fangs lungs ankles

A few feet away, Klaus lifted the orange cap off his head and scratched at his hair. “Uh, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Mr. Oz looked at him. “What?”

“Y’know. Letting a subhuman carry a gun around.”

Subhuman, huh.

“Oh, please. He knows how to handle it, you heard him.”

“That’s what I’m fuckin’ worried about!” Klaus pulled the cap back on, flattening his hair to his forehead. “What if he decides to use it on us and start an uprising?” 

Port tensed as both sets of eyes landed on him. He hadn’t even thought about it until Klaus brought it up. It didn't sit right with him at all.

“Are you trying to give him ideas?” Mr. Oz laughed. “You’re not gonna try to kill us, are you?”

“Of course not, sir.” Port glanced between the both of them. “I’d get in real trouble for that.”

Mr. Oz laughed again. “See? It’s fine.”

Klaus threw his hands up. “Whatever. You’re the one who better watch his back. I’ve got my own gun.”

“Watch my back for you, maybe,” Mr. Oz said, turning to rummage for something in the backseat of the pickup truck.

Klaus shot Port a toothy smile. “We’re friends, right, Porter?”

Friends seemed generous. They weren’t equals, not even close. But it seemed to be what Klaus wanted to hear. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus patted him roughly on the back. “Alright! We’re gonna be best buds.”

~~~

The sun hadn’t yet risen, but the stars were starting to dim. They’d gotten a real early start today, leaving home around 4 AM to get to the spot before dawn.

“It’s slim pickin’s on public land,” Klaus had explained. “But my cousin owns a ranch out here and he’s given me and Parse permission to hunt for the past few years. I can tell ya we won’t be going home empty-handed.”

The grass brushed by his shins, curving under the weight of last night’s rain. He made his way through the field, carefully stepping around a film of fresh spiderweb beaded with pearly drops of dew. The hems of his jeans were well on their way to soaked already. The tips of his ears were a little cold.

He walked in step behind Mr. Oz, Klaus trailing close behind. It struck him how trusting his master was to turn his back on him when he had a weapon in his hands. He never even cast a glance over his shoulder. 

He could feel Klaus’ eyes on the back of his head, however, as they made for the tree line. “The stand is less than half a mile in,” Klaus said. “Keep your eyes peeled. We could run into game on the way.”

The trees had started dropping their leaves. The rain made them pliable— not too much crunch. Mr. Oz pushed past a low hanging branch and some water sprinkled on his head.

They came across a narrow creek that went as far as the eye could see in either direction. A few sticks floated in the current of the dark water. It stretched slightly too wide to simply step across, but could easily be jumped, Port thought.

“Damn,” Klaus said. “Our bridge fell in.” 

Port realized there were a few planks of wood barely sticking out of the water, slanted against the muddy bank on the opposite side.

“We can put it back up,” Mr. Oz said. “I’ll go first. Pass me the gun before you come over.”

“Yes, sir.” Port watched Mr. Oz take a small running start and bound rather ungracefully across the creek. He landed heavily in the dirt on the other side. Porter carefully transferred the rifle to him, standing right on the edge of the creek with both arms reaching over the running water. Mr. Oz turned to rest the rifle against the trunk of a tree as Port calculated his own jump.

Just as he was shifting his feet, there was a mighty shove against his back. He lost his balance, stepping forward into open air. He toppled over and landed on his knees in the water. His hands scraped the bank on the other side, catching stones and exposed roots.

Mr. Oz whirled around at the splash. “For fuck’s sake, Port.” 

Klaus was snickering behind him. “He just wanted to go for a swim.”

Port avoided looking at either of them. His face turned hot, even though it wasn’t really his fault. He stood, boots sinking into the muddy bottom. The water was shallow and slow-running— it barely went to his knees. But his bottom half was completely soaked, now. He blinked away dirty water that had splashed into his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quietly to Mr. Oz as he made to climb out. Klaus was still chuckling. What was that about an uprising? he thought wryly. Guess Klaus felt safer now that the gun was out of his hands. Port would take the blame for falling— he wouldn't tell. Most people didn’t take kindly to snitching.

“Hold on,” Mr. Oz said. “You might as well fish out those planks while you’re in there.” 

Port aborted his ascent and obediently waded over to the planks. He lifted them out of the water, placing them across the creek as a makeshift bridge. They were rotting a little. Port wasn’t sure how much he’d trust stepping on them.

He climbed out as Klaus hopped across, shotgun slung on his back. Port was all waterlogged and dripping.

“You’re gonna get trench foot,” Mr. Oz said.

Port didn’t know what exactly ‘trench foot’ was but it was probably true. His socks were squelching with every step. 

“And trench dick,” Klaus added.

Mr. Oz raised his eyebrows. “That, too.”

~~~

It wasn’t too long before Port was able to spy the deer stand peeking through the gaps between the trees. It was a tiny wooden thing on stilts, right by the edge of a clearing. They went up the stairs single file, slats creaking with each heavy boot. Inside the little room was nearly too dark to see. What little natural light there was filtered in through the narrow cut-outs in the walls.

Pushed in the corner were two desk chairs on wheels. The fabric of the seats was dingy and pilling. Klaus went straight to one of them and sat down, resting his shotgun against the wall. 

Thankfully, Mr. Oz had spare pairs of socks and underwear in his backpack. “I always bring extras,” he mused as he pulled them out. “You never know when you might fall in a river. Or shit yourself.”

“It’s a good habit,” Port agreed, ignoring the last bit.

He went back outside to change, stepping through the stilts so he could stand directly under the room and have some sense of privacy. He didn’t like the idea of being watched.

He didn’t want to put his soaking pants back on, so he hung them on the X-shaped support to dry. He felt awkward all half-naked, but he figured it was better than being soggy. He took his jacket off and wrung out the wet part of his shirt as best he could. He shivered, cold and miserable, palms stinging with tiny cuts.

He went back into the deer stand, holding his jacket in front of himself in an attempt at modesty. Klaus spun around in his chair at his entrance. 

“Whoa there!” he exclaimed. “Do you always take your pants off on the first date?”

Port forced a smile. “Only if I’m wet enough.”

Klaus laughed really hard at that, and Mr. Oz pointedly looked away. “You’re gonna scare the damn deer off,” he muttered.

Port retreated into the corner of the room as Klaus got a hold of himself. “Hour after first light is prime time,” he said in Port’s direction. “I prefer the walk-and-stalk method. I get real bored sittin' in this thing.” He crossed his arms, thinking. “Whaddya say we try it out?”

Port blinked. “You and me?”

“Yeah. In an hour or so.”

Hiking alone in the woods with Klaus was not the most appealing idea to him. He looked to Mr. Oz for any indication of what to say.

Mr. Oz shrugged. “Go with him. It’ll be fun. I’m staying here, though.”

Port carefully did not make a face. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus smiled wide. “Great! I’ll get a little hunting buddy today. Not that you’re little, Port.” 

He smiled back politely. “A little too tall, maybe.”

Mr. Oz sighed forlornly, staring out into the clearing. “I’ve always wanted a hunting buddy. I tried to get my daughter into hunting, y’know, but she wasn’t interested at all. Wouldn’t even touch the gun.” He tugged his knit cap further over his ears. “She was always kind of a pussy.”

Klaus shared a look with Port, grimacing. Yeesh, he mouthed. Port pursed his lips and looked away. Nothing good ever came of his master thinking about his family. 

Mr. Oz was oblivious, busy in his brooding. “I was really excited when I had a son. I thought he would be more like me. I would’ve liked to take him out here, but…” he trailed off, jaw working.

Port was silent. Klaus was silent. Mr. Oz scowled at the both of them. “Whatever. Neither of you would know anything about that.”

Klaus scratched at his beard. “No siree. Kids sound like a pain in the ass to me.”

“Trust me, they are,” he said darkly.

They were silent for some time after that, keeping watch for wildlife. Port grew chiller by the minute now that he wasn’t moving around anymore, not to mention the starkness of his legs.

Movement outside caught his eye. He peered into the trees, leaves catching the early morning light. He didn’t spot it immediately, but as he squinted— there it was. A buck, two antlers spouting from its skull. Its head swiveled, trying to catch a scent.

“Sir,” he whispered. They both turned curiously. “Look.”

Mr. Oz saddled up beside him, quietly pulling his chair over. “Good eye,” he complimented. They watched the deer’s head dip, lipping at something in a bush. Port was entranced the sight. It was a shame they were supposed to kill it.

“Do you want to take it?” Mr. Oz asked.

Port’s brow furrowed. “Shoot it, you mean?”

“Yeah.” 

When was the last time he had looked at something through the scope of a rifle? What was the last thing he had killed? Something twinged behind his eye. He pressed at his temple with a few fingers, trying to soothe the ache. It was a bad idea to try and think about things from so long ago.

“I think you should,” Port decided.

Mr. Oz’s face flashed with disappointment. Port almost took it back, but Mr. Oz was already slowly setting the rifle on the ledge and peering through the scope himself.

It was a bad shot— the deer was at a weird angle. Mr. Oz stayed still, waiting for it to move. Port listened to the back-and-forth of birdsong in the meantime. The birds were all awake by now, whistling at each other. 

The deer took a few delicate steps forward, nibbling at the vegetation. Content in its own happiness, it bared its broad side to the gun.

Port held his breath as Mr. Oz adjusted the rifle, finger teasing at the trigger. Just then, a bright red cardinal flew out from somewhere within the trees and shot by the buck’s head. It startled, flinging its white tail up and leaping back into the bushes. 

Mr. Oz grunted, leaning back. “There’ll be more.”

