Ian knelt against the carpet of white, cocooned death bordering his figure. Beneath the luminescent moon, pain sparked in his eyes, and he tore away from the vortex. His eyelids fluttered.

  He’d often been told that his eyes were resentful, disobedient things, but if compared to Victor’s hollow visage, had the years hollowed him so thoroughly it etched into his expression?

  After abandonment, Ian slapped away any silly thoughts and dizzily turned to his remaining companion. Filth and injuries marked his body, and his hair infuriatingly poked his eyes. He hastily swiped it away with a bruised hand, but it refused to remain tucked away.

  What an attention seeker. His hair, that was.

  “Well?” muttered Ian, shifting as the persistent strand stabbed him once more, forcing him to squint. “Any thoughts, or were you just eavesdropping?”

  At this rate, he’d take a razor to his head the moment he returned. He could polish it and use the sheen to blind others as a distraction. Ian blinked, and his body swayed, noting the ridiculous direction his thoughts were wandering.

  Irritation dashed up his skin, and he nearly yanked his disobedient hair out at the roots when a man elegantly knelt before him. Gently, the other man swept away Ian’s hair, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing against his forehead.

  A ghosting touch. The eyes behind the mask were a warm brown, provoking both comfort and discomfort simultaneously. Ian’s first thought was that the face underneath likely suited his aesthetics.

  The one flaw, he determined as his vision spotted further, was that he couldn’t get a read of the man’s inner thoughts. To begin with, Ian’s emotional intelligence was direly lacking, by choice, and he took to a habit of hating everybody in equal measures.

  Hermes withdrew quietly. “The Base exists for the sake of humanity.”

  “That boring mantra,” snorted Ian, jutting out his chin. “I heard you say that, but you’re a member of the Alliance. Or are you here to what, confess your traitorous intentions?”

  “Would you report me?”

  “If they offered money for it,” shrugged Ian.

  Hermes regarded him deeply and shook his head. “Two things can exist true simultaneously. The Base is merely a single facet to the many attempts of humanity’s determination to survive.”

  The other’s calmness irked Ian. If Victor’s pretty face provoked a violent desire, Hermes tempted Ian to tear off the calm facade he wore and see what was underneath.

  He stabilized himself with a hand, sneering. “A survival based on sacrifice?”

  “Humanity has always existed in violence, in which one group survives over another. We may have established a new order, but it has not changed.”

  Ian’s fingers curled against the stone platform, frost finding his dark gaze. He agreed, but spoken in that steady tone, it coaxed venom to his voice. Like a robotic preaching, as if the Base’s current systems could be called natural and reasonable.

  “You’re right. But the weak have things to protect, and the rules you claim society follows for survival are the very things killing other lives.”

  From what he’d gathered, the Alliance sought to protect Guide and Esper rights, though he didn’t know their ultimate goal. On the other hand, the Base’s cruel systems created a pretty cage that protected regular humans.

  He fell backwards, staring up at the round moon that only existed in the Rifts. These dimensions of unknown categorized as something terrifying.

  Ian drew a deep breath. Hermes’ gaze flickered, and he rummaged in his coat, retrieving a small box. He found a small metal container and lit the end of a paper tube. Smoke drifted from it, mixing with the grotesque stench of rot.

  The cloud wisped past the man’s skeletal mask as he regarded Ian. “You don’t think a compromise can exist between them.”

  Ian glanced over, shrugging. He revealed no intentions of moving, although he couldn’t have even if he tried. “Compromise is just an ideal. One of the parties needs to die for the other to achieve their goal. In summary, yeah, I think what you said is bullshit.”

  His sharp words fired off without stop, but he wasn’t done yet. “You’re seriously smoking here? Are you an addict, or do you want to waste time?”

  Yet, instead of anger, Hermes only bent his head and let out a soft, restrained laugh. It was hoarse, drained of energy as it trailed with a faint curl of smoke.

  Two, pronounced fingers held the cigarette over Ian’s head. He’d only seen it once, by one of the researchers who’d later been fired for contaminating a lab. “Are you trying to give me second-hand smoking,” he arched his brows, “or are you interested in a barbecue?”

  Hermes stiffened, instinctively glancing at the dozens of surrounding corpses, and nearly choked.

  The image Ian’s words provoked was a little too grotesque, and Hermes smoothly extinguished the smoke. Then, he swooped his arms beneath Ian’s limp body, adopting a princess-style carry.

  Ian continued to play dead—after all, who would reject free transportation? At his age, he learned to do with whatever made life easier. He had so many things to be bitter about already—why find more? Soon, the tragedy of back pain and age would plague him, too.

  Once they stepped through the portal, a familiar dizziness chewed Ian's entire physical and mental state, gnawing until he became floating bones in emptiness. His insides seemed to slosh and churn in every direction.

