fangs lungs ankles

Yet through the dark green lettering along these pages, Atlas finds himself face-to-face with an organization a clear opposite of that; an organization built on the blood of the poor, the labour of the vulnerable. These missions have no rhyme or reason, no explanation to the horrors and atrocities committed. They don’t follow Eden’s strict rule code, their straight-lined regulations of order, justice, and structure. No, all of these reports, these missions, they’re only after one thing: Complete and total power. 

This can’t be right. 

Surely there’s another explanation for this, a reason behind it. How many times has he sat through lectures, heard stories from real-life survivors of the brutality committed against vulnerable metamorphs, seen how Eden saved them? They give people purpose, give people a life. He’s witnessed it himself, his own life a clear example of all the good that the company brings to a nation so divided and at war with each other. He’s been on missions since he was only a child, and he’s never taken part in anything bad — Eden protects innocents and silences terrorists hellbent on destroying peaceful society as they know it. This is how it has always been. 

Perhaps that spy planted these here, just for him to find. They’ve been so obvious about who they are, how they don’t belong. Surely they had been trying to get him to follow. Distract him, plant seeds of doubt… just as all evil rebels would do. 

Or maybe this is a test. A part of his training for Evaluation day all along, set up by Cato herself. Having a soldier serve as a distraction, to see if he was truly suited for the Elites. Even giving them the time of day to just consider their lies would be unacceptable, no doubt. He’s always been good at assessments. So a surprise one, something that none of the trainees have knowledge of; questioning their loyalties, their dedication… That would be the true test. The one to weed out the weak from the strong, the faithless from the devoted. 

Of course. That has to be it. 

This was all a test, and he’s already on the path of failure, allowing the spy to go loose. Next thing tomorrow, he must go down and report them to Cato. He’ll be rewarded highly, granted a sure spot along the Elites. Everything he has ever dreamed for. It’ll be perfect. 

Yet staring at the evidence in these files, Atlas can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at straws, trying to find reason in these monstrosities. Would Cato really set all this up to see if it would dissuade him from his mission? Would he really be wrong for feeling wary of it, after all of this, after the torture he has witnessed, displayed between these lines. 

Does he really believe that it’s all made up? 

Staring at the satchel placed haphazardly across from him, he can’t fight the feeling probing inside of him that this is all wrong. That perhaps that spy may have been telling him the—

An abrupt rap against his door cuts him off from finishing that thought. He flinches, hands scrambling at lightning speed to shove everything back into the bag, swiftly stowing it under his mattress. What was he thinking, bringing these files back into his room? What will become of him, if someone finds them here? They’re classified information — he’s breaking so many rules by just daring to peek inside of them. He’s going to be in so much trouble. 

Atlas sucks in a sharp breath, patting down his sheets and trying to hide the tremble in his hands at just the thought of someone finding out what he’s done, what he’s been doing in here. He straightens up, face a perfect mask of neutrality, and crosses the room over to the door, praying the sound of his heart thumping from inside his chest isn’t as obvious to his visitor as it is in his head. 

He finds himself staring straight at Cato. Her lips are drawn into a firm line as she glares, the tenseness in her expression instantly notifying Atlas of the fact that she is absolutely pissed, her mismatched eyes stormy. He has to hold back the urge to shiver, the sight of her glass eye staring through him enough to send fear spiking straight through his spine. He has always felt like that eye has a magic of its own, being able to just pull the thoughts from his head with a terrifying ease. 

Cato’s eyes narrow and Atlas instantly moves in response, opening the door wider and stepping back to make room. She is brisk as she walks into the room, the clack of her heels the only sound to be heard through the chill of the atmosphere. Her hands are folded behind her back as she surveys his dorm, eyes sweeping across his belongings. She focuses on his bed for half a millisecond too long and Atlas holds his breath, dread filling up his already-queasy stomach. 

Oh fuck, she knows. 

