The Rwequek who had proclaimed himself to be Wrose flickered his gaze at Mitchel. His eyes did not have the same bite as Mizar’s as they were a gray-blue with warn lines at the corners. They were wide with concern, but he corrected the look almost instantly and settled into furrowed eyebrows as he surveyed the scene. Instead of the sleek midnight blue suit, Wrose had a slightly lighter blue coat overtop detailed with gold and black. An eye-catching golden glove covered only his left hand up to his elbow, which heavily contrasted the standard white glove he wore on his right. Around his neck hung multiple chords of crimson, each braided with more precision and intricacy that ever adorned the guards. The way he carried himself demanded elegance, respect, grace. In response, the three guards stood ramrod straight at attention. Those gray-blue eyes flittered from each guard: Yuen’s chin raised proudly, Pax’s eyes revealingly wide, and Mizar’s jaw clenched and tight. Mitchel tried not to look at the last guard, knowing that his neon blue eyes were fixated on him from just a few feet away, filled with rage and urgency.

Wrose’s eyes finally settled onto Mitchel once more.

“You can?” he asked, his voice clipping around the “k” sounds of Rwequekian, an accent Mitchel had never heard before.

“Yes, sir,” Mitchel stumbling over honorifics through his sore throat, “There was a boy—"

Mizar stepped forward, his eyes narrowed and fully focused on the new Rwequek, and clamped a hand on Mitchel’s shoulder. Out of shock, Mitchel’s words cut short with a flinch.

“37th Mercos—” Mizar emphasized with as painful squeeze, “—we are sorry to disturb you. The boy the human speaks of was a problem of the past, he has already been dealt with. There is no reason to dwell on such matters.”

Beside Wrose, Cherzil took a step forward, his fists tightening by his side. He must have hurried to the scene, because his face was flushed with a mixture of blue and pink, and a few stray wisps of his white hair had fallen into his eyes.

“Then why was the human on the ground, Mizar?” Cherzil shot back.

“I was fully capable of handling the situation with my associates, Cherzil,” Mizar snapped, drawing out the name like it was tar. “Clearly you disagreed. The human may be able to speak but the words he chooses are neither said with respect nor dignity. I punished him based on that.”

Mitchel’s anger bristled up from his fingertips to his skull, where red tinted his vision and made his tongue tingle. No longer afraid, he jerked Mizar’s hand away, taking a few steps to gain his distance. In the heat of his thoughts, Mitchel had a moment of simmering, white clarity.

Lucas and Ozzie got Ayo away safely.

Cherzil spared me before. And clearly despises Mizar.

Cherzil chose to bring Wrose here.

Maybe this Wrose will listen to reason.

He opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted once more.

“The humans were not doing their work properly—” Mizar’s voice was hazy amongst the red, “—And when I went to correct the situation, this one—"

He stuck his unclipped weapon in Mitchel’s direction. Mitchel suppressed a flinch as he locked eyes with the black and blue baton.

“—Prevented me from serving justice.”

“That’s not true,” Mitchel argued, trying to keep his tone composed.

Wrose made a noise in the back of his throat and effectively shut everyone up in an instant.

“As interesting these claims may be—,” Wrose began, his voice gliding through, “—they are not without bias and perspective. You have told me yours, Mizar, I wish to hear the human’s perspective, as he has offered it to me.”

Wrose made eye contact with Mitchel once more and Mitchel tried his best not to look away. He could tell that the Rwequek was searching for deceit in Mitchel’s eyes even before he could speak.

He was being assessed.

“Can you explain what happened?” Wrose asked, his voice soft yet commanding.

This one could kill me if he wanted to, Mitchel thought gravely, his eyes narrowed in uneasy suspicion. There would be no repercussions. He’s a higher up.

At his silence, Wrose prompted, “Cherzil told me there was a dispute getting out of hand.”

Mitchel fought the urge to look at the aforementioned guard as Wrose gestured to him.

Focus.

He needed to be careful.

He wanted to be bold.

He decided an amalgam of the two would work.

“The guards were trying to punish the boy for not completing his work,” Mitchel explained truthfully. The tension behind him was already rising, but he did not care. “He was suffering from heat exhaustion and needed rest. I didn’t see why further action was necessary.”

Wrose squinted and rocked back on his heels. He carded through his curly white hair with the golden gloved hand, then paused as if he had a realization.

“Is ‘heat exhaustion’ as you say, a condition from overexposure to your star?” he pointed upwards to the sun. The three guards shifted uncomfortably. This was not the response they were expecting.

