hi hello im chaos & welcome to my whump blog! i write and make prompts and love interacting with people! feel free to send asks i am very friendly and nice ^_^
fav tropes: covert whump, manhandling, casual cruelty, dehumanisation, failed escapes, recaptures, forced to watch, begging, multiple whumpers and multiple whumpees, soft comfort after it all 💜
-> dm for my 18+ blog
☆ my stories ☆
amor vincit omnia | in progress; currently on arc 3 of 4
[below are all side stories that are canon to avo but can be read separately without spoilers :D]
- ex igni natus | in progress
- unfriendly fire | coming soon
- fidelis | in progress
---
et nos cedamus amori: hero/villain au of avo - calyx is an ex living weapon who has recently completed their contract with k & is now in recovery :) | completed
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“Ugh.” Wren lets out a loud huff of air. “I'm bored. I can't focus on this right now.”
They lay sprawled out on the floor of the van beside Atlas, their comic opened and halfway finished as it rests over their face, covering their eyes. Atlas sits next to them in his usual poised and proper position, face buried in one of his new novels. He looks up only now to stare at them, one brow slightly raised.
“What do you propose we should do instead?” He asks, making no efforts to move. His book has been a rather good read so far, action-packed and filled with adventure. All of the ones that he and Wren picked up from the store have been like this. They leave his old pile of library books back at Eden to seem quite bland and spiritless in comparison, if he's to be honest. That is to say, he doesn't wish to put his new novel down any time soon, not when he has so much more of the mystery to uncover. The detectives and their trail of blood-smattered clues are still calling his name.
Wren shrugs and lifts the comic from their face, pushing themself up by their elbows. “I dunno. What do you want to do?”
Atlas hums for a moment, resigning himself to Wren's obviously restless mood; he carefully marks his page, closing his book, and places it tenderly back inside his crate. “I'm sort of hungry. We could go and grab lunch.” He offers. “There's a McDonald's nearby, isn't there?”
Wren perks up instantaneously. “Oh yeah, that's a good idea!” They grin, hopping into the drivers seat and starting up the car. Atlas almost smiles to himself, a new sort of pep in his step as he follows, Wren already busy speeding out of their current parking spot.
The past week has been the best week of his life.
Calm, content; quiet. A contrast to what he remembers back at the warehouse. Each of his days used to be selected for him, his activities marked down to the very second. He had no choice in the matter, instead did what he was told, always and forever. He's not quite sure if he's stopped missing it yet, the predictability of it all, the routine. Yet, in the same breath he can say for sure, he's never felt so completely free.
Wren's company is like no other. He doesn't feel the need to be scared around them, to hold his breath before he speaks. They're carefree, laidback. They ask for his opinion on things, show him new places he'd never have imagined going to. They fulfill the part of his life he'd forevermore been lacking — something akin to normalcy. They don't tell him what's best for him, they don't care. They don't seem to mind his habits, not anymore. They're really… special.
As the days stretch on, Eden seems farther and farther away.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
The drive is short this time, only a quick stretch down the road; Wren's music is thumping, windows rolled down all the way, and the soft breeze against Atlas's skin is nice. Peaceful, even. Wren points to several dogs, all different breeds, being walked down the road, much to Atlas's overall entertainment as they pass through the busy street. People are out and about; chatting, hushedly speaking into their phones, window shopping. Atlas watches them go by, already excited for their meal as Wren turns into the McDonald's parking lot.
“So,” Wren says, leading the way into the restaurant. “Big Mac? Or do you want to try something new?”
“I'd like to try something new.” Atlas replies.
Wren hums and gestures towards the vast menu, flashing a wide variety of burgers, treats, drinks, and fry options for Atlas to struggle to pick from. “Take your pick. I'm getting nuggets.”
Atlas scans the menu, glancing through all the different items. Burgers, chicken burgers, chicken wraps, veggie wraps, fries — medium, small, or large — soda in a variety of flavours…. All of it is so fresh and foreign, he can't possibly try to pick and choose between them. Which would be better, a burger combo or one of their snack options that they offer? What if the other burgers aren't as tasty as the Big Mac was? Or perhaps he'll be missing out if he sticks with the predictability of his previous order. A difficult dilemma, indeed.
He squints his eyes, eying the varying prices and pausing for a minute. There's such a wide range of options, his head feels as if it's going to explode. What to get… what to get…..?
“Need some help?”
Wren interrupts from behind him, nudging him out of the way of a couple who has just entered behind them, cutting in line in front of them as Atlas struggles with his hefty choice.
Atlas watches as the screen changes again, the illumination of the sign darkening for a second as a new crop of menu options open up before him, furthering his internal debate on what he should choose. Slowly, he nods, tearing his gaze away from the screen to look down at Wren.
Wren smiles, snorting slightly to themself. “Well, the McChicken is a classic, pretty good choice if I do say so myself. Or you could get the Quarter Pounder, if you just want a regular burger.” They say, turning back to face him. “Whaddya say?”
“Hmm… I suppose I'll try the McChicken this time then.” He decides finally.
Wren hums, grinning wide. “Alright, good choice!” They say, clapping him harshly against his back and leading him back into line. Unpreoccupied with the menu, Atlas can now see this McDonald's is much more cramped than the one they had previously visited. At the very front of the line, the workers bustle around at the front, rushedly tossing things into brown paper bags and yelling out order numbers. Unlike how he and Wren had been one of the only people to order when he came here originally, now he can see groups of teenagers similar in age to them, along with families that include small, whiny kids, and flocks of the elderly, who laugh and talk in their little bunches.
“Busy day.” Wren mutters, glancing to their phone as the line very stubbornly refuses to budge. “Must be the lunch rush or something.”
Atlas hums in response, his eyes not on Wren but instead flickering in between the different groups of rather rowdy customers that have stationed themselves inside. Its only now, fully focusing on it, that he notices a strange pattern within the crowds. Along the flocks of human children, teenagers, and kindly seniors, a completely different gathering has begun. In stark contrast to the rest, he finds himself staring at several pairs of aristocratic adults, all dressed in formal attire — suits, dresses, the like.
He narrows his eyes. “It seems like there's some sort of convention taking place — maybe near here.”
Wren doesn't pay it any mind, tapping at their screen with no true care or concern. “Huh. Think so?”
Atlas glances around the place. Briefcases, shining, expensive technology, and extravagant linens. He hadn't seen much of the human world yet, but he did know one thing: This definitely couldn't be your average, run-of-the-mill, regular day sight. Especially inside a McDonald's, which didn't seem to be anywhere near a high class restaurant, not like the ones he'd heard about. As tasty as the burgers were, the stench of grease alone let him know this was nowhere near close to fine dining.
This sudden crowd is very out of place. It causes his brows to narrow, shoulders to draw back. Eyes dart in between the faces; scanning, calculating. What—
“Hey, can I get a McChicken combo and…”
Wren's voice pulls Atlas back. He glances momentarily towards them and the teenaged, acne-ridden McDonald's worker, and then back to the surrounding crowd. A group of wealthy workers, and none that are paying attention to either of them in the very slightest; in no way should they be drawing any suspicion. Atlas frowns.
He doesn't like this.
Before he has the chance to say something, Wren is grabbing the receipt from the cashier's hand, throwing their head back as they groan and lead Atlas over to a window seat. “Ugh. I'm so hungry.”
Atlas sits down, stiff, tapping his forefinger against the edge of the table as Wren plops down opposite to him, slumping back in their seat. Their feet rest atop his, heels hitting the tops of his boots in a rhythmic fashion, somewhat calming. The weight is a welcome comfort, drawing Atlas from his paranoid worrying. If only for a second.
“We should do something fun after this.” They mutter, talking mainly to themself. “I'm gonna go crazy if I spend another afternoon in that freakin' van.”
Atlas's eyes move to each face that can be found in each of the tables that litter the small McDonald's layout. Happy, smiling, chatting. Just as they had all been the first time he did so.
“The weather is so nice this week too. We gotta take advantage, before we know it winter'll come.” Wren sighs. “I hate winter.”
He isn't sure exactly what has come over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand straight, a strange feeling of general unsettlement sitting in the base of his stomach.
Wren sits up straight, leans their elbows against the table. “Hey, how about we find another park?” They ask, eyes falling in his direction. “That or we can check to see if they have any sort of fall activities going around downtown. Whaddya say?”
Atlas's gaze makes its way back towards the left side of the McDonald's, just beside the doors.
“Uh—” he mutters distractedly, his muscles freezing into place.
Eyes.
Two sets of eyes, focused straight at him.
For the first time in an entire week, Atlas is visible again. Not a blank-faced boy in the background that most people pass by without a second glance. No, he's the object of someone's attention; sharp, unrelenting eyes focused directly on him.
For someone…. is watching him.
He is still within seconds, rigid. He only has the time to catch sight of their faces before he's forced himself to look away, focusing again on the menu, blinking faintly.
Glaring at him from only feet away is a boy and a girl. They're dark-eyed and almost invisible, tucked into the very most corner of the restaurant, positioned facing the door. A regular person wouldn't have noticed them, dressed in rather ambiguous clothes that don't stand out when paired with the hordes of business men and women packed inside. But Atlas's eyes have been trained better, able to pick out even the smallest and most insignificant details from within a crowd.
And fuck, he recognizes them.
“Something up?” Wren whispers, eyes narrowed, worried. Throughout the week since his departure from the warehouse, they've somehow managed to figure out how to pick out the subtle clues he leaves with his body language. It's rather impressive.
Atlas turns back to face them. Slow, steady, forcing himself to act as normal. “Don't move.” He mutters, voice surprisingly calm as he finally meets their gaze. His eyes are sharp, urgent, pleading with them to listen.
Wren stiffens, falling pale. “What?” They choke, voice strained, eyes darting around nervously. For the first time in a week, they've had to come face-to-face with the fact that they are currently under danger. And it's pulled them into a complete panic.
“Someone's here.” Atlas tells them, keeping his voice quiet yet eerily calm. Despite the unknown territory, the fear that instantly stopped him cold in his tracks, he forces himself to fall back into routine. Routine, under the face of danger, he can rely on. The routine — instinct — it's good. It's what has kept him alive this far. “I need you to create an illusion over us so we can make it back to the van.”
The gaze on the back of his neck never moves. Its steady, consistent, burning into his skin. He can tell they have seconds, at best, before his two former classmates pounce on the both of them.
Numbers 536 and 419, he registered their faces instantly. One of the better-skilled soldiers from inside his rank, Atlas had sparred with them on numerous occasions — coming out victorious every time, of course. Fortunately, he was much stronger than them, had much more under his belt than they did. Unfortunately, knowing Eden, they were only the look-out for the higher-ranked snipers that would soon be descending upon them.
He should have known they'd send his old allies to capture him.
“Shit.” Wren mumbles. Their eyes are wide, horrified, not focusing on one object for too long. Fingers grip the edge of the table like a lifeline. “You want me to do it here? Someone will see.”
“I'm not sure how much control over your powers you have, but if it isn't too difficult I need you to create an illusion around our table.” Atlas instructs, the plan already taking form inside his head. “Make it appear like we're still waiting for our food. Then you'll have to cloak the two of us, just enough to stay undercover while we make our way back outside.”
Wren listens and is quiet for a moment after as they think. “Okay.” They nod, their jaw clenching as they ready themself. Their eyes spark, silver swirling through the hazel, and Atlas watches as the air waves around them, illusion setting in place.
The two of them are quick to stand, eyes momentarily meeting each other before Atlas is leading the way, scanning through the restaurant, picking the easiest possible routes to get them out and without gathering any attention. On their way out, they pass by another pair of business men, and it's just as Atlas manages to slip past, that he dully notices the insignia printed onto the side of one of their briefcases. An eye underneath a boldly printed E.
It's an ambush.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Neither of them speak until they make it into the van, climbing into their respective seats with bated breath. Wren's eyes are wide as saucers as they glance in Atlas's direction, stomach squeezing into knots. “What's going on?” They gasp out, anxiety overriding their senses. “Who's watching us?”
Atlas's attention isn't on them, his gaze fixed upon the surrounding cars inside the parking lot. “Put another illusion over the van. I think there's more gathered a few cars over.” He orders, face dead serious. “I spotted two inside the McDonald's, and I think the other ones in business attire were stationed as scouts. But they'll all be quick to notice something's wrong.”
“Fuck.”