He is just about to bow and beg for her forgiveness when Cato’s voice cuts through his spiralling thoughts, her tone clipped and harsh. “You missed training.” She states, head turning an inch as she eyes him again, gaze cold and piercing. “Do you have a good excuse?” 

Atlas feels relief flood through him at her question, though the comfort is only momentary. His face pales as it suddenly dawns on him that he has allowed himself to be so carried away by this spy business that the thought of training or any of his other daily activities completely slipped his mind. 

He’s never missed training. Never misses training. He’s never tardy or behind, perfectly on time and perfectly prepared for each one of his sessions. How could he ever forget? 

His tongue seems to be stuck in place for a moment too long, before Atlas finally manages to find his voice. “I, um, I forgot.” He mumbles, his cheeks burning red in shame. “I’m sorry, there’s no excuse.” 

Cato straightens her back a bit to stand taller, crossing her arms over her chest as she arches a brow in his direction. Her frown only seems to deepen at his words, eyes dark and unreadable. “Atlas, this kind of thing is already not acceptable — but just before your evaluation?” She sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Are you really trying your hardest here?” 

Atlas stares down at his feet, avoiding Cato’s gaze. Guilt bubbles up inside his gut, slowly eating away at his insides. How could he be so careless? So… worthless. What will happen to his position now, that he’s gone and broken one of the simplest rules Cato has ever set for him? 

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, voice near-silent. 

Cato tips her chin up, brows drawn into a tight line. “Sorry does not make up for the loss of time. You are going to put in extra training hours tonight to make up for it.” She instructs, voice firm and unwavering. “This will not happen again.” 

Atlas silently nods, still not meeting her gaze. He can’t believe he let himself become so carried away with that stranger. What was wrong with him? 

He was never usually like this, so preoccupied by other things. How could he ever allow himself to concern himself with anything other than his mission? Nothing else was important, nothing else mattered. All he lived for was his mission. Why did he let it occupy his thoughts for a mere second?

Now he’d disappointed Cato. 

There is a beat of silence between them, Cato’s eyes searching his face. Atlas half-expects her to criticize him, to critique his appearance or lecture him on the importance of timing — and his contributions to Eden. He’s heard the lecture a million times over. How vital he is to the company, how he isn’t like everyone else. Slacking off will just squander his high potential. 

But instead, she places a singular finger underneath his chin, slowly tipping his head up to be level with hers. It’s only now that he meets her gaze. Her eyes are still dark and gloomy, unforgiving; yet, beneath them, another emotion lingers. Something Atlas is sure is akin to… worry. 

“Is there something on your mind?” She asks, voice deadly quiet. Her hand cradles his cheek, soft against his skin — tender, almost. The slight rub of the thumb against his jaw is enough to make him shiver.

Atlas fears he’ll break right then and there, that all of his fears, the storm of questions currently brewing in his mind, will come spilling right out. Cato is never so affectionate with him. 

You’re being trained for the Elites too aren’t you? They’ll do the same thing to you.

The thought of that spy, teeth bared, eyes bright with defiance, is what stops him. He doesn’t know what they’re here for, how they even managed to sneak their way in. But someone against both Eden and the Congregation of the Chosen is an anomaly that he didn’t know existed. He needs to find out more. Needs to find out what they know.

The next words out of his mouth are a surprise to both he and Cato: 

“I just lost track of time.”

Cato exhales, the moment broken within an instant. Her touch is gone as soon as it came, expression closed off in mere seconds.

“Training. Tonight.” She says, sharply turning on her heel and marching back towards the door. “Don’t lose track of time.”

Atlas closes the door behind her, allowing it to shut with an almost silent click. He waits until he’s positive she has made her way back down the hall before he returns to his bed, slowly pulling the files back out. His head buzzes with a million questions, all of them a complete betrayal to the mission he has sought so hard after. 

He hates himself for getting distracted by the stranger, for letting them pull him away from training. But on the other hand, the stuff he’s seen inside these files…. It’s disgusting. 

He’s not sure what he believes anymore. 