⭑ next

------

He twitched at the sudden pressure. They trained so many of his instincts out of him, but when roused from sleep, some found their way back. He recoiled as best he could, a soft sound of pained confusion escaping him. But he came to quicker this time, and seemed to realize where he was.

She removed her foot from his head. "Get up."

He stumbled up into a standing position, the effort made harder without the use of his hands. She’d been serious, then. For some reason, when she’d said in the morning, he had not interpreted it as the second he woke up. Maybe he should have. His brain wasn’t even working all the way yet. He tugged idly at the chain, meaning to just wipe at his eyes, but stopped when he realized that would be impossible.

The threat of further kicking hung in the air for a moment, before she fiddled with the padlock and released the chain that kept Delta's cuffs tethered to the bolt in the floor. She looped a finger around the chain-links between his wrists and gave it a sharp tug.

"We've got somewhere to be."

“Where’s that, sir?” he asked, biting back the yawn and following behind her. It might’ve just been better for him to stay quiet at that point, but the question seemed inoffensive enough. He felt oddly cold as she walked him through the metal corridors.

She pulled the chain forward with a grunt. "Upstairs." 

Amira dragged Delta down the hall to the elevators. They ascended to one of the upper decks, a large open control-room like space, with the far wall made entirely of glass, looking out into the starry depths beyond. 

There was some sort of contraption, an apparatus of some kind, erected in the center of the room. It was like a frame, a bit larger than a clothing rack, with bolts at each of its corners. Members of the crew stilled as they entered, filing out to fill the space surrounding the central apparatus. 

His reaction to the sight was intensely negative. It was nice to see the stars again, however briefly. His cell had afforded no view of them — and he missed being able to roam freely. But it was all overshadowed by the room’s centerpiece.

“…Sir?” he addressed Amira nervously, quietly. Not pleased with any metal thing meant to hold him, not pleased with the appearance of other people within the space. He kept his voice low so only she could hear. 

Fear slowed him. The resistance was subtle, but he was definitely dragging his feet. He didn’t like to. He knew it wouldn’t do anything — they could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d have no recourse. But the fear and uncertainty were fully gnawing at him. It was the not knowing that got to him. She could at least give him a warning, some indication of what was about to happen. He’d gone all rigid.

Amira pulled Delta to the center where Marston met her, and together they tethered Delta's hands to the bolts in the top two corners, two more shackles locked around his ankles and held them fast against the bottom two corners. He was pinned like a butterfly inside the metallic frame.

He stopped fighting it just as soon as she moved to shackle him. It was exceptionally obvious that she was going to go through with this. She’d already drawn a crowd. Delta felt he was beginning to understand her better, knew well enough that there was no way she’d be able to back out of this now—even if she wanted to.

Amira said nothing as she chained him in, only responding to his little confused inquiry when she stepped back to take in the sight of him, to make sure all was in place. 

"The problem is clear," she projected her voice, addressing Delta but also the entire room. "You've said it yourself. In fact, you keep saying it over and over again. 'I belong to Empire.'” 

"And I'd thought," she paused, as if for dramatic effect—her voice was different when she addressed the whole room, "that we had settled this. That you understood the terms of your own surrender." 

"But," she paused, letting a half-breath of silence hang in the air alongside her captive. "It seems you are still suffering from that same stubborn delusion. You still don't quite realize your position."

"Well, you're going to learn exactly who you belong to today."

Delta’s assumption was only confirmed by the way her voice changed. She wasn’t even speaking to him anymore. She was just addressing the audience. He’d had enough experience with spectacle to know when a show is being put on—and his role as unwilling participant came as no surprise either.

This felt different though. His stomach dropped a little as he realized he had totally lost his chance to negotiate with her. It had ended as soon as they’d entered the room.

All the effort now was spent on a good performance. He didn’t want to risk her ire by ruining it, did not want to debase himself with any futile attempts to stop it. But just as before, he had no idea what she wanted from him, no idea what was about to happen.

His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. They’d fixed on some odd point on the floor, where he could pretend not to notice the room’s laser focus on him and her. He gave no reply.

Amira was glad he didn't respond. She imagined he'd figured out it was probably the best choice, as any argument would only serve to prove her point. 

Marston walked back over to Amira holding something metal in her hands—a long metal rod with something carved at the end, like some sort of design. 

He recognized the brand for what it was and was fully unable to stop himself from panic. His wrists turned idly in the restraints. There was clearly no hope of actually escaping them, but his own nervousness prevented him from staying still.

Amira held it in her hand and approached Delta closer, holding it up for him to see. It was a bird, carved out of metal, with its wings spread high, like a halo over its head. 

"You probably won't recognize this. It's an Eastern Xolluvian Thunderbird, known for its call that could sound for miles through the densest forests.” A hint of something almost reverent laced her tone when she said this, although it disappeared just as quickly. "They aren't around anymore, though. Would you care to guess why?"

He did look at her now—because she was close, because she wanted him to. The look in his eyes had turned pleading—it would have even if he wasn’t trying to.

“Sir,” he said, completely ignoring the question. “I know who I belong to. This isn’t necessary. Please.”

His voice was level and low. In fact, his lips had barely moved. He was deliberate in this — no one else would hear the answer he had given. It wasn’t for their benefit. He was trying to speak to her now. Not the Captain, not whoever she was pretending to be in the moment. Amira.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke, piercing like arrows as though trying to see through him—did he mean he belonged to her? Or Empire? She'd heard him say he belonged to Empire more times than she could count—but if he'd meant her— 

In the end, she knew it didn't matter. The stage had been set. The actors to their positions. The scene would proceed as directed. 

She lowered her tone to match his own, a hint of bite mixed with a tinge of regret. "You don't decide what's necessary."

This was actually happening. Delta withered a bit from the rebuke, though truthfully he’d already seen it coming.

He still twisted a bit in the restraints, cursing the anticipation. He’d been biting his lip, but stopped, too nervous he might pierce through it when the time came.

She took a step back, raising the carved metallic bird once more. "This creature, like so many others,” She was addressing the room again. “—fell to the destruction of your Empire. The way they gutted the lands—as they did our people—it drove many species and civilizations to extinction. The planet doesn't look green from orbit these days. The Thunderbird got snuffed out with the rest of its ecosystem.” 

To his credit, he did listen, though he again suspected this was more for the benefit of the audience than any message intended for him. He understood political theater. He recognized this was important to her.

“We wear its image on our flags, our backs, to remember this creature and all the rest taken from us by Empire. And now, it will mark you as well. I want you to remember every life you've taken, every civilization you've helped destroy. Every world you've snuffed out for the sake of your beloved Prince. I want you never to forget, for as long as this marks your chest, that you are my property now."

The speech had turned abruptly personal. He felt a little bit as if she’d just raked her nails across his heart. It had scraped and disrupted the secret he’d kept so tight in his chest.

Every life you’ve taken, every civilization you’ve helped destroy.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said automatically, the only thing he’d said at all today that might be halfway audible to the room. He’d apologized to her so often, over everything, that to say it and mean it felt like an almost alien experience. The wound felt raw. Something deeper and colder than shame pooled within it.

He remembered he used to fantasize about what he might deserve. It had been far worse than this.

Amira blinked at him, eyebrows twitching up just a touch when he said it—he almost sounded sincere—but he was desperate, she was sure, to say anything to end this. No, in the end, if he was learning his lesson now, it was only because she was finally showing him she was serious. To back down now would teach him the opposite—that he could bowl her over with a bat of his eyelashes. Never.

She handed the metal bird off to Marston, who held it still while two other crew members pointed large bright lasers at the metal until it began to glow. 

It grew from a deep red to a bright orange, and the laser guns powered down before Marston passed the metal baton back to Amira. 

“…Can I have something to bite?” he asked, by way of concession. His voice was still low, but not with the same hushed urgency. He’d watched carefully as the metal had changed colors. He knew it would not be the same burns he was used to. He knew just from looking at it that it’d be worse.

She heard Delta's question and considered it. "Fine," she said, deciding the burn itself would be enough and he didn't need to bite his own tongue out in the process. That would cause more problems than it would fix. 

She nodded to Marston, who reached down and unclipped a leather strap around her thigh—one of several that held her various weapons and gadgetry. She held the leather to Delta's lips.

He muttered his thanks from around the leather strap. He really hadn’t expected her to agree to that. He was pretty sure she was committed to making this as unbearable as possible—every other action she’d taken in the past twenty four hours seemed to suggest as much.

Delta wasn’t sure whether to look or not when the iron struck—and he hadn’t made up his mind about it when it abruptly made contact with his chest.

He thrashed. It was the only time in years he could remember actually trying to escape his restraints. It came on no conscious level—just base instinct, some animal consciousness in pure desperation to get away. The scream was muffled by the strap, then half choked off by his own will—he was still trying to take it in silence, though he had so clearly failed at that.

Amira heard the sizzle before she heard the scream. And then it came, muffled by the leather but still bright with pain, with panic, with the desperation of a trapped creature, cornered and helpless, finally getting what it deserved. 

She watched the way he twitched, bright and seizing—the way he still writhed when she pulled it away, before withering in the chains like a wilting flower. 

It burned hotter and lasted forever, more than he would have ever expected necessary for the image to take. He was in sheer panic as the iron seared into him—and remained in sheer panic for several moments after it was finally pulled away.

Amira passed the metal behind her and stepped closer, speaking only to him. 

"I want you to tell me who you belong to, Delta."

Delta blinked. She’d asked a bit too soon. He needed the time to come back to himself. The look in his eyes was still dazed and wild. But she reached him, somehow. He had to speak around pained breaths. When he spoke, it was like he did not fully understand where the words were coming from.