  Ian resisted the urge to throw up, insulting the exit portal mentally. Once it finally spat them back into reality, he stumbled through a blindingly white sea of dandelion fluff.

  It blanketed the ground like an inviting duvet. Yet the moment a single seed brushed against his hand, a searing pain shot through it. A bead of blood surfaced.

  Hermes reacted immediately, having the grace of being covered, save for his face. He lifted Ian again, pivoting hurriedly to the abandoned, empty car. Its front had been crushed, but it didn’t seem to be unusable.

  The man tucked Ian neatly into the passenger’s seat and rounded the car.

  Ian struggled to shift in his seat, slumping back. His head rolled sideways. “You’re driving?”

  Hermes buckled his seatbelt and started the engine, fiddling with a few buttons. The car had undergone several modifications, allowing it to endure a few crashes. "Would you prefer to? Do you have your license?"

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  "It's not a bad time to learn," offered Ian half-heartedly, although he'd already resigned himself to this 'shotgun' position of being mindless and unhelpful.

  "A driver's license is a rule of the Base."

  Ian sneered. "Get your eyes checked. Does this look like the Base?"

  Hermes glanced sideways and reversed, speeding away. Ian's greatest betrayal was his first impression—at a glance, his quiet demeanor made him unapproachable but mature.

  Only after he opened his mouth to hurl insults were their expectations betrayed.

  The dandelion fluff, innocent and beautiful, left scalding imprints over his skin. He flipped his hand dazedly. It was strange how time worked. Only an hour ago, he’d pushed his body to the limits, straining against every muscle.

  Now, it was over. Both mere seconds and agonizing hours.

  They sat in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Eventually, Ian felt a little bored and peered over at the windshield. Most of the dandelions had blown away with the excessive speeding. Hermes slowed on the main roads, an expanse of nothingness.

  A tiny black insect crawled from beneath the wiper, clinging for dear life. Ian's face darkened immediately. "I don't want to see another spider for the rest of my life."

  Hermes glanced sideways, but didn't swipe it away.

  "Little friends," he muttered instead, "make good companions for the lonesome."

  Ian raised an eyebrow lazily. "Are you trying to call me lonely?"

  "If you've associated my remark with yourself, then that says enough."

  Ian scoffed, waving his hand irritably. As he did, his broken jacket slipped from his wrist, revealing a long scar along his wrist. Hermes’ attention drifted sideways, before he nearly swerved. He veered back on course, and Ian furrowed his brows.

  “What surprised you?”

  Hermes focused on the road again, straightening his shoulders. “Your scar. What happened?”

  Ian frowned, but returned to observing the passing landscapes. "Ancient history. It’ll piss me off to remember it.”

  "A part of your childhood?"

  "That's the subtle hint to change the topic," said Ian as he rested his cheek on his aching hand. The truck rumbled beneath, shallow whistles and rattles emitting from the engine. "Everybody has things they don't want to remember."

  "Not everybody." Ian turned, and suddenly, under the illumination of the glaring light that encompassed the skies, Hermes' entire face was blanketed in a glow of melancholy. "I hope I remember everything, even after death.”

  Ian was silent for a few long seconds and shook his head.

  "I don't believe in the afterlife," Ian said bluntly. “I'm not miserable enough to hope for more after death."

  Hermes lightly turned down another road. He tilted his head. "Is it miserable?"

  "Are you a delusional optimist?"

  At that, Hermes blinked and made a sound so faint, Ian thought he had misheard. But it resembled a laugh. "We're all trying to work toward something. That isn't a bad thing; it's all we can do."

  "No matter the consequence?" Ian laughed sharply. "Yeah, right."

  Hermes twisted the wheel and maneuvered the truck between branching cracks along the road. "All the choices I've made are mine."

  Ian tapped his finger against the side rest quietly. Hermes appeared to carry a resolute stubbornness, the kind that couldn't be changed no matter the convincing. He thought it could make them either loyal friends or terrible opponents.

  In the end, Ian didn't want to be too involved with the Aegis Alliance, so he dismissed both options.

  The rest of the ride remained silent, as daylight bled into night and the echoes of distant monsters screeched in the shadows. Hermes didn't flinch and passed through the security smoothly, alongside Ian. The guards who liked to make trouble glanced at the other's ID and retreated.

  Hermes walked Ian back to his door, slinging an arm over his shoulders when Ian resisted a second princess carry. The Guide’s body felt like it had been hit by a truck, and he entirely blamed the other.

  After bidding a stale farewell, stiffer than the loaf sold at the shady pop-up down the street, Ian slammed the door shut and stared in a daze.

  Why did it feel like some screwed up date back from hell?

