boo!

A gloved hand entangled in the hair by her scalp, pressing her head into back the cushion and opening up her windpipe.

“Keep from biting this time and we won’t need to use the muzzle.” The doctor’s voice held the same clinical tone that he loved to use while making threats. The grip tightened, and she realized he was waiting for a verbal response, that he wouldn’t let her go until then.

“Yes, sir.” She winced.

~

She did try to bite, and she did get the muzzle for it, and it was still locked onto her face for hours after the drugs had worn off. Both of her wrists were tied down now. She’d thrashed too much when she was under, probably tried to claw her own face off again, so she could not blame them for having done it in the first place. 

But Lorelai was herself again now. She tried to keep her eyes open, alert enough to any stimulus to signal that she was lucid. The bit of the muzzle forced into her mouth prevented her from even pleading. The students talked over her head, and gave no indication as to when she’d be released.

She was still strung like that when the prince came, and the simmering discomfort gave way to acute humiliation. She bowed her head slightly, half out of reflex, and half out of a sincere desire to not be seen by him. 

Her eyes flickered up briefly afterwards, with the thought to plea with him if nobody else would pay attention. But he didn’t look at her either. 

Lorelai went back to studying the pattern of her own hospital gown, listening in to the conversation that was going on behind her. It wasn’t so harder; the prince spoke loudly, louder still when agitated. Which he was now. Obviously.

“How much longer is this going to be? She’s sober, right?” Nails tapping on the table.

“…We’re still running diagnostics and she’s still coming down. Your presence isn’t needed at the moment.”

“Don’t try and dismiss me on my own fucking ship.”

“It’s your ship, but it’s my lab.”

“And it’s my weapon. Are we done? I can do this all day.”

“Do you need something?”

“Yes. Deadline moved up, I want to launch again tonight.”

Lorelai’s ears perked up.

“Forget it,” Martino dismissed outright. “She won’t be stable by then. I won’t authorize.”

“The window is closing and I wasn’t asking.”

“I’m telling you it’s not possible. I told you in advance what days I needed her for testing so that you could plan around them. She can’t do it.”

The briefest silence. Lorelai tensed a bit, but didn’t have the energy left in her to jump at the sound of footsteps. He was fast enough that there was hardly time to, anyway.

His Highness Paris of Thales appeared at her bedside. His left hand moved by the rail, at the point of restraint. The right hand touched the underside of the muzzle and tilted her chin up to look at him.

“You got it in you?”

Lorelai flinched from the touch, but not from the gaze. She stared back, with what was probably too much intensity.

“Take the muzzle off,” he ordered. 

Thank god. With visible irritation, Martino undid the lock at the back of her head. Her hair snagged in the mechanism, but it was relief enough to be rid of the metal’s weight.

“I can do it,” Lorelai managed. She flexed her jaw, trying to ease the stiffness that had overtaken the muscles from having been locked in place so long. The rest of her body was no better. They’d have to untie her, at least for a moment, if they wanted her to work.

~

It was no question at all, really. Paris had the final say over what happened to her, and it would have taken real resistance from either of her handlers to override his will. But it seemed important to be acquiescent, either way. She needed him to like her. And she needed him to win.

She watched him through the corner of her eye as she kneeled there on the floor. He was with her in the jet now, anxiously pacing within the small space. Paris had been seventeen only a few months ago and his father had been alive. But now the two of them were the same age, and equally orphaned.

The collar buzzed on her neck, and she pictured the imperial emblem on it almost glowing with bloodlust. 

The emperor had died, and Paris had taken her with him. However she felt about him, she at least felt confident that he would not scrap her for parts. His demands would only go so far.

The target came into sight. Lorelai sat up a little straighter, waiting for the order to stand. She was prickling with energy. The physical effects of the drugs had not totally worn off, nor had the strain of having been tied up for so long. She was not as her best, but she rarely was anymore. It didn’t matter. If she didn’t push through, she’d be punished anyway. Nothing would stop on account of her pain, she definitely knew that.

“Look alive.” Paris’s fingers snapped by her face. She repressed the urge to bite them off.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she answered instead.

Simon — her primary handler, who she privately thought of as her technician  — was gathering up his papers, putting finishing touches on his notes. As he showed her the diagram he’d drawn up, she thought of him privately as Coach.She nodded along in understanding. Under the collar, her powers were just an hungry and restless as the rest of them. Probably even more.

Lorelai stood up unsteadily, approaching the best vista she could find of the settlement below. There was a lot of bustling, vehicles and people alike moving frolicking building to building. The ship was flying close enough to the ground to make out the finer details. The ship was moving very fast.

“They know we’re here,” Lorelai said to nobody.

“So fire,” Paris barked back.

The collar came undone and dozens of stars exploded against her vision. Fuck, it had been eager. Blood was pouring from her nose before she’d even done anything, and she could feell her fever forming in real time. Simon squeezed her wrist a little to keep her grounded, placed her hand up on the glass for her. Her head was melting, she was sure of it. It took all her effort to concentrate the fire, to zone in on what sje was actually meant to change.

Well, she was meant to change everything, really. She knew better ways to paralyze the opposition, ones that would hurt her less, but those weren’t her orders.

Glass-making is an ancient art. The sand that is used to create glass is compromised of small quartz crystals, commonly known as silica. When heated at high temperatures, the sand will melt, losing its crystalline structure. The glass that is created exists in a liminal state known as an amorphous solid. No matter how much glass cools afterwards, it will never again exist as a crystalline solid.

Not unless you are the greatest alchemist who ever lived.

They didn’t always ask her to kill outright. Sometimes it was just a matter of turning the river to blood or their weapons to clay. Organics were another matter entirely. 

All the bodies to dust then, and dust to sand. Sand to burning, endless heat. Her fingers burned, and the blood in her capillaries began to boil with the effort. Boiling sands, boiling earth, a boiling sky. To nothing. To glass. To glass.

A massive, beautiful crystalline structure haunted the countryside. Everything living and everything dead, and everything that had never been either, all existed together as gleaming, uniform, unfeeling glass.

~

She didn’t faint, though she wished for something half as merciful. It was only her body that collapsed, not her mind. She remained fully conscious as the collar clicked on and she crashed to the floor, a literal puddle of sweat forming on the ground beneath her. It was disgusting.

Paris knelt behind her, gathering the soaked hair from her neck and tying it back. She welcomed the draft against her skin, and though she first cringed at the ice they pressed against her nape and her temples, she came to welcome that too. She was pretty sure she was going to throw up.

“Easy,” Paris soothed. Her vision was so spotty she could barely see him. “Easy. You’re okay.”

The joke was on her. She was going straight back to the lab after this, no two ways about it.  Then, she doubted she’d have been able to do this even in optimal condition. She’d have been knocked flat either way. It was just the compounding of separate pains, each disparate sensation coming together to make for an experience that was unbelievably miserable. 

“I’m okay,” she echoed back. Her head hurt so bad, and the lights were so bright. She needed to be somewhere dark. She clung to Paris’s wrist, like that enabled her to give him commands too. “Let me go back to my room. Please. I’m okay, I just need to lay down.”