“Um,” he winced, like even speaking pained him, like there was nothing for him in this moment but pain. “You? I-? You, sir. I belong to you. Um.”

His own breathing distracted him. He seemed like he was having trouble with it.

It wasn't as eloquent as she'd hoped, but all things considered—

"Correct. But you can do better than that. Let's hear it again now, louder this time. Tell us who you belong to, Delta."

There was a soft whine, mostly unrelated to her order.

“I belong to you, sir,” he repeated without hesitation. His eyes were fully squeezed shut; he was only barely conscious of what she was saying to him. It seemed like he was capable of entertaining two fully separate experiences simultaneously. He could tell her what she wanted to hear. Most of his thoughts were still occupied by the burning by the make it fucking stop please. But the iron had been pulled away. They weren’t hurting him anymore. But the burn was still there, still running clean through him, and would be. Forever? He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were still knee-jerk and animalistic. Dazed. It hurt.

“Good,” she said. “If you make any attempt to mar the scarring or the healing process I will do it again on your other side of your chest. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t stand the tone she was still taking with him, like she was still mad, like even this had not been enough. It confirmed something he already knew, something he’d turned over in his head over and over again when he’d first learned what murder meant. That no amount of repentance would ever be enough. That he will never be forgiven. All his thoughts were still clouded with pain, so much that he felt he was dreaming.

It was harder for him to decipher her words than the effect, but when he did manage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no desire to do that, nor even the knowledge of how to. The threat was all that registered. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, quieter. He wanted it to be over. He hoped that was what she was building to.

“You’re to make no attempt to pull away. To resist us. And the attitude is something I should never have to mention again. Am I understood.”

Delta gave a morose nod, and at the snap of her fingers, Amira summoned two crew members to dismantle Delta from the apparatus. He was positioned on his knees, forehead pressed into the ground, his wrists cuffed behind him this time. His ankles were still chained to the sides of the frame, making the position awkward and putting unnecessary pressure on his hips. The horror of his fate settled in when he felt his cuffed wrists being drawn up above his back and attached to a chain that dangled from the top of the apparatus. The position forced his shoulders to strain painfully, trapping him in the forced bow.

It didn’t take him long at all to slip into total misery. It wasn’t hard. He was in pain and given no distraction for it. The position was meant to humiliate him. It succeeded. 

Delta knew nobody viewed him as a person. This kind of treatment should not have registered as a surprise. But it did. It was fucking painful. He was at least granted the option of pretending sometimes, that he did not exist solely for other people, that he was not just an object that constantly needed to be put in its place. It was able to recede into background noise most of the time.

Here, that reality was painful and unavoidable. He wasn’t even allowed to move. They’d done it to hurt him, because they thought he deserved it. They’d done it to remind him of his place, to make the difference between himself and real people so stark that it could never be doubted. He understood. He understood that, so could they please just fucking stop.

He was crying. It started without him meaning to, and persisted beyond his ability to control it. He pressed his forehead tighter to the ground, just trying to brace against it, to have something that could ground him. 

It was hard not to despair when his compliance had not been enough, when every second he stayed here represented a second in which he was not forgiven, in which they were still mad at him, even though he was so fucking sorry. It was hard not to despair that this was what he’d been born to, molded into against his will. He’d never asked for this. He never wanted to be this. 

He brushed up against his own nerve with that thought—and was unable to fully silence the sob that it brought up. Fuck, he was losing it. He took deep breaths to steady himself, to not get completely hysterical. He wanted to.

He wondered if Paris was even looking for him.

༻✧༺

Amira’s voice echoed off the walls of the deck where everyone had gathered, pausing every now and then to let her squad leaders give their reports. 

She was ignoring him. He was meant to stay there for a reason. He was meant to learn his place and have it reinforced until it needed no further reminder. She was sick of having the same argument with him, night after night. About insolence, about attitude, about loyalty. About Empire. Her loathing for everything that had happened—everything they’d done—everything he had done—led her tone, sturdy and unquestioning, through that morning’s all-hands meeting.

It went on as usual until something unexpected happened. Someone spoke out—Maddox—a lower level engineer with glasses, his braided hair pulled back into a ponytail—he’d raised his hand, as though anything about what he was about to say was anything close to polite.

“Sir, Sir?—He’s, he’s crying… Sir.” Maddox lowered his hand, eyeing the ground, as though expecting a scolding. Amira studied him. She turned her gaze to Delta, trembling in his position with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground.

They’d said Delta’s name a few times throughout the meeting — not addressing him, not even acknowledging his presence in the room — just the passing mention of his powers. His utility. His heart had stopped spiking after the first few mentions of it. By then, he’d almost tuned it out.

For this reason, he almost didn’t notice when they were actually talking about him. 

He’s crying.

Shame and fear flooded him in equal measure, with another short burst of energy about how unfair it was. He hadn’t even been making noise. He’d done everything to quiet the sobs. He couldn’t help the shaking, but he knew he’d likely be doing that even if he wasn’t crying. The position put too much strain on him to avoid it.

He forced himself to stop just as soon as it was acknowledged, quieting entirely, nearly holding his breath. He half-expected to be kicked for it. He almost expected Amira to press his head to the ground with her boots again, like she wanted to destroy the most valuable part of him.

“He looks adequately humbled, does he not?” Amira addressed the engineer with narrowed eyes, while her projected tone held the rest of the crowd—the whole room. 

Her response came just as callous and did nothing to calm or disabuse him. She’d wanted this. Something in Delta ached.

“He’s—I’m just saying, Sir, he’s… been through a lot, today, Sir.” 

It was only when Maddox spoke again that Delta could understand what was actually happening. Some human response to the crying—sympathy he was never meant to elicit—it surprised him. That much was rarely extended to real people in Empire, let alone to him. 

Amira was buried for a moment, pupils dilating to tiny, shaking points. How dare he. How dare this nobody—this ignorant foot soldier— But she steadied herself. Caught her rising breath. 

She had realized something much bigger was happening now. She was losing control of the room. 

If it was one man dissenting, it could be more. Not that she’d ever relent to one person’s will, especially one so lowly ranked—no— No. This was going to take tact. Not a complete shut down, but a middle ground. She couldn’t relent entirely. Plus, Delta deserved it. After everything was said and done, he would always deserve it. 

“I assure you, that the next ten minutes will not mean his death. I have one final announcement…”

He still didn’t get his hopes up. All his hope was cautious, but he had already braced himself for hours of this. He tried to be quiet for the remainder of it.

༻✧༺

The next ten minutes dragged into the next fifteen, into the next twenty, as Amira discussed various battle plans and training strategies for the psychic, bowing and shaking at her feet.

He accepted pretty quickly that it'd been a false promise, likely only meant to dismiss the concern. Delta counted up to the ten minute mark, and realizing she was nowhere near done speaking, stopped counting. He'd stopped crying, too, for the time being. Though he hadn't been directly punished for it, the shock of it being acknowledged had scared him badly enough to not want to do it again. 

It was hard to relax into the position. That was the point, of course. He understood how these things worked. It was getting more painful each second, the pressure at his shoulders compounding so severely he feared they might pop out of the sockets. He knew that he would've begged, if he thought it would do any good. 

Amira thought Delta looked properly cowed, kneeling there, cowering like he'd be safer if he just kept his head down. 

Despite her satisfaction at her prisoner’s position, Amira resented that his plea for pity was somewhat working. On her crew members, anyway. Well, on that one, at least. And a few others, from what she could tell from the few concerned expressions passed around the room. Her ranks loathed Empire, unquestionably so, but the sentiment that radiated from her team right now was uncommonly unsettling—it made Amira question things a bit. Back up a step, perhaps. 

At twenty minutes, Amira's topics were getting checked off her list one by one, and her worries with them—save for that pretty blue diamond kneeling in the center of the room.

Burned. Branded with her insignia. 

She needed to finish this, properly, before anything blew over. 

"Good," she said, to no one in particular, when the latest officer had finished his statement. 

"I'm finished with this for today, you all know your assignments. We make way for the Serraphial Cluster. The NeuWong system isn't far from there, and our next contact is close. New guns. New mechs, if we play our cards right. I expect everyone to their positions immediately following commissary hour. Dismissed."

She mumbled orders to Jackie and Jimenez, who stood obediently behind her. "Escort him back."

Delta wasn't expecting it when she finally agreed to let him down. He almost didn't hear it. He collapsed entirely when his wrists were unshackled from the chain overhead, arms having gone completely numb with the effort. Luckily, he didn't have far to fall.

Jackie's arm shot downwards as soon as she released the chain that held his cuffed wrists aloft and Delta went down—her hand caught his shoulder, hoisting him back up the second the burned flesh on his chest was about to hit the ground. 

Amira had said not to fuck up the scarring. Surely, releasing him straight onto the fresh burn was a bad start to that. With a relieved breath, she maneuvered him around with Jimenez' help. Delta moved like a limp puppet on strings, lifted only by the forces that held him afloat—no resistance to gravity if left to his own. 

The sensation was not new, but it never stopped feeling odd. What was disappointing was that release did not even register as relief. It was just a different kind of pain. It would feel better, eventually. He knew it would recede some in the following minutes.

His disappointment was intensified by the fact they'd left his wrists restrained behind him, so the full range of motion would still not be afforded to him. He thought he understood why. They didn't want him to touch the burn. It wasn't like he was all that inclined to do that in the first place, even if he hadn't been threatened.

He had to lean on them slightly just to walk upright, his legs also numbed from disuse. He said nothing. He did cast one final look at Amira, just to see if she was even looking, if she'd even speak to him again after this.

