The plan comes to them slowly. Through the bleak beginnings of their consciousness, residing in the very backside of their mind. Foolish, they think to themself. But safe. Right. Right, as much as everything hasn’t been. Right, with a sort of impossibility. They have been lost for so long. The reckoning came, within the depths of their sickness. The regret, stinging and sharp, pieces of glass embedded into their chest. A sort of mortal terror that had not yet gripped them; intense, powerful in a new sense of the word. They felt it in the weakness of their limbs, the faint beat of their heart. A new kind of longing. An emotion they could not possibly ignore.

The church is the reopening of the wound, sharpness in their side hardened. Their suspicions confirmed, a kind of deep-rooted evil taking place. Fear, fear of before and fear of all that will come next. A web of lies, the secrets coming undone. They’ve done this before, a certain familiarity, despite everything. Alone, then. Within Eden’s halls, creeping along and burying their nose within the contents of files. Atlas’s presence wasn’t at their side then, a sort of protective force. The Archives’ Master sits in the center of it all. Alone, like they had been — he had been. It had costed them everything to save him. They'd do it over again a hundred times more. Lying in the backseat, alone, sky washed yellow, it had all come to them. How much they were willing to risk, leaving this place for the final time. They would do it all again. 

“Are you ready?” They asked him, standing on the edge of the border. Illusions, silver and real, brushing against their skin, tickilish. Atlas looked to them then, wary, from where he stood. His eyes were deep in the darkness of night, glowing faintly. He looked soft. 

When they turn, it is he who follows, loyal and unsuspecting. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

On the night they begged him to save them, the night they forced him to give everything up, the night everything changed. They saw it in his eyes then. The fear. A chill in the air, a glimpse at a past they could not comprehend, may not ever know themself. He came from a world outside of theirs. Someplace different, incomprehensible. He’s seen things they have not, felt a violence when they felt gentle hands, a comforting glance. Strange, to ever think of him, young. Vulnerable. They feel something akin to grief, to think of him then. Scared, how he is now. 

They wish he didn’t have to see them ask. A betrayal, of sorts. They know — they saw it upon his face. The silent plea he gave, a wish for something else, anything else. They were not just asking the boy, setting out an offer. It was something so much deeper, and he knew it too. He’s already sensitive. They knew, speaking it, that it would break him. In some way or another. The illusion of what had been shattered. 

They know they hurt him. They know it, above anything else. 

A ghostly touch, there until it is not. Atlas glides down the hallway, a tight persuit behind Alastair, and he does not look their way. His face is tucked, hidden, and in the soft glow emenating from the brief torchlight, Wren would not be able to describe the look upon his face either way. He can be so difficult to read. A closed book, their mom would say. Strange, to have her in their thoughts at all. She is so far gone now. Or maybe they are. They can’t tell anymore. 

The soft shuffling of feet against smooth tile is strangely eerie. The halls have gone quiet now, except for it. A silence, minus for the click of the soles of Alastair’s loafers in front, the creak and tilt of these aging, ancient walls. A creeping sense of paranoia, an itch in their back, as if they are being watched. They’d laughed Atlas off, shrugged at his suspicion, when he’d shared the same feeling with them. Walking the length of these halls, they cannot ignore it any more. The anxiety is everpresent. It may be, for as long as they live. Will they ever remember what it had felt like, before it all, when the idea of an attack was a distant thought, something unimaginable? They step shakily, rubbing at the inside of their palm in a self-soothing motion. What they wish for, more than anything else, is Atlas’s presence at their side, his arm around their shoulders. But there’s no chance of that now. He’s hurt: their fault. 

The exhaustion has begun to seep in, despite. They’re always tired now; the presence of the church seeming to sap the very little energy they have left to spare. Their head has started to pulse uncomfortably, a drumming beneath the skull. They need sleep. Real sleep, in a bed, away from the strife. Without the nightmares, the fear of an attack. The promise of safety, the promise of rest, would heal them more than anything else ever could. But that’s become besides the point. The call of the dungeon, of solid, hard proof, keeps them moving. They need this. 

The hallway is dark and wide. Stretching beyond, the higher they ascend, belonging again with the rest of the living. They walk along it, moving with careful feet, only stopping when they have neared the end of it. Before them exists a large, wooden door, old in appearance; a thick oak slab that separates the study from the rest of the world. 

Alastair’s expression is pinched. Beads of sweat slip down his forehead, a sheen accumulating along his pale cheeks. He appears more ghostly now than he ever did down there, fingers fumbling with each other, clammy. “I don’t know if he’s in there,” he whispers, and it’s just barely audible. 

“I have illusions,” Wren whispers, “I can get us in and out, if we’re quiet.” 

They don’t know why they offer it up to him so easily. He could very well betray them after this. Run off to the priest, beg and plead with him, turn them in. He’s made his choice, afterall; he’s staying behind. He has no reason to do this for them, a sort of final kindness. He could have strung along a last trick, a lie in return, for all the trouble they’ve caused him. They may as well deserve it. For trusting him, for hurting him. Wren can’t help himself. Despite all the forces begging with them to leave this boy alone, they can’t. There’s something sad in his eyes. It’s all they need. 

Alastair doesn’t take their offer up. His eyes widen momentarily, disbelieving, and he shakes his head, a minute twitch. He swallows slowly, adams apple bobbing against his collar. There’s a resolute nervousness to him; he’s more afraid of this than they are. Muttering a soft prayer underneath his breath, he turns, resolve hardening. Jaw clenched, he turns the brass knob, the old wood creaking with his weight. 

The study is dark, and, thankfully, empty. Alastair is the first to dare step in, seemingly more anxious to stay put, along the hallway he does not belong in, than to break past the border. His shoes thud softly against the wooden floors, frame slouched forwards. He does not move further, even as Wren takes a tentative step inside, cringing at the telling creak that follows. The door comes shut behind them, and Alastair’s head does not turn. His eyes are glued straight ahead, towards the door the door across the room, looming and ancient. His hand shakes as he stretches to point. “Through there.”