Wren thought they still had time. Time together, time to be free. Time where Atlas could be as he is, not as he was trained to be. To be a kid, and do dumb shit, and have fun, and see all the things that he never was allowed to before. They thought that they'd have more time with him before things spiralled into this, until Eden was back into the picture again. He'd just barely been out, barely began to trust them.
They thought they would've at least had longer than a couple of days before they were back under the threat of constant surveillance — constant fear.
“How did they find us so soon…?” They mutter to themself, blinking hard as they cast another illusion around the van. Their eyes strain from the effort and they grit their teeth, hands clenched so tightly against the steering wheel their knuckles are turning white. They didn't even notice anyone inside, didn't even think to.
“We need to keep moving.” Atlas directs, face pointed towards the window. “We don't have much time left.”
Wren doesn't waste any time peeling out of there. As soon as Atlas's words leave his mouth, they're backing up, twisting the van as they speed back out onto the road with a kind of craze they're sure leaves the other drivers startled.
Wren curses under their breath. “We’re not going back to the parking garage. Grab the map in the glove compartment, we need to go somewhere else.”
Atlas nods, swiftly grabbing the map as Wren instructs and glancing at it for somewhere else to lay down low at. “There’s no doubt that those soldiers will be back on our tail soon enough, I’m sure we only have a couple minutes now. Your safest bet is to drop me off at the side of the road, and I’ll go back to take them out.”
Wren’s head snaps towards Atlas when he speaks, the van swerving before they quickly straighten out the steering wheel. “What? No! Dude, just find a place for us to head to. We can hide and wait them out before getting back on the road.”
“That’s not how this works.” Atlas tells them, eyes not on their face yet, but still burning into the map. He scans the piece of paper with a deadset sort of determination; Wren can almost see the gears turning from inside his head. “Once they’ve pinpointed our location, they’re going to call in for backup, considering I’m the highest ranked of my class. That’ll just complicate things further. It’ll be easier to deal with three than to deal with fifteen.”
Wren glances over at Atlas again, eyes narrowed as they listen to him. They want to protest but he’s right. Taking care of the situation now will be much easier. “You sure you want to?”
“I’m much stronger than them.” Atlas says confidently. “I can handle it.”
Wren examines his face. His shoulders are drawn back, expression set. If he's worried or nervous about this, Wren can't tell. He doesn't let any other emotion slip past. They frown for a split second, unsure about this. Are they sure he's ready for this, ready to face what may even be his past friends for the first time since he left them all?
He looks up at Wren. His expression is unwavering, face clear. “You’ll need to be nearby. Do you have any way I can contact you?”
Wren's shoulders slump. Maybe a week ago, letting him go out to fight Eden soldiers would've left them scared — of what he'd do, of if he'd leave. Sell them out. But today, things are different. Atlas is different. They're sure of it. A week with them can't erase the years of damage Eden has engraved within him; yet still, they can see a change in his eyes; a spark that wasn't there before.
They trust him.
Wren nods firmly. “Walkies in the back. Take one. I’ll stay in range.” They pull down a thinner street on the outskirts of downtown. It's grimier down here, with older, much poorer-built houses. Crumbling walls, grafiti along the stop signs. Trash littering the streets. Wren can't help but notice how there's less surveillance down here, the streets emptier. The air is cooler, graver. “I can help. If you need me to.”
“No, don't.” Atlas shakes his head sharply, unbuckling his seatbelt. He offers them a sidelong glance that Wren is certain is supposed to be reassuring. “I should be fine.”
He climbs to the back, quickly leaning back beside them and offering them one of the walkie talkies. “I'll contact you when it's finished.”
Wren grabs the walkie-talkie Atlas hands them, gripping it tightly as they pull onto the side of the road to park. They chew at their lip, shooting him a worried look. “Be safe.”
He doesn't look back.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Atlas doesn't have to run far. Darting out onto a different street, he sees a sleek black van creeping its way down the road, as inconspicuously as possible in the bright of midday. It holds all the trademarks of Eden, a van Atlas himself has seen probably a million times within his life inside the warehouse. He's been in a van the exact model, year, and deep ink shade himself too many times to count, whisked away on missions; he remembers how many times he sat squished between soldiers much taller and bigger than him, counting the bumps in the road and silently wishing to himself that he could look out some sort of window. Nevertheless, it leaves him certain: Eden has already found them.
It leaves him puzzled.
Sure, Eden belongs to only the best-of-the-best. He knows that better than anyone. But they'd barely been gone ten minutes, and what was nearly their exact location had been revealed. Even Atlas had never been that good. There was no way they could've placed trackers on them without even getting near. But then how…?
Atlas shakes the thought off. He needs to focus. There's a mission at hand, a danger presently before them, and that's all that matters right now. He would figure out the rest later, with these scouts carefully disposed of. He may not be following any specific orders right now, but nevermind that. He knows what must be done, what Wren needs, and so he'll execute it to perfection. He is a perfect soldier, and nothing, not even Eden, can take that away from him.
He won't allow them to even get near Wren.
He sits crouched, concealed from within the shadows, as the car stops to park, tucking itself into a shade underneath an outcropping of trees. From where he sits, he can just barely see the shadows of three people from within the tinted windows, his eyes squinted into slits to try and get a good view. He can't tell if there's others with them or not, his position not giving him much access to try and scope out his targets. Its a risky gamble, going in like this. Typically on missions he has more to go by, a better range of weapons. Going in empty handed is definitely not his first choice. But he's worked with less. It'll have to do.
He stalks across the street, keeping his eyes locked upon the three figures at all times. Inside, he can see what seems like the start of an argument forming. Two going back and forth with each other, their movements agitated. He almost laughs to himself. Their distraction is going to be their downfall. They should've known better.
Their loss.
Atlas blinks, strength surging into his vein. His blood seems to pump faster, vision sharpening, senses honing. It's a familiar feeling, yet one that feels as if its been absent for ages. The last time he trained was over a week now. The realization hits him like a slap to the face. Training used to be like a second sense to him. Since when did his life just… flip over on its side?
Stop that. Focus.
He bursts into action. Popping up on the side of the car, he uses the argument inside to his advantage, smashing the window in with one fatal punch. There's a surrounding gasp of confusion from inside, tumbling and scrambling that is no use from within the rather cramped vehicle. It's a deathtrap — small and constricting, soundproofed. It gives them no room to dodge or run, to avoid Atlas's attacks. It's just the thing he needs.
He wastes no time in beginning the slaughter. His hands wrap around the first's neck, disregarding whoever's face the body belongs to. In one swift motion, he twists, a sharp crack resounding through the chaos. The body beneath his fingers goes limp, dead.
He moves onto the next.
The second soldier scrambles to get out, fingers flailing as they reach for the door opposite to him. Atlas grunts, ducks deeper into the SUV. His hand closes around their wrist, squeezes. Bones crumble under his grip. The soldier lets out a hoarse scream, clawing at the door in desperation. Slow, insufficient, he thinks to himself, as he grips them by a chunk of their hair. They thrash, desperate to escape. And to think he had been beginning to worry that Eden would send someone skilled enough to put his skills to the test.
He slams their head against the window. Pulls back, slams it again. They're slow, disoriented. Can't think, can't move. Just what he needs. He pulls back again, listens to the hollow thud of their face against the door. Blood squirts against his hands. Again.
Their struggling ceases.
His eyes dart around the interior of the van, finding it empty. His eyes widen, and he quickly pulls himself back out of the window. A third. There was a third.
Shit, how could he have become so sloppy? He's always quick with it, efficient. He can't risk losing his third target. He can't let anyone escape. It's not just his life on the line. He glances around wildly, blood cold as ice. Finish the job, leave no witnesses. No one to report back to their master. Fuck. He needs to—
“Zieliński.”
A hand closes around the hem of his shirt. There's a whirl of motion and a glint of metal catches his eye, a spike of pain shooting into his collarbone. Blood soaks his shirt.
The very notion is so wrong it shouldn’t even be possible. Atlas is the perfect soldier, effortless with what he does. He’s fast, unrelenting. He’s untouchable. And yet he’s allowed himself to be snuck up on. It’s— It’s unacceptable.
He’s gone soft.
Atlas grunts, twisting as he sends a skillfully executed kick into their stomach. They stumble, knife clattering from their grip, and he pounces, eyes dilating. Be better. He shoves them against the van, body leaving dents within the side. Feels them struggle within his grip. But like the last, it's for naught.
The fight is over faster than it began.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Wren doesn't know how they were so naive.
They knew from the start, this would end up like this, sooner or later. Eden, from all the evidence they had gathered, was not sloppy by any means. They had known from the start, getting him out was a risk within itself. He was special to them, and knowing Eden, they wouldn't allow their prize boy to disappear so easily.
They had known that sooner or later, they'd search for him. They just…
They didn't expect it to be so soon.
They'd gotten so caught up in their time with him, in how much fun it was — no, he was — that they'd forgotten about the looming threat that Eden held over them. Forgotten how deeply intertwined they'd become within the company. Forgot that now was when things would actually become serious. Because Eden was no longer a fantastical rumour they'd heard through the whispers in the dark. No, it was real, and it was scary, and it was after them.
They stare at the spot where Atlas once was, worrying at their bottom lip. God, they didn't think they had been prepared for this yet.
Part of them thought that maybe, just maybe, Eden wouldn't care. That they'd move on, forget about Atlas. Let him go, just this once. They almost had been able to trick themself into believing it, too. If only.
They suck in a sharp breath, steadying themself as they turn on the car again, pulling down a narrow alleyway and concealing it deep within the shadows. Worry settles deep inside their nerves and they slump further down in their seat. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eyes focused on the walkie-talkie, silence stretching out inside the car, it hits them for the first time: They don't know what they'll do if they lose Atlas.
Shit.
Their mind swirls with a million different thoughts, all worse than the last, as the minutes tick by. They curl up their knees to their chest, don't look away from the walkie-talkie, not even when their eyes burn and strain. They're sure they could burn a hole through it with how intensely they glare, silently willing it to cooperate with them. The stupid communication device does not, however; staying still and silent in their hands.
They just pray Atlas's voice comes through it sooner than later.
Wren lets their head come to rest against the window with a light thunk. They gnaw at the inside of their cheek, lips pursed into a tight frown. They really don’t doubt Atlas’s abilities. They saw him in the training room, they saw his file. He’s good. Really good. They don't trust anyone but him to be able to protect them in case something ever goes wrong. But they don’t know who Eden sent after them, don't even know what they're capable of. For all Wren knows it could be someone better. Someone even Atlas can't dare face.
Yet even with the urge to go find him growing stronger and stronger by every passing second, they resist. Atlas is certain he can handle it, and so… they'll let him handle it. As much as it kills them. They will wait for him to get back. They'll trust he'll come back to them.
And so Wren waits. And waits… and waits. Okay, maybe they aren’t waiting that much but they are impatient and itching to hear Atlas call them to go get him. They've never so desperately wished to hear the deep rumble of his voice, soothing all of their worries. God, god, god. How could they be so stupid? How had they become so distracted that they didn’t even think about the fact that they were both technically in hiding?
Just as Wren thinks they'll explode or cry or scream or run out into the street in search of him, finally, a voice crackles through the speaker: “Wren?”
They just about drop the walkie-talkie as Atlas's voice fills the van, static screeching after him. Scrambling to sit up straight, device held close to their face, they breathe out his name.
“Atlas.” It shudders out of them, a sudden relief. “You good?”
"Yes." His response is quick. Wren takes that as a good sign. “Leave the van where you are and meet me by the black SUV just across the street. It’ll draw less attention that way.”
Wren nods before remembering Atlas can’t see them. “Right, I’m on my way now,” they say, throwing the door open and falling into a jog once they hit the street. Just down the block, as they round the corner, said black SUV comes into sight and Wren speeds up, breaking into a sprint, distractedly glancing down the street before crossing over to the vehicle.
They rip the passenger door open urgently, wide eyed as they find Atlas across from them. He's bleeding, hands slicked in red, face still blank. “What- what the fuck is that?” They hiss, pointing to the gash that has appeared just across his shoulder blade, oozing blood down the front of his shirt.
“A minor wound.” Atlas tells them, not looking up. “The rest of the blood isn’t mine.” He motions for them to climb in. “We need to find a place to dump the bodies and get rid of this van.” He says, brushing past his injury. Typical.
Wren blinks at Atlas before rubbing a hand down their face. They're not why they expected any less from Mister ‘I-don't-feel-pain’. “Shit, okay, we’ll take care of that later,” they say, still eyeing the wound. They glance towards the back of the vehicle where they can assume the bodies are. “How many?”
