Hermes took the lead naturally, tugging at the jacket and peeking his head around like a thief. If thieves were noble and deceptively gentle.

  Ian waited at his back like a salted fish.

  He didn’t mind obeying orders—his singular objective remained beating something up. For practice, of course. Not anger relief. The aspects of teamwork included the perilous task of socialization, of which Ian cared little for.

  Apollo squeezed his hands, potentially attempting to fuse them. But when Ian glanced over, those obedient, large eyes blinked innocently.

  Dangerous. Ian couldn’t stare at them for too long.

  “It seems clear,” stated Hermes, drawing away the now-dusted jacket. He draped a hand over his eyes, in direct view of the rising sun.

  A popular theory was that all Rifts were connected within a universe, or a single planet encompassing different terrains. Others stated that they were streams of alternate realities linking to theirs.

  In the Rifts, they could sometimes view the solitary sun and moon.

  Ian accidentally grazed Hermes’ back, and the man stiffened. It was as if he’d been touched by a plague, which Ian almost wished he had to punish such an obvious reaction.

  Instead, he said nothing, lifting a fluttering thread. Spider silk.

  Then, a rumble ravaged the earth once more, approaching them. The ruins trembled, and Ian yanked them both back, tossing up the jacket. He slammed his leg to secure one end, gasping.

  Apollo stumbled before hurriedly hopping up to help pin the jacket.

  He peeped out a narrow slit. Long, gangly sticks passed, with a flutter of threads clinging to its fur.

  Ian froze. His sharp reflection stole the millions of hairs along its legs and the dozens of thin webs chasing it. Under daylight, the morning’s dewdrops clung to the threads and reflected their silky whites.

  At night, they could easily be hidden.

  “The cobwebs,” he muttered once the spider passed. “The ruins are covered in them.”

  Hermes patted his pants, peering over Ian’s shoulder. “Perhaps that is the trigger point. The spiderlings weave thread during the night, and in the daytime, the Queen breaks through them. At night, they serve as an alert for trespassers.”

  Ian shifted away from the other, nodding. He held a modicum of satisfaction at Hermes’ quick analysis. Communication, an endangered concept in humanity, made life much easier. “If we touch the threads, it alerts her. That’s how she finds us.”

  “However, during the daytime, she does not require such warnings. It is likely her strength increases,” mused Hermes, leaning against the textured wall. “At night, she rests. There is a possibility that attacking during daytime will only lead to our deaths.”

  “But we’re blind rats at night,” sighed Ian. “She didn’t notice my eye peeking out, and she didn’t smell me either. Her other senses are trash.”

  He tilted his head sideways, and their gazes interlocked. Both sighed.

  Still, they remained helpless. They needed to behave more cautiously with the knowledge of the webs. The Queen might be weaker at night, but they’d be insects willingly dancing into her web.

  “I hate bugs,” spat Ian abruptly.

  Apollo blinked, squatting down. He swayed on his heels, furrowing his brows. Then, he nodded supportively despite the evident confusion on his round face. Ian couldn’t help but pat his soft hair twice.

  Alongside bugs, Ian loathed working. A revenge mission was different, directly fueled by rage and bitterness.

  Thus, he shamelessly demanded, “Hey, come up with a plan.”

  Hermes tilted his head, and even adorned in a bone mask, he radiated the air of a good student. He pointed to himself in question.

  Ian arced a brow. “No, the kid. Yeah, you. And be quick, we don’t have time to waste.”

  After casting aside all responsibility, he slumped down and debated taking a nap. He half expected some retort, but the other only settled back and gave his brain a heavy workout. Was he too compliant, a pushover, or that kind?

  Or lacking utter trust in Ian’s planning skills?

  Ten minutes of silence passed before Hermes straightened, nearing the entrance. “Webs are flammable. They ignite easily.”

  Ian lifted his chin, humming. “Burn the webs?” A slow smile stretched across his lips, soaked in mischief. Curiosity. It stole years of exhaustion from his cold face and made him almost seem boyish. “Not bad. I didn’t take you for an arsonist.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’ve never started a fire?”