Wren is frozen. There’s a certain finality to all of this, a promise of something real. They’re suddenly afraid to step any closer. They glance to the boy, their guide, nervously, gaze flicking from that door to his pale-cheeked face. It only seems to set in a further layer of resignation. 

Taking a pointed step back, Alastair shakes his head. “I won’t follow you.” 

“W-what?” They ask, nervous. There is nothing to hide their fear this time. “You’re not coming?”

Alastair’s face is pulled tight, a sickly hue to his features as he shakes his head, more adamant. “No. No, I can’t. Not again.” He swallows roughly, squeezing his eyes shut as if banishing the very thought. Never again. 

It is Atlas who comes to their aid. Surprising, considering it all. “You know the place best,” he speaks, low and steady. He’s leaned up against the door, arms crossed over his chest. Within the weak light of the office, the shadows obscure any view of his real expression — a glimpse into what he could be truly thinking. “You should lead.” 

His eyes are narrowed, still. Distrusting. 

Alastair flinches, as if afraid Atlas will reach out, force him down the length of the room, steely grip dipping into his shoulders. Back down there into the dungeon, back into his doom. His eyes flick to the closed door, blocked away from view, fear written upon his face. Shakily, he breathes out. “I don’t want to be down there long.” 

“I won’t be long.” Wren assures, hand slipping into their pocket. They fish out their phone, thick and shiny silver, gleaming beneath the dim light. A few pictures, and they’ll be out. Real, true proof, and they will never return within the depths of these halls again. Proof, and they can go home. Stepping forwards, chest puffed, they slide the door open, moving aside to allow Alastair to pass through. “Yell if anyone comes in,” they mutter over their shoulder.

Alastair is slow descending. His hands tremble at his sides and he breathes unsteadily, glancing back towards Wren every few seconds as if he’s afraid they have abandoned him. Surprised, to see they haven’t. Wren is similarly grim. The initial excitement has long worn off now. All they feel is a slow dread, gripping them with the cold. Something sick has begun to settle, their paranoia turned into something real. Feet sliding along the stairs, they settle along the floor, a dead chill seeping into their shoes, coming with the first shock. Electricity seems to brim within the air. 

The smell is what hits them first. All at once, an overwhelming stench that burns their nostrils, disorienting and painful and wrong, in a way they can’t describe. It’s putrid, overriding their senses, bringing with it the taste of death. They blink, slow, confused, their eyes beginning to adjust. A newer sense of horror envelops them then, paralyzing in their limbs. They very suddenly wish they had not left Atlas all the way up there, them down here, alone. His hand within theirs would do much more to fight against the fear, a comforting presence at their side. The air is thin, strangely humid within the depths of the basement. They stutter against their breath, their rapidly thrumming heartbeat threatening to burst right out of their chest. The hand that grips their phone shakes with such an intensity they fear they’ll drop it. 

“Alastair?” They whisper. 

Human mass splayed out before them. Rotting, gross. They are frozen, staring at it, at the crude symbols painted along the walls, the floor. The boy beside them does not offer a response; when they turn, they see he has his hands over his face, trembling worse than they ever could. The feel of their gaze on his form draws out a desperate whine from him, almost involuntarily. Please, he mouths. 

A block in their mind, they turn. Approach the decaying mess in front of them, feet sliding along the wet, sticky cement. The stench grows thicker, so much they have to lift their shirt to cover their face, squint against stinging eyes. Not real, they think, somewhere distant, bile resting just at the edge of their throat. Just a photo. Not real.

Wren’s phone shutters as they snap away at their camera. The flash blinks along in the dark, disturbing the quiet of the scene. Something about this entire act feels wrong; sinful, in its own right. Imposing on something not meant for their mortal eyes, better kept secret. Their chest rises and falls unsteadily, eyes narrowed carefully as they step nearer. They try to force the shake out of their hand. They need these pictures to be clear. 

The descreated remains are dark and haunting, within the illumination of their phone light. Wren cannot bare to look any closer. Afraid of what they’ll see, if they do. Afraid of what will reveal itself. Still alive. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

After it all, they’re quiet. Pale-faced, returning with the knowledge of something cursed. Atlas appears uneasy as they make it past the last step, wood creaking. He rushes to them as if he thought for a moment they wouldn’t return at all. “We can go now,” they whisper, careful not to raise their voice anymore. To say anything at all after what they just discovered comes to them as almost illicit. Something wrong. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

They see the relief written upon his face. A breath, sighed gently. Hands reaching up to touch their hair, push it out of their cheeks. A sudden sense of normalcy. 

“Don’t come back again.” Alastair speaks, and they don’t expect it. They had almost forgotten he was here. So quiet, no more than something distant within the loud buzzing inside their mind. He stands still near the entrance, back turned on them. As if afraid if he looks away, the rotting flesh will rise, crawl along the walls and come for him. Entangle up in his limbs, force him back down within the depths. To lie, rotting with the dead. “I can’t promise your safety if you do.”

“We won’t,” they promise. Their eyes are downcast, Atlas’s hands resting along their shoulders. The touch is almost too much — and still not enough. They blink rapidly to force the shake from out of their voice, the perspiration from their eyes. Their bottom lip still trembles. “As soon as we’re out we’ll get as far away as possible. I don’t want to bring you any more harm than we’ve already caused.” They say, voice hoarse. Despite everything, the horrors that still have splayed themself along the back of their mind, they really do mean it this time. They’re sorry. They always will be, they think. 

“Thank you,” Alastair is the one to lead them out. Walking slow, opening the study door with a quick peek to the outside. Relief, on his features, as it reveals nothing, nobody. Ghost town, Wren thinks. This is something forbidden. They should not be out at all. The rest of the church knew better, asleep within their barracks. If only Wren had been so wise. Perhaps if they had, they would not have made it here at all. 

As he bids them farewell, Alastair appears consumed by his own melancholy. His eyes are distant as he musters up a weak smile, hand shaking from where it rests against the door knob. “I wish you luck.”

Wren nods, grabbing Atlas’s hand. When he doesn’t resist, the relief is instaneous. Something right, admist it all. His hand in theirs, warmth emanating against their skin. How it is meant to be. “We’ll leave you then. Thank you for your help. I won’t forget it.” 