── ⟡ ˙.

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They gasp as they nearly ram straight into him and have to swivel on their feet slightly to avoid colliding with the boy. When their stance is steadied, they look up at him for a long moment, eyes wide. So much for no suspicion. Wren stares for a long moment, brain short-circuiting, and then, without a word, turns abruptly and begins to very quickly make their way down a slightly emptier corridor, searching for a door to go through. They can’t help but glance over their shoulder every so often to ensure that the trainee isn’t still looking. They pray to whoever is out there that he isn’t.

They barely make it two metres. Their pace increases as the sound of footsteps somewhere behind them interrupts their worried thoughts. Every corner they round, their feet get quicker, their eyes darting to each passing soldier. Shit, shit. They’re being paranoid. A trainee has no reason to follow them.

With a huff, Wren’s pace quickens again into a light jog. The file room, the file room. Where was it on the map again? Shit, was it two lefts and a right or two rights and a left? They chew at the inside of their cheek, reaching a fork in the hall. They glance down both ways, hesitating.

Oh! Two rights and a left. As they continue down the labyrinth of passageways, the people grow scarcer, only the occasional high ranking officer passing. None of the clutter and bustle they first saw. Soon there’s no one. A good sign. After a few more minutes of creeping down the corridor, a shining metal door comes into view with a panel on the wall beside it. Aha. Wren does one more quick glance down the hall before slipping the key card out of their uniform pocket and pressing it to the panel. The light on the scanner goes green and a ding sounds. Perfect.

They’re relieved when the room they slip into is dim and empty, the only light being the flickering of screens playing camera footage. They hesitantly press their hand against another panel on the inside of the room, the lights flickering on with an electric hum. Upon further inspection, they can see rows of screens, filing cabinets. There are shelves of boxes upon boxes, filled to the brim with what look like hard drives and wires. The air has a faint must to it like the room doesn’t get a lot of airflow. They note that there's not a single vent. Probably a security measure. This is exactly what they need.

They’re quick to pull out the bag stuffed under their bulky vest. With quick movements, Wren surges forwards and begins to sweep hard drives and paper files into it — anything they can fit.

Their hands are quick as they fill the duffle and zip it shut. Get in and get out. If these files have good, solid information then their job is done and they can get the hell out of here and get to work. They try not to let the excitement brewing in them bubble too high but they’re so close to exposing Eden—

“What do you think you're doing?”

The breath on their neck is hot. Wren reels around, slamming their elbow into whatever body part of the person is closest and quickly backing away. Their elbow doesn’t make contact with anything. “What the fuck?” Their eyes are frantic as they scan the room. Nothing. No one is there. But they definitely heard someone there. They felt it. “Hello?”

Wren squawks loudly when a body materializes in the dark. Before they can register the person’s advance, their arms are yanked behind them and they’re pinned back, muscles straining. “Hey, what the hell! Let go!” They yelp, tugging their arms and trying to jerk away from their captor, feet stumbling at the movement.

Before they have the time to react, a boot meets their back, forcing them down against the frigid linoleum. A foot presses down on their head.

“What do you think you're doing in here?” The voice repeats, low and even.

Wren grunts and lets out a whine of pain as the boot digs into the back of their head, mashing their face against the ground. Any attempt to wriggle free only causes more discomfort. Wren gags on their own tongue. “Nothing. It’s none of your fucking business.” They grunt, words out before they can begin to think about what they’re saying. When they are met with a long pause, the pressure against the base of their skull growing threateningly stronger, they writhe in defiance, fear bleeding into their next words. They didn’t think this through properly. “Let me go, man!”

“I think it is my business.” There's a beat as the heel of the person’s foot digs more harshly into the back of Wren’s neck (if that’s even possible) before the voice says, “Who sent you?”

Wren grits their teeth. There is no way they’re getting out of this. They were so close. “No one. I’m doing my job! You have the wrong person.” They bark back, tense, trying yet again to lift their head to no avail.

