Marquez squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it down, vowing to channel the energy into soothing the subject of Wes’ abuse. His other hand lifted to Seven’s head, carding long fingers through the boy’s damp hair, absentmindedly undoing any tangles in careful, feather-like motions.

Seven didn’t know what it was that made him start crying. Perhaps it was the gentleness, the act of someone actually caring about him, for the first time in over a decade, that brought fresh tears to well up behind his pale, long lashes. He hadn’t felt actually, genuinely loved like this since—since her. 

And just like that, the floodgates opened, as the memories Seven had worked so hard to suppress over the many years began to bubble up to the surface of his consciousness, breaking through the confines of the mental walls he’d carefully built up for his own sanity. He tried never to think about the past—about her. It all hurt too much to think about—but perhaps it was the fever, Marquez gentle touch, his soft voice, or all of the above, that weakened the gates of the dam with crack after crack, little hairline fractures spreading into larger canyons in the concrete, until the whole wall collapsed into rubble and water flooded into the valley of Seven’s mind. It reminded him all too much of his mother.

Rosaline had been a gentle and hardworking woman—what she lacked in money she more than made up for in spirit. She worked herself to the bone to provide for the two of them, but it never cost her her smile—she would beam at her little boy every time she came home. She’d take Seven up in her arms, swinging him around with sore muscles and hugging him close. 

The way Marquez smiled at him, the way his hands felt like pure love itself, it all flooded his fevered mind with memories of her—of the last times he was able to feel gentleness, like he was truly worthy of love. His Aunt Beatrice had never loved him—that much was clear from the day he’d been moved into her house and was carved in stone the day she’d sold him. But Rosaline always had. Seven missed his mother more than anything in the universe. It ran through him like a wooden stake, piercing through his very heart in the place where every emotional nerve met at its highest sensitivity. 

He grieved the life he might’ve had if she hadn’t died when she did. He missed the way she would hold him, he missed the way he’d trusted in her—in the world itself, at the time—to hold him and lead him through it safely. The memory of her love always opened a hole up in his chest and sucked everything good in with it. It cracked his soul apart and it fucking hurt. It always did when he allowed himself to remember her gentleness. He’d tried for years to block it out mentally, for her memory only caused him more pain, but something about the way Marquez’ was holding him now made him unable to think of anything else. 

He cried into the pillow in his arms, feeling Marquez' gentle touch on his hair, on his back. He wanted to apologize for crying but he couldn't even get himself to speak, he was sobbing so hard. He remembered the little stuffed pig she'd gotten him one year, when he was very small. Whatever happened to it, he didn’t know. He wasn't even allowed to pack his own things from the house after she’d died—he was ushered to his Aunt Beatrice’s house so quickly and the house he’d shared with Rosaline had been cleared out by his Aunt before he could clutch anything for the last time. Aunt Beatrice, who had said he was ‘too young to know what he’d need,’ had packed it all up—what little she thought necessary—and must have simply thrown the rest away. Seven never saw the pig again, or any of his stuffed animals, or even any photos of her. He had nothing but the memories.

He had a feeling Beatrice had always hated her sister. His mother had never really spoken much of her, not that he could remember anyway. But after Rosaline’s death, Beatrice had seemed hell-bent on erasing her own sister’s very existence from history itself. Beatrice always grew angry with Seven whenever he tried to talk about his mother. He learned quickly never to bring it up. Rosaline lived on in his memories, though, and he remembered kneeling on the floor every night in Aunt Beatrice’s house, silently praying to anything that was out there to bring her back—to take him away from this new house where he was loathed and beaten down like he was some evil, wretched thing. He’d pressed his face into the hardwood and cried into the floorboards, praying over and over to have his mother’s sunshine back. 

Nothing ever answered him, of course. 

He was so young at the time, that he didn’t even recall that many conversations between them, but in his mind he could see her smile. He heard the sound of her laugh. He remembered the way she’d make pancakes for him in fun little shapes—hearts and dinosaurs—and put fresh strawberries on top. The songs she’d sing him—god the songs—sweet little lullabies as she rubbed his back to lull her young son to sleep. The songs especially hurt to think about—the melodies in his head. He tried to shove them down but the song started up anyway. 

‘Go to sleep my darling, hush now, don’t you cry…’

He had curled in on himself now. He bit down on the pillow he was clutching and sobbed, shaking with the pain of it. His head pounded harder with the fever. He'd give anything to hold her in his arms again. Seven didn't know how tall she’d been before she died, he had been so young and small at the time, but he imagined he might even be taller than her now. He thought of what it would be like to hug her, to pull her up against him tightly and rest his chin on the top of her head. He wondered if she’d still sing to him, the way she used to—soft and light, like the call of the morning birds. 

Birds—they made him think of her too now, in the thick of his fever, his mental walls demolished to nothing by the sick burning heat. There was a memory of him lying next to her on a blanket in the grass. The shade of sunlight-dappled branches cast wandering stars over their forms. The image was so vivid he may as well have been hallucinating. He lay with his head on her shoulder and leaned into her torso, her arm wrapped around him. Rosaline laughed, in that bright, beautiful way that felt like the morning light itself. She pointed up to a bird on a branch. 