“Thing is,” he said beneath his breath, to her alone. “I actually want you to live, Lorry.”

He pried her hand away, and she whimpered helplessly in response. Somewhere else in the room, what could have been miles away, his phone rang, and it pulled him away from her.

She kept waiting to fall unconscious, to be granted any kind of reprieve from the pain, but she remained fully aware as she was brought back into the lab, and as one wrist was chained down again.

~~~

authors note: i will probably continue this in a part two!!! i really wanted to complete day 3 on time so i rushed to get it out on schedule but i have a lot more i want to do w this setup lol stay tuned

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @sacredwrath

@bacillusinfection @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump @fuckclimatechange

 * * * * * 

The shadow in the doorway left as quickly as it had appeared— so silently, that once the door shut and there was no longer proof before his eyes, Sonny was not confident he had not merely hallucinated it. 

His head fell back onto the pillow. Drifting in and out, he kept seeing gut-twisting things he did not want to put names to out of the corners of his eyes, disappearing at the flutter of his eyelids. He felt the mattress dip under him. He himself being bent until he might stretch and warp and snap. He felt five distinct points of pressure gripping his neck, his bicep, his thigh. He feared he might find shadows of bruises on his skin as evidence, if he looked.

He did not know if these sensations plagued him for minutes or hours, but at some point he must have fallen into a deep, genuine, dreamless sleep. He pried his eyes open, gazed at the ceiling, and realized he was lucid. 

He clenched and unclenched his fists. At the unfamiliar, scratching sensation, he remembered the bandage wrapped around one hand. The cut on his palm did not really sting, anymore. He pulled up at the edge with his fingertips, unraveling it. The wound, less than a centimeter long and settled into one of the wrinkles, was pink and raw. It was still shiny with the ointment Rida had tenderly applied to it with a finger.

Every swallow was like a razor blade slicing the track of his esophagus. When he finally collected the will and the strength to sit up, he noticed the cup on the bedside table, one of the acrylic ones with texture like a chiseled stone. His arm was heavy when he raised the water to his lips. It hurt sliding down his throat, but it activated his thirst, and then it was gone.

He coughed into his elbow, hating the rattle in his lungs. He hoped it would not stick around. He ran his fingers through his hair, which felt limp and greasy, clinging together and sticking up in strange ways in the back. He wondered how long he had been out. When he tried to remember his last moment of clarity, what came to mind was waking up in the middle of the night with terrible nausea and stumbling to the bathroom to curl over the toilet bowl. He remembered the way his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Who was it who had pressed a grounding hand between his shoulder blades? Rida, right? Why was Port’s face floating to the front of his mind? And why had he been… wet? And naked…? 

It trickled back slowly. 

He sat in the memory for some time. A nausea crept back into him. 

Having had enough of replaying the way he had shamelessly pressed himself against Port’s collarbone, and the way Port’s pinched face and hardened hands had morphed into someone else entirely— someone he could not name or even remember— Sonny swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, faltering a little at the sudden light-headedness. 

He pulled the curtain aside on the window facing the street. Hardly any light entered the room— the sky was dark. Street lamps cast golden cones on the pavement. A stranger passed through one, like stepping into a spotlight, walking a dog connected to her by the leash hooked on its collar. Sonny wondered if she might be able to see him there, standing in the window, if she looked. If she might be able to see the collar around his own throat. Her eyes were too far and shadowed to tell. He drew the curtain shut.

 * * * * *

Port never left the room before dawn. It was not allowed. This rung through Sonny’s mind as his fingers hovered over the doorknob. Not allowed, not allowed, not allowed.

He could almost feel an electric buzz coming off it, connecting to the pads of his fingers with invisible cords that would surely burn him if he drew closer. The thrumming traveling from his chest down his arm pushed his hand forward. There was no pain. The metal was cool to the touch.

He opened the door silently, twisting and holding the knob so that latch wouldn’t stick or click. The hallway was dark except for the faint glow emanating from downstairs.

The door to Mr. Oz’s room was ajar.

 * * * * * 

As soon as Sonny emerged from the bedroom, Port noticed him. The flash of his brown eyes as he turned over his shoulder. They disappeared when Port turned back a second later, hardly landing on Sonny for a second. 

God, Port must hate him. Sonny bleakly wished that he had drowned in the tub so he wouldn’t have to think about how he had tried to kiss Port’s neck. 

Embarrassingly, the rejection still managed to sting, even if it was at least partly due to Sonny being sick and not in his right mind. He never really thought Port would reciprocate in the first place— and that was probably for the best— but in that state he had thought Port was someone that wanted him, too. All the confusing, illicit sensations. Wires crossed. He wondered if Port would push him away all the same if Sonny were to try it in a state of perfect lucidity. He would not actually attempt it, of course. Port would probably be less nice about it. 

Sonny forced himself back to the present. Tal was there, too, sitting across the kitchen table from Port. Playing cards were spread over the surface, and they each held a fan of them in their hands. It struck Sonny as odd to see Port not busying himself with something— engaging in leisure with his master.

“Yo, the Son has risen!” Tal exclaimed. “How ya feeling?”

Sonny blinked away the disparate image of Mr. Oz’s face, focusing on Tal’s unique qualities. Recalibrating master from Mr. Oz to this boy. 

“I…” Sonny cleared his throat, sound not coming out right. “I think the fever is gone, sir.”

“Still sick, though?”

“Getting better.”

“That’s good,” Tal said. “Wanna play cards with us? We can deal you in.”

“Uh…” He was distracted by the way Port was refusing to turn around and face him. Sonny stared at the wavy hair falling over his nape.

“Wait!” Tal threw his hands up. A card slipped out from under his thumb and landed face-up on the table. Ace of spades. He hastily flipped it over to hide it from Port’s view. “You should eat. Rida got some crackers for you.” With the guidance of Tal’s pointing finger, Sonny noticed the conspicuous box of wheat crackers sitting by the kitchen sink. He went to grab them, and they rattled around inside.

Sonny turned around at the scrape of chair legs on tile and reeled back against the counter, alarmed, when he saw Tal leaping towards him. But he was aiming for the cupboard, not for Sonny— he produced a cup and filled it with water, kicking the cupboard door shut with his toe. Bang. He held the cup out. “Here.”

Eyes flicking from Tal’s expectant face to the cup of water, Sonny grabbed it cautiously. “Thank you,” he said. 

“No problem-o. Hydration is important.” As Sonny drank, relishing the cool water sliding over his tongue, Tal returned to his chair and swept his abandoned cards back into his hand. “Rida’s on the patio, if you were wondering. It’s really nice out. Sure would be nice to sit out there… if she wasn’t smoking,” he said pointedly, eyeing the back door like he could x-ray his disapproving look to her.

Sonny was struck with the sudden and overwhelming urge to escape the stifling house. Out there, Port’s refusal to meet his eyes wouldn’t be so obvious. “May I go outside?” he blurted.

“Sure, bro. No one’s stopping you.”

Tal could, if he wanted to. But Sonny appreciated that he wasn’t.

 * * * * *