Delta was dragged down back to the lower levels of the ship, back to the room that held his cell, that held his chains. But something changed this time. 

It was clear he’d peaked past exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Though he gave them no struggle, he also gave them zero help. He all but collapsed in the handlers’ grip. He knew it was kind of a rude thing to do, to make someone bear all his weight like that, but it wasn’t like there was much of it to begin with. He wasn’t capable of holding his own anymore.

Jackie, the handler to his right, handed Delta entirely over to Jimenez, the tall handler to his left, until Delta was held back by the man at his biceps while he watched Jackie cross the room towards a small storage closet. She wrenched a small, dense parcel from the shelving unit inside, which, upon unwrapping it from its outer canvass, appeared to be a foldable camping cot. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as the cot was unfolded, too tired to think much about it. 

Jackie adjusted the cot to take up the meager floor space in the back of the cell, before gesturing to Jimenez to deposit Delta atop it. Delta was kind of uncomfortable being maneuvered onto it—but the medical scene was at least familiar. He knew how to be a good patient. It was somewhat gentle, better than a full on throw. It still hurt when he moved. Any dramatic motion made him almost blackout with pain. They’d tried. They had the burn to worry about.

"The burn," Jimenez muttered to Jackie when Delta was settled on the cot. 

"Yeah, so? Get your ass in the cabinets and find something. It's gotta heal correctly," Jackie hissed, voice low, as though Delta were a sleeping child not to be disturbed. 

She stood over him, watching him, waiting for any reaction, while Jimenez stomped off to rummage through the medical supplies in the adjacent cabinets. 

"Burn salve?" His voice carried across the room despite his posture, crouched down, his head still buried in a lower cabinet. 

"Should do it!" Jackie called back, suddenly abandoning any commitment to whispered silence. 

"Gauze," Jackie called after a few seconds, and Jimenez rummaged for a few more seconds before he called out, "Got it," and approached the cell once more.

Delta looked back, but the stare was impassive. Even now, there was a kind of distance forming between them. It did not feel as though he was really seeing her. 

They’re broke, he thought again, bitterly. But he corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure they had better medical treatment available, some sterile room. They must have. It just wasn’t being afforded to him at the moment. The thought made him mildly nervous. That the people he belonged to would risk everything to keep him healthy was a constant he had never had to fear would be taken away.

Luckily, there were the bare essentials in the room—a sink, Jackie washed her hands, put on gloves, and began to apply the salve to his chest carefully. 

Delta’s eyes snapped shut again at the contact. Though the motion was careful and the salve was meant to soothe, the wound was still raw and burning. The only thing that kept him from crying out was some well-trained reflex to be quiet. He stopped breathing instead.

They made him sit up for the bandages, unlocking the cuffs around his wrists so they could wrap the gauze in a long ribbon around his torso. Delta let himself be manipulated, having now been thoroughly dissuaded from the idea of putting up any resistance at all. The layers wound around his chest like a constricting blanket, soft yet pressing against the fresh burn. 

He didn’t thank them. It was not out of impoliteness, just habit. His old medics didn’t like it when he spoke.

They laid him down afterwards. "There. He'll be fine like this," came Jackie's voice.

“His hands,” Jimenez commented. “Shouldn’t he be… you know, restrained?”

“We can do the one,” Jackie responded, lifting the closest of Delta’s wrists and snapping it into one of the cuffs that sat chained into the bolt in the floor. 

“Keep him from rolling over,” Jackie confirmed, knowing Delta had enough leeway to shift around a bit but not enough to ruin the burn. 

Without much more than another word, they left the cell and locked it, closing the heavy sliding door behind them.

༻✧༺

Next chapter is already written! Coming soon!

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He twitched at the sudden pressure. They trained so many of his instincts out of him, but when roused from sleep, some found their way back. He recoiled as best he could, a soft sound of pained confusion escaping him. But he came to quicker this time, and seemed to realize where he was.

She removed her foot from his head. "Get up."

He stumbled up into a standing position, the effort made harder without the use of his hands. She’d been serious, then. For some reason, when she’d said in the morning, he had not interpreted it as the second he woke up. Maybe he should have. His brain wasn’t even working all the way yet. He tugged idly at the chain, meaning to just wipe at his eyes, but stopped when he realized that would be impossible.

The threat of further kicking hung in the air for a moment, before she fiddled with the padlock and released the chain that kept Delta's cuffs tethered to the bolt in the floor. She looped a finger around the chain-links between his wrists and gave it a sharp tug.

"We've got somewhere to be."

“Where’s that, sir?” he asked, biting back the yawn and following behind her. It might’ve just been better for him to stay quiet at that point, but the question seemed inoffensive enough. He felt oddly cold as she walked him through the metal corridors.

She pulled the chain forward with a grunt. "Upstairs." 

Amira dragged Delta down the hall to the elevators. They ascended to one of the upper decks, a large open control-room like space, with the far wall made entirely of glass, looking out into the starry depths beyond. 

There was some sort of contraption, an apparatus of some kind, erected in the center of the room. It was like a frame, a bit larger than a clothing rack, with bolts at each of its corners. Members of the crew stilled as they entered, filing out to fill the space surrounding the central apparatus. 

His reaction to the sight was intensely negative. It was nice to see the stars again, however briefly. His cell had afforded no view of them — and he missed being able to roam freely. But it was all overshadowed by the room’s centerpiece.

“…Sir?” he addressed Amira nervously, quietly. Not pleased with any metal thing meant to hold him, not pleased with the appearance of other people within the space. He kept his voice low so only she could hear. 

Fear slowed him. The resistance was subtle, but he was definitely dragging his feet. He didn’t like to. He knew it wouldn’t do anything — they could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d have no recourse. But the fear and uncertainty were fully gnawing at him. It was the not knowing that got to him. She could at least give him a warning, some indication of what was about to happen. He’d gone all rigid.

Amira pulled Delta to the center where Marston met her, and together they tethered Delta's hands to the bolts in the top two corners, two more shackles locked around his ankles and held them fast against the bottom two corners. He was pinned like a butterfly inside the metallic frame.

He stopped fighting it just as soon as she moved to shackle him. It was exceptionally obvious that she was going to go through with this. She’d already drawn a crowd. Delta felt he was beginning to understand her better, knew well enough that there was no way she’d be able to back out of this now—even if she wanted to.

Amira said nothing as she chained him in, only responding to his little confused inquiry when she stepped back to take in the sight of him, to make sure all was in place. 

"The problem is clear," she projected her voice, addressing Delta but also the entire room. "You've said it yourself. In fact, you keep saying it over and over again. 'I belong to Empire.'” 

"And I'd thought," she paused, as if for dramatic effect—her voice was different when she addressed the whole room, "that we had settled this. That you understood the terms of your own surrender." 

"But," she paused, letting a half-breath of silence hang in the air alongside her captive. "It seems you are still suffering from that same stubborn delusion. You still don't quite realize your position."

"Well, you're going to learn exactly who you belong to today."

Delta’s assumption was only confirmed by the way her voice changed. She wasn’t even speaking to him anymore. She was just addressing the audience. He’d had enough experience with spectacle to know when a show is being put on—and his role as unwilling participant came as no surprise either.

This felt different though. His stomach dropped a little as he realized he had totally lost his chance to negotiate with her. It had ended as soon as they’d entered the room.

All the effort now was spent on a good performance. He didn’t want to risk her ire by ruining it, did not want to debase himself with any futile attempts to stop it. But just as before, he had no idea what she wanted from him, no idea what was about to happen.

His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. They’d fixed on some odd point on the floor, where he could pretend not to notice the room’s laser focus on him and her. He gave no reply.

Amira was glad he didn't respond. She imagined he'd figured out it was probably the best choice, as any argument would only serve to prove her point. 

Marston walked back over to Amira holding something metal in her hands—a long metal rod with something carved at the end, like some sort of design. 

He recognized the brand for what it was and was fully unable to stop himself from panic. His wrists turned idly in the restraints. There was clearly no hope of actually escaping them, but his own nervousness prevented him from staying still.

Amira held it in her hand and approached Delta closer, holding it up for him to see. It was a bird, carved out of metal, with its wings spread high, like a halo over its head. 

"You probably won't recognize this. It's an Eastern Xolluvian Thunderbird, known for its call that could sound for miles through the densest forests.” A hint of something almost reverent laced her tone when she said this, although it disappeared just as quickly. "They aren't around anymore, though. Would you care to guess why?"

He did look at her now—because she was close, because she wanted him to. The look in his eyes had turned pleading—it would have even if he wasn’t trying to.

“Sir,” he said, completely ignoring the question. “I know who I belong to. This isn’t necessary. Please.”

His voice was level and low. In fact, his lips had barely moved. He was deliberate in this — no one else would hear the answer he had given. It wasn’t for their benefit. He was trying to speak to her now. Not the Captain, not whoever she was pretending to be in the moment. Amira.

Her eyes snapped to his when he spoke, piercing like arrows as though trying to see through him—did he mean he belonged to her? Or Empire? She'd heard him say he belonged to Empire more times than she could count—but if he'd meant her— 

In the end, she knew it didn't matter. The stage had been set. The actors to their positions. The scene would proceed as directed. 

She lowered her tone to match his own, a hint of bite mixed with a tinge of regret. "You don't decide what's necessary."

This was actually happening. Delta withered a bit from the rebuke, though truthfully he’d already seen it coming.

He still twisted a bit in the restraints, cursing the anticipation. He’d been biting his lip, but stopped, too nervous he might pierce through it when the time came.