“Three.” Atlas tells them. For the first time they notice the file in his hands, smeared with blood. They don't comment on it — they don't need to. It's evidence enough. This is only the beginning of something much more gruesome. Something Wren has been trying to push out of their mind since they left with him. Eden is officially after them.
Wren lets out a low breath and nods. “All right. Switch places with me. There’s a dump at the edge of town. We’ll light this thing on fire there.”
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
“Let me see it.”
Atlas sits on the edge of the van floor, legs planted against the cement, now speckled with droplets of blood. The black SUV sits just out of view, parked just far enough for him to still keep an eye on it. Wren sits beside him, focus not on the van but instead on his face. They examine him, eyes softer than usual, the skin torn right off their lip from how much they've been chewing away at it. Atlas knows that's probably not a good sign, but unsure of exactly what to say, he lets the silence linger between them, putting all of his own attention to the mission.
He needs to get fixed up, and then they need to rid themselves of the bodies. The rest they can figure out later.
Wren's hand rests against his chest for a minute longer, their touch tender, gentle, before they're pulling away. They frown, busying themself with digging through the contents of a white med kit, which they have stuffed to the brim with an assortment of medical supplies. Its a few more seconds of rummaging before they grunt, producing a small needle, a spool of surgical suture, a bottle of disinfectant, and a cotton ball.
Scooting closer towards him, they douse the cotton ball in disinfectant, gesturing for Atlas to move his shirt out of the way. He automatically moves in response, wincing slightly despite himself as he slides down the collar of his shirt, revealing a large slice against his collarbone. He tenses as they bring the cotton ball closer. Wren sighs as they get a better view of the injury, their eyebrows creasing. “This will hurt.” They warn.
Without hesitation, they press the cotton ball to the wound and dab it clean, the disinfectant sizzling against his skin in a way that sends sharp pricks of pain shooting to his chest. He endures it, quiet, holding still as can be for them. This is nothing new, nothing unknown. He's faced thousands of injuries over the years. A little scratch he can handle.
When the wound is clean Wren threads the needle, pressing it to his skin. They pause momentarily, glancing up warily at him to check his reaction, before quickly piercing his skin and beginning the stitches. To their credit, they're quite skilled. They're quick with it, fingers working rather expertly for someone so young. Atlas could almost say he's impressed.
He makes not a peep as they finish off, tying the string and cutting it, his own eyes still watching the alleyway for any signs of incoming intruders. Wren huffs, pleased, nodding at their work before grabbing up a roll of bandages. “Lift your arm," they instruct. “I need to wrap this around your shoulder.”
They make fast work of wrapping the bandage over his shoulder, covering the wound. As soon as they finish, they shove the supplies back into the first aid kit and are making their way back to the SUV. “Alright, let's get going.”
Atlas shuts the van door behind him, joining them in the passenger seat beside them, silent as they drive. The air is thick and packed with tension inside the car, the stench of death that has begun to work its way to the front weighing on the both of them heavily. With every bump, turn, and twist in the road, the bodies stacked behind them loll and thump, a hollow, ghastly sound. There isn't even the dull distraction of a radio to save them this time.
Atlas's eyes are narrow as he stares straight ahead. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get so distracted. He knows better than this — should know. The only reason he's made it thus far in life is because of the constant work he puts himself through. Constant training, exercise, tests. To hone both his mental and physical capabilities to perfection, this has been the only way he has known. Its why Eden is so good, and why they'll be such an indomitable foe. The rulebook each and every person inside there lives by, the labour they put themselves through… It's like no other. He would know this better than anyone else. Slacking off, lazing around, it gets you nowhere in life.
He needs to keep training if he wants to live, if he wants to protect his newfound freedom. If he wants to protect Wren. Eating, resting, living in such carefree blithe… it'll erase any chance of survival he has left.
“Did you know any of them? The soldiers?”
Wren's question pulls him back to reality. He blinks, forces the blurry faces that pop up within an instant out of his mind. They're unimportant, meaningless. He shouldn't think about it.
He shakes his head. “I wasn't really allowed to interact with those in my class or outside it. Cato said having too many complicated relationships would just distract me from my goal.” He swallows, and the nape of his neck burns hotter than ever. “They mean nothing to me.”
It's not exactly a lie.
Wren scoffs at his answer, grip on the steering wheel tightening. Tires screech against the asphault, the SUV groaning as they increase their speed. “Okay. Makes this easier then.”
Wren merges onto the highway, passing nearby cars around them as they clench their fists around the steering wheel. “We'll need to find a way to get back to the van.” They say, changing the subject and shifting uncomfortably in their seat. The uncleaned shards of glass from earlier still litter around their feet.
They chew at the inside of their cheek, drumming their fingers against the leather of the wheel. “I'd say the subway is the safest bet. It'll be quicker than the bus.”
Atlas nods. He's taken neither. “Alright.”
By the time they reach the dump, the sun is setting and the blood sticking to Atlas has dried up completely, leaving his skin feeling strangely raw and dry. Wren pulls into the site with a fair amount of ease, the place not one of high quality. The gates must have once had a lock but have long been open, and Wren is able to push through them and into the dump yard.
They drive around for a quick second, maneuvering around piles of garbage amongst other things, before finally settling themself behind a towering mound of junk, parking and quickly climbing out. Atlas follows suit, meeting them out back.
They've already opened the trunk, where the bodies have been set. Their eyes are focused on it for a split second too long, that same wary expression passing over their face, before they're quickly brushing past it, reaching towards the blood-slicked knife Atlas left discarded in the back. They shut the trunk, taking in an even breath before turning towards him, jaw set. “I'm going to cut the fuel line and light it.”
He gives them a nod, still quiet. Steps back as they drop to their stomach, scooting under the vehicle. There breeze blows, gentle, and Atlas finds himself shivering a bit, mouth dry. His collarbone is a steady ache, a constant reminder of his failure. His deterioration, his near loss. He doesn't allow himself to ignore it.
Atlas watches as Wren crawls out from beneath the car and fire licks the sides, going up in a flurry of flickering orange. He wonders how many times they'll have to do this.
Atlas sits in the van next to Wren, as per usual. His head rests against the side, his posture slowly beginning to relax, bit by bit, the longer he stays with them — and strays away from Eden. His old habits have begun to fade away, his careful programming from the warehouse’s order being replaced by Wren’s much more lax, yet welcoming, set of rules. Yet, the boy himself is content. Wren has shown him the outside world, and despite the unpredictability of each of their days, that is all that matters to him anymore. He’s truly found some sort of peace.
“Ha! Found it.”
Wren is in the back of the van, digging through a compartment they have buried under the floor. They return to Atlas looking slightly disgruntled, but grinning nonetheless. “For you.”
They toss a large, empty red duffle bag near his feet, one that looks as if it’s been rotting underneath the van floor for the past decade. Atlas fights the urge to wrinkle his nose as the ghastly scent of it reaches his nostrils, instead accepting it with a grateful thanks.
“You can put your clothes inside it.” Wren says with a nod, relaxing into their position besides him.
He offers them what must be the ghost of a smile, slightly touched by the gesture. Wren has become almost warm to him, something he finds to be quite fine, all things considered. He gathers up his neat pile of clothes from his little corner, beginning to carefully tuck them all in. Unbeknownst to him, his old green uniform slips in, buried within the layers of fresh clothes.
He zips it closed, tucking it into the corner once more.
Wren smiles, leaning closer towards him. “Now,” they say. “Wanna get some more stuff to put in it?”
Atlas’s answer is instant. “You don’t have to.”
Wren shakes their head and gestures a hand at him, already climbing into the front. “I know. But, I mean— like, you seriously need something more than just clothes, y’know?”
“If you feel it’s necessary.” Atlas allows, following them towards the front with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “What would you like to get?”
Wren huffs and shakes their head. “No, what do you want?” They correct, a slight edge in their voice this time. “We can walk around shops and go into whatever ones you want. Just pick stuff out.”
Atlas picks at the hem of his shirt hesitantly. “I don’t want to clutter your van with a bunch of my belongings.”
Wren rolls their eyes at him as they start the van. “Dude, you think I care about clutter?” They ask, gesturing to the mess around them. “It’s better than the barren room you had.”
“Besides,” they emphasize, gesturing between the two of them, “It’s our van now.”
Atlas is slightly persuaded by Wren’s words, perking up a bit. “Okay. I guess we could pick up some books.” He decides. “I do like to read.”
Wren grins and nods. “Well that’s more like it! There’s a bookstore by that bistro we went to, let’s go there.”
Atlas nods. “Alright.” He agrees, glancing back out the window as Wren speeds up the car and they glide down the street.
The drive to downtown is as short as always and soon, Wren is parked outside the bistro, pointing at the shop right beside it. “It looks pretty quiet. That’s nice.”
The building is fairly short and stout, tucked in beside the busy bistro, which is over capacity from the lunch rush. Atlas is glad to not be stepping inside there, as the bookstore offers just the kind of solitary peace that he likes.
They’re greeted to the sweet chime of a bell over the door.
The interior is small, but cozy. Plush seats are fitted in between wooden shelves, the scent of paper and ink instantly detectable from the minute they step inside. “Woah, it’s cute,” Wren comments, glancing all around.
Atlas is in awe. Completely unlike the library they had at the warehouse, where most of his knowledge of books comes from. Eden was all dark and gloomy, decorations an afterthought. This library is lively, with soft pastel colours, potted plants, and picture frames adorning the walls. Even without a busy clientele, the place feels so much more welcoming and homey than Atlas ever felt inside Eden. The stark contrast is a shock, to say the least.
Wren glances in his direction. “Pretty cool, huh?” They ask with a smile, making their way over to a section labelled above as sci-fi.
Atlas follows along. “Yeah, it is.” He agrees, glancing around at the wide selection of books. It’s remarkable, really. A line books in shades of all kinds of different colours and spines of wide mass of different widths, this store seems to have everything. Atlas can’t help but think once again, how anti-Eden it is. Everything Wren shows him is, to be honest.
Wren hums and runs their fingers along the spines of books at their eye level. “What sort of books do you like?”
“Encyclopedias.”
Wren’s brows raise and they can’t help but smile. “What? Really? Have you ever read anything else?”
“Hmm, history textbooks, there were lots of those available.” Atlas replies, listing on his fingers. “And there were a couple of memoirs of past important figures in Eden that I read, too. Mainly non-fiction.”
Wren tilts their head to the side, humming. “Oh. Well that sounds boring. You don’t like fantasy or mystery or anything like that?”
“We didn’t have those at the warehouse. It would be too distracting,” Atlas explains. “Give us the wrong idea.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Wren mutters, scowling. They clap their hands together, turning on him suddenly. “That’s going to change today. Come on.”
They tug at his sleeve, leading him down the aisles to the fantasy section. “We’ll start here.”
Atlas follows along, looking around at the section. These books aren’t anything like he’s seen before; instead of the boring hard covers, they all display bright scenes on theirs, full of eye-catching colours.
Wren plucks a book off of the shelf. “This one’s a classic. Doomed siblings. Superheroes and aliens. Betrayal. They fight a bunch of bad guys.” They explain, pressing the book into his hands. “It’s pretty cool.”
“Okay.” Atlas mutters, taking the book from them and glancing at the back, eyes scanning the synopsis. Wren nods, satisfied, and continues down the aisle, every now and then sliding a book out, quickly skimming it, and then putting it back into place.
Atlas tucks the first book under his armpit, following suit as he looks through the selection of books, slowly and methodically picking through ones that most interest him. He thoroughly reads through each synopsis, eying the cover and title with precision, making sure that each book he finds will keep him entertained and satisfied. But, having never read any books outside of Eden before, he’s pretty sure that even a children’s book would be entertaining enough for him.
“Let me know when you have what you want.” Wren says, wandering down into a different section of the store. He gives them an “okay” nod, going back to sorting through the fantasy aisle’s books.
After quite a while of searching, he’s found a few books that sound interesting, and so, new pile in tow, wanders back through the aisles to find Wren again.
Wren is squatting down, looking through the comics on the lowest shelf of the Comics and Graphic Novels section. They smile when they see him, sizing up the collection of books in his hands. “Nice haul. You ready?”
“Yes.” Atlas nods. “Did you get anything for yourself?” He asks curiously, tilting his head.