A finality to their words, realizations hitting them all at once. This will be goodbye. Nothing left for them now, besides whatever they have left within the wreckage. No one to save, no one who would ever come willingly. Plan crumbling to dust beneath their fingertips, leaving an empty sort of doubt. The knowledge that they carry does nothing to soothe them. Another burden, heavy along both of their shoulders. The weight of tragedy, burning a hole through their heart. The church has not brought them the rest they hoped for. Something rotting has been left in return. 

They step back into the hall. Back into the presence of god. 

Alastair wavers at the door. “It was not… entirely unpleasant to meet you.” He grimaces, fidgeting with his fingers. Nervous, even now. Watching with those wide eyes, legs shaking. Not moving, from where he has planted himself, crossed just in between the border of the study and the hallway. Stuck, it seems. “Despite the circumstances.”

Wren smiles, ducking their head. “See you around, Alastair.” 

They cannot help themself. They’re wistful. They could not save him, they could not do much to make a change. They had meant to — they really had. They thought, perhaps foolishly, there would be a way. The spot where their phone rests in their pocket burns white-hot marks against their skin. What they had come for, all this way. Something they had only ever hoped of being able to see. The aftermath fills them with nothing but deep regret. It isn’t just their anger that holds them now. That hope, slim, brought only possible with Atlas, the existence of a friendship they never could have imagined themself. They had thought, thought to themself that maybe…

“Wait—”

Alastair’s hand is outstretched, eyes wide. He holds it suspended, in the air, only inches from their skin, from the promise of real, physical touch. Their eyes on him now, he seems hesitant about it all, to move further. Break past his self-contained border. 

“If I left,” Alastair’s voice shakes as he says it, as if the very notion is almost too dangerous to acknowledge. He shrinks back slightly, his hands clasping together over his abdomen, fidgeting with his fingers nervously. Something wet and shiny gleams within his mismatched eyes. So deperate, so hopeful, within the orange light that surrounds him. A last wish. “Where would we go?” 

The shattering of something brittle. Wren stumbles back, nearly lost for an answer. Everything wrong that has not been been right, that they felt never could be right. The chance of something they can fix. It almost proves to be all too much. 

“I have a van. Parked a couple blocks away.” They answer, voice clear. They wince as Atlas’s grip in theirs tightens, painful, crushing at their fingers. A threat, maybe, or a silent plea. They ignore it either way. Sorries can come later, though they can no longer think to even reassure him. The boy that stands in front of them, hesitating, is all too important. They smile at him, a little breathless. “We could go anywhere you want to.” 

“You don’t… have a plan?” 

Alastair’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed into a crooked line as he wrinkles his nose. That fear again, in his eyes, along with something else — that superior judgement. The expression he wears now is a mirror to Atlas, strange upon anyone but him. It only seems to set their decision in further. There is no turning back now, though they don’t think they ever did have a choice to. Their fate is set in stone. 

Wren flushes a bit. They almost feel defensive. “Do you want in or not?” 

That seems to get to him. Taking an urgent step closer, his eyes widened, large as saucers. “Please. I’ll go. Take me with you.” 

“You’re sure?”

He cringes. “Yes.”

He stands taller now, reaching his full height. Jaw clenched, something definite in his expression. Something sad, too. “But they’ll follow me. I need to make sure they won’t.”

── ⟡ ˙

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Whispered, again. Wren doesn’t acknowledge it. Neither did they, the three times previous. “You should drink something,” they say quietly, gaze downcast. They can’t stare at him too long anymore. There’s something so uncomfortable about it, this newfound vulnerability, Wren cannot help but turn away. It’s cruel, they know that. He wouldn’t do that for them. But they shudder to look at him, all wet-eyed and sad. He looks so crushed. They can’t begin to imagine what’s going through his head, after everything. They wish to touch him, to feel just an ounce of what he feels right now. To reach a hand out, to peer into his soul. He reaches over for the water bottle, takes a tentative sip from the days-old water, and they do not do a single thing. 

—

The Archives’ Master is pale beneath the dull, yellow lights hung above them. They cast shadows across the panes of his face, pull out the sharp lines along his shallow cheeks, gaunt and sickly. As the creaking wooden doors shudder closed, reverbrating that haunting noise along the walls of this cursed place, there is only one emotion that registers: terror. The last remnants of Wren’s plan unwind and unravel at their feet, helpless, as the boy stares at them, suddenly fearful. It has all gone wrong. More wrong than either of them were prepared for. They have to lean against the shelves to stay upright. Their legs have begun to wobble, and they no longer think it is just due to the shortness in their breath, the muted pain in their side. This is something deeper, a sensation they know well. 

Someone is here. 

The thought is half-formed, comes to them dully, just past the fog that has built up inside their mind. Their head hurts. Their vision has begun to spin, even now, days out, weeks out. The illusions have taken with them something dangerous. They understand that, with an innate sense, as they cling to the wall, grip tightening, knuckles white. They have locked eyes with the boy, with that big, pitiful gaze. Something passes between them, a split second realization. And when the word finally slips past his lips, Wren registers nothing else. 

—

Wren slumps back down, drained and out of breath. They blink, holding a hand up to their face and wiping the sweat from their brow. The illusion around them flickers and dissipates, weak. They feel dizzy, and kind of nauseous, like they’re back on the side of the road, keeled over. They’re afraid at any moment whatever’s left in their gut will come back up. They’re afraid the residual itch of their leg is more than just an itch; that if they pull up their pant leg, peek beneath the crisp white bandages, that infectious green will have consumed them, poision crawling back into their bloodstream. No, that’s not even it. The sickness, it was not the worst of it. It was torture, pain unlike anything, lighting fire admidst their nervous system. But it was only the beginning. And next time, they’re scared that not even Atlas will be strong enough to save them. 

He’s human. They’re acutely aware of that now. It is terrifying enough that, for a moment, they had forgotten it. He’d almost had it all trained out of him. Almost. When they glance towards him again, head spinning, he does not look real. A mirage, ghostly in the afternoon light. Something sharp cuts its way through their chest. “I’m sorry I made you go back there.” 