Every sensible part of him urged Sonny to simply shut himself back in his room, lay down, and go back to sleep. If Port and Mr. Oz were downstairs together, at this hour, doing god knows what, it was in his best interest not to get involved.

But something felt off. Really off. It was quiet downstairs— not even hushed voices. The silence rung in his ears, a pressure against his eardrums just short of tangible. 

 * * * * *

The breeze against his face was heavenly. Somewhere, wind chimes tinkled gently. Rida was sitting in one of the wicker chairs on the patio cobblestones, pushed up against the adobe wall. Her head swung towards Sonny, who was hovering in the doorway, surprise playing across her face. Her elbow rested on one of the chair arms, cigarette perched delicately between two fingers. The soft wind blew the thin plumes of smoke, dancing in the air like silk threads.

“Heyyy,” Rida said. It was soft, like a coo, the same way she had murmured to him when she bandaged his hand. She’d had him sit on the closed toilet lid, kneeling before him with the first-aid kit by her knee, and saying to him, softly, “Hey, hey, you're okay.”

“Hi,” Sonny replied, still gripping his box of crackers.

“Did you need something, babe?” Her voice was strangely sweet, though she was not smiling— maybe it was just his lingering sickness or sentimentality. Maybe the way she called him babe. 

He forced himself to speak, suddenly clutched by timidity. “May I sit out here?” he asked quietly.

She gestured to the open chair beside her, sweeping lazily with her smoking hand. It drew the swirling plume through the air. “Be my guest,” she said. “I can put this out.”

Before she could stub it in the ash tray resting atop the little table on her other side, Sonny stopped her. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He shut the door behind him and sat in the twin chair, placing the box of crackers between his thighs. “I don’t care about smoke.”

“You found the crackers,” Rida said.

“Tal told me to eat them.”

“Good. Eat them.”

A command was familiar. Sonny obediently opened the box, prying up the cardboard tab on the top. It ripped uncleanly, forcing him to pick at it with his fingernails. Before he could get to the bag inside, a scratch crawled its way up his throat, and he coughed into his elbow. He buried his face deeper in the crook of his arm when he noticed Rida’s attention on him.

“Are you sure I don’t need to put this out?” Her brow was furrowed in concern. “I really shouldn’t be having it, anyway.”

“It’s fine,” Sonny wheezed, cough petering out. “It’s just the sickness. I used to smoke myself.” He didn’t know why he bothered to admit that. To connect with her, he supposed.

She tilted her head. “Really?”

He pinched the plastic bag of crackers on either side. “I mean— it’s been a while,” he said. “But yes. Though I prefer vaping. Um…” The bag sort of squeaked as he peeled it open. The salty, wheaty smell filled his nostrils. “Not that it matters. It’s been a few months,” he finished lamely. Not since before Mr. Oz. He still got the itch for it, sometimes.

She hummed, raising the cigarette. The cherry glowed red as she took a drag. “Me too, but vaping fucks with my sinuses,” she mused, smoke blowing from her lips. She held it over the ash tray and tapped it with her thumb, a clump falling off the end. 

“That sucks,” Sonny said, and placed a cracker on his tongue. It was delightfully salty.

“Yeah. I keep trying to kick it, especially since Tal can’t be around the smoke. He’s got bad lungs.” She idly nudged the ash tray and it scraped across the table. “Fuck, my mother would kill me.”

Sonny wondered, grimly, what had happened to her. No surviving spouse, Beau had said.

Rida threw her hands up. “But it’s easier said than done. I only really smoke when I drink, anyway. And I only drink when I’m stressed, these days.” It was then that Sonny noticed on the table the heavy-bottomed glass, halfway full of dark liquid, rippling minutely at the vibration.

* * * * *

He crept towards the top of the staircase and carefully lowered his toes to the first step. Then, gripping the handrail like a lifeline, the next. And then the next. Then the next. On the fifth step— creak. He froze.

“Sonny?” That was Port’s voice. It was hissed, like he wanted to keep his voice low, but it cut through the dead silence. 

 * * * * *

“I’m sorry,” Sonny said, stomach flipping. He was the reason for her stress, no doubt. She probably regretted taking them in already, especially with the trouble he’d caused.

Her eyes widened, landing on him. “Oh, don’t be. I didn’t mean it like that, babe.” She pressed her fingers against her temple, black nails pushing up into her hair. “I’m always putting my damn foot in my mouth. It’s just the whole… uh… situation.”

Sonny did not know what else to say. He ate two more crackers, taking his time to chew and savor the texture, as Rida wrapped her hand around the glass and took a sip. Sonny felt another unwelcome wheeze in his lungs and broke into another bout of coughing. 

Rida clicked her tongue. “Your poor thing,” she said. “That cough is persistent.”

“Yeah,” he rasped.

“Whiskey cure?”

Sonny blinked through watering eyes at the glass in her hand. She was sort of holding it out, and grinning a little goofily, teeth peeking out between her dark painted lips. He realized she might be a little more tipsy than she'd let on. “Um…” The thought of a drink sounded strangely appealing, though he doubted it would actually help his cough.

Her smile faded, registering his expression. “That was meant to be a joke, but if you actually want some…”

He hadn’t had any alcohol in a long time, just like nicotine or any other substance— not since he lived with the Hans. He liked the way it made him looser, less anxious, though that came with its drawbacks around his masters. With their daughter, though… he had found it funny how it made Alice’s cheeks flush, and the way her touch on his hip burned like the bourbon down his throat, even through clothes. But Alice was long gone, a thousand miles away. 

Too many thoughts crowding his head. “If you’re offering…”

“What the hell, sure. Here.” She held out the glass, but then withdrew it just as fast, liquid splashing into itself. “Actually, I can get you your own.”

For some reason, he did not want her to go inside and leave him there alone, even for a moment. And he didn’t want the other two to see her search through the cupboard and take an empty glass. “I don’t need my own,” he said. “If you don’t mind. I don’t care if you don’t.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure? Okay. I don’t care.”

He reached to meet her extended arm halfway, connecting himself to her through their shared press of prints to glass. The skin of their fingertips nearly brushed, but did not touch, and then her hand was gone and the glass was his.

He rotated it in his grip, the scant amber swirling at the bottom. His eyes caught on the dark print of lipstick on the rim. He was mindful not to press his mouth to it— he oriented the kiss across from his own, so that as he tilted the glass to let the last vestiges of whiskey slip into his mouth, the wax wrinkled blurred before his eyes.

It burned terribly, as expected. His nose scrunched involuntarily, coughing again into his elbow. The sore throat was momentarily made a thousand times worse, but he relished in the feeling of warmth blooming in his chest as the whiskey made its way down.

Rida took the glass back from him. “That wasn’t your first drink, was it? I would feel bad.”

“No, no,” he said. “I promise it wasn’t.” The breeze returned then, moving his hair. It made him shiver, though he wasn’t cold at all. The weather had warmed significantly since his frigid journey from Texas. He heard those wind chimes again. He looked above Rida’s head and saw them, hanging from the logs spanning over the patio, spinning gently in the air. A glass bird hung down from the center on a string, its crystalline facets catching the light, winking at him like a precious gemstone.

* * * * *

Sonny’s voice stuck in his throat, terrified to speak aloud. “It’s me,” he whispered.

“Don’t come down here,” Port said after a moment, voice shaking. His tone made something tighten in Sonny's chest.