Mitchel nodded numbly. He had no idea how to respond to the analytical outlook of the situation.

“And the boy does not require any more medical attention?”

Mitchel itched to ask about the Human Medical Facility, but his tongue felt dry in his mouth. After everything, he wanted to go home and remain out of the Rwequek’s presence for the rest of the week.

“Just needs rest,” Mitchel said quietly.

Wrose hummed in thought and typed something onto a screen that was embedded on his sleeve of his coat.

“I will record this and report it to the Faction Sponsor—” he stated and turned his eyes to the guards, “—And expect there will be no more of this squabbling.”

The guards, even Cherzil, seemed to shrink a little.

“What are your names?” Wrose asked.

The guards were unusually silent. Pax looked worriedly from Yuen to Mizar, as if he were waiting for the other two to speak first. Mizar held his head high, his scar jutting forward.

“Mizar, 42nd Salcos. 6th of my line,” he spoke, his voice level.

The other guards hesitated before joining him.

“Yuen, 33rd Ulis, 11th of my line.”

“Pax, 45th Ulis, 11th of my line as well.”

Wrose paused, letting the names and titles settle in the air for a moment. Behind them, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the mountains, painting the sky a brilliant spread of orange and gold and casting bruised purple shadows across the ground. Wrose smiled softly.

“I recognize your names from the Second War,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle and his eyebrows furrowed in slight concern, “and I thank you for your service and sacrifice.”

He placed a hand on his chest and gripped the chords around his neck with conviction. Almost simultaneously, the three of them bowed their heads. It was quiet, mournfully so, as the sun continued to simmer away. The evening cold begun to bite at Mitchel’s exposed face, his mask still abandoned around his neck. He felt dreadfully out of place.

“But I am disappointed with this violence,” Wrose continued. “I know the guard is restless, but change is coming. Wait for it, and you will be rewarded for your duties.”

Mizar raised his head, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“Sir— It’s been four years.”

“Change will come,” Wrose repeated with firmness, “Please find me if you find yourself lost, do not humiliate yourself through belligerence.”

Mizar bowed his head once more, the sharpness of Wrose’s voice ending the conversation.

“Human, what is your identification?” Wrose asked.

Mitchel jolted, not expecting to be addressed again, and his stomach flipped restlessly. He bit his lip, trying not to get too upset at himself for hoping for the best.

He’ll take my ID. And then I will find my quota increased.

Or guards looming around the neighborhood.

Or our rations cut.

Mizar and Yuen were looking at him now. Mitchel dug his fingers into his palm, creating crescent moon valleys on his skin.

And if Wrose doesn’t do it, then those two will.

The Rwequek watched him expectantly.

“D.3[6]256.117.” Mitchel begrudging rehearsed.

“Mmh,” Wrose hummed in thought, “You can understand Rwequekian well. Can you also write?”

Mitchel shuffled his feet nervously, again not expecting the man’s shift in topic.

“A majority of it. Not as well as speech.”

The Rwequek’s gray-blue eyes widened for just a moment. Almost instantly, he corrected his look and smiled lightly.

“I believe that the Faction Director would be interested in using your interpretation skills,” Wrose said. “Would you be interested in coming with me to meet him?”

Mitchel’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending, the words not fully sticking in his mind.

Meet the Faction Director? And gain more attention from high standing Rwequeks?

Mitchel thought thunderously, only a sliver of pride preventing his mouth from falling open.

Is this a threat? He suddenly thought. He wouldn’t just offer me a job after seeing the mess I’ve caused. Is he reminding me of the power he has? So I stay in line?

“I must— I have to get home,” Mitchel struggled to say, failing to come up with any other validated excuses that did not seem like barbs.

Wrose’s smile remained, but his face and shoulders slumped ever so slightly in a way Mitchel could only imagine was disappointment.

Not a threat then? Mitchel imagined, finding the Rwequek hard to read despite his openness.

“Of course,” Wrose continued after a moment of silence. “But if you ever change your mind, I reside at the Alforah household. Mention my name to anyone there, and I will come find you to discuss further action.”

Wrose gestured out beyond on the other side of the mountains, where Mitchel had only been a few times. He knew that was where the Rwequeks resided, close enough to the humans to keep their reign tight but far enough to remain superior and secluded. The only reason Mitchel had wandered so far out of his neighborhood was because that was where the Medical Facility was stationed. There was one dwelling Mitchel had glanced upon in his few trips to the Facility, a large complex that looked too grandiose to only serve a practical purpose as guard’s dormitories or shipment transport.

That must be the Alforah household, Mitchel thought. Only Rwequeks of importance would reside there.