Atlas brings his knees up to his chest, tucking his face into his thigh. “‘S okay.” He murmurs, training his eyes away. His voice is so quiet, they almost don’t catch it. He doesn’t sound like himself at all. His breathing has slowed down, along with the adrenaline, which they take as a good sign. But he’s shrunken in, still scared. They can feel that as much, besides whatever confusing feelings might be running through his mind right now. Does he expect them to berate him? To… hit him? They’re afraid to make any sudden movements, to reach over, run a hand along his spine. He appears so fragile right now. They badly wish to touch him, to stroke his cheek and pet his hair and reassure him, whispering in his ear that it’s okay, they’re not angry. The urge is almost overwhelming. They have to dig their fingers into their thighs, look away. He is so fragile right now they are not certain if there is any possibility of ever getting through to him. They’re afraid of him breaking. The thought is ridiculous on its own. 

As if he were some sort of toy. 

—

Atlas is not the first to move, even though he should be. The Archives’ Master turns from them, stumbles forwards, posture hunched in face of the footsteps that echo, taunting, through these walls. But Atlas is stock-still, unmoving. The colour has drained from his cheeks and his eyes are trained forwards, somewhere indiscernible. They are not sure if he’s seeing anything at all. His breathing has slowed, deafened — so much that Wren cannot tell if air is even breaking past his lips at all. He is a statue, ice; paralyzed against the Archives towering shelves, still on his feet. Wren’s eyes are wide and wild, adrenaline thrumming beneath their skin. They surge forward, grip his wrist within their fingers. They do the only thing they know how to do, and they do not regret it. They hide, and they run. They leave that poor boy with the sad, wet eyes alone and they do not look back.

—

Wren whines, making a sound of frustration and bringing their hands up to cover their face. “It’s not. It’s not okay.” They whimper, more angry with themself than they ever could be with him. This is unfair. This is so unfair. They’re allowed to make mistakes, but he’s not? What kind of person are they to not immediately reassure him otherwise? “I knew you hated it. I’m sorry.” They drop their hands. “This is my fault.”

“Don’t. It’s not.” Atlas looks towards them, flexing his fingers nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says again. They aren’t quite sure on what he’s saying it for anymore, if it is just the pure need alone. What does he have to apologize for? What has he done now that they haven’t done themself, in worse circumstances? “I’m sorry. I’m just— I’m sorry.” 

They cannot muster up anything to say. His eyes are wide, pleading, and there is nothing they can say that will soothe it. His shame is so enormous, flowing out of him with such ease, they don’t know how they could possibly ever fix it. The apologies come so automatic. A lifetime of sorries he has been forced to utter. They wish they had the words he needed to hear. They wish they could do anything more than feel the sickly swell of pity for him. It’s more prominent now than it ever has been. It has always been there, lingering. They cannot help but feel sorry for him. There is something so melancholic about him, there always has been. They think its what drew to him in the first place, admist all the other faces in the crowd. He always looked so lonely. They remember that well. 

He looks lonely, now. 

Wren shifts slightly, resting their head on their bent arm. “Do you…” they pause, not entirely sure what kind of reaction this may pull from him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

—

Atlas was not the first to move, and this should have been the first sign. He stumbles into the wall, shoulderblade against stone, body thrown off kilter. He has backed himself into a corner, slides a little as he steadies, or tries to. His knees are wobbling and his head is bowed, hands lowered in front of him, tucked over one another. Wren’s eyes are not on him though. They have their back against the wall, sweat slicking down underneath their bangs, beneath their heavy clothes. Their chest is heaving and they force the black spots from out of their vision, a persistent ache in their skull. They’ve overdone it. They really have this time. This is not the sickness. No, this is something far worse. This is something deep down, the roots that connect to their very biology. Breathing through another wave of nausea, they recognize it. 

Wren does not look at Atlas at all, not until it is too late. Breathing hard, staring straight ahead, their gaze is focused only on the cracks between the shelves. That boy is not far. They can even see his heavy shadow, stark against the dim lighting. The figures move slowly, faintly, a scene drawing out in front of them. Shuffling feet against stone. A low, smooth voice. Righteous. The minute sound of clothes falling upon tile, a belt being pulled loose. Stammering, quiet and afraid. Wren’s gut churns. The dizziness has given way to something else. The dark wooden shelves of the Archives’ have stopped feeling real. Wren is floating, in a dreamstate, their surroundings blurred and hazy. There is a boy being undressed and none of it is real. 

Shadows morph and shift. Back bared, the drop of a belt. Quiet, pleading protests. A low growl, a man’s voice. They flinch, instinctively, when the first hit comes. It startles them out of their stupor. They shiver, the bite of the cold all the more apparent. Their cheeks have flushed a deep pink. ‘This is not real,’ they think, sick. This is not real. 

—

Atlas is watching them from out of the corner of his eye. He reaches for his water, posture still stooped, takes a longer sip. The silence that follows is long and jagged. Uncomfortable. But that is the way it has to be now, that’s the way it is. They’ve both witnessed things they cannot put the name to and something broken has come in its place. Wren shudders to think of the Archives, to think, of before. 

“I can wait if you want,” they whisper. 

—

Atlas? 

There’s tears streaming down their cheeks, a grief for a boy they don’t even know the name to. His crying overlaps with their own, supressed, quiet. It has been almost moments of this, seconds really. But the room has quickly become stifling, choking. They are trapped in their spot. Too afraid to move, too afraid to make a sound. Anything else risks being noticed, risks being caught. Hurt. It is this thought that circles, constant. To be caught is to be hurt. Too be caught is to hear that laughing again, a ringing in their ears. Fingertips pressing, digging, nails dipping into the soft of their flesh. 

Panting, breathing hard. Gasping, like struggling to catch a breath. But not from them. Wren swallows, shakes. Their fingers tremble, terror pure and true sliding its way down their spine. When they glance to their right, the distorted vision in front of them is something out a dream. Not real. 