 * * * * *

Rida leaned down to reach for something by the leg of her chair— the bottle of whiskey, he realized. Refilling the empty glass. Not a drop was spilled— she twisted and lifted her wrist at the end of the pour. “You are definitely not 21,” she murmured, twisting the cap and setting the bottle back on the ground.

Sonny didn’t bother to comment on that, thinking bitterly about his redacted file. But he knew it was true— they only would have blacked out his birth date if they had something to hide, and it didn’t take a detective to figure out what that was. So-fucking-what.

Regardless of the circumstances of his acquisition, regardless of whether he had been illegally underage or not, he decided it was irrelevant. He had pondered, more than once, the question that would often rise to his mind unbidden, especially in his darkest moments— a question that, back in the facility, handlers would answer before it was even asked. You chose this. 

Faced with circumstance, faced with scarcely concealed truth, faced with the things he had seen in the throes of mind-warping fever, he decided he was done asking. It didn’t matter. In some subconscious sense, in memories of impression buried deep within the recesses of his mind, the answer had always been with him. Maybe this is always what he was meant to be. Maybe he chose this for good reason. Maybe it was best not to remember.

Some things were not worth thinking deeply about. (Whoever he used to be was dead, now.)

 * * * * *

Sonny knew he probably shouldn’t ask. Still, he could not resist. “Why not?”

Silence.

He was too scared to move. “Porter?”

 * * * * *

Or maybe it was just the alcohol talking. He realized, perhaps too late, that his tolerance was nonexistent and his stomach was practically empty. When he turned his head, the world took a few seconds to stop spinning.

He had to ask: “Is it true Tal had to convince you to take us?”

Rida sighed, staring into her swirling drink. “He was on board from the beginning. I’ll admit I had my reservations… but I would’ve made the same decision, anyway,” she said. She never really opened her mouth all the way, especially with her tipsy slurring. She spoke softly. “I want you to know that. I just hope you won’t hate it here.” She sipped at the whiskey, lips landing on the waxy mark, and swallowed. “It has to be better than living with my dad, at least, right?”

Rida was not looking directly at him, but her dark eyes were aimed towards his face out of her peripheral. Gauging his reaction. Sonny sunk deeper into his chair, quietly running his nail over the waxy cardboard box. “You think he didn’t treat us well?”

She raised a shaved eyebrow, finally allowing herself to twist in his direction. “Am I wrong?”

He only shook his head, eyes on his lap. He meant it as a denial to answer, but she seemed to take it as confirmation. He supposed they were effectively the same thing, anyway.

“I figured,” she sighed. “I didn’t expect anything better.” Her hand rose to her chest. There, bellow her collar, hanging from a thin chain necklace, was a ring like one might wear on a finger. She twisted it over and over, a comforting motion, thumb running over the delicate solitaire diamond. “I think him killing himself was inevitable. I wasn’t that surprised. Some part of him always knew he was a piece of shit.” She took a final puff from her cigarette. It was burnt nearly to the filter by now. She stubbed it into the ash tray. “Can I ask something?”

Somehow, despite the subject matter, Sonny found himself lulled by her words. She lisped like there were cotton balls stuffed under her tongue, giving her voice a muffled, dreamlike quality he could not help but like. “Yes,” he replied automatically, complacent and pacified.

“How did he do it?”

* * * * *

“He’s…” Port’s voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Oh, God…” he whispered, not meant to be heard. “I don’t know how to explain this. Please, just go back to bed.”

 * * * * *

“Gun,” Sonny answered.

“Checks out,” Rida said brusquely. “Sounds messy.”

“It was.”

Rida’s head snapped towards him, though because he was not looking, he did not know what sort of look she had on her face. “Shit, did you see it? I’m sorry.”

He shook his head again. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “I didn’t see it, but…” Porter did. He wasn’t supposed to say that, though. Port asked him not to tell anybody. “I can assume,” Sonny finished. He had smelled it, even underneath the white sheet.

Rida did not respond. When his eyes flicked back to her, she had produced another cigarette, which was sticking out of her mouth. She was lighting it awkwardly with a needlessly long lighter, like one he might use to light a gas stove if he was scared to get too close. The end caught the flame, and she took a draw. She noticed his stare and released the trigger, flame disappearing. She pulled a little smoke into her mouth. “Don’t make fun of me,” she said, smoke swirling. She placed the lighter on the table. “I can’t find my Zippo. I don’t know where it went.” 

Sonny could not suppress his urge to grin. “I wasn’t going to make fun of you.”

“Sure,” Rida intoned. Her eyes narrowed at his face— then she broke into a smile. It looked nice on her, when it wasn’t forced. “You have dimples,” she said, delighted. 

Suddenly shy, and feeling his cheeks go warm, he resisted the desire to hide behind his hands. He could not tamp the grin entirely, and dropped his eyes. “I guess I do,” he said. How funny it was, for her to be so enchanted by such an innocuous feature of his face.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile before.”

“Maybe I’ll smile more often,” Sonny said. “If I have reason to. Can I have another drink?”

“I suppose,” Rida said. “But not too much more.” 

She passed it to him, and he took a reasonable sip. It went down easier the second time. Something occurred to him, staring into glass. “Is this halal?” he asked.

Rida made a weird face at him, halfway between incredulity and amusement. “Do I look Muslim to you?”

“I— I don’t know,” Sonny stuttered, fearing to have offended her. “A Muslim can look like anything, can’t they?”

Rida broke into a laugh, tilting her head so that her bob fell closer against her cheek. Her bright face sent some relief through him. “You know what? You’re right. You shouldn’t judge based off looks.”

“I’m open-minded,” Sonny proclaimed, giving the glass back to her.

“You’re sweet,” Rida said. “But I’m not Muslim. You’re thinking of Tal.” She was fidgeting with that ring looped on her necklace again. On the tiny diamond, a tinier facet caught the light and twinkled in his eye. “He takes after our mom. She was always the religious one.” The cigarette hovered by her mouth, but she did not put her lips on it. “I guess in that sense, I take after Dad.”

 * * * * *

Port did not come upstairs for hours. Sonny laid awake the entire time. 

When he finally stepped through the door, he had a wild look in his eyes. Sonny had always thought his thousand-yard stare was one of his most striking traits. Now, Sonny realized he had never even seen how unsettling it could really look.

 * * * * *

“When did she die?” Sonny asked, before he could stop himself.

Nothing changed in her face. Her eyes were lidded, gazing across the dark yard to the wooden fence, like she was deeply considering a long crack splitting the rot. She continued to twist the ring in her fingers. “Last year. May.”

Sonny thought back to that fateful evening, the night Mr. Han lost that card game. The night he gave Sonny up to Mr. Oz’s clutches. Sonny knew he was lying when he tried to convince himself that the game was the extent of it. It was merely the culmination. The tension had been building long before that.

Before he got into Mr. Oz’s car, he remembered taking a final look at the brick house he had come to know, windows glowing from within. The evening had been warm. Something sick settled in his stomach— not the alcohol. “He took me in June,” Sonny said. 

Rida pursed her lips, nodding. “I know. I saw that in your file.”

 * * * * *

