Ian was seated in a small room in an apartment building near the walls surrounding the base's inner edge. He sat on a creaking wooden chair with a shabby smiley-face pillow as a cushion.

  It was alarmingly bright—a glaring pink, to be precise.

  Posters were layered over each other on the walls, and a tree made of coiling copper and gears stood at the corner. Beside the broken table with two seats, a mattress lay on the ground with a thin sheet to cover it.

  The man had left him in this room, scanning his wristband and then telling him to stay put before leaving with the children.

  Naturally, Ian disobeyed. It took him around three seconds of silently observing the room to grow bored, so he went to stand by the balcony. The sliding door that had to be lifted slightly before opening, the window faced the inner base.

  He saw rows and rows of buildings, high and low. The ones closer to the center were sleek and polished, luxurious compared to Zone 5. With the limited space and growing population, apartments became a standard for cramming humans into living spaces.

  The front door creaked open with a rough push, the hinges scraping against the ground. The man entered, sighing with exhaustion as his lively eyes lifted to face Ian.

  "Good, you managed to stay put. Well, not where I left you, but it'll do."

  "Where would I go?"

  The man paused. "Good point. You don't really seem like the obedient type, though—trouble follows you, I'd bet."

  Ian frowned. If trouble followed him, then it was the fault of whatever brought the trouble and not him. He was a perfectly obedient and cooperative person. Simply one look at how compliant and meek he was during the bullying attempts told it all.

  He conveniently forgot certain violent actions that occurred in between and after those events.

  The man laughed, taking in his expression. "You want to disagree, don't you? Cheeky. Although I'm definitely right."

  He walked over to the attached kitchen, which consisted of one counter space, an old stove, and a small fridge. Rummaging through the drawers, he emerged with a lighter and cranked the gas on, lighting the flame after two attempts.

  Ian watched the familiar movements as the man settled into his own space, humming a tune and ignoring Ian.

  He poured a liquid from the fridge. It was thick and pale in colour, but the aroma that slowly drifted towards Ian was comforting, like the blend of herbs and warmth.

  He scooped the soup into two bowls. One had a chip in the corner. The man placed it in front of the empty chair, and then the other before Ian, sliding in to sit.

  Once the man bent his head, blowing on a spoon, he looked up.

  "Am I that good-looking? Hurry up and eat, it'll get cold. Don't tell me you waste food."

  Ian shook his head, dipping the spoon in and blowing lightly. The soup slipped into his mouth, sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach. A trail of warmth flowed into him with every swallow, soothing the ache of his bones.

  The man, at some point, finished and grinned. It was a playful and wholehearted smile that matched his pink hair.

  "Good, isn't it? We may have limited ingredients, but Will's good at scrounging the best. Although obviously, I'm the better cook." The man yawned, leaning on his chin. "Oh yeah, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Sylvan. And you?"

  "Ian."

  "Nice and short. You can call me Syl. My partner's coming later, and he's William, but Will is good. Better actually, William is a mouthful when you're out and about." He laughed; a bright sound that filled the cracks of the room and made it a home. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"

  "I have nothing to say to you."

  "Ouch. Really, not even a thank you for the food?"

  Ian paused, glancing at his empty bowl, scraped clean. It'd been a while since he'd eaten anything. "Thank you."

  Sylvan grinned brightly. "So you have some manners, don't you?"

  He didn't speak again, allowing Ian to comfortably finish his food without interruptions. That kind of subtle kindness made Ian more uncomfortable, his body heavy against the painted chair.

  He preferred selfishness, the type of people who wouldn't consider others and do as they pleased. They were easier to understand and easier to hate.

  Before long, the door creaked open, and a larger, lean man stepped inside with a vest strapped over his chest. He unclipped the sides, draping it by the wall, and looked up with surprise.

  He smiled pleasantly in greeting, walking over. "Good evening. You're Syl's guest? I'm William, but Will works too."

  Ian nodded. "Ian."

  "Will!" exclaimed Sylvan, launching off his seat to swing his arms around the other in a clinging embrace. William caught him with delight sparking in his intelligent blue eyes. "I found him on the streets while taking care of the kids."

  "How is Zero progressing with his training?"

  "Oh, you know that little menace. Pretty good, actually, but he keeps messing around and his energy goes all over the place!"

  Ian listened quietly, thinking of the lively young boy. All Guides and Espers were registered in the system, and children were often taken to the Center or a specialized school in the surrounding schools for training.

  Weapons could not be allowed to roam freely.

  Of course, once their ranking came out and they were separated into worthy and trash piles, things changed. They would go to lower districts and scrounge for a living through small tasks, or find another means to utilize their abilities.