“Yep!” Wren nods, waving their comic wrapped in pristine plastic. “Elseworlds: Batman. Its volume 2.” They explain, presenting it to him with a proud smile.
Atlas blinks at the cover. “Batman?” He echoes.
Wren nods and tucks the cover under their arm. “He’s a superhero. No powers though, just a bunch of gadgets. That’s why he’s cool. He just punches shit. This is a special edition though,” they say, gravitating towards the checkout. “He’s a vampire in this one.”
With a shrug, Wren sets the comic down in front of the cashier, gesturing for Atlas to do the same. “You can read it when I’m done.”
Atlas sets down his pile of books. “Okay.” He agrees, looking down at the cover of the comic again as the cashier scans their items.
Wren grins, pulling out their wallet and producing a roll of cash. The transaction is quick and soon the cashier is wishing them a good day as Wren grabs their bag of books and hands it to Atlas to carry. “Well now you own some stuff.”
“Yeah.” Atlas murmurs, and he almost smiles.
He feels strangely… proud about it.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
“Woo, I’m tired.” Wren claps their hands together, relaxing further into the backseat. “Book shopping is lots of work.” They say, clearly not actually any less energized than before they entered the shop. They smile at the boy, tossing their comics onto the floor and letting out a huff of air.
The boy gives them what must be his best attempt at a smile back — face pinching together as the corner of his mouth turns upwards. It’s awkward, and weird, and alien. A smile of someone who has never truly smiled much in their life. Yet to Wren, it’s a victory, their chest swelling at the sign of anything other than the glares he had once given them.
They pop up from their spot, grinning wide. “You know what we need?”
Throwing some of their cluttered mess of stuff around, they clear the space where two wooden crates sit, stacked on top of each other and originally having been used as shelving for all of Wren’s miscellaneous items.
“We can put all of our stuff in here.” They say, picking one up and setting it down flat in front of the boy. “We can write our names on them with markers, and draw on them too. That would be cute.”
“Thank you.” The boy mumbles, feeling along the ridges of the wood. He carefully picks up his rather thick stack of books, beginning to sort through them and place them in a proper order inside.
Wren smiles, clapping him on the back before twisting their body through to the front seat. “I think I have markers on one of the compartments somewhere…” They call, plopping into their seat and digging through one of the bins.
The boy is instantly behind them, following suit as he begins to methodically rummage through Wren’s stuff alongside them. “I can help you look.”
Wren nods, starting the van quickly and pulling out onto the street. As they drive off, they lean over, distractedly gesturing. “Yeah, there should be a button somewhere under that you can press. It’ll just pop right open.”
The boy nods, leaning forwards and finally clicking open the front compartment. He starts to comb through it, fingers sorting through the disarray.
It takes some time, but within twenty minutes, all of Wren’s scattered art supplies have been successfully gathered, the van now sitting, parked, in the back of a rather empty lot. Wren sits in the back of the van, legs spread out wide with their crate as they lean on their mass of pillows and plushies. The boy sits across from them, posture straight as ever, as he stares down at his own crate like it’s some sort of challenge, the markers all spread out in between them, just waiting to be used.
Rubbing their hands together, Wren starts; abruptly swooping over and snatching a thick blue marker from the pile. They uncap it with their teeth, tilting the crate slightly as they begin, printing out their name in big, blocky letters.
The boy is still for a moment longer, before slowly picking up a bright red marker of his own and beginning to sketch designs into the side of his crate. He’s methodical about it, carefully creating different swoops and swirls along the edges, leaving a large space for where his name will go.
Wren draws a scattering of little stars and squiggles around their name, before rotating the crate on its side and beginning more doodles there. With the gentle sound of one of their CD’s playing in the background, and the scratching of the markers upon the wood, they couldn’t be having a better time. The boy has truly become just the kind of company they needed. They can’t even imagine going back to the time where the van was an empty, lonely space. His presence has become interwoven within it. It’s unforgettable.
The van, after over a year, has finally become something like home.
Wren hums happily to themself as they add the finishing touches, doodling little swirls and stars. They finish with a little drawing of the boy and them as tiny cartoon people giving each other a thumbs up. Holding the crate up close, they admire their work proudly.
“All finished!” They grin, pushing it towards the boy for him to see.
The boy glances at it and gives a nod of acknowledgement. “It looks nice.” He says, leaning over his own crate to pick up a thick black sharpie, starting on the last touches to his own design.
Wren’s smile spreads wider at the praise, as they give him a confident huff and sharp nod. “Damn right it does!” They push their crate to the side, leaning forward and trying to peek at their partner’s. “Lemme seeeeee.” They whine, craning their neck.
“Be patient,” the boy tells them, maneuvering his body to block their view. “I’m not done yet.” He bows his head down low, slowly drawing on the last few strokes of his name, everything done with careful precision. Wren almost dies from the suspense of it all.
But finally he sets the cap back on his sharpie, placing it down in front of him and looking up at them. “Finished.” He declares, eyes shining. Slow and steady, he flips the crate around to face them, showing off his handiwork with pride. His name pops out at them in big, black block letters.
Atlas.
“I guessed it was finally time for you to learn my name,” the boy, no— Atlas, says, shooting them another one of his half-smiles. “Since we’re partners now.”
Wren’s pout flips into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. They stare at him, eyes crinkling, excitement thrumming in their bones, their chest puffing from the way he calls them partners. The word repeats in their mind, the sound of something fresh and new. The sound of something they’ve always wanted. They’re quiet for a long stretch of time, soaking in the pure elation of this moment. This perfect minute, shared between just the two of them.
Then at once, a thought occurs to them, and they snort. Staring into his eyes, they mutter, “Atlas and Willow….”
Atlas’s cheeks go pink, teeth showing as his smile widens. “I couldn’t think of another name.” He mutters, sheepish.
Wren tips their head back and they can’t help the fond laugh that leaves them. They suddenly straighten their posture and push their arm straight out, offering their hand to Atlas. “Well!” They grin, wide and true and happy. “Nice to meet you, Atlas.”
Atlas shakes their hand with a nice, firm grip. They didn’t expect anything less. “It’s nice to meet you too.” He tells them.
Wren is grinning ear to ear, all teeth and squinted eyes as Atlas shakes their hand. “Am I allowed to call us friends now then? Or is it still too soon?”
“I suppose we’re kind of like friends now.” Atlas replies thoughtfully. “Only my friends know my first name.”
Wren crosses their arms and gives him a firm nod. “Alright. We’re friends. Hey, you’re the first friend I’ve made in a while.”
“Likewise.” Atlas smiles.
It feels like everything they’ve ever been waiting for.
The better part of the day has been spent rooting through files that the two had not yet reviewed the previous day, slowly and methodically sorting through the various videos, documents, and other miscellaneous recordings that Wren has collected. Atlas finds the organizing somewhat relaxing; something to pull his thoughts from the crippling truth of his reality. A distraction.
But Wren, on the other hand, evidently thinks otherwise.
He turns his gaze to them with a blink, not surprised when they sigh loudly and snap the laptop shut, cutting off his view of the document he had previously been viewing. He’s noticed, over the course of the past few days, that Wren tends to be very exaggerated in their reactions to practically everything. “Where shall we go?” He asks, tilting his head curiously.
“Somewhere.” Wren shrugs, clamouring over the console and into the front seat, turning the van on with a hum. “I dunno. We’ll find a place.”
And just like that, Wren is pulling out of their little hiding spot, gliding back onto the main road as Atlas tucks himself back in his own seat. No sense of routine, no rhyme or reason. Simply “going with the flow”, as Wren puts it. Atlas can’t help but feel annoyed by it.
But there is no inane rambling as they head down the road, or the shrieks of the past Elite leaking from Wren’s laptop, and so Atlas can’t bring himself to be too uncomfortable by it as they pass into a nicer part of town, away from the graffiti and torn-down buildings. The more empty, abandoned streets are exchanged for brightly-lit ones, shops bustling with excitement. People can be seen walking together with cups of coffee, checking out different sorts of attractions lining the road, bakeries and restaurants alike passing them by. Atlas even notices a guy playing the guitar on the one street corner, a bucket of change at his feet.
His eyes flick over each and every person they drive by. He likes people watching, he’s found, with all this travelling he and Wren have been doing. It’s so interesting, to see all the different things people are up to as they go through their day, nothing like the same strict routine he had at the base.
Out here, Atlas has come to find new faces surrounding him every day, not a single repeat for the past three days he’s been gone. Here, he doesn’t stand out, with his dyed hair and piercings, the other soldiers at the base not allowed with such privileges. The civilians that pass them by are nothing like that, with their own unique clothing styles, haircuts, and accessories that fit right in with Atlas’s own. No one person appears the same, allowed to freely express themselves as they so please.
“There’s a park over there. Wanna walk through it?”
Atlas perks up at the sound of Wren’s voice, their question cutting through the smooth melancholic music leaking from the radio. A park? He’s always dreamed of passing through a park.
His answer is immediate. “Yes.”
Wren nods and parks along the side of the street behind a row of other parked cars, turning the van off with a turn of their key and stepping out. They jerk their head in a motion for Atlas to follow and begin to cross the street over to the park where a cobblestone path begins, leading through a field of grass with artfully placed flowery shrubs.
Atlas glances around in wonder of it all. It’s almost an exact replica of everything he’s ever dreamed of. Late nights inside the warehouse, holed up down in the library, scouring the long, towering shelves for anything that could give him an inkling of information of what life outside was like. Biographies, mind-numbingly boring scraps of articles that anyone else would have disregarded within an instant… he took anything he could get his hands on.
He’d always fantasized about something like this. A solo mission, perhaps; one where he wasn’t stuck inside the back of a cold, steel-plated, windowless truck up until the moment they slid into whatever destination Cato had deemed as necessary. No, a mission where he was alone, free, in a sense. Travelling on his own, watching with careful eyes for every sight he passed by. Discovering all the things he missed while dedicating his life to the greater good.
But this, here with Wren, is better than he could have ever imagined.
Wren begins their trek down the little path, Atlas in tow. There are couples, joggers, and the occasional elderly person scattered around the trail. Perched upon a bench, walking their dog, chattering excitedly, watching the passersby. All of it is exhilarating to Atlas. The nature surrounding them is truly remarkable. Unlike the warehouse, which, although being hidden deep within the woods bordering no-man’s land, had always been not much more than tall, plain gray buildings, the thick gates circling the base cutting off all connections to the true outdoors. But here, it’s brilliantly green, with bursts of colours in every direction. Flowers, weeds, plants, and the like. Atlas is in love with every inch of it.
“Usually,” Wren says, glancing toward him. “There’d be more kids but school is still in session.”
“What’s school like?”
“Well the classes are shitty and the people are shittier. But I guess it has its pluses. Or so I’m told,” Wren says as they tuck their hands into their pockets.
“How are the classes shitty?” Atlas asks again, hanging onto Wren’s every word.
Wren shrugs with a mild huff. “Usually it has to do with the teachers. They suck most of the time. And the things they teach are dumb. Science is cool sometimes though.”
“School sounds fun.” Atlas states. “I went to lessons when I was younger to learn the main subjects, but I don’t think it was how a normal school operates. I think it would be nice to learn around a bunch of different people.”
Wren looks at Atlas for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yeah. I guess most people take it for granted— getting to be around people and stuff. It’s nice, sometimes.” They add, almost wistful.
Atlas nods, glancing back towards the shrubbery with a barely concealed look of awe. Being on the road for so long, he and Wren haven’t passed by many spots like these, so rich in natural plantlife. The most he’s seen these past few days is long stretches of dirt and grass, as they cross through the prairies between each town. It’s nothing like this. It’s beautiful out, gentle sunlight filtering through the trees, soaking into his skin with its warmth. With a cool breeze and not many clouds blocking the view of the sky, it feels like a perfect day.
“Hey, let’s go over there.”
The path curves, winding around trees and over hills. Wren points down a few feet to their left, where a little play area is set up, fairly abandoned as adults pay it no mind.
The area isn’t very large. A few simple climbing structures smattered about on a sort of surface covered by wood chips. Slides, a merry-go-round, and swing set can be found around it, rusting and well-used. It’s nothing like Atlas has ever seen before.
Wren makes a b-line for the swings and plops down on one, chains creaking and groaning at their suddenness. Atlas copies them, sitting down rather stiffly on the plastic swing beside them, his eyes flickering around the playground in curiosity. The swing is hard, uncomfortable, and cheap. The play structures seem to be the same, rickety and old. Not suited for a proper soldier.