Port’s hardened hands shook as he cupped Sonny’s in his own. They were cold, and slightly wet, like he had just washed them and did not bother to dry them all the way. Sonny stared down at them, at the shadows of the bones pressing against his skin, at the missing fingers, and the misshapen nails. There were dark threads of earth under the white tips, like little crescent moons.

 * * * * *

Sonny could not really remember how he had reacted, when Port told him the news. He could barely even remember the day after, by this point— it was all getting buried away, like countless other moments, many of which he was sure he had already forgotten and did not want to remember or even think about in passing. (For the best.)

Port had waited to call the police until morning. He’s already gone, he’d explained to Sonny. Might as well wait until daybreak.

Sonny, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, had accepted this. He had been terrified of what would happen to them next. If Port wanted to delay it for as long as possible, he was okay with that. As long as he got to spend the rest of the night by him, savoring it, in case he would never get the chance again.

Seems like it all worked out, Sonny thought. Now if only we could stay off the topic of Mr. Oz, forever.

The moon shone through a tear in the clouds. Sonny turned to the horizon. It was too dark to see clearly, especially beyond the rotting fence, but he imagined he could see the shadow of the distant mountain range if he just focused hard enough.

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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He could not see the whole of her face— only her profile, the sharp edge of her straight nose and her puckered lips as she took another drag, cheeks hollowing. She wore lipstick, sometimes, but today they were bare and cracked. “Never stopped craving it, to tell you the truth,” she said. “Hits the fuckin’ spot.”

Then, sharp elbow supported on her lawn chair, she extended an expectant hand. Not even bothering to look at him. Her iris, normally tar-black, was shining deep like syrup in the golden light.

“Arm,” she said.

The pet had a feeling he knew what she wanted to do with it. Still, he did not hesitate. He did not even consider it. His pale arm bridged the gap between their chairs, wrist slotting into her long-fingered hand. 

“Special occasion?” he asked, perhaps boldly.

She frowned, lines pulling around her mouth. Her fingers, tipped with peeling nail polish, clenched around his wrist. “Watch yourself,” she said. “I’ll put this out on your tongue.” 

He shut his jaw tight, knowing it wasn’t an empty threat. Despite this, something about the wafting smell of smoke and sweep of wind through the trees ignited within him some sense of nostalgia, the origin of which he could not place. It was almost comforting, at odds with the impending dread pressing against his gut and the sharp nails digging into his flesh. (Still, what a welcome relief this was from the stale cellar. The breeze might be worth the price.)

He thought he might be able to feel his bones creak under her vice grip. He did not watch— eyes towards the bright fireball beyond the sticks— as she pressed the smoldering cherry to the sensitive skin of his wrist, nestled in the crease where his arm met his palm. 

He couldn’t help his flinch and whimper at the burn, which only made her hand tense like a constricting snake.  As she lifted the ember, his eyes flicked over against his will— left behind was an angry red circle, stark over the shadows of his veins. 

Ginny was smiling. “You always sound so pathetic,” she teased, flicking the stubbed cigarette to the ground. She pressed it down into the dirt with the sole of her flip-flop. It flattened to the earth, crumpled and spent. Only halfway smoked. She hadn’t even savored the whole thing.

His wrist hovered in place even once she released it to reach for the pack. The angry burn stung brighter as she slipped another cigarette out, pinching it delicately and placing it between her lips. Flame danced under the end when she flicked her lighter, thumb running over the gear. 

She exhaled and glanced at his exposed arm. “Put your fuckin’ hand down,” she said. He returned it to his lap, face up, as not to disturb it. The burn was sensitive even to the breeze.

They sat in silence for some time as the sun dipped lower. It inched so minutely that he didn’t even recognize its shift until it was already kissing the horizon, sky aflame. By the time the world was dark, Ginny was on her fourth cigarette and the pet was sporting two new simmering burns.

Three resounding knocks shot through the house, sharp enough that they traveled all the way from the front door to the backyard where they sat. Then came the tinny chime of the doorbell, inappropriately cheerful. Ginny twisted around in her chair, squinting through the glass door. “Who the fuck…?” she muttered. 

She stood and slipped into the house without casting the pet a second glance, smoke trailing close behind. For some reason, he found himself worrying that the smell might seep into the carpet. She should open a window, he thought, and lean over the windowsill so she could keep it outside, teetering halfway between two worlds. Then the scent might not linger for someone else to recognize. Then he caught himself— it didn’t matter. He wondered why he’d even had the thought at all. 

He was content to stare into the void between the trees and listen to the symphony of crickets until he startled at something brushing against his ankle. He lifted his foot up— bare and filthy, as Ginny did not care to give him shoes— and looked for movement. He did not notice any, and the dim light affixed to the wall of the house did not afford him enough light to see. Probably just a cricket or a spider. He cautiously put his foot back down, toes in the grass, hoping it wouldn’t bite him. 

Voices floated through the crack in the door as Ginny spoke with whoever had come. Maybe it’s the police, he thought idly. They knocked like a cop. He wondered if they might have anything to say about the state he was in— fresh burns, old cuts and bruises, and all-around unkemptness. When he had been in training he'd imagined he would end up in the home of some richie-rich family— cooking, cleaning, maybe looking after children. Not whatever this was. Not Ginny.

“Not interested,” he caught, and then the firm slam of the door and click of the lock. His posture tightened at the slapping of Ginny’s sandals growing closer as she approached from behind. She sat heavily back in her chair. “Goddamn missionaries,” she said. “All the way out here. At this hour. Dedicated sum’bitches.” She pet at the wild frizz falling over her shoulder, idly tugging at a curl so it straightened and snapped back like elastic. “I wonder if they woulda recognized you. All you folk seem to know each other.” She took a drag of her cigarette, eyebrow raising. “Or are related…” she pondered. “It all seems very incestuous, doesn't it?”

“What?” he asked.

Her lip curled, grinning, though her eyes were mirthless when they fell on his face. The shadows cast by the light made the creases on her forehead especially pronounced. “I wish you remembered things, sometimes, but other times it's more fun that you don’t.” 

He hated that she knew more about him than he knew about himself. He really, really hated it.

Black eyes drifted over him, her detached gaze landing by his feet. She revealed her teeth, smiling with more humor. “You aware there’s a snake by your foot?”

Fuck—! He could see its slither, now, and pulled his feet up so fast that one of his knees cracked against the arm of the chair. Pain shot through his shin like a bolt. Ginny snorted with laughter and tilted forward, contorting her body so that her shadow did not fall upon the snake and prevent her from getting a good look at it. It was skinny, striped in bands of yellow, black, and red. 

“Is that a coral snake? What’s the rhyme…” Ginny thought for a moment. “Red on yella, friendly fella… red on black, you’re fucked, Jack. Ah, maybe it’s the other way around.” She sunk back into her chair. “Better not let it bite you either way,” she warned.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he muttered, crossing his ankles on the seat of his chair. His voice shook a little with the burst of adrenaline, heart still thumping too fast.