Atlas, doubled over, hyperventilating. Hair falling in his face, his hands set out in front of him. He’s leaning heavily on one side, bracing himself against the wall. Clammy skin pressed to cold stone, eyes squeezed shut. He’s trembling — really, truly, shaking. Worse than they are. Whole-body shivers. The panic has seized him and peeled him back, exposed him, raw and vulnerable and wrong. 

Not real, not real. 

—

“I’m sorry.”

He blurts it again; obsessively, compulsively, like it is the only thing that he has left to speak. His eyes are squeezed shut and his body is tensed, braced for impact. Their softness brings something ugly and sad out of him. For all the patience he recieves he only becomes more derailed. They can read it, plain across his face, and something about it makes them sick. I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve it. “I’m really, so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he pleading with them. He shouldn’t be. He has no reason to. This wasn’t even his fault. It was theirs. They shouldn’t have made him go back down there. He wouldn’t have, had it been them. They should not have brought him here. 

But they don’t tell him that. They simply sit there, as they promised they would. Breathing slow, face calm, expression held steady; they supress the throb of pain behind their eyes, ignoring the tempting call of sleep. They do not frown at him, or tell him why he’s wrong. He has heard all of it far too much. He has a lifetime of faults he thinks he needs to make up for. They won’t let this be one of them. 

Readjusting their position, they prop a foot up on the seat, sling their arm around it. Their eyes do not leave Atlas’s the entire time. When they speak again, their voice is soft, reassuring. “Atlas.” They say, calm. “I’ve told you. It’s okay. I’m not mad.” 

“You should be.” He spits. His words come out harsh and sharp, untrained. Disgust taints his expression. The strings of his being are being pulled loose and something rawer it taking place, rising to the surface. “I fucked everything up. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I never— I’m not. Like this.” 

—

He’s being loud. This is the first thing they think, above all else. He’s being too loud. 

The panic is stronger than any sense of surprise. They move forwards with a sudden sense of urgency, force him to stand straight. Hand clamped over his mouth, palm to lips. They’re careful not to block his nose, which sucks in stuttered, panicked breaths. His eyes are wide, wild, blown out, staring straight through them. He is somewhere else entirely, and Wren is helpless to it. A hand on his shoulderblade, hand on his mouth, they are steadying themself as much as they are holding him upright. They shake their head slowly, desperately. The panicked heaving of his chest, the stuttered gasps escaping from his mouth — it’s all too distracting. They cannot place what he’s thinking, what he could be feeling right now. Panic has overtaken him, overrided his senses and taken control of his training. He is rendered useless. 

‘Please,’ they mouth, pleading with him, lost. He simply stares on, unseeing. 

—

“Well I’m not. I’m not mad,” Wren shakes their head, sits up straighter. When they look to him again, their gaze is immeasurably soft. “We’ll figure it out, okay?” They reach over, move to hold his hand in theirs, against all better judgement. He allows it. Tensed, afraid, and yet, he allows it all the same. “We will. It’s okay to mess up. Everyone does. You don’t have to be a certain way, not with me.” 

“It’s not, it’s not.” Atlas’s voice trembles. He pulls away, legs drawn up to his chest, hands tucked inside, folded in on himself. He’s rambling a bit now, rocking back and forth, not even seeming to realize he’s doing so. “It’s not okay. I’m supposed to— I’m supposed to be good.” He pauses, his voice cracking, point losing its traction. He stares off into the setting sun, seemingly lost, and Wren’s grip on him tightens. He shakes it off. His next words are laced with tragedy, pain bleeding through. “I’m supposed to protect you. You’re so… injured and it’s because of me and I don’t know how to do any of this stuff and—” He sucks in a sharp breath, clenches his fist, squeezes. His knuckles pale and lines crease at the corners of his mouth, frustration building to its peak. “And I fucked up. I fucked up the files. They were important.” 

Wren dips their head, presses their nose into his shoulder. He is not looking, not focusing on them, but he feels it. Minutely, he does. Wren feels him tense beneath the pressure, breath catching. For a second, they think it has broken the facade. They imagine the tears building, falling, slipping past his cheeks like they can tell he so badly wants them to. But when the look up at him, his face is dry. Expression pinched, eyes empty. 

“Hey,” they whisper, frowning. They grab his hand again, gripping it more firmly. “No more talking like this. This is the Eden bullshit that they forced into your head.” They lace their fingers together, moving to rub at the black tattoo lining his wrist. Stars. They appear to be a child’s design. Lopsided. A strange imperfection that feels suddenly fitting. “Everyone fucks up but this is salvageable. The boy didn’t sell us out. No more giving yourself shit for it, okay?”

—

When it’s all over, he crumples, tucked into their shoulder, shaking with no end in sight. They have a hand on his spine, another nestled in his hair. Stroking, soothing. His breaths are short, stuttered, muffled against the fabric of their sweater. 

They pull him back. His eyes are so massive, pupils dilated, blinking with those long eyelashes of his. He gasps as they bring their hands down to the sides of his face, his cheeks red, flushed, his skin clammy to the touch. Slowly, they smooth their thumbs along the soft skin there. Untouched, unmarred. “He’s gone now,” they whisper, “It’s okay.” 

“We’re going to leave, I promise. Just you and me.” Forehead pressed to his, eyes closed, they pull him into into the embrace. He has his hands fisted up in their clothes, trembling uncontrollably. They don’t resist it. They only hug him tighter. “Shh.” 

“You’re safe.” 

—

Atlas stares at their hand in his, something distant clouding over his eyes. “But I let you down,” he whispers, as if it’s some moral failing. “Soldiers are supposed to be strong. Impenetrable. They aren’t dr…They aren’t driven by emotion nor fear, they're complete their mission despite the cost.” He pauses, looks away. His voice is soft, as he speaks again, a quiet admission. “I’m not— I’m not supposed to be afraid.” 

“You don’t have to be a soldier anymore. You don’t have some duty you’re going to get punished for not doing.” They rub their thumb along the side of his, trace the pale scar there. His hands and arms have so many, a littering of raised bumps and pale skin against the brown. They wondered once, how he got all of them. Would he ever admit it? “You’re a regular person, Atlas. Even if you don’t like it. People get scared.” 