  However, they were not useful for clearing Rifts. And therefore, by definition of the base, useless to the functioning society.

  "An unlicensed Esper," remarked Ian quietly.

  The conversation dropped, and both heads swerved to him. Sylvan opened and closed his mouth, ducking his head and scratching furiously. "Damn!" He spun in the chair, leaning forward. "Listen, don't you dare say a word! The Academies would be hell for them, especially now."

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  Ian tilted his head. "The Academies are designed for specialized training to best utilize their potential. Families receive points as well for their contribution."

  His knowledge of the world was limited, forcing him into weakness. He could steal newspapers from the surface or eavesdrop on conversations, but he could never have familiarity with a place he didn't know.

  In an old, creaking chair, William took a seat calmly without the burst of anger. He folded his hands neatly, a solemnity appearing in his gentle eyes. But Ian saw the nervousness lining his shoulders, like a little wolf faking elegance. He was protective of both that man and the children.

  The young man wore a facade of maturity as a defense. "Ian, how well informed are you of the situation within the base?"

  Ian stared steadily ahead without speaking.

  The question implicated him—a knowing that he had come from somewhere that limited his knowledge. He noted to himself to be careful in the future.

  He couldn't imagine the life in the Academies where other registered Guides and Espers were said to coexist. It was difficult to imagine a life outside of what he'd known, because wouldn't it make all their efforts worthless?

  Had they merely been born on the surface, they wouldn't retreat to the agony of being an Esper's pet. The base's resource.

  William smiled without pressing the subject. "We would appreciate it if you didn't speak to anyone about the children. They're under our care."

  "Your care," repeated Ian, tilting his head. "You think that's the best place for them?"

  The responsibility of another's unpredictable life. He thought that was a terrifying thing.

  But it was admirable in the same way that Lucian's determination provoked admiration. Everybody continued to strive to survive in their own subjective manner.

  Sylvan clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. "You trying to say it isn't?"

  "No. I wouldn't know the best place."

  The bland response seemed to diffuse the anger out of the fiery character as he deflated, shaking his head. "You're a strange one, that's for sure. Where the hell did you come from, anyway? Wait, no, don't tell me. You look like somebody with secrets."

  Ian only stared quietly, and Sylvan squirmed in his seat. There was something about that black gaze, both distantly lit with a withering flame and yet devoid of light. A detachment that couldn't be easily placed.

  It made a person both uncomfortable and stricken with a desire to possess that gaze.

  "Well, Ian, you don't appear to be from this zone. What brings you here?"

  Ian saw no reason to lie—many likely aspired to reach the center where the most powerful and wealthy were said to reside.

  "I need to go to the center."

  "The center?" said Sylvan in disbelief, glancing sideways hesitantly. "Not to be a party crasher, but your chances suck. It's not just about being strong. You're either born there, or one of them has the hots for you, but that never works out."

  Ian couldn't rely on the coat tails of a stranger who could betray him. His back prickled as he recalled the soft brush strokes that had trailed over his skin. He had an ally, but it was a matter of proving he was worth investing in.

  He needed to climb the ranks. He needed to become worth something.

  "Listen," said Sylvan when Ian didn't reply, leaning forward on the small table. "We're in one 5-C because it's the least monitored." He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "Here, we're the least safe from diseases and pitted against Rifts, but we're the safest from a worse danger."

  "The center is cruel," nodded William. "I'm not sure of your reasons, but the glory and power comes with a price. And that price may be your life."

  Ian didn't waver, his back pressed against the broken chair. His words were an irrefutable statement, one he needed no permission for. "I need to go to the center."

  Sylvan sighed loudly, scowling. "Don't be stubborn, seriously! You don't look half-bad, and sure, sometimes low-level rifts pop up near here and monsters escape. But life here is alright."

  Ian shook his head again. Sylvan clicked his tongue in exasperation.

  "Fine. Fine, alright. Do you have anywhere to go? No, right, or you wouldn't have been wandering around towards that District. Join us for our next mission."

  "Mission?"

  William nodded, folding his hands around a chipped cup. "Registered Guides and Espers can pick up tasks or form small teams to participate in the Rift extermination. It's safer to register as a pair."

  "Yeah, you get those real twisted bastards that whisper nasty things into your ears. I thought mine would fall off." Sylvan rubbed his ear in disgust. "But you have to start somewhere. Have you ever been in a rift?"

  "I haven't."

  "Crazy!" Sylvan exclaimed, rattling the chair. "And you're aiming for the center? Wake up. The most you can do now is take on a low-level task, like foraging. The higher ranks will take care of the battle while we collect material. Foragers only have two tasks; it's simpler."