“Stealing files? That's classified information.”

Wren huffs and jerks their arms again. It does nothing. “No. I was collecting things for the high general.” They hiss. “Now let me go.”

Their wrists are twisted painfully, skin stretched beyond its limit. Wren bites down on their tongue to stifle their scream. “Lie to me again and I'll cut out your tongue.” The man spits. The growl in his voice tells them it’s not an empty threat.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you the truth, asshole.” They snap back, wriggling their arms uselessly. He doesn’t give in.

“I don't think so.” The attacker keeps one foot firm against their face and they have to angle their eyes in a way that makes their head ache to watch him in their peripheral vision. Pausing his questions, he moves to stoop over and pick up their bag. “Where were you planning to take this?”

Dread settles heavy in Wren’s chest — and at the back of their head. This cannot be happening. All of that work can’t go down the drain now. Not after everything they’ve sacrificed to get here. “Nowhere, okay?” They admit, voice hollow. They’re only able to register their own fear. They can’t die here. Not by the hands of an Eden brat. “I don’t work with anyone, I was taking it for myself!”

“What were you going to do with it?” The man asks, grip tightening against their wrist, fingernails digging into their soft exposed flesh. Blood bubbles underneath his grip.

Wren gasps, writhing defiantly. “You know, I was just gonna sit back and watch some footage for fun!” They snap, baring their teeth and rolling their eyes. They can’t help themself. Is this guy really an idiot? “No, I’m going to expose this shitty corporation.”

The boot lifts off their head for just a moment, giving Wren hope of escape until it stomps down again, smashing their face into the floor.

They let out a cry of pain as their nose makes a cracking noise and an instant gush of blood pours out. They cough, eyes watering, grimacing at the taste of blood in their mouth. A violent gag escapes them. “What the fuck,” they wail.

“‘Eden is eternal.’” The man recites in a robotic way that makes Wren’s skin crawl.

Wren scoffs, blood smearing against their lips. Their head throbs. “Yeah, bet they’ve been carving that into your brain since you were in diapers.” They mutter under their breath. They let out a grunt and curse silently as their face explodes with pain and they are pushed down further, each retort earning them another kick.

“There's no point in trying to fight us. Who sent you then? Are you one of ‘God’s Chosen’?”

Wren’s expression twists into a scowl, annoyed at his accusatory tone. Like they’d ever belong to them. “That fucking crazy cult?” They snipe, twisting to try and look in his eyes. “I hate them just as much as you.”

“You know, you should really learn when to close that big mouth of yours.” He presses down harder on their head, Wren’s nose popping with the pressure; his glare burns into the back of their neck. “I could always just kill you now. It's not like anyone here would object to it. Or I could take you back to be questioned. I'm sure that'll put a stop to your smartass comments.”

Wren gasps and winces, squirming in pain under the force of the attacker’s foot. “No! Please, I'm being serious. I’m telling the truth, I don’t know what more you want from me! Just ask me your questions now and let me go.”

“So you can go spread lies about Eden? I don't think so.”

“They aren’t lies, it’s the truth and I’m going to prove it! Why would I come here looking for evidence if I was just going to spread lies.” They huff and shift slightly on the ground, the hard floor pressing against their body uncomfortably. “Do you know the truth? That your leaders, your CEOs are lying to you. And the Elites? Just more of their lies. Do you really know what they’re sending those children off to?”

“Shut up.” The man’s response is instant, defensive. “You don't have any clue about Eden.”

Wren snorts, wincing when the action sucks blood up into their nose. “Oh yeah? I know that they’re lying to the public and apparently to you guys too. They’re raising you to be monsters and then taking advantage of your skill. Puppets, the lot of you. You’re all puppets.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m sure every other one of their toy soldiers would say the same thing.”

An idea graces them, stupid and reckless. Much like all their other plans so far. And yet, it may be their one shot out of this complete disaster. They’re physically out-matched. Though they don’t think they’ve ever not been. This is their only chance if they wish for those files to see the light of day.