She took a step back, raising the carved metallic bird once more. "This creature, like so many others,” She was addressing the room again. “—fell to the destruction of your Empire. The way they gutted the lands—as they did our people—it drove many species and civilizations to extinction. The planet doesn't look green from orbit these days. The Thunderbird got snuffed out with the rest of its ecosystem.” 

To his credit, he did listen, though he again suspected this was more for the benefit of the audience than any message intended for him. He understood political theater. He recognized this was important to her.

“We wear its image on our flags, our backs, to remember this creature and all the rest taken from us by Empire. And now, it will mark you as well. I want you to remember every life you've taken, every civilization you've helped destroy. Every world you've snuffed out for the sake of your beloved Prince. I want you never to forget, for as long as this marks your chest, that you are my property now."

The speech had turned abruptly personal. He felt a little bit as if she’d just raked her nails across his heart. It had scraped and disrupted the secret he’d kept so tight in his chest.

Every life you’ve taken, every civilization you’ve helped destroy.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said automatically, the only thing he’d said at all today that might be halfway audible to the room. He’d apologized to her so often, over everything, that to say it and mean it felt like an almost alien experience. The wound felt raw. Something deeper and colder than shame pooled within it.

He remembered he used to fantasize about what he might deserve. It had been far worse than this.

Amira blinked at him, eyebrows twitching up just a touch when he said it—he almost sounded sincere—but he was desperate, she was sure, to say anything to end this. No, in the end, if he was learning his lesson now, it was only because she was finally showing him she was serious. To back down now would teach him the opposite—that he could bowl her over with a bat of his eyelashes. Never.

She handed the metal bird off to Marston, who held it still while two other crew members pointed large bright lasers at the metal until it began to glow. 

It grew from a deep red to a bright orange, and the laser guns powered down before Marston passed the metal baton back to Amira. 

“…Can I have something to bite?” he asked, by way of concession. His voice was still low, but not with the same hushed urgency. He’d watched carefully as the metal had changed colors. He knew it would not be the same burns he was used to. He knew just from looking at it that it’d be worse.

She heard Delta's question and considered it. "Fine," she said, deciding the burn itself would be enough and he didn't need to bite his own tongue out in the process. That would cause more problems than it would fix. 

She nodded to Marston, who reached down and unclipped a leather strap around her thigh—one of several that held her various weapons and gadgetry. She held the leather to Delta's lips.

He muttered his thanks from around the leather strap. He really hadn’t expected her to agree to that. He was pretty sure she was committed to making this as unbearable as possible—every other action she’d taken in the past twenty four hours seemed to suggest as much.

Delta wasn’t sure whether to look or not when the iron struck—and he hadn’t made up his mind about it when it abruptly made contact with his chest.

He thrashed. It was the only time in years he could remember actually trying to escape his restraints. It came on no conscious level—just base instinct, some animal consciousness in pure desperation to get away. The scream was muffled by the strap, then half choked off by his own will—he was still trying to take it in silence, though he had so clearly failed at that.

Amira heard the sizzle before she heard the scream. And then it came, muffled by the leather but still bright with pain, with panic, with the desperation of a trapped creature, cornered and helpless, finally getting what it deserved. 

She watched the way he twitched, bright and seizing—the way he still writhed when she pulled it away, before withering in the chains like a wilting flower. 

It burned hotter and lasted forever, more than he would have ever expected necessary for the image to take. He was in sheer panic as the iron seared into him—and remained in sheer panic for several moments after it was finally pulled away.

Amira passed the metal behind her and stepped closer, speaking only to him. 

"I want you to tell me who you belong to, Delta."

Delta blinked. She’d asked a bit too soon. He needed the time to come back to himself. The look in his eyes was still dazed and wild. But she reached him, somehow. He had to speak around pained breaths. When he spoke, it was like he did not fully understand where the words were coming from.

“Um,” he winced, like even speaking pained him, like there was nothing for him in this moment but pain. “You? I-? You, sir. I belong to you. Um.”

His own breathing distracted him. He seemed like he was having trouble with it.

It wasn't as eloquent as she'd hoped, but all things considered—

"Correct. But you can do better than that. Let's hear it again now, louder this time. Tell us who you belong to, Delta."

There was a soft whine, mostly unrelated to her order.

“I belong to you, sir,” he repeated without hesitation. His eyes were fully squeezed shut; he was only barely conscious of what she was saying to him. It seemed like he was capable of entertaining two fully separate experiences simultaneously. He could tell her what she wanted to hear. Most of his thoughts were still occupied by the burning by the make it fucking stop please. But the iron had been pulled away. They weren’t hurting him anymore. But the burn was still there, still running clean through him, and would be. Forever? He couldn’t think straight. His thoughts were still knee-jerk and animalistic. Dazed. It hurt.

“Good,” she said. “If you make any attempt to mar the scarring or the healing process I will do it again on your other side of your chest. Am I clear?”

He couldn’t stand the tone she was still taking with him, like she was still mad, like even this had not been enough. It confirmed something he already knew, something he’d turned over in his head over and over again when he’d first learned what murder meant. That no amount of repentance would ever be enough. That he will never be forgiven. All his thoughts were still clouded with pain, so much that he felt he was dreaming.

It was harder for him to decipher her words than the effect, but when he did manage, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no desire to do that, nor even the knowledge of how to. The threat was all that registered. 

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, quieter. He wanted it to be over. He hoped that was what she was building to.

“You’re to make no attempt to pull away. To resist us. And the attitude is something I should never have to mention again. Am I understood.”

Delta gave a morose nod, and at the snap of her fingers, Amira summoned two crew members to dismantle Delta from the apparatus. He was positioned on his knees, forehead pressed into the ground, his wrists cuffed behind him this time. His ankles were still chained to the sides of the frame, making the position awkward and putting unnecessary pressure on his hips. The horror of his fate settled in when he felt his cuffed wrists being drawn up above his back and attached to a chain that dangled from the top of the apparatus. The position forced his shoulders to strain painfully, trapping him in the forced bow.

It didn’t take him long at all to slip into total misery. It wasn’t hard. He was in pain and given no distraction for it. The position was meant to humiliate him. It succeeded. 

Delta knew nobody viewed him as a person. This kind of treatment should not have registered as a surprise. But it did. It was fucking painful. He was at least granted the option of pretending sometimes, that he did not exist solely for other people, that he was not just an object that constantly needed to be put in its place. It was able to recede into background noise most of the time.

Here, that reality was painful and unavoidable. He wasn’t even allowed to move. They’d done it to hurt him, because they thought he deserved it. They’d done it to remind him of his place, to make the difference between himself and real people so stark that it could never be doubted. He understood. He understood that, so could they please just fucking stop.

He was crying. It started without him meaning to, and persisted beyond his ability to control it. He pressed his forehead tighter to the ground, just trying to brace against it, to have something that could ground him. 

It was hard not to despair when his compliance had not been enough, when every second he stayed here represented a second in which he was not forgiven, in which they were still mad at him, even though he was so fucking sorry. It was hard not to despair that this was what he’d been born to, molded into against his will. He’d never asked for this. He never wanted to be this. 

He brushed up against his own nerve with that thought—and was unable to fully silence the sob that it brought up. Fuck, he was losing it. He took deep breaths to steady himself, to not get completely hysterical. He wanted to.

He wondered if Paris was even looking for him.

༻✧༺

Amira’s voice echoed off the walls of the deck where everyone had gathered, pausing every now and then to let her squad leaders give their reports. 

She was ignoring him. He was meant to stay there for a reason. He was meant to learn his place and have it reinforced until it needed no further reminder. She was sick of having the same argument with him, night after night. About insolence, about attitude, about loyalty. About Empire. Her loathing for everything that had happened—everything they’d done—everything he had done—led her tone, sturdy and unquestioning, through that morning’s all-hands meeting.

It went on as usual until something unexpected happened. Someone spoke out—Maddox—a lower level engineer with glasses, his braided hair pulled back into a ponytail—he’d raised his hand, as though anything about what he was about to say was anything close to polite.

“Sir, Sir?—He’s, he’s crying… Sir.” Maddox lowered his hand, eyeing the ground, as though expecting a scolding. Amira studied him. She turned her gaze to Delta, trembling in his position with his forehead pressed firmly to the ground.

They’d said Delta’s name a few times throughout the meeting — not addressing him, not even acknowledging his presence in the room — just the passing mention of his powers. His utility. His heart had stopped spiking after the first few mentions of it. By then, he’d almost tuned it out.

For this reason, he almost didn’t notice when they were actually talking about him. 

He’s crying.

Shame and fear flooded him in equal measure, with another short burst of energy about how unfair it was. He hadn’t even been making noise. He’d done everything to quiet the sobs. He couldn’t help the shaking, but he knew he’d likely be doing that even if he wasn’t crying. The position put too much strain on him to avoid it.

He forced himself to stop just as soon as it was acknowledged, quieting entirely, nearly holding his breath. He half-expected to be kicked for it. He almost expected Amira to press his head to the ground with her boots again, like she wanted to destroy the most valuable part of him.

“He looks adequately humbled, does he not?” Amira addressed the engineer with narrowed eyes, while her projected tone held the rest of the crowd—the whole room. 

Her response came just as callous and did nothing to calm or disabuse him. She’d wanted this. Something in Delta ached.

“He’s—I’m just saying, Sir, he’s… been through a lot, today, Sir.” 

It was only when Maddox spoke again that Delta could understand what was actually happening. Some human response to the crying—sympathy he was never meant to elicit—it surprised him. That much was rarely extended to real people in Empire, let alone to him. 

Amira was buried for a moment, pupils dilating to tiny, shaking points. How dare he. How dare this nobody—this ignorant foot soldier— But she steadied herself. Caught her rising breath. 