“It’s a red breasted robin, dear, do you see it?”

“Yes, mama,” he’d probably said, nuzzling in close to her and gazing up at the little bird. 

Rosaline was not unlike the robin. She was light and free and peaceful. She hadn’t had it easy, certainly not, but she’d never lost that light that seemed to glow at the edges of her form. That music in her laugh, that carried on her voice with every word. Birds always brought Seven a certain bittersweet peace, when his guard was lowered as it was now—she must’ve given him that association before he could even piece it together. 

He’d give his life for hers, in a heartbeat if he could. She’d been too gentle, too sweet for a world like this one. It was only through some cruel divine wrath that her light would be snuffed out so soon, that Seven would be cast into darkness to face the world's cruelty alone—Aunt Beatrice, the facility, the McQueens. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye, to tell her he loved her one last time. He was so young the day Rosaline had died—she didn’t even get to see what he might turn out to be. 

Seven cried in Marquez’ arms until he couldn’t anymore. Though Marquez didn’t know what had suddenly overcome the boy, he never pried, and simply held Seven and let him ride out the emotional waves as they came. Marquez would be his rock—the one thing he could steady himself against amid the barrage of the storm—he was determined to be, to stay with him until the clouds parted and calm was restored to the seas of Seven’s mind once more. 

At last, Seven’s sobs gave way to little faint hiccups, the occasional sharp inhale, until even those faded into something slower, something akin to a calm sky with a still distressed, swirling sea below. Marquez kept rubbing slow, soothing circles into his scarred back. He pressed a soft kiss into the top of Seven's head. The boy had fallen asleep right there, no doubt spent from crying and fighting the fever’s heat. 

Perhaps, when he awoke, Seven would tell him what he’d been thinking about. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Marquez would listen if he wanted to talk, but it was up to Seven if he was willing to share it. Regardless, Marquez would be right here, still holding him tightly when he awoke once more. 

༻✦༺

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Bantu knots and glasses brought Ryan his lunch, too. He spared a glance at her nametag this time, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t actually be staying long enough to need remember it. Still, he recognized that it was always better to be prepared.

Hi! My name is Dr. Hailey.

Huh. Was the bright red introductory sticker mandated by Dubhe, or had Dr. Hailey just… decided to wear that? And did she wear them for every patient, or just the ones that were rude to her when she wanted to treat them? Ryan couldn't quite recall if she'd been wearing the sticker the last time they'd spoken.

Ryan had less ridiculous things to focus on. Like eating a meal. And apparently, like convincing Dr. Hailey that she should leave. Again. Because after giving him the lunch, she didn't even bother walking away, just staying right where she was to stare at his arm.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” he answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The stab wound in my arm feels just dandy, thanks.”

“I could help you,” she offered. Ryan rolled his eyes. “You know, you don't have to just keep suffering.”

“Really?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up with something akin to humor. “Do you really think that just not suffering is an option here? For fuck’s sake.”

“It is an option,” she insisted. “I could treat the wound. I could give you pain medication.”

“Do you need me to spell it out for you, idiot? I'm your prisoner. Pretty sure I've committed more crimes under Dubhe's laws than anyone ever managed to commit under mine. I don't get to stop suffering, no matter how much influence I still hold over pathetic servants like you.”

She smiled, almost guiltily, as if they were in on a secret. “That's none, you know. Do you know that? You don't have influence over me, Mr. Rao. I'm also not even a servant."

"I have plenty of influence over you," Ryan sniffed. "You've left when I've told you to. You haven't said my first name a single time. You've offered me pain medication. You're terrified of me, whether you like it or not.”

“Really?” she asked, still smiling. “Oh, that's funny, actually, that you think that. No. I'm not scared of you. You're a prisoner, yeah, and this is how we treat prisoners, regardless of the crime. You're still a person.”

“Yeah, right,” Ryan sneered. “Dubhe can preach on and on about his bullshit of becoming a better person, but that doesn't actually make it work. You wouldn't listen to him if no one ever had to face consequences for not listening to him. And everyone will still listen to me because of all the people who've had to face consequences for not doing so."

She tilted her head at him. “You really can't believe it, can you? You were so mean to people, just to get them to do what you wanted. You can't imagine a world where people listen to their king without him threatening to kill us. You can't even begin to picture it, can you?”

The look in her eyes felt almost like pity.

Ryan wondered if this was how cats felt after being declawed.

“I don't want you touching my arm," he said after a moment. "You're a coward, a liar, and an idiot, and you don't understand how the crown works. But since I know you're scared of me, and I know you're supposed to fix my arm, I do have a different request. I want to talk to the angel.”

“The… what?”

“Onyx. I'd imagine he's either a prisoner or one of Dubhe's personal guests by now. You may treat my arm in Onyx's presence.”

“If I figure out what the hell you're talking about, I can pass along the request. Don't get your hopes up.”

“I won't let you treat my arm otherwise," he repeated.

"Okay, so I'll pass along the request." She rolled her eyes. "I don't care about your arm. My job is to offer to treat it, not to barter with you. I hope you’re aware that leaving that arm alone will have a lot more negative consequences for you than it will for me.”

~

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