Atlas has no rebuttal. He stares at them, wide-eyed, and when they meet his gaze again, look into those big eyes of his, they notice he’s blushing. 

“You’re okay now,” they speak. An order, again. They don’t even mean for it to happen. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

It is a long time before either of them speak again. The quiet absorbs the van’s center, more naturally, this time, than ever before. So they let it; they don’t push, nor prod. They do not even glance his way, afraid their gaze may be too intrusive for his likes right now. They hold his hand, despite. His skin, warm, against theirs. It’s welcome, against the pain in their head and the heaviness of their eyes. They resist, in spite. The sun dips low beyond the rows of quaint brick houses, moves down past the horizon, the sky glowing orange, magenta, and then deep violet, dark as Atlas’s eyes. Wren does not say a word for any of it, simply residing, at his side, uninquisitive. But it is with the gleam of the pale, full moon and the tick of the clock, continuous, that they tire. They cannot bare to leave him alone to dwell within his thoughts any longer. They cannot worry about whatever it is he may be going through, alone, any more than they already have. 

They turn, twist, shift softly in their seat. All this sitting has made them sore. They really have ought to lay in their sleeping bag hours early. But nevermind that. They wouldn’t have dared leave Atlas up here, alone. They fix him with a soft look. Seeking, searching.

Their tone is gentle and their touch does not halt. “What really happened in there, Atlas?” 

Atlas rests his chin on his knees, staring out into the dark. His fingers tap, restless, against his jeans. He’s still jittery, the last of his adrenaline wearing off. He has not stopped moving since they last spoke, to which Wren did not comment on, despite the way it caused their brows to furrow. Rocking, self-soothing, shifting in his spot, never comfortable. The nervousness practically radiates off of him. 

If he recognizes their voice, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His eyes do not move from where they are plastered, dull, gazing out into the lifeless street. He does not so much as twitch. 

Wren frowns. They aren’t sure what to say. What else can they say? The message is clear enough. He doesn’t want to talk about it. They’ve played this game with him long enough to understand what the outcome will be. It doesn’t make it any easier the next time. Especially now. It’s— it’s different, right now. Things have changed, whether either of them would like to admit to it. They are ever-changing. They have been, since Atlas first pressed down on that trigger and saved their life. 

To fill the silence seems an impossible act. There is still so much left unsaid. 

They try, anyway. Softening their voice, pained, they ask him. Beg with him, really. “Why here? Did something happen to you?”

“I just…” Atlas’s voice is brittle and small. “Just—” 

Wren doesn’t expect it. He appears so small — young. They thought it before, they think it now. He looks so young when he is afraid. Not like himself at all. At least not the parts he’s allowed them to see. It’s an odd thought, to imagine him, younger. A child, even. Baby-faced and skinny, not taller than they are now. Trembling, pleading for forgiveness. Apologizing for the most natural of responses. Was he like this then? 

“Did they fuck you up?” 

It comes out more blunt than they mean for it to, and Atlas bristles, glancing their way. He pulls a face, the sharpness of the question momentarily breaking past whatever has him wrapped up inside his mind. He almost appears repulsed by the notion. But when he opens his mouth, his response is still in that quiet, stammered voice. It’s like the fire has been put out. “No— it’s not…” He takes a breath, as if willing the words to come out right. Unstuttered. He opens his mouth, and silence follows. 

Wren tilts their head. Curious, still. He is like a puzzle they can’t quite figure out. A missing piece they can’t quite find the match for. “You know someone from The Chosen then?” 

Atlas shakes his head, biting down hard on his lip. He closes his eyes for a moment before blinking again, staring at the floor with flushed cheeks. “It just…” His words are mumbled. Soft. Wren has to lean in to catch them. “It reminded me of some memories. That I would rather forget.” 

Wren frowns, pushing on. “Okay, I understand that.” They pull their legs into a crisscross position, leaning back and holding their ankles. They’re all scuffed up. An ugly red patch of a scab has taken over the rough skin there. Wren has the sudden urge to pick at it. “But if you’re going to freeze up like that, I’ve at least got to know what’s causing it.”

Atlas bites down on his lip harder, fang digging, breaking at the cracking skin. He licks the blood away, eyes fluttering closed automatically. His fingers fidget uncomfortably and his bangs fall over his eyes, shading his face from view. He has his head bowed low to his chest. “Okay,” he whispers. His voice breaks. “Okay.”

It takes longer, then, to probe him to continue. It takes a few minutes for him to collect himself, to steady himself enough to just open his mouth again. Wren is patient. They don’t push him past his comfort zone. They wait, careful, stroking soft circles into his palm. It seems to have some sort of effect on him. He isn’t hyperventilating anymore, at least. 

“I used to live in a church, before, um, before Eden.” His voice is shaky as it first comes out. He squeezes his eyes shut, tenses his muscles. It is as if the phantom hands of brute violence are still wrapped around his neck. “I don’t— I don’t like thinking about it.”

There’s a certain finality to his statement, a jagged edge to his words. Wren takes it as face value. At least, they don’t pry him for any other details. It’s a short explanation, revealing to them very little of anything. But they know what it’s like, to avoid thinking of home. It’s a painful subject. At least, in that sense, they can relate to him. It doesn’t mean that his explanation doesn’t tug at something deep within them, spark at their curiousity. Eyes narrowed slightly, their brows furrowed. It hadn’t even occured to them yet, that he could’ve had a life before this. An Atlas without the blood under his nails, the distant look. A church not affiliated with The Congregation of the Chosen. 

They watch him carefully. They can’t help but feel like they are seeing him new, skin pulled back to reveal the raw red of his insides. They stare at the cut on his ear, moving down to his skull. A church. He never mentioned how he’d gotten that scar. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore if you don’t want. But I’m glad you told me. Once we leave, we won’t ever come back here again.” 

“Okay.” Mouthed, a thankful look in his eyes. Nothing else. 

Wren lets the air between them settle. They drum their fingers along their ankles, suddenly jittery. They feel the need to move, to stretch. They don’t even realize they’re copying him until they glance over, catch him watching. They flush, embarrassed. “When I go back in there to get those files from the boy, I don’t want you to come with me.” 