She had realized something much bigger was happening now. She was losing control of the room. 

If it was one man dissenting, it could be more. Not that she’d ever relent to one person’s will, especially one so lowly ranked—no— No. This was going to take tact. Not a complete shut down, but a middle ground. She couldn’t relent entirely. Plus, Delta deserved it. After everything was said and done, he would always deserve it. 

“I assure you, that the next ten minutes will not mean his death. I have one final announcement…”

He still didn’t get his hopes up. All his hope was cautious, but he had already braced himself for hours of this. He tried to be quiet for the remainder of it.

༻✧༺

The next ten minutes dragged into the next fifteen, into the next twenty, as Amira discussed various battle plans and training strategies for the psychic, bowing and shaking at her feet.

He accepted pretty quickly that it'd been a false promise, likely only meant to dismiss the concern. Delta counted up to the ten minute mark, and realizing she was nowhere near done speaking, stopped counting. He'd stopped crying, too, for the time being. Though he hadn't been directly punished for it, the shock of it being acknowledged had scared him badly enough to not want to do it again. 

It was hard to relax into the position. That was the point, of course. He understood how these things worked. It was getting more painful each second, the pressure at his shoulders compounding so severely he feared they might pop out of the sockets. He knew that he would've begged, if he thought it would do any good. 

Amira thought Delta looked properly cowed, kneeling there, cowering like he'd be safer if he just kept his head down. 

Despite her satisfaction at her prisoner’s position, Amira resented that his plea for pity was somewhat working. On her crew members, anyway. Well, on that one, at least. And a few others, from what she could tell from the few concerned expressions passed around the room. Her ranks loathed Empire, unquestionably so, but the sentiment that radiated from her team right now was uncommonly unsettling—it made Amira question things a bit. Back up a step, perhaps. 

At twenty minutes, Amira's topics were getting checked off her list one by one, and her worries with them—save for that pretty blue diamond kneeling in the center of the room.

Burned. Branded with her insignia. 

She needed to finish this, properly, before anything blew over. 

"Good," she said, to no one in particular, when the latest officer had finished his statement. 

"I'm finished with this for today, you all know your assignments. We make way for the Serraphial Cluster. The NeuWong system isn't far from there, and our next contact is close. New guns. New mechs, if we play our cards right. I expect everyone to their positions immediately following commissary hour. Dismissed."

She mumbled orders to Jackie and Jimenez, who stood obediently behind her. "Escort him back."

Delta wasn't expecting it when she finally agreed to let him down. He almost didn't hear it. He collapsed entirely when his wrists were unshackled from the chain overhead, arms having gone completely numb with the effort. Luckily, he didn't have far to fall.

Jackie's arm shot downwards as soon as she released the chain that held his cuffed wrists aloft and Delta went down—her hand caught his shoulder, hoisting him back up the second the burned flesh on his chest was about to hit the ground. 

Amira had said not to fuck up the scarring. Surely, releasing him straight onto the fresh burn was a bad start to that. With a relieved breath, she maneuvered him around with Jimenez' help. Delta moved like a limp puppet on strings, lifted only by the forces that held him afloat—no resistance to gravity if left to his own. 

The sensation was not new, but it never stopped feeling odd. What was disappointing was that release did not even register as relief. It was just a different kind of pain. It would feel better, eventually. He knew it would recede some in the following minutes.

His disappointment was intensified by the fact they'd left his wrists restrained behind him, so the full range of motion would still not be afforded to him. He thought he understood why. They didn't want him to touch the burn. It wasn't like he was all that inclined to do that in the first place, even if he hadn't been threatened.

He had to lean on them slightly just to walk upright, his legs also numbed from disuse. He said nothing. He did cast one final look at Amira, just to see if she was even looking, if she'd even speak to him again after this.

Delta was dragged down back to the lower levels of the ship, back to the room that held his cell, that held his chains. But something changed this time. 

It was clear he’d peaked past exhaustion, both mentally and physically. Though he gave them no struggle, he also gave them zero help. He all but collapsed in the handlers’ grip. He knew it was kind of a rude thing to do, to make someone bear all his weight like that, but it wasn’t like there was much of it to begin with. He wasn’t capable of holding his own anymore.

Jackie, the handler to his right, handed Delta entirely over to Jimenez, the tall handler to his left, until Delta was held back by the man at his biceps while he watched Jackie cross the room towards a small storage closet. She wrenched a small, dense parcel from the shelving unit inside, which, upon unwrapping it from its outer canvass, appeared to be a foldable camping cot. 

He watched through half-lidded eyes as the cot was unfolded, too tired to think much about it. 

Jackie adjusted the cot to take up the meager floor space in the back of the cell, before gesturing to Jimenez to deposit Delta atop it. Delta was kind of uncomfortable being maneuvered onto it—but the medical scene was at least familiar. He knew how to be a good patient. It was somewhat gentle, better than a full on throw. It still hurt when he moved. Any dramatic motion made him almost blackout with pain. They’d tried. They had the burn to worry about.

"The burn," Jimenez muttered to Jackie when Delta was settled on the cot. 

"Yeah, so? Get your ass in the cabinets and find something. It's gotta heal correctly," Jackie hissed, voice low, as though Delta were a sleeping child not to be disturbed. 

She stood over him, watching him, waiting for any reaction, while Jimenez stomped off to rummage through the medical supplies in the adjacent cabinets. 

"Burn salve?" His voice carried across the room despite his posture, crouched down, his head still buried in a lower cabinet. 

"Should do it!" Jackie called back, suddenly abandoning any commitment to whispered silence. 

"Gauze," Jackie called after a few seconds, and Jimenez rummaged for a few more seconds before he called out, "Got it," and approached the cell once more.

Delta looked back, but the stare was impassive. Even now, there was a kind of distance forming between them. It did not feel as though he was really seeing her. 

They’re broke, he thought again, bitterly. But he corrected himself quickly. He was pretty sure they had better medical treatment available, some sterile room. They must have. It just wasn’t being afforded to him at the moment. The thought made him mildly nervous. That the people he belonged to would risk everything to keep him healthy was a constant he had never had to fear would be taken away.

Luckily, there were the bare essentials in the room—a sink, Jackie washed her hands, put on gloves, and began to apply the salve to his chest carefully. 

Delta’s eyes snapped shut again at the contact. Though the motion was careful and the salve was meant to soothe, the wound was still raw and burning. The only thing that kept him from crying out was some well-trained reflex to be quiet. He stopped breathing instead.

They made him sit up for the bandages, unlocking the cuffs around his wrists so they could wrap the gauze in a long ribbon around his torso. Delta let himself be manipulated, having now been thoroughly dissuaded from the idea of putting up any resistance at all. The layers wound around his chest like a constricting blanket, soft yet pressing against the fresh burn. 

He didn’t thank them. It was not out of impoliteness, just habit. His old medics didn’t like it when he spoke.

They laid him down afterwards. "There. He'll be fine like this," came Jackie's voice.

“His hands,” Jimenez commented. “Shouldn’t he be… you know, restrained?”

“We can do the one,” Jackie responded, lifting the closest of Delta’s wrists and snapping it into one of the cuffs that sat chained into the bolt in the floor. 

“Keep him from rolling over,” Jackie confirmed, knowing Delta had enough leeway to shift around a bit but not enough to ruin the burn. 

Without much more than another word, they left the cell and locked it, closing the heavy sliding door behind them.

༻✧༺

Next chapter is already written! Coming soon!

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The spy has come here, uplifting the meticulously crafted life he has set in stone for himself. They’ve torn down the vision of perfection he had, dismantled and disrupted everything he thought himself to be. And now here he is, just hours away from achieving his dream, and he couldn’t feel more scared. 

Soldiers aren’t supposed to feel fear. Fear is a useless emotion, one that only prohibits the strong from completing what needs to be done. Fear is meaningless. He shouldn’t be scared. He shouldn’t be feeling anything. This is his duty and that’s all that matters, his own opinion on the subject shouldn’t even be taken into consideration. He shouldn’t be thinking these things. 

But now that he’s started, he’s not sure if—

Atlas’s head snaps up at the sound of a knock. It is abrupt, interrupting the heavy silence that has settled over his room, cutting through it without a care. Unlike Cato’s, which is loud and sharp, three bangs against the metal, or Ira’s, one singular rap. It’s quiet, as if the person is hoping to go undetected by the others along the hall. One that certainly can’t belong to any of the commanding generals. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Who could possibly be looking for him at this hour…? 

Slowly, he stands, pulling his door open in a hesitant motion, peeking out into the hall. He’s not sure why it comes as a surprise to find himself face-to-face with the spy again. Their jaw is set, brows furrowed, gaze level. But Atlas for once cannot find his usual confidence, posture slouched in on itself, if only slightly. His mouth parts when he locks eyes with them, shock seeping into his core. He had been certain they were finished with him.

Without another word, the spy pushes past him, forcing their way in despite Atlas’s standstill position, not caring as they shoulder-check him to the side. While Atlas may have once shot them a warning look, lectured them in a threatening tone about their thoughtless attitude, today he just allows them inside, his fear reducing him to silence. The door shuts with a click behind them, any stragglers left behind in the halls forbidden from seeing inside. 

“Geez, this place is so boring.” The spy huffs, glancing around, evidently unimpressed.

Their eyes scan over his belongings, taking in the place that he has called home for over a decade. The walls are gray, plain, with no photographs or decorations to mark them, not even so much as a scuff or a chip in the paint to show that anyone has lived here. His books, which are no more than encyclopedias and history books that Cato begrudgingly agreed to allow him to keep, are tucked away neatly into his miniature bookshelf, pushed up in the corner, the same plain gray as the walls and cement floor. His bed, a small cot, has no more than a few thin sheets, tucked in military-style, and his desk is mostly empty, his few belongings ordered in a tidy row. It is exactly up to code, just as it should be. But in the same sense, it is completely and irrevocably bare. 