Ginny slipped out of her flip-flops and pulled her own feet up onto her seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. The cigarette still smoldered between two fingers, and a clump of ash fell off the end and landed in the dirt. The way she tilted her head made any reflection disappear from her eyes, dull. “You scared of snakes, Jack?”

He ran his palm over the goosebumps that broke out all down his leg, brushing over the pale hairs sticking out like the fur of a frightened animal. “A healthy amount,” he answered truthfully, even if she was just taunting him. For a moment he had forgotten about the burns on his arm, but they were back to their insistent stinging, impossible to ignore. He shuddered as he replayed in his mind the moment the snake caressed his ankle, himself none the wiser. He imagined what it might feel like for its fangs to sink into his tender heel, to feel the venom run through his veins. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different from the pinch of a needle in his arm.

The snake’s little tongue flicked out, raising its head to look at him with beady eyes. It's not gonna try and jump at me, is it? He glanced at Ginny and knew she would not care if he got bit. Her eyes were similarly cold-blooded.

They both watched as the snake set its chin back to the earth and slithered into a taller patch of grass, disappearing. The blades went still. 

“Look at me,” Ginny said.

He obeyed.

Her claw-like hand squeezed his face, nails digging into his cheeks. He wanted to turn away, but could not bring himself to wrestle out of her grasp. She turned the cigarette over in her fingers so that the filter pointed towards him, aiming the cherry towards herself. She lifted it to his mouth, an inch away. He parted his lips without needing to be asked. 

“Ever smoked before?” 

He shook his head minutely, as much as her grip would allow.

“Inhale,” she told him. 

At her command, he did. It burned terribly in his throat and nose. Ginny pulled both of her hands away as he coughed, somehow finding himself surprised as the smoke poured out of his mouth. He grimaced at the foul taste on his tongue, still hacking. When it ceased, and he looked at her through watering eyes, she just looked vaguely bored.

She held out the remaining half of the cigarette. “Finish this,” she said. “I don’t want it to go to waste.”

He grabbed it awkwardly with two fingers, eyeing it warily. 

By the time it was burnt nearly to the filter, he wanted to throw up. Each inhale gave him this sort of light-headed rush, like a burst of cold air. He was dizzy even sitting down, and knew that if he tried to stand he would surely stumble and lose his balance. 

Ginny did not care to watch him. She was merely staring into the trees. “I’m done,” the pet said, and she turned her head. There was no humor in her face— absent was the sense of sadistic pleasure she usually reveled in. Her eyes bored into him, iced over with something colder.

“Well?” 

“What?”

She motioned minutely with her hand, eyes flicking to his arm, like it was obvious. “Put it out,” she said. 

He stared down at his own wrist. With his other hand, the cigarette drew closer… and he hesitated. When he glanced up at Ginny, her eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly, expectant. Dangerous. Go on.

He dropped his eyes. He should be punished for faltering. He selected his spot, a patch of white skin on the outer edge of his forearm, an inch away from another angry burn. The smoldering cherry hovered above the unmarred skin, trembling. He allowed himself a countdown, which he would not back out of. In his head: Three, two, one… 

Clearing his mind of all resistance, he pressed it to his skin like an angry bite.

𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙𓆙

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@string-of-broken-hearts @supasos0 @technicallydeliciousdeer @toyybox @weibun-art

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course. 

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

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

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

But he isn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is his duty. This is his duty. 

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

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

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

“I can’t.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His own. 

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

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

It is with trembling fingers that he begins to read. 

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

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

261. Ira’s number. 

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

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

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

A fucking assignment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Wren.” 

The elevator fills with silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

── ⟡ ˙.

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Then, looking at Lorelai, he supposed he got lucky with all of them.

Delta had gotten lucky too.

There were not words for the kind of gratitude he had towards her now.

She ended up repeating herself a lot. Right now, within earshot, she was making her same argument to Jay.

“I was going there anyway. I’ve been meaning to go back, Mama called recently, I-“ Her accent came out a little more whenever she spoke of home, as if just remembering it placed her back there. It had to have been years now. “You can’t expect me to stay away forever.”

“I’ve never had to make that choice, Lorry. I wouldn’t know,” Jay said, quite tactfully. “I only know what I’ve been told.”

“Well, we never talk about the nice stuff,” she huffed in response.

At that exact moment, they both seemed to become aware of Delta eavesdropping. He blushed a little, scooting down in the passenger seat, but wasn’t reprimanded for it. Jay waved.

“You have anything you miss from it?” he smiled a little sardonically.

“Uh, no sir.”

No surprises there. Everyone there knew Delta was not going back for the nice stuff.

There was a movement at the window of the house. Everyone’s eye was drawn to it as Paris appeared, resting one arm lightly against the sill. It was within shouting distances, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t even make the C’mere gesture that Delta had been trained to watch for. He just titled his head slightly, and the spot his eyes were trained made it clear who the summons was for. Delta exhaled, and reluctantly climbed up from his seat.

~

“It’s not too late to back out.”

Paris leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter. A single, thin blunt hung from his fingers, and his shirt hung off of his frame. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes indicating an untimely sickness. 

“Mm,” Delta hummed. “Yeah.”

“I mean it. You know how dangerous this is, you know how likely it is to go wrong for you, and you know what’s going to happen if it does. I know you think you have to, but you don’t. You shouldn’t. I am fucking begging you to reconsider.”

“Yeah. I know, Paris. I heard you the first time.”

A little flicker of frustration, and a corresponding flinch from the opposite party. Neither acknowledged it and Delta’s resolve did not soften even a little bit.

“Does Levon know?”

“No.” Delta’s eyes glowed. “And you’re not going to tell him.”

That was the whole point of leaving. That had been months ago.

“You didn’t tell him because you knew he’d stop you, right? Did you tell anyone? Everyone is just worried about you. You have people here who love you and just want you to be safe, and you’re betraying all their trust just to chase something you can’t even remember. Whatever you find, it won’t fix anything. It can’t change what happened. You don’t have to go back.”