“What?” Atlas meets their gaze now, all wide-eyed and taken aback. The statement has brought something else out of him entirely. Shock. 

Wren sighs and moves their hands to the pockets of their hoodie, slumping against the seat again. The chair creaks beneath them as they do so, their head thunking softly against the faux leather. “It’s not because I think you’re weak or whatever so get that shit out of your head. I just don’t want to put you through that again. That boy in the Archives already told us he’d give us the files if we told him what we knew. It’ll be easier this time.” 

“You’re sick,” Atlas argues weakly. Indignant. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m sick and you’re terrified of the place. We’re both a mess but you staying away from there is much better for you. What’ll I do if you panic again and I’m too weak to help?” 

“I’m not that scared,” he protests. The question embarrasses him, they can tell. His cheeks burn with his own shame, voice smaller. “I can handle it. I’m sorry. I won’t panic again.” 

“This isn’t a punishment.” They lean their head sideways, turning to stare at him, to really look. The eyes that meet theirs are pleading, desperate, and they can’t help but feel guilty. They soften their tone. “You don’t have to be sorry man, seriously. Quit apologizing. I’m just— worried. I don’t know.” 

“I can do it,” he repeats.

He’s serious. They can tell that as much. Staring at them, unblinking, begging for it. He’s so desperate after everything and it just makes them feel worse about it. Wren sighs. They hate the idea. It could end both of them up in a worse spot. And yet the thought of going down there alone makes their skin crawl and they never really can bring themself to say no to Atlas. He seems to have that effect over them.

Dubious, they raise a brow. He stares back, unflinching. “You’re sure?”

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

Cheek to floor, glasses knocked askew. He wakes with the chill of something dead, a cold seeping through his bones. His back is bare, raised to the heavens. Light casts an orange glow along the shelves, shadows cutting across his form in an terrifying mass, pressing ice to his exposed, vulnerable flesh. He can still see Father, watching over him with those dark, beady eyes, penetrating into the very forefront of his mind. With his stare pulls every sin, every thought, all his lies and his doubts. They come to the surface, fall into his very palm. The same hand to smack against his cheek, to wield his whip. The metal of his belt buckle stares at him now, reflects off the shine of his glasses. Blood crusts across the dulled silver. 

Something soft, barely spoken, comes from the back of his throat. An animalistic sound, a desperate cry of pain. He trembles, shudders, and with it the wave comes and pulls him back under. Curling into himself, he cries, shaken. The sound is more pathetic and broken down than he has ever managed to muster, the sobbing just barely supressed. The Archives are quiet. They allow him. This is not the first time over the years, and it certainly won’t be the last. His back throbs, tendrils of electricity spiking along his spine at just the gentle movement. The skin is raised, red, raw, angry. It’s tender, the flow of the air as violent and painful as if those fingers were still there, pushing, bruising, digging into his bones.

No one is waiting to pick him off the bloodied floor, to comb through his hair and cup his cheek. No father, no mother. He’s relieved Jeremiah is absent. Despite the aching deep within his chest, he doesn’t think he can bear the thought of his brother watching the punishment, seeing him like this. Exposed, his faults written along the deep, pulsing welts along his back. Marked. He thinks of what he would think, if he knew. Bruises along his ribs, inflamed red skin along his back. A smattering of purple, green, sickly yellow, painted along his pale complexion. His brother is too noble. Jeremiah in his place; his sore knees, head bowed against marble floor. Red leaking from his spine, trickling to the ground. No. He could never tell. Only God knows what Julius would do to either of them if he so dared.

It has never been this bad. He had not dared push this far. 

A sudden bitterness rises in him. Picking himself off the cold, hard floor, the emotion becomes choking. It consumes all else. This work, his work, it’s all so useless. Unnecessary. He will stand and he will clean his mess, and he will soak his back, and then with the very little sleep he ever receives, he will return to it. Sorting, filing, reorganizing. Files that the church already has. Dates that have already been written. Reports that take no meaning, that carry no true purpose. An excuse to keep him busy, isn’t it? His mouth twitches, hands clenching. Nails press, dig into the raw skin of his arms and he winces, blinks back a wave of oncoming nausea. 

The Archives are the heart of the church. If nothing else survives, these Archives must. He can hear it, droning on, endless. A mantra. One he has repeated to himself many times before. It keeps him going, when the promise of nothing else can. Father Julius’s voice is haunting, still. These records are sacred, and as their master, you are a keeper of knowledge, Alastair.

He wishes to scoff, to laugh in face of such lies. But the mere idea of disrespect in such pure form is enough to make him shiver. He squeezes his eyes shut, blinking away such thoughts, lips drawn tight. Someone is watching him, he knows it. Even in the privacy of his own space, he is not truly alone. Not in any way that matters. If not Julius, and his omnipotence, then God. Eyes trained onto his back, relishing in the total evidence of his own failures. 

He presses his palms to his eyes, attempting to dull the flow of tears, cut the sobs that come from his chest, easy. It’s all too easy, giving in to his own despair. The pity is overwhelming. Selfish, but too much for him to ignore. His mind is a frenzy, thoughts disorganized from one another. He cannot put rhyme to reason. Nothing makes sense anymore. Father Julius’s punishments are coming at a frequency in which he cannot recover from, no longer focused on punitive justice but instead just pure sadism. Were they ever just? He does not know. 

He longs for Jeremiah, and yet Jeremiah is the person he would least like to see. He isn’t himself. Blood on his collar, the threat in his voice… He doesn’t feel like he knows his brother very well at all anymore. His place inside these Archives is dwindling, unravelling. It leaves him feeling all the more lost. 

Swallowing roughly, eyes tinged red, his gaze lands on the file that lay, discarded, only feet away. Blood had plattered onto it, dried, forever staining the soft cream. The final layer in this mystery. The spies. They had not named themselves as such, but he is certain now, that’s what they are. They have come into his Archives a number of times, and each, it is those files, the Virtues’ files, that they have been so eager to land within their belongings. The longer he stays, contemplative, poking and prodding at the memories, the more curious he becomes. 