  Hesitation. Ian squinted suspiciously and decided against pursuing the backstory. In the short time since his departure, he’d encountered one too many weirdos. He didn’t need to add another to that list.

  Instead, they peeked outside again, squinting against the onslaught of light, perfectly angled to stab their eyeballs.

  “The moment the webs ignite, she’s going to come sprinting. So, do you prefer being bait, or being chased later?”

  In the light, his black gaze absorbed the light.

  Hermes was silent for a few seconds before averting his attention.

  “Stay,” he told Apollo in a soft voice. But it demanded obedience, sinking a command into the mind. Apollo hesitated unwillingly, but after wobbling on his feet, he slunk into a corner obediently. “I’ll burn the webs.”

  Both positions carried equal risks. It was a matter of being a target first or second. And distracting the Queen long enough for the other to finish his tasks.

  It was a test. To confirm the use of the webs, and to gather any other information.

  He considered his stamina, his future survival, and previous injuries. Pain pulsed in various areas, and his head constantly pounded. “Half an hour. Any longer, and I’ll come find you.”

  “...To bring the Queen to me?”

  Ian sneered, arrogantly jerking his chin. “If you fail, I won’t be the only one going down.”

  To put it simply, if he was screwed over, he’d share the suffering and screw the other party over, too. Ian was the type who would be rejected by the afterlife and choose to live as a vengeful ghost, terrorizing his enemies.

  Or maybe not, since he’d be forced to damage his vision with their hideous faces.

  By the corner, Apollo clapped approvingly. Ian paused and turned away. He really couldn’t endure those adoring, large eyes of worship.

  Wouldn’t this kid get kidnapped with how easily he trusted others?

  Hermes claimed the matchbox, and they departed. Ian would’ve preferred to light the fires, but the mystical properties of a match didn’t align with his current skillset. It wasn’t a problem with him, but the matchbox.

  He didn’t know how to use it, and didn’t want to ask.

  He navigated the connecting ruins, all leading to a center. Rows of broken pillars crumbled against each other, buildings scavenged and torn. Crumbling walls shadowed him from the beating sunlight.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  In its cascade, he saw lines and lines of spun silk, crosscrossed in every direction. A web over his vision.

  And they were the prey within it.

  He nodded once at Hermes, who took the matchbox. In fact, he would prefer to light the fires, but the mystical properties of lighting a match didn't align with his capabilities. Simply put, Ian couldn't light a match and was delegated to the worst role.

  He couldn't argue and crept into the connecting ruins leading towards the center. A row of broken pillars scattered across the damp earth, and crumbled walls shadowed him.

  His fingers fiddled with his holster, seeking the comfort of his knife’s hilt. Violence to ease him.

  At his feet, thousands of black dots rushed along the stray foliage. Spiderlings. He shook them off his boots with a grimace and scaled a shattered window-space.

  Victor directed them here, expecting their death.

  A test for Ian, an execution for the others. Or perhaps this was another one of the man’s whims, to appease the disorder of his brain circuits. Ian would like to yank them out and chuck them in their deserving home: the trash.

  He ducked beneath an arch, swatting away a dangling vine. With murderous fantasies as fuel, he finally weaved into an open clearing. Clusters of broken stone surrounded, and he collected a jagged, cylindrical chunk.

  How many more cocoons lay to rest?

  How many had he climbed over? Within them, did his short-term companions hold a place?

  He lifted the stone chunk, tangled in fragile threads. A baby spider crawled along it, slowly dangling before his black pupils. Ian blinked.

  And decisively swung it through the webs.

  If Hermes succeeded in burning a good majority of the webs, it’d allow them time to investigate at night. The spiderlings could only work so fast. The threads tore fast, too easily, and a thunder tore through the ruins once more.

  Debris collapsed with a harsh thud, and a shadow emerged. It extended over him, and long legs stabbed into the earth.