“You wanna check those files, don’t you?” They manage to move their head just barely, wincing in the process. Their eyes shoot over to the bag. “Go ahead and have a look. If what’s in there isn’t enough for you, I've got more.”

There’s a long pause and Wren begins to fear he’ll just shut them up by killing them. But then they hear a suspiciously file sounding rustle. And another. They would smirk if it weren’t for the throbbing pain in their face.

They listen silently to the sound of pages in a file flipping. “See anything interesting?” 

They take the answering silence as a good sign and when their attacker finally steps back, their suspicions are confirmed. With a grunt, they push themselves into a sitting position, wiping blood from their face with a grimace. “Some not so great stuff in there, huh? That’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I need to know more. I’m going to expose them for their lies.”

“No...” The man takes another unsteady step back, eyes dilating. “There has to be an explanation for this. They wouldn’t— they wouldn’t do this for no reason.” Unlike before, where his voice was unwavering, he now sounds very unsure of himself, words coming out hoarse. “You don’t— you don’t know anything.”

Wren slowly pushes themself up onto their feet with a sigh. They don’t advance further, wanting to prevent being attacked again, now by someone who is clearly more unstable than previously. “It’s the truth. Why would they have to keep this a secret if it wasn’t exactly what it looks like — if it wasn’t evil?”

The man gapes at them, face pale. He swallows roughly, fingers gripping the paper. “To… to reach our goal there has to be sacrifices. It’s for the greater good of all mankind.” He recites again, the words slightly easing his doubts.

Wren crosses their arms, eyes narrowing as they fix him with a scowl. Only now, looking at their attacker in better lighting, do they realize that it’s him. Not a man-

That boy.

“So you’re going to justify their crimes?” They scowl. They’re not sure why it comes as a surprise. What else could they expect from a brainwashed soldier like him? “You’re being trained for the Elites too aren’t you? They’ll do the same thing to you.”

The boy’s face hardens. He closes the file, holding it tight to his chest. “You won’t say a word about this. About any of it. You’re lucky that I don’t take you to the lead director right now.” He takes another step back, avoiding their gaze.

Wren dares to take a half-step forward, not yet advancing into the trainee’s personal space. “So you’ll let it keep happening? Even now that you know? Even now that it’ll happen to you?”

The boy doesn’t respond, slowly inching further backwards. “Don’t let me catch you in here again. You’ll regret it.”

“Fine. Keep hiding from the truth. We’ll see where that gets you.” Wren grits their teeth and reaches forward to grab their bag when suddenly the trainee snatches it before they can take it, abruptly disappearing into thin air. The door slams shut behind him.

Wren gasps and makes a grunt of protest. “Asshole,” they grumble. They take one last look at the emptied file room before stomping towards the door and slipping away, headed for the maintenance elevator.

They’re not giving up.

They can’t be done with Eden until they get those files.

── ⟡ ˙.

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Panting, they wipe the sweat from their brow, eyes fixed up on the screen: 4.43. A new personal best. With a content smile, they turn and make their way over to the sideline bench, joining Atlas as he passes them a neatly folded, pale gray towel. “Your turn,” she huffs at him, out of breath, as she dabs at the back of her neck. 

Atlas stands up automatically, straightening his back. He pushes the bangs from out of his face with a swift jerk of his head, moving towards the weapons rack opposite to them. It’s really a glorious thing, rows and rows of sleek steel weapons, hanging on their various ledges, glinting dangerously. He opts not for one of the sharper blades, but instead his usual staff, unhooking it from its spot with ease. His hands close around it with comforting familiarity, the gentle weight in his hands one that is as close to home as he will ever feel. 

He spins around sharply, taking a deep breath to steady himself. With a ready stance, he approaches the platform, a line of new training bots already standing in a row, waiting for him. 