Atlas loves it.
“You swing your legs like this,” Wren instructs, pumping their legs in an exaggerated movement as they show him. Atlas quickly copies them, falling into place beside them, and Wren smiles. “Good.”
Wren turns their attention elsewhere, body tilted back as they shoot upwards, eyes closed in pure bliss, and the two fall into a comfortable silence, only the sounds of the park around them to disturb their peace.
The breeze feels nice along Atlas’s arms as he swings, the activity strangely freeing, despite its simplicity. He scans the playground as he moves, unable to tear his gaze away for more than a small moment. Everything out here is so colourful and vibrant — nothing like the dark grayness of the base.
He decides he likes it better out here.
“How’s this?” Wren asks from beside him.
Atlas is quiet for a small second. “It’s nice.” He murmurs, content as he rises higher into the air, enjoying his newfound freedom. And he truly means it.
CW: Minor whump, referenced institutional abuse, human experimentation and torture, electrocution, conditioning, referenced dehumanization
── ⟡ ˙
The room is silent.
Atlas lays stiff as a board on the bed, turned away from Wren, his muscles cramping from his tense position. He’s still trying to put as much distance between the two of them as he can, refusing to get close to them by any means necessary. He’ll do anything to avoid them, even if it means filling the room with a suffocating, thick atmosphere.
He hates it here.
The bed is nothing like his inside his dorm, this one so smooth and plush, his weight seeping into the mattress. It’s soft — too soft. He misses his cot, with its familiar sturdiness and thin starched sheets. He misses his dorm room, the same pale gray walls meeting him every morning, all of his belongings placed carefully in a row, exactly where he needed them. He misses its silence, without Wren’s ear-grating snores to disturb his peace. He doesn’t want this life, all twitchy and jittery, floating mindlessly with no clear direction to go.
He would go back to the warehouse in an instant if he could. He’d do anything, as long it meant he could return. Come home.
“Ungh.”
Wren’s grunt comes from behind him, yet again cutting through his attempts at some sort of calm — the familiar kind of quietude he would have in the mornings at the base. Back when his routine was respectable and orderly, what you would expect of a proper soldier. Not this complete disarray that comes with living with Wren, each morning beginning in another new, bizarre location, the day's plans completely done on impulse. He couldn’t hate it more.
Atlas can feel Wren’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t move. No, not a single inch. He’s still, rigid, just as he was trained to be. He doesn’t really want to talk to them ever again, but especially not after last night. He can only pray that they feel the same.
The thought of facing them leaves him burning with shame.
A beat of incredibly tense silence passes, and Atlas hears them moving, standing, unzipping the bag that was tossed towards the end of the bed, near their feet. “We should leave soon,” they mutter. They don’t prod at him to answer, don’t check if he’s heard them, don’t wait for a response. They don’t do anything. They simply turn on their heel and pass him, the bathroom door shutting closed behind them with a gentle click. The sound of running water quickly overwhelms the quiet.
Atlas allows himself to lay there for a moment before slowly standing up and walking over to the doorway, standing straight, shoulders tilted back, gaze level, as he waits for Wren to finish. There’s something familiar about it, his uniform tight against his skin, the fabric gentle, welcoming. It gives him some sense of… belonging. Of what’s right.
Something to cling to.
Wren is quick to rinse off and redress, carefully stepping out of the bathroom with their typically fluffy hair now flat and sopping, water droplets pattering their shoulders. They regard Atlas for a miniscule moment, their mouth drawing into a tight line. “Let’s go.”
Atlas doesn’t give them any sort of acknowledgment, not daring to look in their eyes. At this point, he’s not sure he’s able to. Silent as ever, he follows them out, glad to be finally getting out of here.
The ride down the elevator is long, silent, and painfully awkward. Atlas makes no attempts at trying to talk to Wren, to break the ice, as some would say; he doesn’t even spare them so much as a glance as they make their way down to the car. He’s not quite sure what’s worse. The previous day where all he encountered was their needless, irritating questions. Or now, with this suffocating silence burning a pit of shame into his chest.
He thinks he’ll have to run away soon enough. There’s no possible way he thinks he’ll be able to endure any more of this torture.
“Sorry about the bathroom!” Wren’s walk is brisk and their posture sharp as they rush out the door. They give Atlas a sidelong glance, lowering their voice to mumble, “Gotta get out of here before they see what you’ve done to the bathroom.”
Atlas has the decency to look thoroughly embarrassed as he follows them to the van, quickening his pace. He wishes he could forget last night entirely, wishes Wren wasn’t a constant reminder of all his complete failings, of his betrayals to himself. He’s above all of this — of sleeping in a dingy, deteriorating environment, each new location worse than the previous. Of allowing himself to be carted around by a grime-covered delinquent, each of their comments pricking at his weakening resolve. He knows better than to lose his temper, he knows better than to throw a tantrum.
Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be going along like this, shouldn’t be turning his back on the very principles he’s carefully curated his persona with. They’re the foundations of who he is — he’s afraid of what will happen if he allows himself to lose more of the rules he’s built his entire life around.
And yet, even with every last sensible thought inside his skull begging him to do the right thing, to take back all of this treachery before he goes too far, he doesn’t stray from Wren’s side, sliding into the passenger seat beside them as they speed out of the parking lot, tires screeching upon asphalt.
They glide out onto the road, the sun beating down against the car as Wren pulls them down along the street. “We’re only going a city over today.” They say, eyes flickering momentarily towards his.
Atlas doesn’t bother with even giving them a nod of acknowledgment today, his gaze drifting towards the street just outside his window, where blurs of brightly-decorated shops, cars, and early morning walkers with a dog or a stroller to accompany them pass them by.
The better half of an hour is spent like this. In silence, the air rigid around them. Wren slumped in their seat, letting out the occasional sigh which Atlas supposes means they want him to say something — though each one of their groans is strictly ignored. Atlas is still, unblinking, inside his own seat, hands folded neatly in his lap. Perhaps if he stays like this, an echo of what he was inside the base, the pain aching in his chest for each mile they cross will reduce. Maybe this will somehow make life inside Wren’s van somehow easier.
It’s Wren that finally breaks the silence, pulling Atlas from withtin the depths of his melancholy. They speak, their voice a soft grumbling sound as they say, “Is your hand okay?”
“Yes.” Atlas doesn’t move, his voice a lower tone than usual as he focuses his gaze on a specific car beside them. Its a sleek silver, small and rectangular, with a sharp sort of shape. A woman sits inside, fair hair, sharp cheekbones, pale lips. One hand pressing a phone similar to Wren’s to her ear, the other resting loosely against the steering wheel.
Atlas wonders what she’s saying, who she’s speaking to.
Wren’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them as they clear their throat, continuing. “If you reach back in my bag, there’s some numbing ointments and disinfectant. Should be bandages back there somewhere too.”
“It’s fine.” Atlas answers gruffly, subconsciously rubbing his fingers along his reddened knuckles.
Wren spares a glance over at Atlas’s hand with a slight frown before shrugging. “Just there if you need them.”
And silence fills the car once again, neither of them with a will strong enough to fight against the tension that is slowly swallowing them whole.
Thirty more minutes pass and Atlas watches as the city they had once resided in blends into another, this one seemingly smaller than the previous, with less attractions to occupy the streets. More people are out and about, as the morning spreads into day, bringing along school children and their nanny’s, stressed businessmen and women clambering into their cars.
Wren licks their lips, chewing down against a dead piece of skin. “I’m sorry about last night.” They state, the sentence coming out with more of a hesitance than their previous comments. Atlas is unsure of what to make of it.
He’s never heard an apology before. Afterall, soldiers never recieve apologies. They exist to listen and obey. They hold no power over their superiors. He blinks, registering their words slower than he normally would, almost confused. Then their statement settles, and he’s quick to dismiss them entirely. “No need to apologize.” He tells them begrudgingly.
He can feel Wren quickly glance over him, their eyes back to squinting at the road within seconds. “There is. I was uncool last night. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Atlas manages, no less tense than before their apology began. It’s almost unbearable.
Wren hums and nods slightly, seeming to be satisfied enough with that answer. “Do you want to stop anywhere?” They say, quickly switching the topic.
Atlas shakes his head. “I don’t know where to stop around here.” He says in the same monotone voice as before.
Wren shrugs at Atlas’s words. “There’s probably fast food places if you want to try more stuff. I know there’s a thrift store. We should probably get you some more clothes.” Their gaze travels towards his uniform, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst their surroundings, the Eden insignia a bitter reminder of everything he’s abandoned.
Atlas nods. “Okay. We can do that.”
His willingness seems to come as a surprise to them both, the sudden itch along his skin pulling him from making any sort of protest at replacing the only clothes he’s ever owned.
Just past the next exit and a couple minutes down the road Wren finds the thrift store, a short red-bricked building that stretches out along the plaza, other quaint stores tucked alongside it. Wren parks the car, cracking their knuckles and unbuckling their belt. “Let’s go.”
The inside of the thrift store is stuffy and stacked wall to wall with racks of clothes and bags, random trinkets and pieces of furniture joining the piles. Signs hang from the ceiling, directing customers to men’s and women’s clothing specifically, different gaggles of people filling out the rows, hangers scraping against their posts. The smell is musty and the lights overhead flicker dully, not providing as much light as they should be, yet Atlas has to stop and stand in the entrance as he takes it all in, awestruck by it all. His eyes widen and he glances around to all the different areas, his head buzzing as he witnesses the pure amount of everything that has been fitted inside.
This has to be just about the most wonderful place he’s ever seen.
“Why don’t you go pick out some things from this section,” Wren suggests, tugging on his sleeve and directing him to a thick rack of clothes. It’s overflowing, different colours sticking out from the almost bursting row, what is probably hundreds of shirts all organized into one section. Atlas steps forwards, tugging at the different materials, immediately enraptured by the clothes as Wren wanders over to an aisle just across from him, sifting through shirts of their own size.
“See anything you like?” They ask, holding up a baggy white shirt with neon colours splashed upon the front, examining it closer under the light.
Atlas picks through the clothes, appearing to be a bit overwhelmed. There’s so many items… he has no idea on which ones to select. What would be the proper wear for a homeless runaway? “I’m not sure what to pick.” He murmurs, pulling out a coral polo shirt before quickly placing it back on the rack.
Wren hums, making their way across the aisles to stand beside him. “Well, you like black.” They state, leaning over to shove some of the shirts aside. “What about this? It’s kinda cool.” They ask, holding up a baggy black t-shirt with jagged red lettering that Atlas can’t exactly decipher.
Relief floods through him at the direction and his fingers tentatively find themselves around the material, holding it up carefully as he inspects it. It’s not like anything he’s worn before, something that he’s sure Cato wouldn’t disapprove of, the edges of the clothing slightly worn down. But without Cato here to sway his decision, the word no never makes it past his lips.
He folds it tightly into his arm, turning his attention back to the shirts as he begins to search for similar items. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re not sure will fit you so you can try it on. Or we can just check out when you’re ready.” Wren says, clapping him on the back and turning back to their own leisure browsing, leaving him to his own devices.
Atlas nods, picking up more items and inspecting them, easing up a bit with the more clothes he finds he likes. Or at least, he thinks he likes. He’s not entirely sure yet. All of this is still too fresh, too overwhelming. He doesn’t even know if he’s picking the right things, if Wren will find his selection satisfactory. Does he even want them to?
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, a neat but rather bulky pile of clothes now gathered in both of his arms, he wanders over towards Wren’s side again so that the two can both check out.
Wren has their own little pile of clothes, brightly-coloured things with flashy designs or weird little cartoon characters Atlas doesn’t recognize, and they lead him over to where the cashier is with a small smile, fishing out a tightly-rolled wad of cash from out of their jorts.
There is a ding from the cash register, the payment going through, and the next thing Atlas knows he’s carrying several plastic bags stuffed to the brim with clothes. They thump along his legs as Wren leads them back to the van, sliding the back door open and tossing their own bags inside. “You can change in the back if you want,” they say, clambering inside. “Or you can wait until we stop again.”
Atlas nods. “I’ll change in the back.” He mutters, carefully placing his clothes down inside. There’s a relief to it, as he slides the car door shut, a weight off his chest at having so many new clothes to wear. The knowing that he can finally shed off his uniform.
But he can’t help feel a pang of guilt that washes over him at the thought, another reminder of the duty he has abandoned, as the uniform that had once provided him comfort now provides him nothing but a foreign despair, no longer home against his prickling skin.