Atlas has never even had the thought to decorate. His mission has always taken top priority. 

The spy plops down on his bed, the springs creaking slightly as they hop on it carelessly. They turn to face him again, eyes gleaming silver before, with a startling abruptness, their appearance starts to… change. 

The air around them shimmers and it is within seconds that Atlas is not staring at the plain, blank-faced figure of an Eden soldier, but instead a kid. Choppy dark blue hair which appears to be cut with inexperienced hands, a mismatch of baggy clothes unlike any Atlas has seen before, and silvery eyes that fade to a normal brown colour. Of course. It makes perfect sense. It had been an illusion all along, a trick for his eyes. He doesn’t know why he expected anything less. 

He stands still, staring at them in silence. He has not even blinked, the whole scene settling a sort of confusion in his already disoriented mind, leaving him unsure on what to do, how to react. He isn’t sure what he’s even supposed to say to them. He isn’t sure why they’ve come to find him. They made it strikingly clear they thought he was just as disgusting as the rest of Eden. What have they returned here for? To rub more salt in his already stinging wound? 

The spy hums, leaning back on their arms and tilting their head. “I’m here for those files.”

Of course. 

Disappointment settles heavy in his chest and he quickly forces it down, bottling away with the rest of his unwanted emotions. He doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting, what he was hoping to hear. Why else would they come back for him? It’s only logical that they would be in search of the files, the last solid evidence needed to build their case. They’re a spy, afterall. He doesn’t know why he thought of them as anything different. They’re just another rebel, nothing else. 

He takes a single step towards them, before hesitating. The thought of giving away those files suddenly fills him with an insurmountable amount of anxiety, freezing him in place. It seems like something impossible, something that will tear away what little sanity he has left. 

He should want to get rid of this, the evidence of his betrayal, his insubordination. These files are a representation of his doubts, his unwanted thoughts. The lies. They’re exactly the thing that could put his position at risk, the thing that could end him up in severe punishment. Spies and their accomplices didn’t get such merciful treatment. He should be lucky that the spy is here to steal them back, to take the burden away from his hands. He should be glad. 

But he isn’t. 

He doesn’t want to let them go. Those files are the only proof he has that this stranger has been here, that any of this had ever been real. The only proof he has that maybe Eden isn’t what it seems. Maybe Eden is more than the clean, shiny front they put up to the public. That maybe, Eden isn’t a place that he still wants to go through with supporting, with being a tool for. 

But he sees no point. He’s going to be an Elite and there’s no changing that. This is what he has worked so hard for, what he wants. Evaluation day is tomorrow and there’s no chance he can abandon it. It’s what he was born to do, and he has to accept that. Whether he likes it or not, he belongs at Eden. His own personal feelings on that matter are secondary, unimportant. This is his duty. 

He’s sure the spy has collected plenty of files without his awareness anyway. If he gives them away, he can pretend he never saw any of it. He can purge these terrible, haunting emotions from his memory. He can just… go back to his life how it used to be. How it’s supposed to be. 

He crosses the room in two quick strides. “Move.” 

The spy furrows their brows but begrudgingly scoots off of the bed, moving to stand by the door again. Atlas carefully lifts up the corner of his mattress, pulling out the worn-down bag where the files have been tucked inside in an organized pile. He sucks in a sharp breath, summoning the rest of his resolve, and turns sharply on his heel. “Here.” He sticks it out towards them.

The spy raises a brow, accepting the bag and slinging it over their shoulder with a small grunt. “I won’t be coming here again. I’m all done spying.” They state, eyes locking onto his, something unknown resting underneath the surface. Atlas doesn’t bother to try and decipher it. 

“Okay.” He responds in a flat tone, unmoving. He would make himself forget about all of this, forget they even existed. Evaluation day is tomorrow, and that’s all he should care about. The things he’s seen, their words that he can’t stop from repeating in his head — it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re leaving and he’s staying, and that’s how it should be. 

This is his duty. This is his duty. 

Atlas is sure they are about to stomp straight out the door, files in tow, never to be seen again, when they suddenly open their mouth, words blurted in his direction sharp and fast. “Do you really want all of that stuff to happen to you? Are you really okay with it?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Atlas replies after a second’s hesitation, an acceptance passing through him. This is how it should be. “Why do you care?” 

The spy sighs and tosses their head back. “Because it’s fucked up, man. Now that I know it’s going to happen to you, it’ll be on my conscience.” They pause, taking in the sight of him again with narrowed eyes before pulling back their shoulders, standing straight. “Come with me.” 

“I can’t.” 

Atlas stares at them with sad eyes, heaviness wearing him down, crumbling his self-righteous exterior. He looks at the bag across their shoulders, thinks about everything they’ve uncovered about what Eden is really doing behind the scenes. Hundreds of children, buried and forgotten. Children just like him. 

But what else would he be, without Eden? Washed up, starving on the streets. Alone. Wasn’t this just… inevitable? “I can’t leave my home, the only family I have. I just can’t.” 

The spy crosses their arms across their chest and frowns. “Is that really what you want? Are you just going to accept how horrible it all is?” They protest, expression pulled tight. “It’ll happen to you too. Unless you come with me. I can get you out of here.” 

Their offer hangs heavy in the air, an escape Atlas had never considered; a doorway to free him from the cards of life he had thought were set in stone. To forget his destiny, his duty. To be… free. 

But he thinks of Ira, and the answer is immediate. “No.” 

Maybe he no longer can trust Eden, trust his superiors. Maybe his life here is built off sugar-coated lies, and the mission he had thought he had sworn himself to was nothing more than a cover for something darker, more sinister. 

But at the thought of Ira, even the notion of considering this offer dissipates. She’s had his back for longer than he can name, always at his side. When he has doubts, it’s Ira who eases them, nudging him and giving him reassurances of his place, of his capabilities. She’s his partner, his very best friend. If he has no one else, he’ll always have her. She doesn’t know what’s headed, doesn’t know about the horrors he’s witnessed. If he leaves, she’ll be alone, forced to be subjected to that. With no one to protect her. 

He can’t leave. She’s counting on him. 

“They’re the only ones who have ever cared about me. That will ever care about me. I’m not going to… give that up. Maybe it’ll be different this time.” He adds half heartedly. 

With a sigh, the spy takes a step closer to him, shaking their head. “It won’t be any different. They’re telling you the same thing they told all of them. You’re in danger and you’re just going to stay here? I don’t get it. If they really cared about you that much, why would they want to do that to you?” 

“They do care about me. They wouldn’t lie to me, not for something like this.” Atlas’s face is set. He won’t back down. He won’t leave everything he has ever known. He… he can’t. 

The spy lets out an exasperated huff. “Is tricking you into becoming an experiment a way of showing that they care? They’re just going to use you. You’re just like all the others, in their eyes.” They take another step forward. “Your evaluation is tomorrow, right? What have people been saying about it? That ‘it’s important’? That this will be ‘good for you’? How can you not realize they’re tricking you? They’re pushing you into a trap.”

Atlas stares at his feet, quiet for a moment. “You don’t know them, not like I do. I…” He swallows heavily, forcing down the emotions spurring up inside his throat. “I can’t leave them.” 

Ira wouldn’t leave him. She’s loyal, good. She takes care of him, stands up for him, fusses over him. She and Cato are more family than he’s ever had. He won’t ever belong anywhere else — the outside world is dangerous, unpredictable. Eden is the only place he’ll ever have a sense of stability. 

He needs this. He needs to stay here, he needs his mission. He needs to fulfill his duty.  

“How do you know they’re not all waiting for you to go along with whatever they say? Don’t you think it’s possible they gained your trust for a reason. They drilled all of these things into your brain for years so that you wouldn’t think to question them or leave. You’re going right along with their—their manipulation!” The spy is growing frustrated, pacing slightly as they run a tense hand through their hair, brows drawn together in a tight line. They’re agitated, desperate. They need to be right almost as much as he does.

Atlas watches them sidelong. “I don’t expect you to understand.” 

The spy groans. “No, I don’t understand!” They huff, turning towards him again, throwing their arms around as they speak. “Risking your sanity, your life, for people who have done nothing but lie to you? It doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you want to live? You’ll become a lab rat if you stay here.” 

“I just have to believe they’ll protect me. Like they always have.” Atlas reiterates, his voice growing smaller with each rebuttal. He feels as if he is trapped inside a cage, forced into a position where no answer is the right one. Becoming an Elite is the last thing he wants to do. But does he have a choice? 

Cato’s words repeat in his head. The Elites will make you great, Atlas. They’re just what you need. Perfect potential like yours, it’s too good to waste. You’ll shine along their ranks. With time, you’ll understand. A true warrior like you is just what they’ve been waiting for. 

“Maybe…” He pauses, breath hitching. “Maybe it’ll be for the better. Maybe I’ll at least become something stronger.” 

“That’s stupid! Your life is in danger and you’re just going to trust them?” Their voice rises. “They’re the last people you should trust right now after they’ve done nothing but lie to you!” 

They suck in a sharp breath, their eyes hardening. There is an air of regret around them, their hands tightening into fists. As if they’re about to do something that they wished to avoid. 

“Like your little friend, you think you can trust them?” 

Atlas’s head snaps up, brows furrowing. “What?” 

The spy huffs and swipes a hand through the air with exaggeration, impatience lining their movements. “Buzz cut. You think you can trust them?” 