  He rolled around on his hard mattress restlessly. But when his eyes closed, what greeted him were millions of spiderlings crawling across his vision, climbing into every orifice. He saw bloodless, hollowed faces peeking beyond silk cocoons.

  He lay there, bound to his bed by a prison of thought, all four limbs saddled by an impossible weight.

  Did he feel guilty for not saving them? That of all the things he could've done, he'd chosen to save himself. To fight and escape without a second thought.

  Did he feel guilty that he hadn't thought twice of those brief companions who’d laughed and joked so brightly in that car? He hadn’t thought of them until he saw Adam's bloodless face, immortalized in terror. Perhaps they’d sought him out, searching for him despite their brief encounter.

  Or perhaps they’d also persisted without thinking twice. He’d never know.

  Ian rolled over, flopping onto his abdomen. He wasn’t shackled by guilt, but the plaguing images prevented his sleep.

  Eventually, he flung his scrappy blanket across the room and leaped to his feet with a bitter face. He'd lived countless years in that boring facility with only Lucian as a companion, and it gave plenty of time to ruminate on life and develop a keen sense of self-awareness.

  Ian paced the room. Even if he’d found them, he couldn’t have done much. His strength had dramatically improved since the facility, but that wouldn’t have been enough.

  The lives and deaths of others weren't his responsibility.

  By that understanding, did that make him a sinner? A watcher couldn't be blameless either.

  Minutes later, Ian found himself outside as the frosty wind whispered through the holes in his jacket. It was a mess, riddled with tears, but he didn't have another. This alone was one of his few belongings, and it’d been a gift from a madman.

  Eventually, he headed toward the strange underwear factory and squatted beside the proclaimed underwear master. The two bent over a pile of hideously patterned fabrics and got to work.

  The old granny wasn't there, but a dozen children worked diligently.

  In his distraction, he accidentally sealed the band. The little girl beside him gasped, aghast.

  "I knew you'd be lured by the importance of underwear, but how can they squeeze their fat waists through now! Junior, are you distracted? That's not ok, you need to stay focused!" she reprimanded, snatching the briefs and carefully clipping the thread.

  Ian raised his eyebrows. "Isn't it fine since you can fix it?"

  "I'm wasting seconds that I could've spent to make just one more underwear!" wailed the girl, shaking her head with a hearty sigh that would rival an old woman.

  Ian praised her dedication to work, which had the girl's nose tilting to the sky, belly full of pride and arrogance.

  After she reluctantly forgave him, she forced him to accompany her home. "Silly! Mistakes happen when you're sleepy, and the Director says it's good to have a fresh head before working hard!"

  Ian trailed behind her as she bounced up and down like a spring, twirling down abandoned streets. A row of damaged bikes lined a rusted wall, and crates were haphazardly stacked in the corners.

  "How does the Director suggest you freshen your head?" he asked, shrugging his hands into his pockets.

  The girl glanced back and beamed mischievously. "Well! I like to pick arguments with the boys! They're silly, and get all red when they're mad, and then I'm not mad anymore because I'm too busy laughing!"

  Quite devious. Ian gave her full marks for her efforts. Naturally, once one was in a terrible rude, the best solution was to pass it on to another person.

  However, only if the other person deserved such treatment.

  Then, his attention was drawn to a stream of trickling water, dripping from an exposed pipe. He blinked and found a nearby brick off the ground. A solid, rectangular thing, rusted red in colour.

  Perfect.

  The girl—Hope, she'd named herself—peeked over. Her pigtails dangled messily, curious eyes peering at the brick. "What is that?"

  "A gift," agreed Ian as he stood, patting his jeans.

  "A gift? What can they use it for?"

  Ian hummed. He was grateful for the girl’s inspirational suggestion, which reminded him of a particular target he’d love to direct his anger upon. Therefore, he decided not to feed the devious child with more socially unacceptable ideas. “To fix somebody’s face.”

  Hope rocked on her heels, tilting her head left and right. “I don’t get it.”

  But Ian squeezed the uneven brick against his palm, and thought of a certain infuriatingly perfect face, as if every angle were measured against a prime ratio. A little imperfection was healthy for humans, though Ian supposed he had the massive flaw of his personality.

  Thus, he shamelessly envisioned that beautiful, handsome face that transcended gender—

  —and imagined smashing it in with a brick. His shoulders relaxed, and although he'd never been much of a peaceful person, a sense of tranquility washed over him.

  His fists often itched around that man, so it couldn’t be helped if his hands accidentally slipped in an attempt to scratch that itch. His thoughts strayed further into terrible thoughts that would require censorship if exposed, but each released the tension from his body.

  Hope squinted at the silent man curiously. "Did it work, Junior?"

  "It works pretty well," he reported with a faint smile. "Thanks."

  Hope beamed, clapping joyously as she continued skipping down the road. She grabbed his brick-free hand and swung it wildly.