How much more will he allow himself to lose?
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Wren has just pulled back out onto the street when the boy clambers back into the front, buckling his seatbelt without hesitation. He’s shed the nasty green uniform, opting instead for a baggy band tee and ripped black jeans, a cheap little silver necklace they’d scored from inside the thrift store now hanging from his neck.
Sitting here now, with his tattoos on full display, dark ink designs swirling up and down his forearms, he looks completely different from what Wren had initially taken him for. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say he was just a regular teenaged boy, not some super soldier from inside the depths of one of Eden’s warehouses. Any sign of the soldier they’d met a month ago is easy to miss, the only thing giving it away being his rigid posture and closed-off expression.
They give him an approving nod, gaze settling back on the road. “Looking good.”
“Thanks.” He mutters, hands fumbling with a loose string attached to the knee of his jeans. He stares out the window as they come to a stop at the lights, eyes flickering to where an elderly couple passes the crosswalk ahead of them.
“So,” Wren drums their fingers against the steering wheel, following along to the beat of the current song they have on in the background. “Wanna tell me your name now?”
“No reason to.” The boy responds, squashing all their hopes at some sort of trust between the two of them. He simply stares out the window, following the same routine of every single damn time they’ve gotten into this van together.
Wren sighs loudly, biting at their lip in irritation. “Rats.”
The boy doesn’t care for their dramatics. And if he does, he doesn’t show it. “Where to next?” He asks, brushing past the topic altogether. Wren can’t help but notice he has a tendency to change the subject whenever a topic he’d rather avoid pops up. It’s rather annoying.
“Outskirts of town,” they reply. “We’ll stay there a few days and go through all the files we’ve got. I want to get it properly organized.”
The boy nods, continuing his people watching with no further comment, curious eyes flickering to each shop and restaurant they pass.
They make the rest of the drive in silence but unlike before, it’s not nearly as tense. There is still a certain weight carried between the two, but Wren feels that it’s significantly less awkward than the morning, where the boy’s high emotions seemed to bleed onto them, tainting the space with his frustration. Now he seems to almost tolerate their company, something Wren almost feels glad for.
With only a few minutes left of their drive, it’s Wren that speaks up for the third time. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” They say, turning down a new road, this one uneven and smattered by pebbles, the car rumbling and bouncing as they move further away from civilization. “I’ve got my information, you’ve got your safety for now. If there are things you want to pursue, I won’t stop you.”
The boy is silent, unmoving, something Wren has come to expect. With each question they fire at him, the longer it seems to take for him to compute and properly digest it. They guess it’s foreign, all this new territory. He’s probably unused to it, growing up so sheltered from the world. They’re sure it isn’t easy, leaving everything you had grown up with behind. Being with them definitely isn’t helping the transition, either.
They wait patiently for an answer, only prodding him again when the silence begins to grow uncomfortable. “Do you want to? Leave, I mean. I doubt it would be safe for you. But it is your choice.”
He bristles at those words, his fingers twitching from where he has them tucked inside his lap, grip tightening just slightly. His face is ducked away, out of view, so they can’t attempt to read him, but when he finally responds, they can hear the discomfort in his voice. “This is fine.” He mumbles, scratching at the inside of his hand — a nervous tic.
Wren leans back in their seat, surveying him slowly. “Oh, okay.” They say, offering nothing more as they near an abandoned parking garage with graffiti smeared across almost every inch of cement. They park in a tucked away corner before shutting the van off, climbing into the back without another glance towards their companion.
Settling down into their corner stuffed with pillows, they stretch, relaxing into their little set up with a small groan. “I’m gonna eat and then take a look at those files,” they say, pulling out two granola bars from out of a plastic bag and offering one to the boy, who has followed them and now sits expectantly, almost as if waiting for instruction.
He’s almost like a baby duck, Wren thinks, watching him closely as he gingerly unwraps his granola bar, almost like he’s holding something valuable. Unable to make decisions for himself, always checking with them on how to act, what to do. It’s strangely unsettling, paired with the fact that he hates their guts — or at the very least, doesn’t respect them. Yet he’s compulsive about it, always giving them a sideways glance to double check, even at times where he doesn’t seem to realize it. Wren isn’t sure what to make of it.
They wonder if they’re all like this. So mindless that obedience is just second nature to them, always bowing down to whoever they deem in charge. What kind of life is that, with no thoughts of your own? How long was he forced to live like this?
Wren crumples up their wrapper, finishing off the rest of the granola bar in one big gulp. “What was your life like before Eden?” They ask, propping themself up a little straighter. “Were you a student?”
The boy straightens at the mention of his life before Eden, twitching fingers reaching up to pull on a strand of his hair, instantly averting his gaze from theirs. His answer is short, voice clipped. A simple, “No.”
Wren notes he seems more agitated — or perhaps nervous? — at this than any of their previous questions, and they hum, pushing on. “Younger, then? Did you grow up in Eden?”
“Yes,” is all he supplies, not going into any further details of his childhood.
Wren leaves it be, deciding to not push him further than he’s willing to go. “I was a student. Before I started all of this.” They say, changing the topic. “Dropped out though.”
The boy offers them another nod, holding his empty wrapper firm in his hands as his eyes dart from them back to the van floor, suddenly timid. No matter what they do, all kinds of conversation leave him with some level of discomfort.
They sigh, continuing on. “Middle school was never really for me anyways though so I’m not too bummed about it. I was glad to be out of there, honestly.”
Their eyes flicker back to him, and they notice that he’s focused on them now, leaning forwards slightly, as if truly interested in them for the first time since they’ve parted from the warehouse. It gives them the courage to go on.
“I’ve actually only been on my own for a few months or so. It’s not all bad though. I mean I've got my van. I’ve got ways of getting money. The worst part is the weather. It’s getting colder and colder and so I can't exactly leave the van running all night.” They lift their rolled-up sleeping bag and pat it. “That’s why I’ve got this baby.”
He nods, almost unblinking with the way he’s staring at them. He doesn’t try to offer anything to the conversation, sitting in silence as he absorbs what they’re saying, his eyes curious as they explain. Although Wren had initially found it off putting, there is a sort of calm that comes with someone so willing to listen.
On that note, Wren pushes the sleeping bag out towards the boy. “You can use it tonight. I doubt you’re used to sleeping somewhere with no air conditioning. We’ll have to get another one soon,” they ponder, running a hand across their chin.
“It’s fine. ‘A soldier must learn to adapt to their surroundings, no matter what.’” He recites, gently pushing it back towards them. “Keep it, I don’t need it.”
Wren eyes the boy with a skeptical look, crossing their arms and letting out a small humph. The sleeping bag sits between them, neither daring to reach it. “Dude, you don’t have to act like that anymore.” Wren huffs, indignant. “You’re allowed to want to be warm.”
“I’m more comfortable without it.” He states, levelling his gaze right back at them.
They watch him for a moment before reluctantly nodding, allowing him to win, just this once. “Alright.” They sigh, resignedly grabbing the sleeping bag and stowing it back away in the corner. “Okay, wanna grab my laptop out of that bag?” They ask, leering over to shuffle through the bag of files and flash drives they’ve collected from their mission at the warehouse.
The boy does as they instruct without question, quickly passing over their laptop and scooting closer beside them. He watches over their shoulder as they boot it up, their Vocaloid homescreen flashing for him to see in its full glory. They rummage around in their bag some more before their fingers close around the first hard drive they’d acquired, and they are two seconds from sticking it inside and sorting through all the evidence when a new thought occurs to them.
The contents within these files may be rather triggering to their ex-Eden companion, given the circumstances. With the knowledge of what his superiors had planned for his own fate, they’re sure seeing the same cruelties and torture placed upon others wouldn’t help much with his already conflicted, distressed emotions. “Uh, you don’t have to look through these with me if you don’t want.”
The boy stares at the blank computer screen for a second, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.” He tells them.
“Alright.” Wren shrugs and inserts the drive, opening the file and scrolling through the list of names. “You’re not going to like, kill me for leaking these anymore, right?”
The boy’s expression darkens, his unrelenting gaze still fixed harshly upon the screen, eyes flickering over all the names of the Elite of the past. Wren can’t even try to decipher what he may be thinking.
“No,” he decides. “I’m not.”
They study him for a moment, searching for any sign of a lie. Perhaps the tightness of his posture, or his avoidance of their gaze. But after a second, they realize there isn’t much of a point to it. Even if he is lying, they doubt they’d be able to tell. He’s probably been trained out of every “tell” in the book. “Alright.” They shrug, turning their attention back onto the files.
They scroll through the list, eyes scanning through it for a moment before they make a copy, saving it to their personal files. They grab another flash drive — this time the one with the videos. Opening the file, they grimace as a video, debatably worse than the last they’d seen, pops up onto their screen.
It pictures a girl, much smaller than Wren themself, curled into a corner, as if trying to disappear altogether. She is bare besides for the remnants of what may have been a green uniform such as the boy’s. Though there’s not much to it now, the fabric worn and faded, ripped in such a way it can’t be classified as more than tattered rags upon her figure. She is trembling, staring up at the camera with tear-stricken eyes. The source of her pain is evident to be the contraption fixed upon her head; a silver, clunky thing, with entangling wires spindling around the base of her skull. Tubes run under the thin, pale skin upon her head, hair shaved off in harsh chunks, leaving only pale red patches behind.
The camera shifts slightly, as a long, green-panted leg appears into view. “Again.”
“No,” the child moans, the word broken, said in a half-sob. Her voice is hoarse, crackling, rasping against the air. It breaks Wren’s heart. “Please, please no more, I can’t—”
“Again!”
The girl jerks as a sharp beeping noise cuts through the scene, the contraption on top of her head lighting up with a sort of terrifying brilliance. The girl screams and Wren watches as she collapses, twitching and seizing in uncontrollable motion, noiseless pleas escaping from her lips, desperate.
The device only burns brighter.
Wren sharply clicks out of the file, putting an end to the senseless violence before them with a quick press of a button. They spare a glance at the boy, mouth twisted up into a grimace as they stare at him for a moment, finding no words to properly cut through what the two just witnessed.
Finally, they settle on what they hope isn’t too antagonizing: “Wanna look at these later?”
“You don’t need to coddle me.” He states. He still hasn’t met their gaze, eyes focused on the exact place where the girl had once been displayed, now replaced by rows and rows of digital white files, just sitting there, waiting to be sorted. “I may have not known about this,” he continues after a moment, voice unwavering. “But I’ve still been more than prepared to not be affected by videos like these. I’m fine.”
Wren can’t help the guilt that crawls through them at his words. Even they were made sick with each video they opened — and he’s claiming to not be affected? Whatsoever? They eye him for a moment longer, waiting for just a tiny crack to appear inside his steely cool exterior, but they are met with nothing. Of course they are. From the looks of it, last night was the last time he would express his true emotions with them. Wren isn’t sure if they should be relieved or disappointed.
“Alright man, whatever you say.” They shrug, turning back to their laptop with a slight sigh, pulling at more of the files.
The following minutes that ensue are tense, silent, as Wren clicks away at their laptop, the boy peering steadily over their shoulder with that same petrifying gaze. Wren forces their eyes to remain on the screen, not turning to give their companion another pitiful glance — for both of their sakes.
Their face hardens into a glare with each new file they sort through. Anger churns in their stomach and they can hardly get through the videos and documents that each new hard drive reveals. Children stolen from their homes, memories manipulated, different experiments played out; replacing flesh with mechanics, power enhancing drugs, abuse when the results are of disappointment to the scientists. It’s all absolutely disgusting. They’re quick to save each onto their laptop, refusing to look deeper into the evidence they’ve collected. It’s enough as it is, already. Much more and they think they’ll hurl.
“It’s terrible,” Wren mumbles, gritting their teeth and slamming their laptop shut, shoving the thing away as if it's too hot to touch. “I hate seeing those videos.”
They inhale and exhale rhythmically, forcing down the building bile within their throat. It’s horrific, everything they’ve seen come from this investigation. The files, the documents, the secrets buried within — all of it is more disgusting than they could have ever imagined. The rumours did nothing to do the true terrors justice.
Wren glances over at the boy, who they find already has his own gaze transfixed onto them. He blinks at them, face blank, and Wren wonders for the millionth time what must be running through his head. Does he recognize any of the children in these videos? Did he train with them, take lessons with them? Is he truly as unaffected as he proclaims he is?