Delta closed his eyes: “Can you imagine what it’s like to be me for one second?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“Whatever you’re picturing, it’s worse. Every system I’ve been cordoned into, and every agent of that system, have all worked so painstakingly to make sure I was reduced into nothing. I don’t have words for how thoroughly my sense of self has been eradicated. So if I want to understand it better, and if I want to understand who I might have been before all of this happened, I’m within my right to search for it.”

This was more explanation than he had given to almost anyone else, so he hoped Paris could appreciate that much.

When he opened his eyes, Paris did not look particularly grateful. He looked just as sad and scared as before. Guilt had eroded away at his options for speech. Delta waited patiently in the time it took him to formulate a response.

“…You didn’t have to bring Lorelai into it.” Paris looked down. “She won’t go if you don’t.”

“That’s not what she said.” Delta bit his lip. “She said she was going either way.”

Paris shook his head: “She hates traveling alone. That’s why it took her so long to leave in the first place. If you backed out, she would too.”

“You didn’t.” 

Paris sniffled and pressed the flat of his palm against his eye, sliding it against his temple. Delta was concerned for a second that he was crying, but he didn’t seem to be. He just looked miserable. It was possible they’d quite literally worried him sick. The strain was showing in his voice.

Delta softened his tone slightly in acknowledgement.

“It’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to her. We’ll be careful.”

And it seemed to make him cave entirely. It was easy to render Paris defenseless now. At least, it was easy for him. 

“…You will?” Paris asked without venom.

“We will. I promise.”

“Delta, please don’t do this,” he begged outright. “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“No, there isn’t. I’m sorry. We’ll be careful. It’s okay.” 

Delta brought Paris’s hand to his lips, briefly kissing the jointed fingers. A shock of pink spread across the prince’s face as his expression turned hopelessly defeated.

He didn’t know where he got the nerve anymore. It just came to him. Delta dropped his hand, then brushed a stray strand of hair from his face in a self soothing motion, letting time dilute the intensity. 

“Do you want me to bring you anything back?” he asked, a bit awkwardly. 

Paris adjusted well enough, shrugging. He took a hit from the pre-roll, then coughed a little, wincing. Imperceptibly, Delta caught the shiver that ran through his spine. His skin had been cold when he touched it.

“Nah. Lorelai’s already got it, she’s going to pick up a few things from my aunt’s house since it’s on the way.”

“I’m going to meet your family?”

“I don’t recommend it? I mean, it’s my mom’s side, so not scary, but not friendly either. At least not to me. They might like you. I’d probably prefer if you didn’t speak with them, to be honest.”

“Alright,” Delta agreed. He thought he might prefer that too. “Um, I gave Kitty your number, and I’m going to send you hers. You can call her if there’s an emergency. We’ll try and keep you updated while we’re out there.”

Paris nodded absently.

“You should rest,” Delta suggested lightly. “You’ll feel better.”

“…I really don’t want you to go.”

“I know, Paris.”

~

The air outside was gradually warming, but growing no less saturated with water. Jay had returned inside shortly after Delta had exited the house, his services presumably needed to prevent a full meltdown. Delta and Lorelai were left standing alone outside the ship.

Her hair was undone, curled up against her shoulders, and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Her hands were clasped, fingers intertwining and shifting pressure from point to point too. It was the kind of fidgeting she had presumably never been punished for. It was a telltale sign of nervousness. 

Delta could feel his own nerves twitching, but he lended the energy to literal static discharge. He pressed his fingers to the surface of the ship and pushed it lightly into the heart of the engine.

Neither of them got inside.

It’s not too late to back out.

Delta remembered his notice of resignation — it had been resignation in every sense of the word. Something about that goodbye to Galatea had felt so sickening and final. But it was months ago, and he had lived. He’d live through this too, even if it took more courage.

So would she. She had it to spare.

“I like this ship,” Lorelai said, turning her attention back to it. “Wish you could’ve seen the old one before we crashed it off the coast of Elysia. God, I miss her all the time. That one got us through everything.”

Delta nodded, though he barely understood. He said: “That’d mean a two year round trip though, right?”

“Eugh, yeah. Maybe less. As the crow flies, it shouldn’t have taken us half as long as it did to get across the board. Paris and I just ran into trouble a lot. Many evasive maneuvers! It’ll be a similar thing here, we have to steer clear of checkpoints. But this thing runs a lot faster. Don’t you, girl?”

The ship made no response. She was sub-military grade, about a decade old, but the specs said she ran as good as ever. The max speed knocked out anything available on the consumer market.

It was reassuring to hear Lorelai speak like she knew her way around. It was good, because Delta could not think of anyone else he both trusted to pilot and who would actually entertain the request. It was asking very much of her. He reminded himself to make it up to her, somehow. Eventually.

“I got all my forged documents, in case anyone asks.” Lorelai winked.

God forbid anyone asked.

“I won’t keep you longer than a month or two,” Delta said. “Not in one jump at least. If it looks like we’re in for an extended stay, we should bail. The less time we spend inside imperial territory, the better.”

Both of them were used to the jaunts in and out for work, but flirting around the edges of the border did not compare at all to what it was like in the depths. This time around, they’d be plunging quite close to the heart.

Not for long though. Not for long.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Lorelai promised. She glanced at her wrist watch. “…It’s getting late now.”

Dread clawed at him, but Delta nodded. Everything was packed. There was no excuse to delay it any further.

Paris and Jay reappeared in the doorway, apparently sensing it as well as they did. Jay smiled slightly, and presumably for their benefit alone. Paris looked just as miserable and anxious as he had been all morning, but seemed slightly more sedated. Redosed on the cold medicine, most likely. He was trembling a little.

Lorelai pushed forward off the side of the ship, and he immediately clung to her. The muscle memory was there. They snapped together like magnets, in a motion that had clearly been repeated over and over and over again. It was sweet enough that Delta felt embarrassed for watching.

After muttering something indistinct, they reluctantly separated, with Lorelai pausing to cup his face, kissing his cheek. She’d probably get sick now too. 

The air between Delta and Paris was stiffer. Delta blushed a little, unwilling to be begged again. He couldn’t take any resistance now. He was too close to cracking as it was.

“Please be careful,” Paris said — quietly, measured. 

Delta nodded. He knew how unlikely it was for Paris to touch him at all without explicit consent. Not unless he slipped up, moving out of habit. His habits weren’t trained for this, but after years of safety, Delta’s had been gradually retrained. Delta stepped forward to hug him, and was surprised by the speed and desperation with which Paris clung back, the lack of self consciousness.

“You too,” Delta said quietly. He could feel the tremors.

They really had to leave now. He could not take another second of thinking it over.

“Call by tonight, okay?” Jay asked, as a way of negotiating.

“Mhm. Got it. Will do,” Lorelai said, chipper. Just because it was forced did not mean it was fake. 

She was climbing into the driver’s seat. Delta tried not to let any of their fear get to him. He had enough of his own. He got in next to her, and threw up a peace sign for the departure.

Peace. That was the idea, anyway.