Mitchel grimaced. Wrose was not even the top of the hierarchy, it seemed. There was the Faction Director, a Rwequek who had power over the entire Faction 117.

“Is that fair?” Wrose pushed when Mitchel was too lost in his thoughts to answer.

Mitchel nodded, too shell shocked to trust his Rwequekian.

“As you must get home, you are free to go,” Wrose concluded, the sunset causing his eyes to twinkle. “I have a few more conversations to get through.”

Mitchel nodded once more, not sure how to convey his emotions, and finally upon reflection, he bowed his head. Once Wrose acknowledged his gesture, Mitchel stooped to pick up his fallen equipment, scrambling to not stay there a second longer, and cast one more glance back to the group of Rwequeks.

Wrose was privately talking to the four guards, each of their attention solely focused on him, except for one. Cherzil’s eyebrows were furrowed as he stared, and Mitchel felt overwhelmed with confusion of the man’s actions, even more so when he nodded sharply.

Mitchel, overloaded with the piles of his supplies and the events of the past hour, swallowed and hurried over to the trail. Even as he shoved his equipment into its bag and dumped his remaining Oblinium deposit onto the conveyer, his hands were shaking fiercely as he typed his ID.

“Mitch!”

Mitchel jolted, struck with déjà vu, and let out a noise of surprise as someone ran into him with a forceful hug.

“Are you ok?” Lucas pulled back from his chest, his fingers scrunched in Mitchel’s hoodie as he searched Mitchel for injuries with wide eyes.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Mitchel stammered, silently relishing with the safety of his loved one.

“Are you really?”

Mitchel looked up to see Annie depositing her equipment bag and Oblinium units.

“Annie,” Mitchel breathed, subconsciously touching his sore neck and wondering if it had bruised.

“Lucas told me what happened,” Annie continued, her voice at its usual low register. “Or pieces of it. Sounded like you were talking mostly in Rwequekian.”

“Yeah,” Mitchel exhaled a breath he had been withholding. He finished typing his ID so she could proceed. “It was more of a verbal beating than anything. How’s Ayo?”

“Much better,” Lucas pulled away to reply. “He was asleep when I left Ozzie’s house, but he was talking once when got him there. He said to thank you.”

Mitchel waved away the comment with his hand.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” Mitchel sighed in relief.

“What’s that haggler’s ID number?” Annie asked. Her fingers were poised over the conveyer belt’s screen.

“You don’t have to do that…” Mitchel protested as he put two and two together.

“Oh yes I do. Don’t think you can manage 20 units of Oblinium by yourself. Type in his ID for me.”

Resigning with a sigh, Mitchel did as he was told and watched the belt take the rocks away.

“We’ll help Winnie together, ok?” she insisted.

He could only manage a smile in reply.

They looked around silently as the sun dipped behind the mountains and the air quickly cooling their sweat sprinkled skin. A few minutes later, the bus arrived and the two slumped back into worn down seats next to each other while Lucas picked a seat far away, talking to another friend.

As Mitchel took off his mask and gloves, he became aware of how drained his body had become. His arms were sore from lifting rocks, his calloused hands throbbing in the cold. Once more, he rubbed his neck as if to erase the marks of abuse that were blotching his skin.

“They stretched out my only hoodie,” Mitchel grumbled as he looked down at the clothing’s neckline. It now hung lower on his chest and he shivered at the additionally exposed skin.

“Tragic,” Annie said grunted, her eyebrows furrowing in seriousness. “I thought we agreed to use our heads today? For Winston.”

“I did, Annie, really,” Mitchel argued.

“They’re going to have a target on your head.”

Mitchel grimaced. She was right. They even had his ID.

“In my defense I at least tried to be civil, unlike you.”

Annie sighed and elbowed him. Mitchel cracked a grin, despite everything.

“I only self-defend,” she protested.

“By punching someone.”

A scowl scrunched up Annie’s nose, making her freckles move, although she did not deny anything. Mitchel’s grin persisted.

“And you? Why did you choose to fight back today?” she asked. “Gabbi’s boyfriend was in trouble, right?”

“Yeah,” Mitchel rubbed his face and dropped his smile. “After everything I saw with Ayo today, I don’t think we should take Winnie to the Facility.”

“Because they’ll know you’re from the same family unit,” Annie grumbled.

“No,” Mitchel shot back, but his tone quickly died out. She had a point. I’ve just caused everyone in the 256 family to become a target. “Because… This morning Winston told me that his injuries were caused by a guard. They did all that to him, his knee— everything.”