“You good?” They ask, raising a brow.
He nods, not a flicker of emotion peeking through. They study him, trying to find an angle that may reveal what he’s feeling, something to give away his personality besides the guarded, quiet one they’ve come to know over the past day. There has to be something more to him. But of course, they find nothing, the violet of his eyes dark, unrelenting. They sigh, leaning back against their little pillow corner and tucking their arms behind their head. When they had thoughts of a companion, they’d always imagined someone to fill the space, stealing away the suffocating silence and gaping emptiness the van took on in all those long nights by themself. This boy seems to have the opposite effect. He’s so… boring.
“Hey,” Wren glances over at him again. “You ever play a video game?”
He tilts his head slightly at them, confusion wrinkling his stone-sculpted features. “When would I have the time for that?”
Wren blinks at him. Figures. Of course the evil power-hungry organization also banned video games, humanity’s best invention by far. They sit up, leaning over to their bag and digging through it, producing a little blue Nintendo DS. They flash it in front of him with a proud grin. “Ta-da!”
“What is that?” The boy asks, staring at the device in their hands with a curious look.
“It’s a DS. You can play games on it.” Wren explains, scooting closer as they turn it on so he can see the screen. “There are little cards with games on them and you put the cards inside. Here, I’ll show you.”
The boy looks infinitely more interested as the stolen files are replaced by Wren’s DS. He watches intently as Wren begins to navigate the game, demonstrating how to play.
“You take care of the animals in the zoo. Look, I just got giraffes,” they say, making their little avatar walk around. “And you get little alerts when your animals want to play or take a bath. And you have to remember to give them food and water.” They add, showing it off. The boy is enraptured as they push their avatar to walk beside the giraffe, holding a cartoonishly large leaf up to feed it. The giraffe bounces happily and little hearts appear above its head. “You can tell how happy they are too.”
Wren glances over their shoulder towards the boy, whose eyes are locked on the screen, filled with a certain childlike wonder. The expression is similar to the one he wore when they were in McDonald’s, taking in all the new sights. Wren finds it to be sort of wholesome. “Want to try?”
He nods excitedly and Wren swears that they’ve almost managed to get a smile out of him for the first time since the two crossed paths. The thought almost makes all their awkward tension from before worth it. They shoot him a small grin and place the DS into his hands. “Use those two buttons to move around.”
The boy nods, shifting to tuck his feet under his lap as he moves the little avatar around the island, a light present upon his face that wasn’t there before. Wren wonders if this is the first time he’s actually done something for fun. It makes them feel strangely sad.
They watch him for a long moment as he plays the game, almost instantly absorbed in it. He looks content almost, maybe even close to happy. That’s more than they could’ve expected from him for the past 48 hours, so Wren declares it a definite win.
With a hum, they lay back down again and close their eyes, allowing themself to relax now that the boy is preoccupied. The only sound inside the van is the gentle clicking of buttons from the DS, the gentle heat within the van enough to lull Wren asleep. For the first time in a long while, they feel perfectly at peace.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
“Fun?”
Atlas has completely lost track of himself by the time Wren’s voice cuts through the van once again. Cato and Ira are no longer present on his mind, this new addicting game pushing away all worries momentarily. He looks up towards Wren, rubbing their eyes and smiling lazily at him, and offers them a quick nod. “Would you like it back?” He asks.
Wren shakes their head and puts a hand up. “No, you seem like you need it. You’re good to keep playing if you want.”
“Okay.” Atlas nods, turning his attention once more to the vibrant game. It’s not like anything he’s seen before. A simple premise, really. No true objectives to the game, nothing for him to strive towards — no enemies to defeat. Yet he couldn’t enjoy it more, something calming filling him from going through the rounds of caring for the digital animals. It’s a sort of funny thing, how something so mundane can be so fulfilling.
Silence fills the van again, though it’s only brief this time around. Atlas has only been clicking away at the button’s of Wren’s DS for a few minutes when their voice interrupts him again.
They let out a slow exhale. “…You know they probably won’t just let you go, right?”
Atlas stills, slowly meeting their gaze. This was the one conversation he’d been dreading the most. The one thought that has been repeating inside his head incessantly all day long. The very thing that rests heavy inside his chest now, anxiety seeping into his bones. They’ll be searching for me.
Wren frowns, propping their chin on their elbow with a sigh. “Just be ready for that. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they decide they want to get you back.”
Atlas shifts uncomfortably, the DS forgotten in his grip. He can’t believe he was so stupid, so reckless. He knows better than this, has been warned maybe a thousand times about the consequences of ignoring his responsibilities. Deserters were dishonorable, shameful. He’s thrown away all hopes of a respectable life.
He should’ve thought this through. He’d just been so upset, all he’d wanted to do was get as far away from the warehouse as he could. He wasn’t thinking clearly. No— wasn’t thinking at all. Anyone with a sliver of sense could see that this plan of Wren’s is destined to fail. He’s doomed himself, following them.
But where would he go? He doesn’t know who he’d turn to, outside of Eden. He hasn’t ever even left the warehouse by himself, up until now. Cato is probably so disappointed in him, abandoning her during Evaluation Day, the day she’d spent the last decade preparing him for. All those hours spent, tirelessly whipping him into shape, turned to waste with one horrible choice. He doesn’t even want to imagine what she’d do to him if he tried to return.
And Ira…
“They won’t find us though, okay? I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m good at hiding. We can go underground until they lay off.” Wren pipes up, perhaps noticing Atlas’s calm exterior begin to slip, his despair clouding his eyes. Despite it, Atlas doesn’t feel any reassurance from it. Nothing Wren has said up until now has managed to calm his thoughts.
He stares at his hands, wondering if he made the wrong decision. It was the first time he had truly picked something for himself, without it being laid out for him by one of his superiors, steered in the correct direction. He’s never truly picked something for himself, not in any way that mattered. And this one, life-shattering decision was done without a second thought.
He hadn’t dared to think about what would happen after he left. What people would think, what it would feel like. If he was even capable of surviving without Eden’s warmth and guidance. He was being so completely stupid. Now he hadn’t just cursed himself, yet Wren too. The small steps they’d made in achieving their impossible dream would be erased within seconds, once Atlas led Eden straight to them. As much as he didn’t like them, he didn’t want someone so innocent to get hurt for his sake.
Cato was not a merciful woman.
He’s scared to think about what she’d do if she found out Wren was the one to push him to leave. What she’d do to them.
Wren sits up, sliding closer to where he sits. They’re quiet for a moment, biting down on the piercing dangling from their lip, before taking a deep breath, beginning to speak. “Look uh…” they cough out, wringing their hands. “It’ll be okay. I mean it probably sucks right now. But eventually it might not suck. We’ve got loads of granola bars. And you know what a DS is now.”
They lift their hand, as if to rest it against him, before quickly withdrawing it before contact can be made. Atlas barely registers it.
Wren's words have fallen on deaf ears. Now that they’ve pointed out all the gaping holes within his plan, or lack thereof, he can’t push his terror back down. He thinks about all the different ways Eden can track the two of them down, all the technology they have access to. How far will they even manage to go, in one tiny, clunky van? Did they really have any chance at this from the start?
He’s never even heard of a soldier running away — no, escaping, but maybe there’s a reason for that. What if…
“Hey.” Wren’s voice is firm as they lean in close. “Look at me for a second, will you?”
“Yes?” Atlas asks, voice quieter than usual as he glances up at them, hoping they can’t read the fear screaming within his mind — or notice the shake in his hands.
“Look, you’re going to be fine. Well, not actually, like, fine. But they’re not going to get you. We got you out of there and you’re going to stay out of there.” They grasp his shoulder, grip harsh, yet just the kind of pressure he needs to ground himself. “Later on we can go somewhere further if we need to, so stop worrying about it.”
For a moment, Atlas almost believes them. There’s a sort of confidence that they carry themself with that makes it almost believable. Almost.
And then reality sets in.
“If you truly believe that, you’re way in over your head.” He states, staring dead into their eyes. His hands tighten into fists from where they lay upon his lap.
Wren releases Atlas, slumping back. “I might be.” They mutter, fumbling with their fingers as they avoid his gaze.
Atlas continues to stare at them, almost unblinkingly. “Eden has more resources than you’ll ever have in your entire lifetime. Just Cato’s districts alone have warehouses spread all over the country, some, I think, have even started opening up in neighbouring countries. It was foolish of me to follow you. I’m only putting a target on your back.”
Wren tilts their head. “You only made the target bigger. I’ve had a target on me for a while.” They retort, crossing their arms defiantly. “It’s fine.” Their eyes soften just slightly, and they offer him a small, pitiful smile. “I don’t regret getting you out of there, you know.”
Atlas tries to ignore the way their comment slices into his chest, a foreign feeling enveloping him with its strength before he quickly shoves it down.
“That’s not the point.” He huffs. “You don’t seem to understand what Eden is capable of. I don’t either, not fully, but I do remember about what we were taught from my training. These soldiers are born to be ruthless.”
Wren sighs and shifts their gaze upwards. “Yeah I know. But I’m going to stop them anyways. Or die trying,” they add with a dry smile.
Atlas furrows his brows. “Why would you want to get involved in this? Your life sounds like it was really… nice.”
He thinks about going to school and being able to do all these things all the time. Fast food restaurants, video games, the freedom to pick what you’d like to see, or wear. And then to give it all up to be homeless, dirty; alone. It doesn’t make sense to him. He’d do anything to have a life like that. To be born without expectations, without the cruel realities of life thrust upon him. To have something quiet. He’s always dreamed of exploring, of experiencing more than the same four gray walls inside the warehouse. Wren had all that, and a million times more. And then they abandoned it without a second thought.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand them — how could someone give all that up?
Wren sighs and drags a hand down their face, closing their eyes. “It was nice. It was. But we can only live peacefully among humans for so long before things get complicated. And I can’t sit by and act as if nothing’s happening,” they explain, folding their hands in front of them. “It’s just not right.”
Atlas nods, accepting their answer, as much as he can’t see himself ever truly agreeing. “I see.”
Wren purses their lips and then puffs a big breath out. “You know, that freaky ass cult is next. If you’re interested in beating their shit.”
Atlas nods. “Okay.” He mumbles, reaching up to fiddle with his hair again. He wishes to have nothing to do with the Congregation of the Chosen, or anyone associated with it. Not now, not ever. There’s nothing that could ever make him feel prepared to face that. But he doesn’t dare to express it. If Wren is set on exposing their lies as well, then he has no choice but to follow.
Afterall, he has nowhere left to run.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
The boy doesn’t speak after that, and Wren leaves it at that for a long while, simply sitting, basking in his company. They’re unsure if they’ve done much to dull his nerves, but they hope they managed to give him some sort of comfort.
The silence has settled between the two of them for a long moment when they finally bring themself to speak again. “So what’s your name?”
“That’s not important.” He dismisses them almost immediately. God, he really is stubborn as a damn mule.
Wren tosses their head back with a groan, flopping back onto the floor. “You’re no fun.”
“I don’t see the point in giving you my name. We aren’t friends.” The boy says thoughtfully. “Everyone at the base either referred to me by my surname or my number.”
Wren crinkles their nose at the mention of his number, disgusted that he’d even suggest they refer to him by that. It’s bad enough to have seen it plastered upon every page inside his file, so… so dehumanizing. They could never bring themself to call him by it. Even “the boy” was a million times better.
They glance over at him. “Well, you know, it would be nice to have something to call you by, obviously. And something that’s not a number. We may not be friends but we are stuck together now. You gotta give me something, dude.” They point out, before adding with a slight groan, “And I’m not from the base. Those rules don’t apply anymore.”
He shrugs. “It’s not like you’re going to be talking about me to anyone. I don’t see when you’d have to use my name.” He points out, not budging.
Wren lifts their head to properly glare at him, eyes narrowed as they stick out their tongue. Then they let their head thump back against the wall with a pout. “That makes no sense.”
“I think it makes perfect sense.” The boy declares.
“You’re impossible.” Wren grumbles, and they swear they almost catch him smirking.
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I really like it when a character is in so much distress that they start self harming about it. Nails digging into their own skin until they bleed. They might not even be aware that they're doing it, it's like an ingrained automatic response to fear for them.