Only Father Julius, Mother Elise, and the Virtues’ themselves were ever allowed access to such files. He, for one, was forbidden from peeking inside. Allowing an intruder, someone from outside the bounds of their church, access to such critical, classified information — why, that would be breaking only one of the most important of rules assigned to him as the Archives’ Master. No, he wouldn’t allow it. But he was the so-called ‘Keeper of Knowledge’, wasn’t he? Father Julius’s words, none of his own. The Keeper of Knowledge should certainly know things. 

Tentatively, he reaches a hand out.

Alastair glances around him, suddenly nervous. As if there is someone to catch him, to descend from the stairs and deliver his punishment. Still, he cannot shake the feeling off. Fingers trembling, he peels it open, thumb and forefinger pinched between the very bottommost corner. If anyone is watching him now, they do not object. 

The file looks like any other, at first. Small print, though none of his own. His eyes scan the pages quickly as he cards through the contents. It is not until he falls upon a page with a large wall of text does he pause. 

It’s near the middle of the file, and contains a diagram along with a long page of what appears to be some sort of transcription. It is unlike anything Alastair has ever encountered before. His eyes dart over the words swiftly, small phrases becoming clear rather than the entire purpose. His heart climbs higher and higher up into his throat. 

Humans farmed this moon cycle: 212. 

Proven to be very uncooperative. 

Submission tactics—

Butchering process.

Alastairs clasps a shaking hand over his mouth as his eyes trail down to the diagram. A drawing of a naked human body, each segment of it labelled in clean, crisp print, a chart on the very leftmost corner providing the names of which tools to use, as well as very thorough instructions on how to handle said segment. 

They were really… they were—

A dry laugh escapes from his throat. His eyes are wide and his pupils shrunken. Not real. None of this, all of the gore, displayed so shamelessly in front of him, it simply cannot be real. A cruel joke on Father Julius’s part. Or maybe a punishment for being a distraction to Jeremiah. It had to— it had to be something else because this was just not real. Alastair laughs again, this one hoarse and unpleasant as he bites down on the soft, trembling flesh of his hand. Teeth digging, sharp, relentless, another wave of pain, in an entirely different form, twisting through him. He gags, retches against it. Flesh. Soft, supple. Just like—

The file falls from his fingertips, a dangerous poision. He should not have dared look. 

── ⟡ ˙

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

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. They had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other. 

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, heads thrown back, teeth flashing. Smiling, true and real. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

He is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. The illusions have come off again, now, in the silence of the night. Eyes casted away, alone. Away from the rest of the world. Staring up at him now, there is something inherently transparent about their smile. They pat the spot beside them, expectant. The invitation resides just beyond the surface.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re rude, and brash too. They never seem to think about what they’re saying before it comes out, all too harsh. To be honest, it’s been kind of grating. But, the look they had given him was genuine, as they flashed him that singular green file. They had tried to help him. He has to owe them this much, doesn’t he? Slowly, obliging, he takes the seat next to them.

“So….” Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, in their position; he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore. Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine, asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m sixteen.” He relents, almost sighing.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re so young.”

Atlas’s gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, “Yeah. So?”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He’s unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes. The minutes begin to tick by, and the conversation stills. Atlas doesn’t move. The thumping of Wren’s feet interrupts any peace the absence of their grating voice could have granted him. He oh so badly wishes he could punch them.

“Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his nails, cracked and bitten through. The black nail polish has already begun to chip. Bad habits. “Is it black?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, eying their head of brightly-dyed hair and still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. They gesture vaguely, eyes still on his nails. “You do those yourself?”

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously moving towards his hair, a dark strand curling around his fingers. Somewhere they can no longer see. 

Wren snorts. “That’s cute.” They smile, before it fades, followed by a long, world-weary sigh. They tug at their own hair. “Your hair is so clean.” They grumble. “I’m in desperate need of a touch-up. And a shower. Ugh. I’ve spent too much money on box dye already.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been what, thirteen, fourteen? So long ago now. She had swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

They weren’t allowed to cut their hair themselves, technically. Against the rules. Always, everything was against the rules. But that wasn’t enough to stop her, of course — she'd always found ways around the rules. He’d envied her, up until then. So easily defiant, so detached from it all. He could have never dared.

When Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. Their fingers tucking at the loops of his braid, detangling the waves until they flowed simply down his back, like the inky wash of the sky. Smiling. Smiling so brightly it hurt. He remembers, even now, a lifetime away, how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him paint his ordinary, plain black locks for silver and lilac highlights, tucked beneath where no one could draw attention to it. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

The dye is all washed out now. It has been, for a long time. The phantom feeling of warmth in his chest is the only thing left for him to cling to. Sick.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on. 

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his handler or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Peace, more than he has ever known it. 

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face. 

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say is shut up, I don’t want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter, but he holds his tongue.

He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, run away from them and never come back. Beat their annoying disgusting face until it’s black and blue, until they’re bleeding. Until they plead for his mercy, their own terror thrumming beneath his skin with the spike of adrenaline. But he would never dare do such a thing, could never do such a thing.

He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs.

We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.  

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.  

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

He can barely choke out the words. “You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.” 

“I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds. 

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and the struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “Okay, sure. Whatever you wanna think.”

This finally snaps Atlas’s resolve. “Fuck you.”

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“Fuck you. I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions, don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He spits, cold.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last sixteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files, the videos, the horrific images of torture; torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own for years causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red. He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him. 

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past two weeks — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality. 

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips. 

He hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately. 

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home. But most of all, he hates—

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.” 

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed. 

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams. 

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?” 

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?” 

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch. 

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock. 

Silence. No response, though they know he can hear them. The slight bit of concern they may have been feeling instantly dissipates. They can hear him moving around in there, ignoring them. He’s probably doing this on purpose, isn’t he? Just to inconvenience them, make it so the one time they may have the option to shower, they can’t. Wren definitely wouldn’t put it past him to be so needlessly petty.

“Hey!” They shout, banging the door with both their fists. “I’m talking to you!”

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue. 

“Fuck!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit. 

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed. 

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom. 

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected. 

They can shower tomorrow. 

── ⟡ ˙

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