There is a sharp tick that resounds throughout the gym as the timer resets, and at once Atlas spurs into action. His power activates with a blink, bringing on the familiar feeling of strength surging through his limbs. He delivers a well-placed kick to the first dummy, quickly striking its neck with his staff. Spinning around to greet the next two, he plows through them with just as much ease, the sounds of crunching metal following him as he moves past them, face a mask of complete concentration. 

He twists and turns throughout the platform, movements light yet powerful, as he knocks down bot after bot, defeating them almost effortlessly. Finally, as his staff leaves the last of the training dummies decapitated, the body tumbling to the ground with a resounding crash, he drops his weapon, piles of metal collapsed into piles near his feet. 

He turns to the screen expectantly, allowing himself to smile a little. 4.17. “Beat you.”

Ira lets out a little grunt of protest, tossing the towel down at her feet. “Okay smartass,” they say with a huff, a faint smile flickering across their face. “Beat 4.17 then.” 

Atlas huffs out a laugh, swiftly stooping down to pick up his staff again. He straightens, a rustle at the doorway suddenly catching his attention. 

His gaze flickers, eyes locking on a rather disgruntled-looking trainee standing there, slouching in on themselves. He blinks. No, not just any trainee. He could recognize that startled, wide-eyed look anywhere. It’s the soldier from before. 

With an abrupt spin of their heels, the kid tears their eyes away from Atlas, sprinting straight out the door before Atlas has the chance to think to offer them a go with the new training simulation. The door slams shut, cutting through the silence like the pierce of a gunshot. 

Atlas furrows his brows, staring at the spot the trainee had once stood, his mind lingering. Once again, an unknown emotion has settled over him. It’s odd, pushing and prodding at him relentlessly, unweaving the calm he has worked so hard to put up. So very unlike himself, he can’t help but acknowledge it, his thoughts still resting on the trainee despite all the warning signs he’s seen in just their few short interactions showing him that this kid is trouble. There is something about them that pulls him in, his usual logic and obedience almost forgotten — nonexistent.

“You know them?” It’s Ira’s voice that snaps him out of his trance. They move behind him, gaze focused on his face intently, eyebrow raised in question. 

“No.” He states flatly, forcing himself to look away, grip tightening around his staff. “They’re just another trainee.”

He forces himself to shrug it off, turning his back towards the door and planting his feet in a fighting position as the timer resets. 

The trainee is the least of his problems right now. With training, his upcoming finals, and Evaluation Day in only a few short weeks, it would do him some good to completely forget about them. No use in being distracted by some clumsy, skittish recruit. He has been training his entire life for his upcoming evaluation, there is no possibility where he can squander that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a kid that really is none of his concern. What good would he be, if he allowed himself to be pulled away by something as inconsequential as a new recruit? An Elite certainly wouldn’t allow themselves to be so absentminded. 

He meets Ira’s gaze again. “I bet I can get half your time.” He challenges, his eyes glinting. 

“Half?” Ira scoffs at Atlas’ words, her brows raising half an inch higher. “Alright. Get half my time in one go and I’ll pay for all of your meals this week.” They declare with a daring smirk. 

“You’re on.” Atlas turns back around, facing the dummies, staff raised.

The sharp tick of the timer starting rings in his ears once more and at once he’s jumping into action. He quickly moves through their ranks, staff a blur of silver as he plows through robot after robot, taking them down swiftly and efficiently. He twirls his staff through the air with expertise, moving faster than before, as sweat builds up at the nape of his neck, muscles straining with effort. 

It is with a kind of demon-like speed that he finishes off the last dummy, pouncing on it and sending his staff straight through its chest. Electricity crackles as it deactivates, the glow of its eyes flickering out. 

Proud, he pushes himself off of it with an exhausted huff, wiping the sweat from his forehead and turning back to the screen, out of breath. 3.27. He sighs, eyes flickering back towards Ira, but instead landing on a person rushing towards the doors across from him.

Them. 