  “Come on, you ugly thing,” he taunted, and took off running.

  He broke through the cobwebs along his path, slamming into a roll. Harsh stones carved cuts into his skin, and his knees groaned with the impact. But he didn’t have time to mourn his creaking bones.

  The rumble of destruction behind remained unyielding. The stampede of eight legs.

  As he neared the center, the density of the webs increased by a dozen. They were replaced at the same speed he destroyed them, if not faster.

  He wheezed as his breath stuttered out and scrambled over a wall’s gape. He slammed against a pile of debris and crinkling leaves, snapping his head around. He’d confirmed one thing. The spider couldn’t locate him based on anything aside from those webs.

  His stomach churned, and he rested a hand over it with a gasp. Sweat slicked his forehead, and he could barely catch his breath.

  Ian slumped against the wall, peering backward. The spider, which they assumed was the Queen, hovered outside. Lumbering, having lost his location.

  Ian exhaled, licking his lips. He was tempted to take a nap and leave all the tedious tasks to Hermes, who seemed reliable enough.

  Ideally, the fire would burn the entire network of webs. Unfortunately, the babies’ record-breaking web production meant they could easily repair and build new networks. Dozens, all entangled with the Queen’s body.

  So, burning the webs wasn’t the solution. They needed to kill the spiderlings.

  His lungs were bursting, and a terrible ache tingled in his calves. He glanced back once more and cursed under his breath. Naturally, Ian was a wonderful gentleman. By his subjectively true opinion.

  His thoughts, however, were not.

  ‘Fucking ugly.’

  Her chelicerae clicked, chittering overhead. But her center was a disproportionate oval in comparison to her hideously long legs. He’d squinted initially to protect himself from the ugliness of the massive insect, but now his eyes opened to full mast.

  Discomfort plagued him, and the fibres of his muscles felt stretched and knotted unreasonably. He needed to focus. He’d only seen spiders three times in the facility. Once in a glass jar brought by his mysterious little friend, the second by a yapping female researcher, and the last by chance.

  Then, in the apartment, he was introduced to the reality of multiple spiders. According to Sylvan, they enjoyed claiming the corners.

  Ian’s old friend called them little companions.

  “You’re bad at making friends,” he’d calmly explained to the offended little Ian. “But they will accompany you. It’s difficult to scare them away. Break their webs, and they’ll come back to remake them.”

  The little Ian only snorted. “Not if you kill them.”

  His friend, only a few years older at most, froze. His expression had always been difficult to read, but Ian had thought he seemed disgruntled then. “You don’t kill friends.”

  Ian’s thoughts snapped back to reality, to that ugly creature. And a new realization echoed in his mind. The creature there, reflected in his widening gaze, was no spider. He’d seen this before.

  A harvestman.

  An arachnid more closely resembling a scorpion rather than a spider, incapable of making webs. Strange. Something didn’t add up. His thoughts twisted, a tornado of chaos, blurring together.

  Then, what was producing millions of spiderlings, faster than the Base’s best facilities?

  Why did the density of webs increase near the center?

  And what was in the center?

  A clicking sound echoed, and the gangly legs lumbered away. Ian hurried out, snapping several threads as it snapped in his direction again. His innards were as melted as his thoughts, a slosh of incoherency multiplied by exhaustion.

  A gasp tore from his throat. Who was the Queen? The harvestman protected the center, and the center protected it.

  That meant their target was whatever slumbered there.

  And what he was doing now was a waste of time. He cursed and broke into a final sprint as the sun sunk into the horizon, hidden by the ruins. His trajectory followed a final lap around before he found that familiar jacket, swaying with a faint gust.

  The harvestman picked up speed, and he was losing it.

  With a final burst of strength, he flung himself through. He slammed against the earth, rolling with a grunt before bumping into a flesh-stuffed cocoon. Ian hurriedly jerked away, bracing himself against the wall as he coughed.

  Apollo had already leaped to his feet, arranging the jacket into place. Then he spun, sniffed, and hurried over to Ian.