  He had no options. Uncertainty simmered in his stomach, but years had come and gone with that same anxiety ghosting the edges of his skin.

  All he could do was walk forward and pray he didn't drown.

  Sylvan's fist curled against the table, and he collapsed back in defeat. "That settles it, bastard. We'll sign up for the next one together, there's one that opens tomorrow."

  Ian nodded. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me, it's like I'm sending a chick to death. How old are you anyway?"

  Ian didn't want to hear such a thing from somebody younger than him—the youthful face made Sylvan appear younger, but there was a distant maturity in his liveliness that told of experience.

  "24."

  "You're older?!" Sylvan jumped again, and William laughed, placing a hand on the small of his back to placate him. The former cleared his throat, squinting. "I guess, yeah. You look young, but you've got a good build. 24 is pretty young."

  "Syl," reminded William softly. "You're only 21."

  "Yeah, but I'm not a crazy chick seeking death in the Rifts." Sylvan pulled out of the chair, pointing at a second weathered mattress pressed against the wall. A heavy quilt sewn of various fabrics draped over. Ian had overlooked it, thinking it was a pile of clothes.

  "You look good and all, but also miserable. Sleep here tonight, and I'll rob it from you next time!"

  Ian shook his head. He didn't like imposing, and the kindness stirred unease. "I'll sleep on the floor."

  "No can do," said Sylvan, dragging Ian by the arm with surprising strength despite his shorter stature. He shoved him crudely onto the bed and demanded loudly. "Now sleep."

  Obediently, Ian rolled over and closed his eyes, eliciting a delighted laugh from the other. A silly person, he evaluated. He listened to the rustle of fabrics and whispers as the light dimmed, plunging the room into darkness.

  With his eyes closed, his thoughts drifted in and out of waking.

  He wasn't sure how long he'd been lost in his thoughts when a whimper sounded behind him, and he rolled over, propping himself up. By the table, in the corner of the room and surrounded by worn pillows and blankets, Sylvan trembled.

  The cheerful man curled into himself, burrowing into the blankets like a small animal that had suffered grievous injuries. All traces of confidence faded.

  Ian watched as another shadow—William—gently coaxed the bundle into his arms, whispering soothing words. His large hand traced comforting circles against the other's back, and Sylvan stilled, furrowing his eyebrows deeply.

  Outside, the low howls and screeches of nearby monsters circled the bases' walls. Abnormal sounds and scraping dug against the fragile walls, made strong by their human barrier, a zone of flesh and sacrifice that protected the Center.

  The outside zones had the occasional breakthroughs when higher-level monsters breached the defenses.

  Who knew if one of those monsters was once a friend or lover?

  But what was better to stall them than the countless, worthless lives bundled into one place? Sacrifices that had no other choice but to pray it wasn't their turn under the hollow red moon.

  Ian tossed and turned but could not sleep in the unfamiliarity.

  In the late evenings, he would lie still in that creaking metal bed and listen to Lucian's pencil scrape against scraps of paper he'd gather from the bins. He would write and lightly press the papers flat under his mattress.

  It did nothing when the cameras blinked red in the upper corner of the room, but the illusion of security seemed to grant him some peace.

  When he finished, he would always turn and gaze quietly at Ian.

  "Good night, Ian." He would say, regardless of whether he knew the other was quietly listening. And Ian was. Always.

  He would close his eyes then, and dream of his sister dancing in a meadow of blooming flowers, as free as a bird in a flourishing world. She would dance and dance until red painted her feet, scattering across the white petals that seemed to shake with laughter.

  His eyes would snap open, sweat slicking his skin as he heaved, gazing at the familiar metal ceilings that trapped him.

  Sometimes, the bed across from him would be empty. And sometimes, a sole figure would lie sideways facing him, breathing softly. Ian's breaths would slow in synchrony, eventually returning to a regular pace.

  Perhaps those regular days, torturous and slow and familiar, would never return.

  No, he couldn't let them return.

  "Can't sleep?" wondered a gentle voice, and Ian rolled over once more to meet the softly smiling face of William. He lightly combed through Sylvan's hair, setting him against the bundle of pillows.

  He stood, maneuvering to the kitchen with quiet steps, and twisted the knob on the stove, striking a match to light the gas. It took several minutes for the fire to flicker on, a small and trembling glow of heat.

  After setting a small blackened pot, he poured in a cup of milk and water.

  They waited in silence as the liquid simmered, slowly heating up. Once it heated, he retrieved the chipped mug and poured it into two, walking over to hand one to Ian. He sat down before him, cross-legged.

  "If you can't, let's talk a little?"