#sybil01

The mobile phone sits in his hand, gleaming and new. Asher doesn’t trust it. Honestly, how could he, considering it probably came from the scientists, those mysterious captors slash benefactors in the sky.

He turns the phone over in his hands, but aside from it being slightly less advanced than the terminals and devices he’s used to, there doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary about it. And he has to admit he feels better with a phone on him, even though it may be rigged to track him or to explode, for all he knows.

He’s surprised to find the contacts list already full to the brim. A few seconds’ scrolling tells him he doesn’t know most of the names on the list. He isn’t sure how he feels about that, but -- yes, there’s Dorian under P, or at least Asher assumes it’s him. He hesitates, then favourites the contact and tells himself it’s in case he needs to reach someone he actually knows.

And there’s Red a short way down the list, her name a single, cutting syllable. He stares at the three letters for much longer than is warranted, then scrolls past without touching it. What else would they have to say to each other anyhow? Only more venom, more pointless anger. (”But you don’t know his name.” She’s right, he wouldn’t know it even if it was on this list.)

He scrolls more, idly, barely reading the names now, feeling more alone with every stranger that passes by. R...E...I...S... ...he almost scrolls past. Z... ...he stops. He stops and stares. He reads the name three times.

He presses the call button. It rings, and rings, and rings.

When she answers, she sounds just like herself. He closes his eyes tightly, the words struggling against his constricting throat. “What the fuck. What the fuck.”