“What are you talking about?” Atlas snaps, suddenly defensive. He doesn’t need this, doesn’t need their riddles and games. He needs them to leave and disappear, needs to go back to his old life; it’s all he has left to cling onto.

The spy grunts, reaching into the pocket of their jacket and pulling out a folded, dark green booklet, so rich in colour it appears to almost be black. “I found this in your mommy’s office.” They spit, thrusting it towards him with a sudden jerk.

Seeing it more clearly, the colour drains from Atlas’s face. This is no booklet. It’s a file. 

Atlas’s eyes are wide as he stares, reaching out for it with shaking hands, his movements slow and unsteady. There is a hesitance in him that he can’t ignore, the very action of just reaching for this dark green folder, one that is almost too difficult to complete. 

His fingers close around the hardcover of the file and Atlas is so tense as if a detonating bomb. As if the information hidden inside these pages will be the very thing to do him in. There is a terror thrumming inside his bones and he suddenly very badly wishes to run, to flee from the spy’s watchful gaze and disappear altogether. 

The file is marked by three silver numbers in the very bottommost corner. Three numbers Atlas knows all too well by now. 792. 

He swallows, his stomach twisting. This isn’t just any ordinary file, isn’t like any of the others that the spy has stolen or uncovered. No, this file is not unlike the rest, because this file is— 

His own. 

He stares down at the cover, unblinking, too afraid to move. He was always aware of the fact that he had a file, had documents and reports dedicated to him. Of course he did. Nearly everyone inside the warehouse, inside Eden, has one. It’s how their system works, how they manage to keep their organization one of balance and careful security. 

But staring at this now, he feels dread spread through his stomach, eating away at his insides. He’s already seen enough, seen the things Eden is capable of. He doesn’t…. He doesn’t know if he can take anything more. He just wants this one thing, this tiny little memory, amongst all the lies, to stay. To be the same, unchanging, like he knew it. Please. 

It is with trembling fingers that he begins to read. 

Inside is a mission report. No — several mission reports. Most are recent, with dates from this month alone; but flipping through the pages, it’s clear that this isn’t the first time these reports have been conducted. These are no doubt going back years, perhaps a decade. The amount of information inside these pages… only someone who had been watching his every move for years would know all this. 

And at the top of every single page is another number. One not unlike his own, one that he would recognize instantly, no matter where he saw it. 

261. Ira’s number. 

Atlas’s expression morphs, betrayal replacing his uncertainty. Their name is plastered along nearly every line in every page. Sentences strung along each of the pale paper, documentations of conversations, private thoughts shared in the darkness of his room, through the quiet of the night. Secrets and whispers of dreams, and they’re typed out without another thought. 

Pages and pages reporting how he is making progress towards the Elite, his doubts and uncertainties, and the reassurances that he had thought were given to him out of genuine kindness and belief. Spying on his every move, prying anything of use to the higher-ups out of him, trust given so easily. His best friend, his partner through it all. The only one inside the warehouse who didn’t whisper behind his back, who didn’t hate his guts, who was kind. Who— who believed in him. 

All this time, and he’s been nothing but a…

A fucking assignment. 

She wasn’t his best friend. She didn’t care about him, like she had said. None of them cared. She’d been using him, pulling out all of his hidden thoughts and worries to feed directly to Cato. Checking on him, making sure he was prepared for Evaluation. Asking him with furrowed brows if he was alright, if anything was still weighing heavy on his mind. If he needed to talk, needed someone to listen and lean on. And all of it had just been her, her—

“Is this who you trust so much?” The spy asks, sending a jolt through him. He clenches the file tightly, fingernails digging into the rough pages. “That’s who you’re staying for?” 

Breath coming out short and fast, he looks back up at them, utter and complete defeat passing through his face. His voice comes out in a croak. “I…” 

The spy sighs, moving beside him to sit on the bed again. “I’m not enjoying watching you learn everything in your life is a lie, by the way.” They say, staring down at their hands. “But you need to face the truth.”

There is a beat of silence that passes through the room. The spy glances back up at him, brows downturned. “Is it really worth your life to stay here?”

Atlas glances around his room, the same one he’s had for almost ten years now. But even all these years later, it barely looks changed from the day he stepped into it. Not a scratch or tear, everything in perfect order. He thinks about all the nights he and Ira laid in here, staying up late, whispering to each other through the night. He confided in her, trusted her. She’d been the only one he had at the warehouse, the only one he had on his side. 

But with the file in his hands, it’s for the the first time that he realizes: He has nobody. 

He has no family, no one to support him. No purpose, not when they molded him like this to use and discard — to kill. Does he really want to die for this? Does he really want to die for Eden? 

“You’ll be safer leaving.” The spy speaks again, their voice almost faraway now, unable to compete with the static cutting through Atlas’s violent, swirling thoughts. “You can even fight against what they’re doing if you decide to. But you can’t stay. You gotta let me get you out of here.” 

“Okay.” 

His answer is abrupt, coming as just as much of a surprise to him as it does to the stranger. He isn’t looking at them, isn’t staring at anything, his eyes burning back to a time in this room when it wasn’t cold and stiff, when it had been filled with hopeful dreams of a new future, of unity and acceptance. He has no place here. Not anymore. And as he steps forward, he wonders, was there a time where I ever did? 

The file flutters from his grip, tossed haphazardly onto his sheet. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need any of it. What would it be, if not another reminder of his naivety, his failures? Everything he thought himself to be, everything they told him he was, all of it was lies. He truly has nothing to account for. Nothing to make him happy. 

“Okay?” He doesn’t meet the spy’s gaze as they blink, evidently shocked by the sudden agreement. “You’ll come with me?” 

Atlas nods and turns away, hiding his face, keeping silent. He looks around the room, eyes scanning over all his things tucked away, things he’ll never see again if he leaves. He has half the urge to pack a bag — if he’s really leaving, is he going to just abandon years worth of belongings? But his mind drifts back to the files. The evidence. Years worth of lies. A part of him knew, he thinks, that this was how it was going to end. And if Ira and the rest of them had all orchestrated this as a huge plan to take him as another lab rat, to trap him and abandon him, then is there really any other option than leaving?

He truly doesn’t have anyone he can rely on. It doesn’t matter anymore.

The spy crosses their arms and hums, standing up slowly. “Grab what you need. We’ve gotta be gone tonight.”

Atlas is brisk as he heads towards the door, jaw clenched. He blinks hard, emotions he has tried — and almost succeeded — in erasing all the years suddenly crashing down on him in a tidal wave of chaos, swirling within him and turning his throat dry. He sucks in a sharp breath, clenching his hands. He won’t be upset about this. He won’t cry. He won’t allow any of them the satisfaction. 

He doesn’t ever cry, and he certainly won’t cry now. Ira is nothing. A nobody. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t— he doesn’t need her anymore. 

“I don’t need to bring anything.” He whispers, voice impossibly soft. 

The spy tips their head to the side, adjusting the bag strap on their shoulder. “Alright. Let’s get out of here.” They say, stepping beside him, their hand settling on the door. They fix him with their gaze again, eyes searching his face. “We want to be far away from here when they realize you've ditched your evaluation.” 

The two are quiet as they creep through the halls, the spy’s disguise slipping back up with a flicker of silver. The corridors are dead silent, not a single trainee out and about. To everyone else, it is a normal night, the air holding a shimmer of excitement to all those awaiting their final evaluation — the very thing they’ve been preparing so desperately for. 

But to Atlas, these halls couldn’t be more suffocating. 

“There’s a maintenance elevator on the far right side,” the spy whispers to him, gesturing for him to follow. “Easiest way to get out discreetly.” 

Atlas stares down at his feet as they make their way to the elevator, refusing to stare at his surroundings. He’s made his way down these very hallways possibly thousands of times over the years, but right now, he couldn’t feel more out of place. Lost, in a place that he can travel around almost effortlessly. He just wants to purge the memories of his home from his brain completely. He needs to forget. 

The elevator jolts slightly as it starts to move, thick steel doors shutting with a familiar hiss. Their quiet is only broken once, the spy’s voice cutting through the tension. 

“I’m Wren.” 

The elevator fills with silence. 

It is within minutes that Atlas is breathing the familiar cool autumn air, the breeze of the night sending a chill down his back as he follows the spy into the surrounding forest. They are met by low-hanging trees and dying shrubbery, until finally—

“This is mine.” A van, disguised with tree branches and other plant life piled around it, as some sort of pathetic cover. It’s chipped and dented, white paint much-due for a touch up; its condition is fairly weak for a spy so set on eradicating a wealthy, widespread company like Eden, a vehicle that looks as if it belongs to a homeless beggar. But Atlas has no time to dwell on that, standing still as the spy shakes off the greenery and slides open the door. 

They toss in the bag of files, dropping it down next to several other piles of evidence, before slamming the door back shut. “Get in.” 

Atlas feels disconnected from his body as he climbs into the passenger seat of this musty van, trash and other miscellaneous items discarded by his feet. This is no place to live. He’s surprised someone could survive in such filth. 

Unfortunately, the spy has even worse news of their own. “I don’t have a house.” They interrupt, starting the ignition. “I have roll-up mats back there that I use. There’s a parking garage in the next city over with no toll. We’ll go there. It’s two hours, so it’ll be far enough for now, but we’ll move somewhere else in the morning.” 

Atlas turns his back to them, leaning his forehead against the cool glass as the car shudders and comes to life, shakily backing out of its nest. He stares out the grimy window, the last slivers of the warehouse consumed by trees as they speed away in the other direction. He has never felt so indescribably empty. 

── ⟡ ˙.

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

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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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