  Ian embodied a dead fish, flopping onto his back as he squeezed his eyes shut. Coughs intermittently wrenched from his lungs, his throat raw, and lungs trembling.

  “I really loathe bugs,” he spat bitterly again.

  He was a hater. He hated most things in equality, but he concluded his disgust of spiders now exceeded the norm. Apollo squatted beside him, pulling up his sleeves to dab at Ian’s forehead. He would’ve told the boy to stop, but gave up attempting speech.

  Soon after, Hermes slipped inside. Ian smelt the rust of blood before he saw it. A long gash now decorated Hermes’ chest.

  The man fixed the jacket wordlessly as the other two watched, and lowered himself. He drew a few deep breaths, and turned to the dead fish on the ground, also known as Ian.

  Ian glared bitterly, two-times more venomous in his tiredness. “What’re you looking at?”

  “You lasted longer than half an hour.”

  “You’re telling me you knew,” scowled Ian, squinting. “And took your sweet time anyway?”

  Hermes only blinked, and readjusted his mask. “Then, I understand you realized that the webs cannot be destroyed so easily. Our target should not be the harvestman, but the thing in the center that they are protecting. I burned a large portion of the webs, but they are likely to rebuild.”

  “Thanks,” drawled Ian venomously, shuffling as Apollo claimed his hand again. “I didn’t realize.”

  Hermes nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m unthankful.”

  “Oh.”

  However, Ian’s disdain gradually faded as he regained his breathing, a thing he quite enjoyed having, and drew over to a wall to prop himself up. Naturally, the new little follower came with him, curling beside Ian.

  Harvestmen. They were nocturnal, though able to operate during the day.

  A fight was inevitable, then. And their opportunity wasn’t the nightfall, when the harvestman held the most power, but day.

  Ian rubbed his stiff shoulders. He needed more sacrifices—companions for a plan. Once he’d escaped, the harvestman tracked the source of fire and engaged in a battle with Hermes, resulting in the hideous wound.

  But the longer they waited, the further their states deteriorated.

  “It is in our best interest to find Ares and Artemis,” noted Hermes.

  Ian was reluctant for more socializing, but nodded. He shifted to leave, but small hands clutched his sleeve hurriedly. Apollo shook his head.

  Ian raised a brow. “What?”

  The young boy pointed outside and raised his hand into two circles, framing his wide eyes. He pretended to peer around with the makeshift glasses, and pointed to himself.

  Hermes blinked, and tilted his head. After attempting to decipher the gesture, he turned to Ian. The latter waited with two pairs of expectant gazes, which nearly attempted him to seek the harvestman’s embrace.

  He slumped back, squinting. “Outside, look, you. You think they’re looking for you?”

  Apollo jolted, and happily nodded. Ian hesitated a second, and flopped sideways. His hollow stomach ached in protest, demanding nourishment, and he kindly told it to shut up. It didn’t obey him. “Then wake me up when they arrive.”

  Hermes tied his wound with a ripped chunk of cloth, his fingers swift and familiar. He glanced at Ian. “You trust him?”

  Ian could sense the hopeful, excited eyes on him. He didn’t dare look, and like a reasonable adult, shattered the child’s dream immediately. “No. I just don’t want to walk.”

  “I see. Your laziness overrides doubt?”

  Ian’s eyebrow twitched. “My laziness works hard to do a lot. If they’re not here by sunrise, we’ll go looking.”

  He dismissed them with a wave, despite the ball of heat crouched by his head, and squeezed his eyes tight. Coaxing sleep to come. The boy shifted, and then bravely inched closer. Tentative, at first, before boldly squeezing by his arms.

  Ian’s head rested against his bent arm, feeling the boy lean by his abdomen. But he didn’t push the child away. Apollo cracked an eye open, and noting the older man’s lack of resistance, happily burrowed closer.

  A daze claimed Ian’s foggy mind as the boy curled against him.

  And once more, he remembered his sister.