~~~

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Port learned to brace himself whenever Mr. Oz brought up his wife and kids. It started as wistfulness, sometimes, but it was like watching a train crash in slow motion every time. The faraway stare and standing tears in his eyes would give way to the shouting and rising color in his cheeks, like watching metal twist and mangle, smashing whatever was unfortunate enough to find itself on the tracks.

But somehow, the one thing that stuck with Port the most was the one thing Mr. Oz had shared like it didn’t matter to him at all. 

“I’m an only child,” he’d said, in response to Port’s question. (This was back when, naïvely, he thought asking about family might be a good way to get to know him. He learned his lesson quick.) Mr. Oz rubbed at the stubble on his chin in a way that made Port think he was simply pondering over the next clue in his crossword puzzle. “I guess I wasn’t always,” he continued. “I had a sister, but she died a long time ago.” 

Port was shocked into momentary silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a beat.

Mr. Oz lifted his eyes from the newspaper like he was surprised Port had even offered condolences. “I was young,” he said, shrugging. “I didn’t really get death, yet. This was before we even came to the United States.” His gaze roamed over the puzzle for a few seconds and he scribbled something in the margin. “She was a baby. Came and went so fast I could barely miss her.”

Something tugged at Port's heart. Was that supposed to be a comfort? Mr. Oz’s eyes remained on his paper, but they went out of focus, looking beyond it. “Hell… I haven’t thought about her in forever. She died of malnutrition. It's really messed up. Everyone blamed my mother.” 

Port could not think of anything else to say other than: “That’s terrible.”

“It was only once I had kids of my own that I realized it was never her fault at all. My sister probably had, uh…” He clicked the end of his pen once, twice. “…this genetic disease. Cystic fibrosis. I don’t think they knew how to diagnose it at the time, let alone treat it.” His eyes darkened. “If I had known…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have married Noshin if I had known.” He scratched at his nose, squinting at his paper. “Anyway... What does this even mean?" he muttered, tapping the point of the pen on it.

Port was still stuck on the image of his sister. He imagined holding a baby girl in his arms, running a hand over her soft fuzzy hair like a peach. Then he imagined her going limp and cold and...

“I’m sorry that happened,” Port said.

“Thanks,” Mr. Oz said dismissively. His gaze drifted away from the crossword, skipped up to Port. “Do you know—? Woah.” Discomfort crossed his features, a wrinkle between his brows. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. If I had known you’d be so affected, I wouldn’t have said anything.” 

“Sorry, sir,” Port apologized, swiping hastily at his face. “I just think it’s sad.”

“It’s not your story. No need to cry over it, bud.” 

~~~~~~

The carpet cleaner fizzled over the stain like rabid saliva, eating away at the remaining traces of spilled milk.

“Thanks,” Tal said.

“You’re welcome, sir,” Port replied as he wiped it up. This was in his comfort zone. He had no issue cleaning up after others, even if the movement made his body twinge and ache in the aftermath of the seizure.

“You, uh, don’t actually have to call me sir,” Tal said. When Port looked over to him, he was running his fingers through his dark hair, swiping all the way from his forehead to the base of his skull. It was floppy today, like he hadn’t slathered on a pound of hair gel. He was sitting on the far end of the couch, legs pulled up so his heels pressed into the cushion. “I think I’m over the novelty of it.” 

“Okay,” Port said. Whatever his master wanted, he could adjust.

He stood and brought the spray bottle back to the cupboard under the kitchen sink. It occurred to him that the bowl of cereal had been mostly full— Tal hadn’t gotten the chance to eat much. When Port returned to him with a fresh bowl of cereal and spoon in hand, Tal’s eyebrows raised with something like surprise, pulling at the scar splitting one of them. He took the offerings silently. 

“I can go back to my room,” Port said, not wanting to disturb his peace any further.

“Wait. You can sit with me, if you want.” 

Port thought of Sonny, who must still be deep in sleep. He thought about how he did not want to face him when he woke up. “Okay," he agreed.

“Do you want cereal?” 

A few minutes later, Port had himself situated on the other end of the sofa with his very own bowl of Froot Loops. In his peripheral, Tal’s brown eyes were flicking to him at regular intervals, carefully not moving his head. Port stiffly spooned the first bite of sugar into his mouth, feeling self-conscious of Tal watching him eat. He tried to chew as quietly and discreetly as possible, as if it made any difference. The sheer artificial sweetness was shocking his tastebuds. It was rough over his sensitive tongue, still swollen from how he had bitten it, and his jaw was sore.

Unsure of whether or not he should try to make conversation, he pretended to be interested in what was playing on the TV. He watched Daffy Duck get blown away with a shotgun, head disappearing into a puff of smoke. When the cartoon cloud dissipated, the duck was unharmed. Must be nice.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” Tal said, unprompted. 

In a controlled manner, Port turned his stiff neck to look at him. Tal faced him in turn. His discomfort was well-concealed, but still visible in the slight furrow of his brow. 

Port hated to be apologized to. There was only one thing he could say. “It’s okay, sir.” No, not sir. This isn't Mr. Oz. “Talha,” he corrected himself. 

The boy looked away, sheepish. “Seriously, I just wasn’t thinking. I know it’s not okay to grab at people. I’m gonna apologize to Sonny, too, when he wakes up.”

“Thank you... it’s okay.” To their credit, neither of the siblings had yet laid a violent hand on them. But it would happen, sooner or later. Someone would lose their temper. And then...?

Port tried for a smile— All is forgiven, it said. Tal's face did not change. His eyes stuck on Port like he wanted to say something more, but he peeled his gaze away and turned back to the TV, to the flashing colors. He grabbed a pill bottle from the coffee table and unscrewed it in a smooth motion, shaking a couple capsules into his palm. 

It didn’t feel right to leave the conversation off on that awkward note. “Do you need to take those every time you eat?” Port asked. He ought to learn dietary requirements, anyway.

“Pretty much,” Tal said, after dry swallowing the pills. He shook the bottle for emphasis and the little capsules rattled around inside like a maraca. “They’re enzymes. They help me digest food because my stupid pancreas no-workee.” 

Port’s brow furrowed. “What happens if you don’t take them?”

“Bad shit.” 

“Oh.”

“And I mean that literally. I could also starve to death, hypothetically, but it would take a while.” Tal seemed obvious to Port’s disturb as he scooped a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Wanna see something cool?” he asked, still chewing.

“Sure,” Port said, with some apprehension. He watched in shock as Tal lifted his shirt to reveal his midriff. Above and to the left of his navel was a piece of plastic, like a snap, protruding from the plane of his stomach. The circle of skin surrounding it was maybe slightly rawer than it should be, but looked otherwise healthy.

Tal poked at it with his finger. “I call it my second belly button,” he said.

“Wow,” Port decided on, at loss of what else to say. He sort of wanted to avert his eyes, even if there wasn’t anything very disturbing about it. “What's it for?”

“It’s a g-tube, for nutrition. It goes straight into my stomach, though I haven’t been using it lately because I’m eating more. Through my mouth,” he specified. 

Port wondered if Tal could pour cereal milk into it, but decided not to ask such a stupid question. “Is it for your, uh… cyst-ic…?” He could not remember the full name, though he suspected Tal might have the condition ever since he saw the pill bottles and various medical equipment around the house.

Tal’s eyebrows raised, and he dropped his shirt. “Cystic fibrosis?”

“Right, that’s it.”

“You’ve heard of it? Did Rida tell you?”

“Yes. I mean no. Um…” I shouldn't have even brought this up. “Mr. Oz— I mean— your father… he mentioned it,” Port muttered. 

Tal’s eyes went a little wide, but his expression was otherwise blank, straight-mouthed. “He talked to you about me?” he asked, after a moment.

“Not really... It just came up once or twice.” 

“Did he say anything else?”

“Not really,” Port repeated, pinned under Tal’s round-eyed stare. 

Another beat of silence, punctuated by the sound of an explosion coming from the TV. His next question hung in the air like he wasn't even sure if he wanted to speak it aloud: “What was he like?” 

This was not a conversation Port wanted to be having this early in the morning. Or ever.

He must have hesitated for too long, because Tal cut him off right as he opened his mouth. “Never mind,” he said, dropping his eyes. He scraped at one of his cuticles with his thumbnail, face unreadable. “You don’t have to tell me.” 

~~~~~~

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