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big fan of characters who have it all under control when theyre put in situations but no idea how to be like a regular guy doing regular stuff when all is said and done.
whumpee who isn't even allowed to beg without being given permission.
whumper is ranting and riling themselves up and they just have to kneel there and take it until they're maybe allowed to explain. granted permission to grovel.
they don't have meals, they have times whumper comes to tell them to beg for food. maybe gives something if they did it really well.
Spring was showing her colours. New leaves of the cherry tree cast translucent, fluttering shadows into Elene’s bedroom. She stared at the light shifting like a thousand wings on five hundred fairies, beckoning her to rejoice at the rebirth of the world. But she felt nothing.
Carpets of blooms had started to appear on patches of grass, nature’s confetti. Tom was outside most days, tending to the flowers he’d planted last year. Calyx followed him, silent and contemplative as a shadow. He was careful with the plants, gentle, attentive. She hadn’t expected anything else. It hurt, distantly, to watch him though. He’d offered to show her what he was doing, leaving silent the unsaid. Elene had tried to hide it in the early days, and it had been easier back then. Back when she still had unrelenting, insistent hope. Back when there was always something to do, someone to call or something to clean. Now that routine had settled over the household, Elene found her thoughts drifting closer to the gnawing ache in her chest.
Last year, she’d opened the curtains one morning and realised that everything was pink. The sky, the trees, the ground. It was as if it’d happened in a day, the welcoming of spring. She’d stood, captivated, for long minutes. She’d practically floated outside, standing alone in the still light of dawn. She’d never appreciated it before, had never even noticed it.
She dreaded the day when she would notice it this year. Her heart fought against the dismissal of grey winter more than was acceptable, but she could not stop it. She couldn’t stop her heart, she couldn’t stop the coming of spring. She just wished that time would slow the fuck down.
No, she chided herself, a little more than harshly. That was unproductive.
Elene frowned, clenching her fist and letting go, purposeful and steady. Why wasn’t she moving faster? Why hadn’t she anticipated this? Why did she let them leave? Why didn’t she go with them? Why hadn’t she figured this out yet? Everyone kept telling her that it was impossible, and she felt like screaming - she had always been the girl who could do the impossible, even when it killed her. So why now, faced with the first impossible thing that she actually wanted to do, did her ability elude her? It was infuriating.
It was exhausting. She was… exhausted.
Really, it’d only been two months. Two weeks longer than Calyx -
Bad. Before the thought had even concluded, Elene hit her thigh. Sudden and violent, it burst with dull pain that she did not soothe. That sort of thinking was not allowed, she forbade it. It was unhelpful and cruel. It would make everyone hate her, and it made her hate herself.
Besides, the situations were incomparable. They all knew Clem was coming back. She knew Clem had to come back. They would. Of course they would. Why entertain paranoia? They promised.
Elene sighed, finally turning away from the window to stare at the bangle on her wrist. Ruth had been generous with her gifts, but Elene privately thought that this was her favourite. It was a deep orange, the colour you saw behind your eyelids when you closed them on a sunny day. She’d known immediately that it was magical somehow, and appreciated that Ruth hadn't explained it. She applied herself to the task of learning about it like that could quell the noise in her head.
The colour was accurate, in literal terms. It was their blood in there, the bangle existing as a sort of homunculus. It emitted no light of its own now, but if they were in a state of healing, their blood - and it - would glow. It made sense that when (not if, it couldn’t be if) they got back, they'd need to heal at least a little. And in any case, Ruth assured her that she'd be able to lock onto their signature if they came back from wherever they'd gone. They kept in touch over text, both of them poised to notify the other of any developments.
Familiar memories flitted through her mind, taunting and sickening. Brief bursts of anger came and went, and with them, she tightened her grip on the bangle. It was so much, not enough. She didn't want this ornament to remember them by, she wanted them by her side in this room, in her life. But she could not bear to throw it across the room like she envisioned, too attached to the only tether she had to them. She had a feeling it wouldn’t break, but she couldn’t stomach being violent to any part of them.
Elene hummed discontentedly. She didn't want to touch any of the books on her nightstand, didn't want to socialise or do anything at all. She placed the bangle on their - the other pillow and turned up her music, slipping into a familiar dissociation.
It was in the midst of this tepid torpor that the miracle occurred. The bangle started glowing.
It'd already been sitting in a patch of sunlight, so the change had not been immediately noticeable. But when it was, and Elene would later be mortified about this, she screamed.
She half-fell out of bed in her haste to get up, then reached for the small sun with no hesitation. When her fingers closed around it, she was stunned to feel that it was still as cold as it had always been.
Of course, she thought instantly, cold-blooded.
The awe did not dissipate in the slightest. Her bones felt just about ready to jump out of her skin. But what next? Would they reappear where they’d left? They’d be alone. How long till anyone found them? How long would it be before she saw them again?
It turned out, not long at all.
There was a sound. Something resonant, striking to the core. The sun came out from behind a cloud - the whole world seemed to glow brighter. The bangle started to thrum rhythmically, like a heartbeat. Then the sound grew louder, closer. Elene would later wonder whether she heard, however impossibly, the beat of wings.
But this all passed in a matter of seconds. The prevailing tone was unplaceable, most akin to a screech, a rapid displacement of air. Elene’s ears popped. Then the whole house shook, a resounding thud carrying with it a physical shockwave. A glass of water toppled off her desk and shattered instantly upon contact with the floor. But she paid it, the small puddle it created or the cuts in her feet that she endured, no mind. She was no longer really existing in her body, in both emotional and literal terms, particles scattering with a teleportation spell. She had always thought she would have to look for them, but Fate, uncharacteristically, decided to be kind.
Once again, Clem had landed in her garden.
—
From relative peace there burst a sudden and absolute chaos.
Clem, Clem, was crouched on the ground, on their hands and knees, wings out to their sides. Their eyes were fixed to the ground, quiet clicks filling the air. It was a testament to Elene’s confusion that she could not immediately attribute the sound to them. They looked different: their hands were clawed; their hair more orange, longer too; the wings, of course, were… resplendent, and big, bigger than she’d expected. They looked strong, powerful. A gouge had formed in the earth where presumably, they’d crash-landed.
Everyone was standing in a half-circle just outside the threshold of the house. She was aware of a thin tension in the air, as if . But it was Clem, Elene thought. There was nothing to be afraid of.
She stepped forward, grass cool on her feet. Clem registered the movement instantly, and Elene startled for one reason only. Not the scars, not the new sharpness in their face, not the suddenness of being fixed with such a piercing gaze. No. Their hazel eyes were orange now, reptilian. Draconic.
Elene thought she might cry. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. Looking at them had the effect of being suddenly in the presence of a sunrise the likes of which you had never thought possible. Watching a painted sky shift and change with the incredible and illogical conviction that you were the only person watching it, that you were the only person who ever would see it in its complete and unaltered glory.
But no sooner than her realisation of this, Clem’s eyes flicked down, their body language shifting to try to make themselves, unmistakeably, smaller.
Oh, no.
“Hey,” she whispered, crouching down to their level. Then she stuttered, unsure what to say. Are you okay felt inadequate. I missed you felt presumptive. She hadn’t practised this part. Her daydreams never dared to go this far. But she watched herself as if through water as a shaking hand came up to cup the side of their face, tracing lightly over a scar she didn’t recognise. Their eyes met hers again, silent, searching.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she said finally.
The slit pupils dilated, then Clem’s body, already so low to the ground, seemed to completely give way, and they collapsed into her arms.
“Oh, wow,” they breathed, and she noticed a hand make a fist into the grass. “Missed that,” they said quietly, almost to themselves. Then, louder, pressing themselves further against her chest. “This is nice.”
“Yeah?” Elene’s eyes were full of unshed tears. It was impossibly nice to hear their voice.
“Very nice. Oh, also. Is Calyx okay?” Their speech came out haltingly, like they were trying to remember how to speak or couldn’t find the words. “Because I won, El. We won.”
Elene heard what could only be described as a squeak somewhere behind her. Clem’s eyes followed the sound, and fixed on Calyx. Elene didn’t turn to look, too comfortable in the embrace.
“Yes,” Calyx breathed, before dropping to the ground beside Elene. “I - really?”
Clem nodded, with effort. “It’s over, dove. You’re safe now.”
Calyx gaped, awe written all over their face. But Elene saw Clem’s eyes unfocus, a daze settling over them. They were exhausted, she could feel it, physically. Their muscles were all tense, and they were leaning on her to a degree that was becoming closer and closer to her taking all their weight.
“Okay,” she said, wondering how to voice this in the gentlest way possible. “I think we should all give Clem some space, hm?”
Calyx scrambled to their feet, never needing to be told twice. “Um, the couch is free.”
Elene replied without looking at them, absently stroking Clem's hair. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Ideally, they’d be in her bed under watchful eye, but Clem was falling asleep in her arms. The couch would have to do.
Behind her, there was the quiet sounds of people retreating. Only when the last person had clicked the door shut, did Clem speak again.
“Thank you,” they murmured. “I’m… tired, El.”
It broke her heart. No, that was too tame. It felt more like the very fibers of her myocardium were being rent asunder. She rubbed their back, holding them close to her chest. They were crying, she could see them crying and feel the tears on her dress, but they barely seemed to register it. The tears were just falling, like a dam had opened and nothing would stop the flow now.
Clem made a soft, pained sort of sound. But then she was surprised to hear a quiet laugh from them. “I don’t think I h’ve a choice,” they slurred. And then they were asleep. Like a light, as quick as fainting. They were unconscious, and silent as the dead. Had they been waiting for her instruction?
Elene shook away the thought. That was unimportant. Right now, anyway. The more pressing thing was the fact that Clem was asleep in her lap in the garden, and they couldn’t stay here all day. The grass was soft but not soft enough for aching bones. Not soft enough for her liking, certainly. And she would be the one deciding whether things were soft enough, now. This was all the vindictiveness she was capable of: if Clem could take matters into their own hands and take care of everyone, then she could do the same and take care of them.
A bird in the sky caught her attention. It was flying fast, in her direction, but when she realised who it was, Elene felt a smile grow over her face. Ruth was exactly the person she needed right now.
She landed effortlessly, making no mark on the grass at all, then stretched out to her human form in a movement so practised and smooth that Elene could not help but marvel at it.
“They just landed,” Elene said in lieu of pleasantries. Every conversation with Ruth was like leaving off from the last one, like no time had passed at all.
“Passed out?”
“Asleep.”
Ruth nodded, appraising the soft rise-and-fall of their chest. “The bangle worked?”
Elene nodded, a thrill rushing through her. She could hardly believe what was happening, half expecting to wake up in dismay. But there was no reason to stop the dream before it was over, if it’d ever be over. It felt like she was watching the world in technicolour, the most vivid sensations being the shine of Clem’s hair, the feel of their bones under the fabric of their shirt, a smell like blood and metal vaguely lingering in the air, the sure and steady thump of their heartbeat. With a skipped heartbeat, she remembered what the glowing blood meant. Healing. From what?
“Can you help me get them inside?”
“Oh, there’s a safehouse nearby -”
Elene fixed Ruth with a stare. Absolutely not. “No, thank you. Would you help me get them inside? I don’t have any spells for it.”
Ruth bit back a smile, then gave up and rolled her eyes, affection obvious in the gesture. She bent down and lifted her friend up in as smooth of a motion as her landing had been. However briefly bereft Elene felt at the loss of their weight, she noticed the softness in Ruth’s eyes as she looked at Clem, still completely dead to the world.
“I get why she likes you,” Ruth said. “Lead the way, princess.”
Elene blushed, pausing halfway through the action of brushing dirt from her dress. She had no desire to argue with the association, but she would define it on her terms. She could do the saving, too.
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Violence responded to glibly, callously, it is not that the victim hides it, fails to speak of it, denies or deflects it, but that it's considered of little consequence, not an excuse. I like when this is pushed to the extreme. (cw rape, cw beatings, cw victim blaming)
You arrive at work late and limping, the ass and back of your trousers caked rust brown. "Sorry," you tell your boss, "for being late, I was assaulted on the way to work." "That's no excuse to slack off and let down the team," he scolds. "Sorry," you say, and get to work.
You change out of your street shirt and put on your dress shirt at work, movements slightly stiffened by pain. Your torso is a wall of bruising, your back is whipped, your sides battered black. One coworker whistles and laughs. "Well that's fucking unprofessional," another hisses. "Sorry," you say, buttoning up your shirt. Indeed, bruises creep up the left side of your throat, your jaw. You resolve to make up for it by demonstrating the perfect shiny and hard-working attitude.