Bustling with a kind of mad energy across the gym — almost as if their life depends on it — is the recruit from before, beelining straight for the far east doors near the end of the gym. They have their head bowed low, hands stuffed inside their pockets, hair falling in their face, obscuring it from view. They look disgruntled and panicked, quiet as a mouse as they cross past Atlas and Ira. Atlas has never seen anything like it. 

Although he is used to the fear and nervousness that radiates off of younger recruits whenever he walks by, this behaviour is like none other. Only having seen them a short number of times, there should be no reason for this kind of genuine avoidance — they’ve barely said more than five words to each other. 

He doesn’t understand what their deal is. It’s not like they’ve trained together, or really interacted with each other at all. They certainly aren’t on the path to be an Elite — there’s no way they’re anywhere near his rank. That’s evident enough from their clumsy demeanour and brash attitude. 

He’s positive he’s never seen them around before. He would remember them, his memory is excellent. It’s helped him throughout numerous tests and pop quizzes, no chance it would fail him now. Yet for some reason this supposedly “new trainee” seems to be popping up everywhere he goes. There is something so strange about it. 

He knows he shouldn’t pay attention to it, knows there are far more important things to his mission than some scrawny, random kid, but he can’t shake this feeling that they don’t belong here. Something about their appearance, so mundane and hard to place, as if they’re just trying to blend in; and the way they’re moving towards the door, avoiding going anywhere near him or Ira, as if scared of coming into contact with them. Their gaze, focused pointedly at their feet, posture slouched as to protect themself — the clear opposite of how a soldier should stand. All of it is just so very….. 

Odd. 

Atlas tries to put the thought to the back of his mind. This probably — no, definitely — has to do with the conversation he had with Cato after his training session today. Maybe the recruits were finally beginning to give him the respect that he longed for for so long. The respect that he has tried so desperately to earn, with every glare that found his way in the halls, food and other miscellaneous items tossed to the back of his head when he wasn’t paying attention, too absolved in his studies. 

But now he wonders if he really wants this respect so badly anyway. If he’s just going to be treated differently, treated like an outsider, no matter what he does, is it really worth it? If being an Elite means being feared, does he—

Stop that. 

He quickly shakes the thought off, not even allowing himself to continue. That is foolish; a lunatic’s thinking. He’s been fighting all his life to be considered for the Elites, there’s no chance he’ll back down now. He’s being stupid, getting too caught up in his head. This is the respect you deserve, he reminds himself, Cato’s voice now clear in his head. This is the respect you have fought for. 

Being at the top requires sacrifices. And if it meant that the lower, weak minds around him would avoid him instead of jeer at him, that was a sacrifice he would gladly take. Soon, he’d be surrounded with like minded people, soldiers of his own skill. And then, none of it would matter anymore. He would be completing his duty, what he was born to do. The confines of the warehouse would no longer hold him hostage. 

This was good. 

The kid glances back at him once, brown eyes darting towards his face. They go wide when they notice him looking, the trainee almost jumping out of their own skin before they hastily scramble towards the exit. 

It is with one wide arc that the gym door slams roughly behind them. 

Atlas furrows his eyebrows, turning back to Ira and frowning slightly. That was weird. 

“You sure you don’t know them?” They ask. Their eyebrows are turned upwards, confused. “They seem like they’re…. avoiding you?” 

Atlas grabs the towel from beside them on the bench, sitting down next to them and patting at his face. Training has been forgotten, this new encounter leaving a million new questions pulling at his brain. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, voice gruff. “Maybe it’s all the stuff with Cato. Not everyone is very happy about the rumours that she’s considering me for the promotion.” 

At Atlas’s words, Ira shrugs, leaning back in their seat, head hitting the other side of the bleachers with a resounding thunk. “That makes sense. Still hella weird though.” 

Atlas nods, once again attempting to push the mysterious trainee out of his thoughts. Whoever they are, they aren’t important. Nothing else matters besides making the Elites and impressing the other leaders. This is what he was made for, what he’s trained for. This was his purpose. 

Anything else would just get in his way.

── ⟡ ˙.

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